Here comes the mummy

At 57 kilometers in length, Batura is one of the biggest glaciers outside the polar circle. Crossing it meant walking there and back from one side to another at least a couple of times, on ice and frozen soil. Zarina, whom I met just a few hours before, invited me on an 8-hour hike to bring her cows to the mountain pastures. I could not possibly pass on such offer. Zarina had the most contagious laughter I ever heard, and somehow spoke perfect English.

‘Pakistan used to be a great tourist destination before 9/11,’ Anwar was telling me. He once worked as trekking guide, but almost nobody comes to the village these days. In the summer, shepherds take their cattle to mountain valleys along the glacier, where the grass is (quite literally) greener and only food that is always available is goat milk.

Last hour of the hike we spent in complete darkness. Zarina and Anwar, who knew the road by heart, had to take me by both hands and lead the way. In pitch-black darkness, I stretched my arms but could only grasp emptiness, until at some point a door appeared out of nowhere, we opened it, and lit the fire. I could hear the wind howl outside, echoing across the glacier. Under 3 blankets, I fell asleep within a minute.

And in the morning – you know, this is probably how traveling through a Stargate feels: you slip into the darkness, and then wake up to a completely new horizon in a different world. There were about 30 huts of rocks and straw on a green patch of land amidst ice and snow. I asked Zarina when was this settlement built, and she just shrugged: this place has always been here, probably founded by her ancestors, generations ago, when they started moving along the glacier in search of new pastures.

After a few hours, I started giving names to the most remarkable goats, of whom there were hundreds. A big goat that yelled like a grumpy old man. A small goat that frolicked around in zero gravity. A black goat that stole Anwar's hat and wore it like a boss. Milking a goat is half of the task. Try catching it first, hold it steadily, and shove a bucket under her belly, making sure the goat does not start pissing in the milk you are going to drink tonight.

After milking, Zarina and Anwar were joined by other shepherds and started singing in Wakhi, their native language.

'It is a song about Batura,' she told me.

The ice on the other side of the glacier crumbled and started rolling down with echoing noise. The mountain was singing along.