DISPATCHES

Davis

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Evidently Zahid decided to take a second wife last year. I didn't even know that was allowed in Muslim countries. I guess Wife number one was pretty irritated, as having another wife isn't cheap. But Zahid makes pretty good money between working expeditions as a cook/guide and owning a small shop in Hushe, so I guess he feels like he can afford it. Which is good, because today Brady, Zahid and I took a taxi to Rawalpindi, planning to change a few thousand dollars at a carpet shop (I have no idea why, but the carpet shops are the real money changing hotspots, as they give a better rate than the official money changers) and then go to the Raja Bazaar to buy plastic barrels and a stove.

Zahid realized 10 minutes into the visit to the carpet shop that he'd left a bag with $900 in the taxi, an exorbitant amount of money to be carrying around here, but he was planning to shop in the city to restock his little shop for the season. That's a pretty severe financial blow in Pakistan, representing maybe half a year's wages. For some people, like the taxi driver, that could be several years wages. Needless to say, it hasn't been returned.

Despite the tragedy of Zahid's loss, we have to get stuff done. So after drinking a few sodas with the carpet shop owners and admiring a few thousand dollar rugs ("Very nice, but this is how much my car costs in the States," Brady tells the owner, who is certain that all Americans are rich), we set off for the Raja Bazaar. We careen through the streets, passing rickshaw-like motor scooter taxis, donkey-carts, bicyclists in flowing shirts and trousers, and giant intricately hand-painted trucks. The taxi driver has jangly Pakistani music cranked on the radio, punctuated by the sporadic yet ceaseless horn blasts that seem necessary for negotiating the roads here.

The Raja Bazaar is as overwhelming in every sense as I remembered it. The streets are crammed with women in shalwar kameez (an outfit of trousers, a long loose shirt slit to the knees, and a head scarf), goats, donkeys, cart vendors, cars and trucks. Along the streets, the stalls are side by side, with whole rows selling exactly the same things. The owners all set up shop in sectors, so if you want to buy hardware you go to the hardware street. If you want shoes, you have 12 different shops to choose from, although you'll end up with the same pair no matter what. The smells, usually nasty, and the jostle and noise make it hard to focus on important issues like not losing sight of Zahid as he rushes from one street to the next.

We start by ordering our stove, a massive hand-welded double-burner kerosene affair, from a stove seller, and then hurry off through the streets to do the rest of our shopping while he welds the fuel tank to it and assembles a repair kit. This is not a leisurely shopping experience. I dodge a few donkeys and children, then jump out of the way of some taxis, and yell ahead to Zahid to stop so we can buy some tiny locks. They only cost 19 cents each, so we take a handful, bargain a few more cents off the price, and then hurry to the barrel zone. We bargain, drink more cokes, and leave with four blue plastic barrels strapped to the top of our taxi.

By this time my clothes are drenched in sweat, and I want nothing more than to get to Skardu. The cooler temperatures there make these chores much less taxing. So I'm not thrilled when we get back to our hotel and Jimmy breaks the news that we can't take the flight to Skardu. Looks like two days of driving on the Karakoram Highway. Oh well. Maybe the van will have air conditioning. Progress is slow. But we'll get there eventually. Climbing? What's that?

— Steph Davis, MountainZone.com Correspondent

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