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I am allergic to mules, and Umer finds this hilarious. Every time I have a protracted sneezing fit, he cracks up. I protest, telling him that it's probably all the concrete in my sinuses from our last two days in Muzaffarabad, but he's right: I get near one of the little fat bastards and all hell breaks loose in my face. I sulk and blow my nose. This will be a long day.
We have linked up with a Pakistani military mule train to film them on the first leg of a two-day journey to deliver winter and building supplies to remote villages. They will be taking winding roads to higher altitudes, and we wanted to capture this old-school/super-pragmatic approach to the relief effort. When the winter weather grounds the high-tech helicopters that drone through these valleys, these mule trains will remain the lifeline for tens of thousands Kashmiris.
Unlike Muzaffarabad, this place is the Kashmir boonies — muddy farmland captured in some past century. The only real evidence that this is 2005 are the high-tech winter tents that have sprung up in bright patches: white Geodomes, in-demand blue Chinese models, expansive USAID A-frames, tarp loosely on sticks. Almost every structure made of concrete has been brought down to a debris pile. I get the feeling that when the winter deaths begin to mount, they will mount in places like this.
It is easy to see the huge logistical problems of dealing with the disaster here in Hattian Bala. On our drive out, we had to stop twice for falling boulders that temporarily blocked the roads. With often only one route in and out of some of these valleys, access to food, help and supplies from hubs like Muzaffarabad is often tenuous at best. All it takes is a major snow dump and some of these valleys — and high-altitude villages — will be cut off.
The mule train is about 50 mules deep. The beasts are loaded up with warm clothes, building supplies and foam mattresses. We snake our way up one mountain, quickly going from 4,500 to 7,000 feet, to hit the first of three drop-off points. At the drop-offs, crowds of old men and children — those not spending their time and energy either rebuilding, gathering firewood or making food — wait patiently to be rationed goods. At the first drop-off, a young man named Muhammed comes up to Nina, Umer and I. He has a huge gash running across the top of his skull and wants us to have tea with him and his family. We ask Muhammed where he was when the quake happened and he says his house, where he was caught under rubble for two hours, suffering from a head injury and a broken arm. He shows us the remains of the house from the cliff we are standing on. Nothing is left. I ask Muhammed if he thinks that the people of Hattian Bala will survive the winter. He tells me if Allah wills it, yes, but it will be very difficult.
At the second drop-off point, I am offered tea again, this time from the Thermos of a young lieutenant named Waqas. We sit in a sweeping vista from which we can see the mountains of the Hindu Kush and conduct an interview. He is from Lahore but was moved immediately to this area after the quake. His descriptions of some of the villages are harrowing — the misery and suffering of these people whose lives were crushed along with their homes. He talks in a reserved, detached way of carrying old people to medical facilities after dragging them out of rubble. He is staring at some glacial peaks in the distance. I ask him if where we are standing will look like that when the worst of winter hits. He says where we are standing will be under six or eight feet of snow.
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Check back for another diary entry from Gideon, and tune in to "Aftershock: Gideon's Diary in Pakistan," premiering Friday at 7:30 p.m. on MTV |
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Photo: MTV News
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Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Photo Diary
After The Storm
After The Tsunami