GHIAIA NERA
BLACK GRAVEL
Journey along the Silk Road.
Photographic reportage realised in hybrid mode: 35mm film and digital
Journey along the Silk Road.
Photographic reportage realised in hybrid mode: 35mm film and digital
Karakoram means ‘black gravel’ in Turkish. Its harsh and imposing sound immediately conjures up images of harsh and inhospitable landscapes. This evocative name was used by Central Asian merchants to refer to the Karakoram Pass, a mountain pass at an altitude of 5,540 metres between Pakistan and China. For millennia, this pass was a crossroads for traders and pilgrims, Buddhist monks and explorers following the legendary Silk Road, the trade route linking East with West.
Today, alongside what remains of those ancient, inaccessible paths, stretches the modern Karakoram Highway, a paved road that, winding its way through territories of mythical dimensions among the world's highest peaks, connects the Chinese town of Kashgar with the Pakistani capital of Islamabad.
It was along this road that my journey with two friends began. Starting from Abbottabad, we drove up the Karakoram Highway towards the Khunjerab Pass: our goal was to come face to face with the Chinese border and then turn south again.
The further up the Indus River I went, the more I felt the force of an invisible current made up of gazes that were reduced to slits, peering at me with curiosity, surprise, contempt. Kilometre after kilometre, catching sight of a woman's profile became a mirage and my presence became heavier and heavier. Only on a few occasions was I able to penetrate into the villages, discovering markets and bazaars frozen in time.
Since at times uncertainty about how I would be received prevailed among my fellow travellers, I spent much of my time documenting what I could see from the back seat of our sedan. The car, which had initially seemed to me a limiting barrier to my reportage work, became a device that allowed me to catch glimpses of the everyday reality flowing around that road.
With the window always rolled down, which became the backdrop par excellence for this series of shots, I captured the staging of reality reacting to the surprise of a female presence, documenting the intensity of the relationship between me and this apparently inscrutable society. I myself became the object of interest for those men wrapped in their cloaks who, surprised by the sight of me, would suddenly stop in the street and with their gaze alone could communicate their state of mind upon seeing me.
As we approached the Chinese border, I had the feeling that a world that seems to be further away in time than in geography was slipping past my lens.
Today, alongside what remains of those ancient, inaccessible paths, stretches the modern Karakoram Highway, a paved road that, winding its way through territories of mythical dimensions among the world's highest peaks, connects the Chinese town of Kashgar with the Pakistani capital of Islamabad.
It was along this road that my journey with two friends began. Starting from Abbottabad, we drove up the Karakoram Highway towards the Khunjerab Pass: our goal was to come face to face with the Chinese border and then turn south again.
The further up the Indus River I went, the more I felt the force of an invisible current made up of gazes that were reduced to slits, peering at me with curiosity, surprise, contempt. Kilometre after kilometre, catching sight of a woman's profile became a mirage and my presence became heavier and heavier. Only on a few occasions was I able to penetrate into the villages, discovering markets and bazaars frozen in time.
Since at times uncertainty about how I would be received prevailed among my fellow travellers, I spent much of my time documenting what I could see from the back seat of our sedan. The car, which had initially seemed to me a limiting barrier to my reportage work, became a device that allowed me to catch glimpses of the everyday reality flowing around that road.
With the window always rolled down, which became the backdrop par excellence for this series of shots, I captured the staging of reality reacting to the surprise of a female presence, documenting the intensity of the relationship between me and this apparently inscrutable society. I myself became the object of interest for those men wrapped in their cloaks who, surprised by the sight of me, would suddenly stop in the street and with their gaze alone could communicate their state of mind upon seeing me.
As we approached the Chinese border, I had the feeling that a world that seems to be further away in time than in geography was slipping past my lens.
Pattan, 833 mt./ 180km from Abbottabad
We are in the lower Kohistan district.
This photo marks my first stand on this journey.
We are stopped at a fork in the road, while the driver and the guide argue about which direction to take.
I don't ask anything, I know I would be told no, so I open the door and jump out of the car, ignoring the lashing rain and the sudden cold. It is the first time I manage to get out of the car after at least five hours of driving, during which we have seen nothing but rocks, the road and the violent Indus flowing beneath us.
The temperature change immediately fogs up the lens of my camera, but I still manage to capture in one shot this man wrapped in his cloak, walking on the side of the road.
Kohistan in Persian means ‘land of mountains’: it is here that the Himalayas, the Hindukus and the Karakorum meet for the first time.
I breathe and try to find my way around: unfinished houses and buildings, stones, cars and men watching the hustle and bustle on the road with frowns.
We left only the day before from Abbottabad, we have only travelled 180km between mountains and rocks, but it seems twice as long to me.
This lack of reference points disorients me and makes me feel trapped in a rocky embrace from which I cannot free myself.
We are in the lower Kohistan district.
This photo marks my first stand on this journey.
We are stopped at a fork in the road, while the driver and the guide argue about which direction to take.
I don't ask anything, I know I would be told no, so I open the door and jump out of the car, ignoring the lashing rain and the sudden cold. It is the first time I manage to get out of the car after at least five hours of driving, during which we have seen nothing but rocks, the road and the violent Indus flowing beneath us.
The temperature change immediately fogs up the lens of my camera, but I still manage to capture in one shot this man wrapped in his cloak, walking on the side of the road.
Kohistan in Persian means ‘land of mountains’: it is here that the Himalayas, the Hindukus and the Karakorum meet for the first time.
I breathe and try to find my way around: unfinished houses and buildings, stones, cars and men watching the hustle and bustle on the road with frowns.
We left only the day before from Abbottabad, we have only travelled 180km between mountains and rocks, but it seems twice as long to me.
This lack of reference points disorients me and makes me feel trapped in a rocky embrace from which I cannot free myself.
Stuck there, in the middle of nowhere, I really couldn't understand how it was possible that we had been walking at walking pace for about an hour. All around us the village went about its daily business, people shouting from one side of the road to the other, kids carrying sacks bigger than their adult selves huddling with folded arms looking at the stopped cars.
While we are crammed and sweaty inside our sedan, with the windows rolled down and the exhaust from all the other cars coming into the passenger compartment, I notice an old man standing between two parked cars looking at the road leaning on his cane.I take several photos, then his eyes come into the lens and look at me. I freeze and look up. He continues to look at me, brings his right hand in front of his mouth and slowly shakes his head left and right. His silent disapproval is disarming, it scares me so much that I lower my camera, roll up the window and slide into the seat out of sight. I couldn't take any more shots for several hours.
Skardu, 2.228 mt. / 500km from Abbottabad.
We arrived in Skardu at night, after days of travelling.
Contrary to the rule imposed by our driver, Mr Gilani, we travelled for several hours even after the sunset prayer, when the sun had already set. Once again the darkness and silence in which we are immersed make us feel lost in nothingness, only the rocks continue to glow in the darkness, they cannot hide their snow-capped spires even on a moonless night.
We begin to breathe in the cold mountain air.
In the morning I discover that the electricity in our flat is too weak and the batteries in my camera have not recharged. I load a roll of film into my analogue and we go out to explore the place. We are surprised: Skardu is a lively town, teeming with motorbikes and pick-up trucks, people going in and out of small improvised emporiums.
We discover that this is the navel of the world for climbers who aspire to the peaks of K2 and Nanga Parbat. Walking through its dusty streets, we notice brightly coloured murals everywhere, portraits of patriotic symbols and climbers who have succeeded in their mountaineering exploits.
But what surprises us most is that the Italians here are well known: all those who understand where we come from greet us with big smiles and long, indecipherable monologues in which we barely recognise the distorted names of our compatriot mountaineers who have made history in their mountains.
We discover that this is the navel of the world for climbers who aspire to the peaks of K2 and Nanga Parbat. Walking through its dusty streets, we notice brightly coloured murals everywhere, portraits of patriotic symbols and climbers who have succeeded in their mountaineering exploits.
But what surprises us most is that the Italians here are well known: all those who understand where we come from greet us with big smiles and long, indecipherable monologues in which we barely recognise the distorted names of our compatriot mountaineers who have made history in their mountains.
We find the market: it is alive, teeming with people unloading and loading goods. They smile at me and someone starts pointing at my camera, suggesting who to photograph or pushing their companions in front of the lens.
I take this photo with the entire market behind me, amused and agitated by this improvised set.
The watermelon traders are unloading the fruit, and they watch me curiously as they climb into the truck with extreme agility. Some suggest their views to me, while others take charge and push forward the shyer of them, who looks at me happily but uncertainly.
I take this photo with the entire market behind me, amused and agitated by this improvised set.
The watermelon traders are unloading the fruit, and they watch me curiously as they climb into the truck with extreme agility. Some suggest their views to me, while others take charge and push forward the shyer of them, who looks at me happily but uncertainly.
‘Mr. Gilani please stop HERE NOW!’ I shout to our driver.We had just set off again, leaving Skardu behind us, when I see that guy standing next to a yellow motorbike, stopped in a lay-by on the side of the road.It is morning and we have been on the road for about twenty minutes.Mr. Gilani has not yet lost his patience, he does not contradict me and stops abruptly next to that motorbike. I jump out of the car as he, already astride the motorbike, is about to step on the gas.
I raise my hand and point the camera at him.
Inside I am afraid I will upset and frighten him, I pray he will not say no to me.
He astonished but calmly looks at me and nods his head.
I can photograph him. His pose is as elegant as that of a Hollywood actor of bygone days. I hold my breath and take the picture.
I shoot the film three times.
Then I thank him by placing my right hand over my heart, as is the custom in these parts.He says something to me and I translate that he is thanking me from the bottom of his heart, he is honoured.
I notice how much his face has softened from the moment he saw me get out of the car to now.
His eyes, previously guarded, are now grateful.
I wonder what he thought.
He hints at a smile trying to reciprocate mine but I perceive how unnatural it is to pull his cheekbones into that serious face. Then he gives gas and accelerates in the direction of Skardu.
I raise my hand and point the camera at him.
Inside I am afraid I will upset and frighten him, I pray he will not say no to me.
He astonished but calmly looks at me and nods his head.
I can photograph him. His pose is as elegant as that of a Hollywood actor of bygone days. I hold my breath and take the picture.
I shoot the film three times.
Then I thank him by placing my right hand over my heart, as is the custom in these parts.He says something to me and I translate that he is thanking me from the bottom of his heart, he is honoured.
I notice how much his face has softened from the moment he saw me get out of the car to now.
His eyes, previously guarded, are now grateful.
I wonder what he thought.
He hints at a smile trying to reciprocate mine but I perceive how unnatural it is to pull his cheekbones into that serious face. Then he gives gas and accelerates in the direction of Skardu.
Shigar Valley, 2550 mt. ca / 545km da Abbottabad
As we slide down the road, the Shigar valley appears to us like a painting.
From above we can see it in its entirety, sleepy and lush, on one side the Bauma Lungma flowing into the Shigar River, on the other an oncoming sandstorm.
Looking at it, I realise that this is the first real oasis I have seen in my life: the vegetation is dazzling green, contrasting and disorienting among all these sands and stones.
The Shigar Valley is famous for its incredible natural beauty and for the famous Shigar Fort, built in the 17th century at the behest of the Raja of Amacha. It was needed as a royal residence and an administrative centre from which to govern this region.Arriving in the valley, the village streets are populated only by young people: the children playing dustily in the streets are contrasted by a small stream of boys in uniform who are scampering through the fields on their way out of school.
As we slide down the road, the Shigar valley appears to us like a painting.
From above we can see it in its entirety, sleepy and lush, on one side the Bauma Lungma flowing into the Shigar River, on the other an oncoming sandstorm.
Looking at it, I realise that this is the first real oasis I have seen in my life: the vegetation is dazzling green, contrasting and disorienting among all these sands and stones.
The Shigar Valley is famous for its incredible natural beauty and for the famous Shigar Fort, built in the 17th century at the behest of the Raja of Amacha. It was needed as a royal residence and an administrative centre from which to govern this region.Arriving in the valley, the village streets are populated only by young people: the children playing dustily in the streets are contrasted by a small stream of boys in uniform who are scampering through the fields on their way out of school.
Hunza Valley 2.438 mt, / 324km from Shigar Valley,
463km from Abbottabad
When the Hazeeb guide turns to look at us from the passenger seat, his eyes are excited:
‘Guys, finally we are driving in 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 parenthesis where the majority of the population is Ismaili. Ismailism is a branch of Shia Islam characterised by a progressive interpretation with a strong emphasis on education, social justice and peaceful coexistence.
For centuries, this valley was a key crossroads along the Silk Road, where merchants and pilgrims stopped by attracted by its beauty and resources. There are many legends about this place that tell of a mythical place, a hidden kingdom in the mountains that has always attracted travellers and scholars. The most famous is the one that 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 the inhabitants lived for over a hundred years thanks to the purity of the water and air. This and other legends make this valley, a place rich in history and mythology, even more mysterious and fascinating.
When the Hazeeb guide turns to look at us from the passenger seat, his eyes are excited:
‘Guys, finally we are driving in 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 parenthesis where the majority of the population is Ismaili. Ismailism is a branch of Shia Islam characterised by a progressive interpretation with a strong emphasis on education, social justice and peaceful coexistence.
For centuries, this valley was a key crossroads along the Silk Road, where merchants and pilgrims stopped by attracted by its beauty and resources. There are many legends about this place that tell of a mythical place, a hidden kingdom in the mountains that has always attracted travellers and scholars. The most famous is the one that 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 the inhabitants lived for over a hundred years thanks to the purity of the water and air. This and other legends make this valley, a place rich in history and mythology, even more mysterious and fascinating.
Minapin, 2.658 mt. / 440 Km from Abbottabad
We stop to sleep in the village of Minapin, one of the villages in the Hunza valley, in the shadow of Rakaposhi mountain.
In the morning, we browse around the still sleeping village, under the cherry blossom trees that look like pink clouds. The valley retains an old-world charm with stone and wooden houses nestled among the orchards.
We feel we are going back in time, then, unexpectedly, a little pink bus appears in front of us and a little girl dressed in full regalia is ready to get on it.
I am stunned and quicken my pace to see who the passengers are: women and girls! I read everything on the sides of the bus:
Free and safe Bus service for females.
The passengers, sitting composed, from inside the bus look at me shyly with smiling eyes.
I nod a greeting and some of them smile back.
Then, before the ‘WOMEN’ bus leaves, a girl smilingly puts her hand on my shoulder to point to my uncovered braid as if to pay me a compliment.
After all these days without any female presence, crossing paths with them leaves me with a strange feeling, as if by looking at them, I reflexively see me, as if just looking at them reminded me of a non-verbal language with which we women can easily understand each other.
We stop to sleep in the village of Minapin, one of the villages in the Hunza valley, in the shadow of Rakaposhi mountain.
In the morning, we browse around the still sleeping village, under the cherry blossom trees that look like pink clouds. The valley retains an old-world charm with stone and wooden houses nestled among the orchards.
We feel we are going back in time, then, unexpectedly, a little pink bus appears in front of us and a little girl dressed in full regalia is ready to get on it.
I am stunned and quicken my pace to see who the passengers are: women and girls! I read everything on the sides of the bus:
Free and safe Bus service for females.
The passengers, sitting composed, from inside the bus look at me shyly with smiling eyes.
I nod a greeting and some of them smile back.
Then, before the ‘WOMEN’ bus leaves, a girl smilingly puts her hand on my shoulder to point to my uncovered braid as if to pay me a compliment.
After all these days without any female presence, crossing paths with them leaves me with a strange feeling, as if by looking at them, I reflexively see me, as if just looking at them reminded me of a non-verbal language with which we women can easily understand each other.
Sost, 2800mt. / 543km from Abbottabad
Leaving Karimabad, in a couple of hours we reached Sost, a sort of last stretch of road where we refuelled, bought water and some snacks before entering the Khunjerab National Park.
Here we find groups of Boy Scouts all in single file, proudly watching us as their Pakistani flag is held up by the leader.
Although it is April and the snow is beginning to melt, the road is still icy in places and we are advised to leave our hatchback and get into a jeep.
In a couple of hours we reach a pristine white valley: we are at 5000 metres.
There is only one element that clashes with the whiteness of the place: abandoned containers by the side of the road, some of which have their doors open.
They explain to us that the Chinese trucks can go as far as Sost but then they cannot continue on to the rest of Pakistan. So they meet up along this road with the super-coloured trucks of the Pakistanis and move the goods from one truck to another.
Leaving Karimabad, in a couple of hours we reached Sost, a sort of last stretch of road where we refuelled, bought water and some snacks before entering the Khunjerab National Park.
Here we find groups of Boy Scouts all in single file, proudly watching us as their Pakistani flag is held up by the leader.
Although it is April and the snow is beginning to melt, the road is still icy in places and we are advised to leave our hatchback and get into a jeep.
In a couple of hours we reach a pristine white valley: we are at 5000 metres.
There is only one element that clashes with the whiteness of the place: abandoned containers by the side of the road, some of which have their doors open.
They explain to us that the Chinese trucks can go as far as Sost but then they cannot continue on to the rest of Pakistan. So they meet up along this road with the super-coloured trucks of the Pakistanis and move the goods from one truck to another.
Kunjerab Pass, 4693mt. / 640km from Abbottabad
We reached the border.
We came face to face with the Chinese border and stood there looking at the shimmering gold Chinese characters posted on the mammoth concrete gate.
I had no idea what the border between Pakistan and China might be like, and the appearance of that massive gate in the middle of a white blanket, lost in the void, made me smile: it was as if that monumental construction pretended to instil awe, to pose as an insurmountable obstacle, up there among all those gigantic peaks that instead made it look like a small turret lost in the blinding white of the snow.
Guarding the end of the Pakistani land, only a man with an old Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, happy to see someone with whom he could boast about his object.
On the Chinese side, however, no one is visible in the bitter cold.
This is the only fairly visible photo I managed to develop. The film taken up there held a secret for me until the day I developed it: the film was only completely altered in the frames taken there, at over 4,600 metres. A colleague of mine hypothesised the presence of magnetic fields there. Although it is an intriguing and mysterious explanation, I prefer to see it as a small twist of fate.
We reached the border.
We came face to face with the Chinese border and stood there looking at the shimmering gold Chinese characters posted on the mammoth concrete gate.
I had no idea what the border between Pakistan and China might be like, and the appearance of that massive gate in the middle of a white blanket, lost in the void, made me smile: it was as if that monumental construction pretended to instil awe, to pose as an insurmountable obstacle, up there among all those gigantic peaks that instead made it look like a small turret lost in the blinding white of the snow.
Guarding the end of the Pakistani land, only a man with an old Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, happy to see someone with whom he could boast about his object.
On the Chinese side, however, no one is visible in the bitter cold.
This is the only fairly visible photo I managed to develop. The film taken up there held a secret for me until the day I developed it: the film was only completely altered in the frames taken there, at over 4,600 metres. A colleague of mine hypothesised the presence of magnetic fields there. Although it is an intriguing and mysterious explanation, I prefer to see it as a small twist of fate.
For hours and hours there is nothing to show the presence of inhabited areas.
I feel plunged into the centre of the world, in a desert of mountains that alter the horizon and disorientate.
We run on the asphalt paying attention to the stones that have fallen from the rocks, we stop in front of an immense boulder that has obstructed the passage: some drivers have got out of their trucks and are trying to move it so that they can pass. On the other side, the road ends in an overhanging gorge.
We are on our twelfth day of travelling and by now we have collected hundreds of kilometres of similar landscapes, but despite everything I can't help but keep my nose out of the window.
We are going too fast to focus on what is on the side of the road, but my eyes perceive something. I set the shutter speed of my camera and start shooting.
Only late in the evening before collapsing after an impromptu meal do I look back at the shots and discover that they were there, hidden in the shadow of huge rocks to escape the blinding sun, watching the road and whoever was passing by.We were never alone, not even in the desert: as if the rocks had eyes.
I feel plunged into the centre of the world, in a desert of mountains that alter the horizon and disorientate.
We run on the asphalt paying attention to the stones that have fallen from the rocks, we stop in front of an immense boulder that has obstructed the passage: some drivers have got out of their trucks and are trying to move it so that they can pass. On the other side, the road ends in an overhanging gorge.
We are on our twelfth day of travelling and by now we have collected hundreds of kilometres of similar landscapes, but despite everything I can't help but keep my nose out of the window.
We are going too fast to focus on what is on the side of the road, but my eyes perceive something. I set the shutter speed of my camera and start shooting.
Only late in the evening before collapsing after an impromptu meal do I look back at the shots and discover that they were there, hidden in the shadow of huge rocks to escape the blinding sun, watching the road and whoever was passing by.We were never alone, not even in the desert: as if the rocks had eyes.
Passu, 2.485mt., / 508km from Abbottabad
I'm starting to get tired.
The arrival at the Chinese border was an adrenalin rush.
We have really reached our goal and made the ‘turnaround’ in front of the Sinopakistani gate. The journey is not yet over but my head and my body are longing for a quiet moment, out of the car and away from these territories that have become too vast.
We propose to stop in Passu, our guide wants to show us the suspension bridge over the valley and we think it is a good excuse to stretch our legs and breathe fresh air for a couple of hours.
As we enter the valley I see messages written on white stones including a Welcome to Passu: phrases welcoming the Aga Khan who visited in 1987.
Above us, a cathedral of rocks and spires lit up by the setting sun looks down on us from its 6106 m. It is the Tupopdan, ‘hot rock’ so called because in winter the snow on its walls melts rapidly.
I'm starting to get tired.
The arrival at the Chinese border was an adrenalin rush.
We have really reached our goal and made the ‘turnaround’ in front of the Sinopakistani gate. The journey is not yet over but my head and my body are longing for a quiet moment, out of the car and away from these territories that have become too vast.
We propose to stop in Passu, our guide wants to show us the suspension bridge over the valley and we think it is a good excuse to stretch our legs and breathe fresh air for a couple of hours.
As we enter the valley I see messages written on white stones including a Welcome to Passu: phrases welcoming the Aga Khan who visited in 1987.
Above us, a cathedral of rocks and spires lit up by the setting sun looks down on us from its 6106 m. It is the Tupopdan, ‘hot rock’ so called because in winter the snow on its walls melts rapidly.
I am trying to keep up with my companions who are descending between the rocks towards the bridge, walking with my eyes on my feet, concentrating not to lose my balance, and I almost collide with her who was slowly ascending in the opposite direction.
I freeze bewildered, apologise in Italian, then focus on the situation: in front of me is a lady with a bundle of sticks on her back who is walking up the hill. We look at each other for a long moment. She too looks astonished.
She is very elegant, her snow-white hair is braided, badly hidden under a veil fixed by a colourful headdress.
It is as if we recognise each other.
We exchange a smile.
Then I raise my camera and point to my face with my right hand.
I try, I find her beautiful and want to photograph her.
She nods her head and without changing pose waits for me to take her picture.
I wasn't ready to photograph her, I wasn't ready to meet her!
I shoot twice, incredulous that I have a female face in front of me.Who knows if anything will come, the light is low, we are at sunset and moreover in a cone of shadow! Then I bring my hand to my heart to greet her and she continues on her way up while I watch incredulously as she carries that load of wood on her back.
I turn around and see downstream, in the distance, my companions who have already descended to the Passu suspension bridge.
I freeze bewildered, apologise in Italian, then focus on the situation: in front of me is a lady with a bundle of sticks on her back who is walking up the hill. We look at each other for a long moment. She too looks astonished.
She is very elegant, her snow-white hair is braided, badly hidden under a veil fixed by a colourful headdress.
It is as if we recognise each other.
We exchange a smile.
Then I raise my camera and point to my face with my right hand.
I try, I find her beautiful and want to photograph her.
She nods her head and without changing pose waits for me to take her picture.
I wasn't ready to photograph her, I wasn't ready to meet her!
I shoot twice, incredulous that I have a female face in front of me.Who knows if anything will come, the light is low, we are at sunset and moreover in a cone of shadow! Then I bring my hand to my heart to greet her and she continues on her way up while I watch incredulously as she carries that load of wood on her back.
I turn around and see downstream, in the distance, my companions who have already descended to the Passu suspension bridge.
© Alma Claudia Cosenza. All rights reserved. No image may be used or reproduced without written permission.