Home | Ocean Watch | Books | About Susan | Search | Email Susan

Ocean Watch

Like everyone in the country, I'm having trouble getting back to normal. Each day, I force myself to sit down and look at the marine news that sits on my desk and arrives in my e-mail. But as I try to read and write about these things, my mind wanders off to current events, and before long, I'm back in the mountains of Pakistan, not far from the Afghan border.

It was three years ago that my husband and I flew to Islamabad, took a long bus trip up the Karakoram Highway to a small town called Skardu and then embarked upon a harrowing Jeep ride into the mountains.

At the end of this nerve-racking journey, a team of skilled mountain men, all local, joined us on foot, and off we went to the base of the second highest mountain in the world, K2.

The mountains in this area, sandwiched between Kashmir and Afghanistan, are vast and beautiful, but also harsh and indifferent. The memory of biting cold, sheer cliffs, raging rivers and little oxygen makes my heart ache for the men who may have to fight there.

But even though my trip was about hiking, it's the people I remember best. Middle-aged men cooked for us, pitched our tents and carried our bags.

During the month we lived together, we discovered that our backpacks had more stuff in them than the men had in their entire lives. They slept in thin blankets on icy rocks, hiked in dilapidated shoes and sewed pieces of cloth together for socks.

Did they resent us? No. I say this with confidence because I got to know some of them well. These wonderful men helped me along narrow paths at dizzying heights and held my shaking hands across white-water rapids.

On my birthday, they baked me a cake.

When it came time to go back, the mood turned melancholy. In thanks, we donated a sleeping bag, parka, all our water bottles, boots and every pair of socks we had. The men accepted the gifts graciously, but it didn't cheer any of us up. Parting was painful. We were friends.

Back in Skardu, I sat on a bench on a busy street while Craig got a haircut. With a few exceptions -- a Jeep here, an electric wire there -- people lived like they had for hundreds of years.

Two polite young men sat down next to me and asked my nationality. After some discussion, one man left and returned with a local English teacher.

"They would like to ask you some questions please, if you are not offended," the man said.

I was not and we embarked upon a remarkable discussion. They had heard fantastic stories. Is it true that every American has a TV? Do we all own cars? Do married couples really choose to have only one child or even none? What are America's main industries and where do we get all our money?

Soon, about 20 men surrounded me asking questions and listening politely to my answers. I too asked questions. The men were all unemployed, but desperately wanted jobs. They wanted televisions to expand their world, vehicles to carry their loads. On and on it went, the men talking about their lives; me talking about ours.

Finally, reluctantly, we said our good-byes. The men's wishes for our safe journey home were gracious and sincere. The current talk about the religions, cultures and lifestyles of people in Pakistan and Afghanistan often makes them sound strange and unapproachable, different from Americans. They aren't.

They are so much like us it hurts. Now that I have that off my chest, I can go back to writing about fish. Hopefully, some day, I can also go back to Pakistan.