N.Siddiqui
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From Karachi to Gwadar, I set out to witness Pakistan's magical coastline
With pristine waters and beaches, golden dunes and wildlife, the country's south is uniquely blessed.
Syed Mehdi BukhariUpdated about 3 hours ago
Far from the crowd of Karachi, a lonely February evening sets at Clifton Beach.
The birds come home at last after their daylong labour. Their abodes in trees at the shoreline wait for them. The lonely evening witnesses a few, seemingly tired, people at the beach, but the breeze is ready to take away their weariness. Hawkers and camel jockeys attract customers in their own style.
Last evening, the same moment had gripped me at Hawke's Bay, and this one carried me away altogether. As the crimson of the setting sun changed hues, tossing and turning and reaching for the cover of darkness, my shadow left me, a wave wrapped around my feet and a cool breeze took me away.
Clifton, Karachi.—All photos by author
Hawke's Bay.
Each wall of my room reflects my passion for photography spanning 12 nomadic years. Whenever I stand amid that great imagery, all those long lost moments, hot afternoons, balmy evenings, lonely, nostalgic nights and full moon flights echo. A time-lapse plays out in my mind, set to the background of a child’s laughter.
Four years ago I started presenting my artistic-traveller series on Gilgit-Baltistan on DawnNews. I figured now is the time to peep into the treasures of Sindh and Balochistan.
A view from the Makran Coastal Highway.
A wandering soul is always set on a road which leads it to nowhere, yet the soul meets its destiny at every turn. There, it steals rare moments and moulds them into timeless memories like an alchemist.
In Naya Pakistan, there are loads of assurances for promotion of tourism. And in this promising ambience, my inner traveller drags me to the dunes of the coastline that extends from Karachi to Gwadar, before it disappears into the rising sea.
Domesticity makes me restless. I find peace in being challenged, and comfort only in long, unknown journeys, sipping tea at dhabas, the twists and turns of dangerous highways, far away from crowds, where I can light a cigarette under the starry skies.
I left Lahore on a rainy night and boarded a train to Karachi after decades. From there, I planned to go to Gwadar via the Makran Coastal Highway.
The rain kept beating, the train kept hurtling and sleepy cities kept passing by. I stood at the threshold of my cabin, looking at the rain. As the howling wind drove the rain-laden clouds stretched across the vast skies, a thunderstorm rattled the carriages.
Makran Coastal Highway.
Other passengers slept, unaware that the dark and dreary night had lifted the veil off the morning, while the silvery dawn had awoken the sleeping birds by the side of the railway track.
As the train left Punjab and entered Sindh, the sights and scenes remained the same, but the soil changed. Columns of palm trees were lined up along the track as if to welcome us. The sun rose, the train whistle slit the quiet of the morning and the golden sun rays bathed the mud walls of huts, turning them copper-gold.
My friends, Adil and Abuzar, warmly received me at Karachi Railway Station. They’re both avid travellers and have been roaming Sindh and Balochistan for the last 10 years. I wouldn't have been on this tour if they hadn’t pushed me. We were to leave Karachi for Gwadar the next morning.
As I refocus, night has fallen at Clifton Beach; the hawkers are gone and only the rant of sea waves prevails in the darkness. Although Karachi never sleeps and neither does the sea, after a long, tiring journey, I can't stay awake.
As dawn breaks, our jeep leaves Karachi and marches on to the highway, crossing Hub Chowki. This checkpoint is at the border between Karachi and Balochistan. Not far, a signboard reads ‘Gadani’ and we turn left for Gadani Beach.
Gadani is a graveyard of ships — what a place to take the last breath.
Gadani Beach.
The rays of the setting sun smear the wide shipyards with crimson red. A group of labourers break in through the wrecked ships. Amidst the massive scrap are the pickers in search of a living, stray dogs and, of course, us. The deafening whimpers of worn-out ships silence the camera shutter.
Before the sun sinks into the horizon, the jeep takes a turn and returns to the highway. The city of Uthal lies ahead.
The wind plays the musical notes of the evening and on those notes, serpents of sandy dust dance in front of the vehicle. We reach Uthal at dusk. Before the city begins, there is a road that turns left to Gwadar off the N-25 National Highway; this is the Makran Coastal Highway, or N-10.
Driving along the Makran Coastal Highway.
Night falls as we drive along. Sand plains bracket the road from both sides. The truck hotels are fewer here, as are the petrol stations, where oil smuggled from Iran is sold. Besides oil, other Iranian products such as ghee, biscuits, ice cream, chocolates and cakes are easily found here.
Headlights guide the jeep to take a left off the highway that leads to a vast open land. This plain of porous soil is the terrain of mud volcanoes. Somewhere here lie the sacred Chandragup mud volcanoes, some of the highest in the world with a height of 300-plus feet.
We spend the night at the foot of this holy volcano. Far above, the stars play hide and seek with the clouds and there is a chill in the air. The mighty Chandragup stand upright, unmoved.
The Chandragup mud volcanoe.
Chandragup at night.
I decide to make an ascent all the way to the summit. It was a hostile hike, but I wanted to see the stars from higher up. At the top, boiling mud produces strange, bubbling noises that disturb this silent hour.
After a moment of contemplation, I step back and descend to my camp. Counting stars always helps me fall asleep. And needless to say, it works this time too.
The next morning, I wake up at sunrise. At daybreak, Chandragup tower like a monarch’s throne. Every year in April, Hindu worshipers come here from all over the country for a series of rituals as part of a pilgrimage to the Hinglaj Mata Mandir. To reach this spot, they walk 21 kilometres under the blazing sun from the temple, also known as Nani Mandir, in Hingol.
As the evening sets, we are back on the coastal highway. In a blink, we cross Kund Malir, a fishing village that is dormant at this hour, as are its boats at the calm shoreline.
The road takes a turn here to separate from the sea.
Sunrise at Kund Malir.
Hingol, one of Pakistan’s biggest national parks, starts here. Stretched over 1,650sq km, this magical world charms visitors with its charismatic landscapes and ever-changing hues. In places, it drops to sea-level, in the plains of Kech, and in others, it reaches for the sky at the peaks of Awaran.
The elements have carved gigantic statues, castles, wadis and chess-like pieces in the mountains; sprinkled with sand dunes, they form the desert landscape.
Hingol National Park.
Ibex in Hingol National Park.
We’re on the road again in the morning. Crimson hues begin to sprinkle across the horizon and the road rejoins the sea here. This is Golden Beach.
From behind the sand dunes, the rising sun throws all its colours onto the wild waves of the ocean. Our jeep stops at the shore for a while.
As the sun frees itself from the loose grip of the clouds, we see a group of dolphins emerge onto the surface. The waves soak my feet, the dolphins swim across aimlessly, my camera shutter opens and closes, and suddenly this entire moment dwells in an ocean of time.
With one last glance at the dolphins in my rear-view mirror, I seal the moment in my memory.
Golden Beach.
