GHIAIA NERA
Along the Silk Road
Photographic reportage created in a hybrid mode: 35mm film and digital.
The Pakistan I crossed is just a tiny fragment of a country as vast as it is complex — a land steeped in distant dynamics and social realities that I only barely touched.
What little I was able to discover was enough to convince me of the wonder and wildness of this place, where people are as rugged and unyielding as the peaks that tower over their lands. Yet if one is patient and trusting, it is possible to glimpse the path that leads to winning their friendship.
That said, I cannot claim that my journey was easy...
The further I followed the course of the Indus River, the more I felt the force of an invisible current — made of gazes that narrowed into slits, staring at me with curiosity, surprise, and at times, disdain.
Kilometer after kilometer, the sight of a woman became a rare mirage, and my presence grew heavier with each passing village. Only on rare occasions was I able to venture into the settlements, discovering markets and bazaars seemingly frozen in time.
Since uncertainty about how I would be received often prevailed among my travel companions, I spent much of the time documenting as much as I could from the back seat of our sedan.
The car, which at first had seemed like a limiting barrier to my reportage work, turned out to be a vantage point that allowed me to glimpse fragments of the daily reality unfolding along that road.
With the window always rolled down — which became the perfect frame for this photographic series — I captured scenes of reality reacting to the surprise of a female presence, documenting the intensity of the encounter between myself and that seemingly impenetrable society.
I myself became an object of curiosity for those men wrapped in their cloaks, who, surprised at the sight of me, would suddenly stop in the street, communicating their feelings at seeing me with nothing but a glance.
Photographic reportage created in a hybrid mode: 35mm film and digital.
The Pakistan I crossed is just a tiny fragment of a country as vast as it is complex — a land steeped in distant dynamics and social realities that I only barely touched.
What little I was able to discover was enough to convince me of the wonder and wildness of this place, where people are as rugged and unyielding as the peaks that tower over their lands. Yet if one is patient and trusting, it is possible to glimpse the path that leads to winning their friendship.
That said, I cannot claim that my journey was easy...
The further I followed the course of the Indus River, the more I felt the force of an invisible current — made of gazes that narrowed into slits, staring at me with curiosity, surprise, and at times, disdain.
Kilometer after kilometer, the sight of a woman became a rare mirage, and my presence grew heavier with each passing village. Only on rare occasions was I able to venture into the settlements, discovering markets and bazaars seemingly frozen in time.
Since uncertainty about how I would be received often prevailed among my travel companions, I spent much of the time documenting as much as I could from the back seat of our sedan.
The car, which at first had seemed like a limiting barrier to my reportage work, turned out to be a vantage point that allowed me to glimpse fragments of the daily reality unfolding along that road.
With the window always rolled down — which became the perfect frame for this photographic series — I captured scenes of reality reacting to the surprise of a female presence, documenting the intensity of the encounter between myself and that seemingly impenetrable society.
I myself became an object of curiosity for those men wrapped in their cloaks, who, surprised at the sight of me, would suddenly stop in the street, communicating their feelings at seeing me with nothing but a glance.
As we drew closer to the Chinese border, I felt as if what passed before my lens belonged more to another time than merely another geography.
The result is a collection of glimpses, gazes, and portraits through which I mapped the length of that ancient and dusty road, revealing the simple nature and everyday life of men and children, goats and motorcycles with modified exhaust pipes that animate these lands.
The result is a collection of glimpses, gazes, and portraits through which I mapped the length of that ancient and dusty road, revealing the simple nature and everyday life of men and children, goats and motorcycles with modified exhaust pipes that animate these lands.
If you spot a goat, you’ll find a child nearby. And vice versa: if you see a child,
there will surely be a little goat somewhere close, perhaps tied to a tree, waiting to be taken for a walk.
It was a constant sight — children and goats together.
The goats are their companions; they care for them, chase them, play with them while trying to loop a rope around their necks
to keep them close and stop them from running away.
It's the task assigned to them within the family: the youngest look after the little ones, as if they were their baby siblings.
It was amusing to see how, right after school — still dressed in their neat, British-style uniforms with backpacks on their shoulders —
these little boys would rush off to fetch their goats and lead them to graze in a nearby field.
there will surely be a little goat somewhere close, perhaps tied to a tree, waiting to be taken for a walk.
It was a constant sight — children and goats together.
The goats are their companions; they care for them, chase them, play with them while trying to loop a rope around their necks
to keep them close and stop them from running away.
It's the task assigned to them within the family: the youngest look after the little ones, as if they were their baby siblings.
It was amusing to see how, right after school — still dressed in their neat, British-style uniforms with backpacks on their shoulders —
these little boys would rush off to fetch their goats and lead them to graze in a nearby field.
Pattan, Lower Kohistan District, 1,130 m / 135 km from Abbottabad
This photo marks my first real stand on this journey.
We’re stopped at a crossroads while the driver and the guide argue about which way to go.
We’ve been on the road for at least five hours without a single proper stop, without a chance to rest our gaze on anything for more than a fleeting second. All around us — just rocks, the road, and the roaring Indus River rushing beneath us.
I don’t understand this frenzy — after all, the journey itself is the purpose of our travel, not just the destination.
I don’t ask for permission — I know the answer would be no anyway — so I open the car door and jump out, ignoring the lashing rain and the sudden cold.
The abrupt temperature change instantly fogs up my camera lens, but I still manage to capture this man wrapped in his cloak, walking along the roadside.
Kohistan means "land of mountains" in Persian: it’s here that the Himalayas, the Hindu Kush, and the Karakoram ranges meet for the first time.
I take a deep breath and try to get my bearings: unfinished houses and buildings, rocks, cars, and men standing by the roadside, their brows furrowed as they watch the passing traffic.
We only left Abbottabad the day before; we haven’t even covered 150 kilometers yet, but it feels like double that distance. The lack of familiar reference points disorients me and makes me feel trapped in a stony embrace I can’t seem to escape.
This photo marks my first real stand on this journey.
We’re stopped at a crossroads while the driver and the guide argue about which way to go.
We’ve been on the road for at least five hours without a single proper stop, without a chance to rest our gaze on anything for more than a fleeting second. All around us — just rocks, the road, and the roaring Indus River rushing beneath us.
I don’t understand this frenzy — after all, the journey itself is the purpose of our travel, not just the destination.
I don’t ask for permission — I know the answer would be no anyway — so I open the car door and jump out, ignoring the lashing rain and the sudden cold.
The abrupt temperature change instantly fogs up my camera lens, but I still manage to capture this man wrapped in his cloak, walking along the roadside.
Kohistan means "land of mountains" in Persian: it’s here that the Himalayas, the Hindu Kush, and the Karakoram ranges meet for the first time.
I take a deep breath and try to get my bearings: unfinished houses and buildings, rocks, cars, and men standing by the roadside, their brows furrowed as they watch the passing traffic.
We only left Abbottabad the day before; we haven’t even covered 150 kilometers yet, but it feels like double that distance. The lack of familiar reference points disorients me and makes me feel trapped in a stony embrace I can’t seem to escape.
Skardu, 2,228 m / 524 km from Abbottabad
We arrive in Skardu at night, after days of travel.
Contrary to the rule set by our driver, Mr. Gilani, we drove for several hours even after the sunset prayer, when the sun had already set.
Once again, the darkness and silence surrounding us make us feel lost in the void; only the rocks continue to shine in the dark — their snowy spires cannot hide even on a moonless night.
We begin to breathe in the cold mountain air.
We arrive in Skardu at night, after days of travel.
Contrary to the rule set by our driver, Mr. Gilani, we drove for several hours even after the sunset prayer, when the sun had already set.
Once again, the darkness and silence surrounding us make us feel lost in the void; only the rocks continue to shine in the dark — their snowy spires cannot hide even on a moonless night.
We begin to breathe in the cold mountain air.
In the morning, I discover that the electricity in our apartment is too weak, and the batteries of my camera haven’t recharged. I load a roll of film into my analog camera, and we head out to explore the place.
We are surprised: Skardu is a lively town, bustling with people coming in and out of small makeshift shops; motorcycles and small trucks buzz through the streets; many young men ride three to a bike, slowing down to look at us, but no one seems surprised or shocked by my presence.
We are surprised: Skardu is a lively town, bustling with people coming in and out of small makeshift shops; motorcycles and small trucks buzz through the streets; many young men ride three to a bike, slowing down to look at us, but no one seems surprised or shocked by my presence.
Being the tourist gateway to K2, Skardu’s people are definitely more accustomed to seeing foreigners, and I manage to move around with relative ease without the escort of our guide.
Still, there is no sign of female presence anywhere.
We find the market: alive and bustling with people unloading and loading goods.
At the sight of my cameras, they smile at me, and some begin pointing out who I should photograph or show me the beauty of their products. Others smile toothlessly and strike awkward poses, but before I can focus, they’ve already changed position.
Still, there is no sign of female presence anywhere.
We find the market: alive and bustling with people unloading and loading goods.
At the sight of my cameras, they smile at me, and some begin pointing out who I should photograph or show me the beauty of their products. Others smile toothlessly and strike awkward poses, but before I can focus, they’ve already changed position.
“Mr. Gilani, please stop here now!” I shout to our driver.
We had just left Skardu behind when I see that boy standing next to a yellow motorcycle, stopped in a small lay-by by the side of the road.
It’s morning, and we have been back on the road for about twenty minutes.
Mr. Gilani hasn’t lost his patience yet, doesn’t argue with me, and suddenly stops right next to the bike.
I jump out of the car while he, already straddling the motorcycle, is about to throttle up.
I raise my hand and point to the camera.
Inside, I fear I might annoy or scare him; I pray he won’t say no.
He looks at me, surprised but calm, and nods.
I can take his picture.
His pose is elegant, like that of an old-time Hollywood actor.
I hold my breath and shoot. I advance the film three times.
Then I thank him, placing my right hand over my heart, as is customary around here.
He says something, and someone translates that he is thanking me from the heart, honored.
I notice how his face has softened since he saw me get out of the car. His eyes, once threatening and wary, are now gentle and grateful.
I wonder what he was thinking. He tries to smile back at me, but I sense how unnatural it feels to lift his cheekbones on such a serious face.
Then he revs the engine and speeds off toward Skardu.
We had just left Skardu behind when I see that boy standing next to a yellow motorcycle, stopped in a small lay-by by the side of the road.
It’s morning, and we have been back on the road for about twenty minutes.
Mr. Gilani hasn’t lost his patience yet, doesn’t argue with me, and suddenly stops right next to the bike.
I jump out of the car while he, already straddling the motorcycle, is about to throttle up.
I raise my hand and point to the camera.
Inside, I fear I might annoy or scare him; I pray he won’t say no.
He looks at me, surprised but calm, and nods.
I can take his picture.
His pose is elegant, like that of an old-time Hollywood actor.
I hold my breath and shoot. I advance the film three times.
Then I thank him, placing my right hand over my heart, as is customary around here.
He says something, and someone translates that he is thanking me from the heart, honored.
I notice how his face has softened since he saw me get out of the car. His eyes, once threatening and wary, are now gentle and grateful.
I wonder what he was thinking. He tries to smile back at me, but I sense how unnatural it feels to lift his cheekbones on such a serious face.
Then he revs the engine and speeds off toward Skardu.
Karimabad, Hunza Valley, 2,438 m / 321 km from Shigar Valley, 460 km from Abbottabad
When our guide Hazeeb turns to look at us from the passenger seat, his eyes are filled with excitement:
“Guys, finally we are driving through the Hunza Valley!
Alma, you can do whatever you want here!”
Hunza is a much more modern land compared to the rest of Pakistan, a religious enclave where the majority of the population is Ismaili.
Ismailism is a branch of Shia Islam characterized by a progressive interpretation with a strong emphasis on education, social justice, and peaceful coexistence.
For centuries, this valley has been a key crossroads along the Silk Road, where merchants and pilgrims would stop, drawn by its beauty and resources.
Many legends surround this place, telling of a mythical land, a hidden kingdom among the mountains that has long attracted travelers and scholars. The most famous legend links Hunza to the lost paradise of Shangri-La, described in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon.
It is said that the Hunza Valley was a land of eternal youth and health, where inhabitants lived for over a hundred years thanks to the purity of its water and air.
These and other legends make the valley even more mysterious and enchanting—a place rich in history and mythology.
When our guide Hazeeb turns to look at us from the passenger seat, his eyes are filled with excitement:
“Guys, finally we are driving through the Hunza Valley!
Alma, you can do whatever you want here!”
Hunza is a much more modern land compared to the rest of Pakistan, a religious enclave where the majority of the population is Ismaili.
Ismailism is a branch of Shia Islam characterized by a progressive interpretation with a strong emphasis on education, social justice, and peaceful coexistence.
For centuries, this valley has been a key crossroads along the Silk Road, where merchants and pilgrims would stop, drawn by its beauty and resources.
Many legends surround this place, telling of a mythical land, a hidden kingdom among the mountains that has long attracted travelers and scholars. The most famous legend links Hunza to the lost paradise of Shangri-La, described in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon.
It is said that the Hunza Valley was a land of eternal youth and health, where inhabitants lived for over a hundred years thanks to the purity of its water and air.
These and other legends make the valley even more mysterious and enchanting—a place rich in history and mythology.
Khunjerab Pass, 4,693 m / 630 km from Abbottabad
We reached the border.
We found ourselves face to face with the Chinese frontier, standing there before that massive concrete gate, clearly inspired by the Forbidden City, adorned with some shimmering golden Chinese characters.
I had never wondered what the border between Pakistan and China might look like, and the sight of that colossal gate, set in the middle of a white blanket lost in nowhere, made me smile: it was as if that monumental structure wanted to intimidate, to stand as an insurmountable obstacle, up there among the towering peaks that, instead, made it seem like a small lost turret amid the dazzling whiteness of the snow.
Guarding the end of Pakistani territory was only one man, with an old Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, happy to show off his weapon to someone who would appreciate it. On the Chinese side, however, not a shadow stirred—it seemed deserted.
This is the only reasonably visible photo I managed to develop. The roll of film I shot up there kept a secret until the day I developed it: the frames taken above 4,600 meters came out completely altered.
We reached the border.
We found ourselves face to face with the Chinese frontier, standing there before that massive concrete gate, clearly inspired by the Forbidden City, adorned with some shimmering golden Chinese characters.
I had never wondered what the border between Pakistan and China might look like, and the sight of that colossal gate, set in the middle of a white blanket lost in nowhere, made me smile: it was as if that monumental structure wanted to intimidate, to stand as an insurmountable obstacle, up there among the towering peaks that, instead, made it seem like a small lost turret amid the dazzling whiteness of the snow.
Guarding the end of Pakistani territory was only one man, with an old Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, happy to show off his weapon to someone who would appreciate it. On the Chinese side, however, not a shadow stirred—it seemed deserted.
This is the only reasonably visible photo I managed to develop. The roll of film I shot up there kept a secret until the day I developed it: the frames taken above 4,600 meters came out completely altered.
I’m starting to feel tired.
Reaching the Chinese border was a real adrenaline rush.
We had truly reached our goal and made the “turning point” in front of the Sino-Pakistani gate. The journey is not over yet, but my mind and body crave a moment of calm, out of the car and away from these vast, overwhelming lands.
They suggest we stop in Passu. Our guide wants to show us the suspension bridge over the valley, and we think it’s a perfect excuse to stretch our legs and breathe fresh air for a couple of hours.
As we enter the valley, I notice messages written with white stones, including a “Welcome to Passu”: greetings for the Aga Khan who visited here in 1987.
Above us, watching over from its 6,106 meters, stands a cathedral of rocks and spires illuminated by the sunset — Tupopdan, the “warm rock,” so called because in winter its walls quickly shed their snow.
Trying to keep up with my companions who are descending among the rocks towards the bridge, I walk staring at my feet, focused on not losing balance, when I almost collide with her, slowly climbing up in the opposite direction.
I freeze, disoriented, apologize in Italian, then focus on the situation: in front of me is a woman carrying a bundle of sticks on her back, climbing the hill. We look at each other for a long moment. She seems surprised too.
She looks incredibly elegant. I’m captivated by her braided hair and colorful headscarf. She doesn’t look away from me but watches as if rediscovering how much the face of an old friend has changed.
It’s like we recognize each other.
We exchange a smile.
Then I raise my camera and point at my face with my right hand: I try my luck, I find her beautiful, I want to photograph her.
She nods and, without changing her pose, waits for me to take the picture.
I wasn’t ready for this unexpected encounter.
I snap two shots, amazed to have a female face before me.
Who knows if anything will come out of them — the light is low, it’s sunset, and we’re in a shadowed spot!
Then I bring my hand to my heart in greeting; she does the same and continues climbing while I watch, incredulous, as she carries that heavy load of wood on her back.
I turn and see in the valley, far away, my companions already down at the Passu suspension bridge.
I freeze, disoriented, apologize in Italian, then focus on the situation: in front of me is a woman carrying a bundle of sticks on her back, climbing the hill. We look at each other for a long moment. She seems surprised too.
She looks incredibly elegant. I’m captivated by her braided hair and colorful headscarf. She doesn’t look away from me but watches as if rediscovering how much the face of an old friend has changed.
It’s like we recognize each other.
We exchange a smile.
Then I raise my camera and point at my face with my right hand: I try my luck, I find her beautiful, I want to photograph her.
She nods and, without changing her pose, waits for me to take the picture.
I wasn’t ready for this unexpected encounter.
I snap two shots, amazed to have a female face before me.
Who knows if anything will come out of them — the light is low, it’s sunset, and we’re in a shadowed spot!
Then I bring my hand to my heart in greeting; she does the same and continues climbing while I watch, incredulous, as she carries that heavy load of wood on her back.
I turn and see in the valley, far away, my companions already down at the Passu suspension bridge.
For hours and hours, there’s nothing that shows any sign of habitation.
I feel plunged to the center of the world, in a desert of mountains that distort the horizon and disorient me.
We speed along the asphalt, careful of rocks fallen from the cliffs. We stop before a huge boulder blocking the way: some truck drivers have gotten out and are trying to move it to clear the path. On the other side, the road ends in a sheer gorge.
It’s the twelfth day of our journey, and by now we have collected hundreds of kilometers with similar landscapes, yet I can’t help but keep my nose out the window.
We go too fast to focus on what’s on the roadside, but my eyes catch something. I set the shutter speed on my camera and start shooting.
Only late in the evening, before collapsing after an improvised meal, when I review the shots, I discover they were there, hidden in the shadows of enormous stones to escape the blinding sun, watching the road and whoever passed by.
I feel plunged to the center of the world, in a desert of mountains that distort the horizon and disorient me.
We speed along the asphalt, careful of rocks fallen from the cliffs. We stop before a huge boulder blocking the way: some truck drivers have gotten out and are trying to move it to clear the path. On the other side, the road ends in a sheer gorge.
It’s the twelfth day of our journey, and by now we have collected hundreds of kilometers with similar landscapes, yet I can’t help but keep my nose out the window.
We go too fast to focus on what’s on the roadside, but my eyes catch something. I set the shutter speed on my camera and start shooting.
Only late in the evening, before collapsing after an improvised meal, when I review the shots, I discover they were there, hidden in the shadows of enormous stones to escape the blinding sun, watching the road and whoever passed by.
© Alma Claudia Cosenza. All rights reserved. No image may be used or reproduced without written permission.