AFTER many summers, forty-seven summers to be exact, and equal number of winters, I decided this summer to go back to Ratti Gali, just to check whether those dreamy lakes do exist or they were just the fabrication of my imaginations.
So dear reader, enough of going back into memory lane of fifties and sixties; let’s vagabond together into the new millennium.
Although it’s my experience that one should never try to relive the past by re-visiting the places where the very first blossoms of love, friendships and youthful dreams were born. You will inevitably be disappointed because time would have swept away in its tide all that was dear to you. Even then, I took the risk of retracing my own footsteps after forty-seven years, just to satisfy my curiosity, to see with my now aging eyes once again those lakes bordering on hallucinations.
For last twenty years or so I have trekked almost every year into the wilderness of Karakoram and Himalayas. I have always avoided the lesser heights of Kaghan and Swat because they did not possess the majestic and touching spirituality, of soul type of panoramas. A matter of fact I considered these lush valleys slightly feminine for my rugged taste. Then why this change of mind you may ask? Simply because I started this dairy of mine from my very first trek of Ratti Gali and in consequence a whole flood of long forgotten memories engulfed me and once again. I desperately wanted to revisit Ratti Gali and the magical lakes.
We were in Naran and here I will not mourn the destruction and vandalizing of that dreamy town of fifties which has become, much to the delight of locals, the most popular hill resort after Murree. Full of cheap and ugly looking hotels, filthy restaurants with dead chicken hanging up side down and hordes of tourists gobbling the chicken karahis and throwing the bones in the stream nearby. I will not mourn either the death of the most beautiful mythical Lake Saif-ul-Maluk whose waters have been polluted by the shanty town of khokhas, hotels and food joints, all thanks to minister, secretary tourism, local administration and politicians whose greed for the quick buck has turned this once virgin princess into a common prostitute.
However, inside the compound of PTDC Motel you could feel the virgin smell of Naran of bygone days where quite flows the river Kunhar and pine trees still murmur sweet secrets. Across the table sat the pot-bellied Buddha like figure of Bashir Zaman, the tourist guide. We had absolutely no idea as how to go about this trek of ours and Bashir was the only person who could help. He was rather glad to see me in Kaghan for a change and asked smilingly, “Tarar sahib, what are your plans?”
“I want to go back to Ratti gali and spend a night on the lake in which forty-seven years ago I saw an ice mass floating like a white swan and on my way if I can lay my eyes on some unknown lakes, that would be a bargain.”
Bashir Zaman did not take long to hatch a perfect plan.
“From Naran we will proceed to Basel form where horses will be arranged. We will spend the night by the waters of Lulusar Lake. Next day we will stroll up to another gem of a lake whose waters mirror the eternal snows i.e. Dudipat Lake. Day three and we will be camping along side Lake Saral. Very aloof and remote, very few people have had the opportunity of setting their eyes upon it. It is supposed to be most beautiful lake in Kaghan and the next day will see us on Ratti Gali Lake”.
“So we will just stroll in the lush meadows of Kaghan and Azad Kashmir and these four lakes will be just there by the end of each day. Bashir, that’s it?”
“Well Tarar Sahib, mountains are mountains and we will have to cross at least four high passes, a glacier or two, and some mountain streams, maybe.”
The faces of my companions fell at the prospect of crossing some unknown high passes and naturally my face also took a deep plunge as I was expecting it to be a easy trek, strolling in the lush green meadows, so to speak. However, my good friend Sheristan, manager of the PTDC motel brought us out of this gloom by arranging a bonfire by the river Kunhar while a certain musician by the name of Siddique Dholki Wala provided music in the night by pounding his little dholki mercilessly and singing with such a full throat that a few mountain crows who were in deep slumber on top of the pines thought it proper not to enjoy this food of soul and flew away in a hurry.
Next day we left Naran, packed in a jeep. Mian Farzand and I were declared senior citizens and were accommodated on the front-seat and rest of the pack was packed in the back. The road to Babusar Pass was being widened and mottled and we had to stop every now and then in respect of huge bulldozers and cranes who were demolishing the mountains with ease. We passed through Batakundi, a dismal place to be sure and finally reached Burawai which really gladdened my heart because this was the starting point of my Ratti Gali trek almost five decades ago. But Bashir had planned our present trek the other way round, i.e. with a little bit of luck we were to descend into Burawai in a week’s time. In those days Burawai was on a road to nowhere, desolate beyond description and there was only one structure by the river Kunhar, an ancient Dak bungalow whose chowkidar roamed the premises during night, muttering to himself. I had always wondered if this lonely outpost still existed. Well, it did.
Burawai of present day is a small bustling bazaar with all the amenities of life available and behind the workshops and hotels I spotted the remnants of that long forgotten Dak bungalow, a legacy of the British Raj and amazingly it looked in better condition now. I wanted to go inside that one room where I had spent a night in bygone ages. But we were hard pressed for time as we had to reach Lulusar before dark.
The road up to Jalkhad was wide and negotiable and then suddenly it narrowed into a goat track that could hardly accommodate four tyres of our jeep. On top of it the track faced the sky, like a howling dog. My companions on the back also started howling with fear but the driver took no notice and did not even reduce the speed. Soon the valley of Jalkhad was a view from an airplane as our jeep kept on climbing the hazardous road.
Then the broad valley of Basil came into view. It was breathtaking, rocks strewn all over, stone huts and white tents of Afghan nomads which looked like miniature pyramids of snow, cattle grazed on the green slopes strewn with flowers and patches of snow. We came down and entered the strange habitation of Basil; Bashir jumped off and disappeared behind a mass of stone huts where he was to meet Ashraf, the sardar for the procurement of three packhorses. The Basil Hotel was the only teahouse of the valley and by the river, where some tourists had pitched their tents beside it. Soon Bashir appeared with glad tidings that horses have been arranged and will reach Lulusar by next morning.
Lulusar was only about three-kilometre away from Basil. We reached there before sunset. Bashir exactly knew where to pitch our tents, high above the lake in a green patch littered with yellow flowers and affording the most panoramic view of this great mass of water with snoots of small glaciers dipping in to them. Lulusar is not one of those lakes, which unfolds its full majesty in a single glance, as it is a long long lake, which is spread underneath the Babusar road for miles on end. No single photograph can depict it, there has to be a continuous photograph of at least a kilometre’s length to convey any idea of its grandeur.
By the time we had dinner the sun had gone down. But its last rays, too reluctant to leave this enchanting abode spread their gold on its waters.
We sat outside our tents spellbound and stunned by this golden spectacle. Soon after, a thick mist descended, engulfing our tents and our wonder-struck faces.
What happened next? Well wait till the next episode!
AFTER many summers, forty-seven summers to be exact, and equal number of winters, I decided this summer to go back to Ratti Gali, just to check whether those dreamy lakes do exist or they were just the fabrication of my imaginations.
