TRAVEL (WHERE THE INDUS COMES OF AGE)

Road to Thakot and Indus surging ahead towards the historical bridge.

WHERE THE INDUS COMES OF AGE

By: Nasser Yousaf

It was quite tempting to know that the newly built road to Thakot had finally been opened for traffic. The prospects of a hassle-free, faster journey to the northern areas of the country never looked so brighter as now, and hence all the more enticing.

The summer monsoon, after a rather dull and late start, had, after gaining some strength, extended into early September. With plenty of rainfall, one couldn’t risk delay the journey on the newly built road any longer. One was already familiar with the area, but it was essential to see it farther afield, the heretofore unseen sleepy hamlets in the hills and the smoke rising from the chimneys.

It is always reinvigorating to get on to a smooth and placid surface after suffering a bumpy ride on a rutted, potholed road. So was the case on the fifth day of September 2020, when we started our journey from the cacophonous urban sprawl of Abbottabad for Thakot, the end point of the newly built road.

The limits of the already operational Hazara motorway have now been extended to the interchange that lands one in the district of Mansehra. From here onwards, it is a single carriageway for approximately eighty kilometres, falling shy of the old Pakistan China Friendship Thakot Bridge over the Indus by just about five kilometres.

This entire stretch offers beautiful views of the hills and fields on both sides of the road. There are four tunnels on the road, two of them of a little less than three-kilometres length each. The people of Hazara region appear to be quite excited about the new road as it has undoubtedly lessened their travails of numerous journeys across the country.

The old road, though no less scenic, could no more take the ever increasing burden of the traffic. One of the charms of the old track was Chattar Plain, which one would keenly await to reach so as to take a much deserved breather at a serene teashop. One could still enjoy the quietude of Chattar as an access to it is available on the new road, as indeed to all the places known to the regular travellers in these climes.

The best part of the whole project is the fact that it has curtailed the long journey to the extremities of Gilgit and Baltistan by a good two hours. It wasn’t the long distance to the enchanting beauty of the north that would keep the tourists away, but the infamy of the broken down road notwithstanding its romantically sounding silky name.

Thakot may offer little to the kind of tourists that we have been compelled to reckon. It has a small dusty bazaar, and its hot and humid climate, especially in summers, is not all that inviting. But to a discerning tourist there is a latent beauty in the make up of Thakot that would forever remain intact, or one would hope so.

Thakot’s fame is owing to the Pakistan China Friendship Bridge on the River Indus, a beautiful piece of archaic architecture and a symbol of connectivity although it has a short span. On the right bank of the river is the district of Battagram, which lies in the Hazara division while immediately across the bridge starts the limits of the district of Shangla in the Malakand division.

This administrative bifurcation is indeed peculiar as beyond the limits of Shangla lies the district of Kohistan, which again is a part of the Hazara division. This arrangement, or disarrangement, is a question that begs an answer. But till that is done, one must explore in some detail the land that endlessly witnesses the Indus surging ahead in its glorious journey.

Perhaps we all know Dervla Murphy, and her beautiful account titled ‘Where the Indus is Young,’ it is time now to know something about where the Indus comes of age. It certainly does at Thakot, after foaming and frothing, for many hundreds of kilometres from the shackles of the mountains.

Early in September this year, as probably it might be so every September, Indus with its earthly greyish green water was flowing slowly under the Thakot Bridge. It looked as though the river was carrying a heavy load on its shoulders in the shape of millions of tons of silt, added to its burden by the numerous tributaries.

In some years, a giant dam with a power generation capacity of 4800 mw would be built upstream to be called Diamer-Bhasha Dam. Once imprisoned upstream, the flow of water at Thakot would be remote controlled, out of the bounds of Nature.

What is so fascinating about beholding water, for hours on end, flow in the Indus in its natural strides? A romantically inclined visitor may find it uplifting, though people in close proximity to the river, and accustomed to its sights and sounds, may not be all that enamoured of its existence. For instance, one of the most spectacular views in this landscape is a mountainous road on the right bank of the Indus. This narrow road, with its sharp bends, ascends to a town called Allai in Battagram.

The people of Shangla are economically disadvantaged. Whenever we hear of body bags being carried from a coal mine of Balochistan, we should not discount a very high probability that the same are destined for Shangla. This settles the question as regards the hardiness of the local folks and their willingness to travel extra miles to earn their bread and butter. All these people, as indeed most of others living on the banks of Indus right up to Attock in Punjab, are Pashtuns.

Indus in these lands is referred to as ‘Abaseen.’ Abaseen is a common refrain in Pashto poetry and folklore. In the last leg of its journey before entering the Arabian Sea in the province of Sindh, Indus gets another baptism and is henceforth called ‘Sindhu.’ This changing of names is the profoundest form of love that a people could bestow on a river.

This account would suffice for a few hours stay in the company of Indus. But before parting one must ask: what are the policemen posted at the two ends of the Thakot Bridge supposed to be doing, guarding the bridge from the mischief makers or searching the boots of the cars to seize one odd flask or a few tumblers and a small piece of cloth bought at the small Dandai bazaar in Shangla? Is this not the job, if at all it is one, of the Customs Department? How refreshing would it be once everybody in Pakistan focuses only on his or her job!