I came to it from Germany where I currently teach and study, carrying questions that formed thousands of miles away, in Urdu writing across the Indian subcontinent. The Crusades — the series of religious military campaigns launched by western European Christians between 1095 and 1291, with the declared aim of taking the Holy Land from Muslim rule — reached me first not through Latin chronicles but through Urdu novels written under British rule.

Standing inside the Charola, I felt as if I were looking at the very event itself.

800 scholars, once every four years

The Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East (SSCLE) meets in full congress only once every four years, which gives its conferences a slightly Olympic quality. Most delegates arrive visibly older, clutching books that did not exist last time the event was held.

This year, the host was the University of Porto, and the turnout was the largest the congress has ever seen: well over 800 delegates working on crusading, Christian–Muslim encounters and the Mediterranean world from the medieval to the modern era.

I presented my own work there — on how the Crusades were read, translated and reimagined by Muslim intellectuals in colonial and post-colonial South Asia. Talking about chronicles written in Urdu texts from Delhi and Lahore in front of a room of scholars who have spent their lives with Latin chronicles was not a small thing for me. Pakistani scholars are extremely rare in this field anyway. It was, quietly, a proud week.

What struck me most was where the field had moved. The best-attended panels were not about kings and grand masters. They were about women — as patrons, pilgrims, captives, financiers and rulers in their own right — and about the ordinary people whose labour and displacement made these wars possible. The “great man” version of the Crusades, the one built around Saladin and Richard the Lionheart, is being dismantled from within.

For a historian trained on South Asian material, where the same argument is being had about empire, it felt entirely familiar.

The five days also did what good conferences do: they put us on buses, out to the crusader-era interior.

Tomar: The fortress that held the river

Tomar began as a military problem rather than a town. In 1160 Gualdim Pais — a Portuguese knight who had fought in the eastern Mediterranean — chose a hill above the Nabão River and built a castle for the Order of the Temple. This was the raw edge of the Christian advance: south and east lay Al-Andalus, and the Tagus valley was the hinge on which the frontier swung.

In 1190, the Almohad caliph’s armies came north and pressed hard against these positions. Tomar held — an episode that barely registers in the great narratives of the Crusades, and yet without it the map of Iberia would look different.

What fascinated me, walking along the walls, was the architecture. Gualdim Pais had seen how fortresses were built in the crusader states of the eastern Mediterranean — in what is today Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and Israel/Palestine — and he brought some of that engineering home with him. Historians have long treated the military orders as a transmission belt for military technology across Latin Christendom, carrying techniques refined on one frontier to fortifications on another.

I have spent much of my own academic life reading Al-Andalus from the Muslim side — its poets, its jurists, its long elegiac literature of loss. Tomar is what the same centuries looked like from the other side of the wall; logistics, not nostalgia. Stone, water, sightlines, grain — and, of course, Christian triumph.

The town keeps its ambiguity, though. Tomar’s name is sometimes argued to carry an Arabic root, a linguistic relic from before the Templars arrived.

A short walk from the castle stands one of the oldest surviving synagogue buildings in Portugal: a plain 15th-century room with astonishing acoustics that now serves as a museum.

No medieval mosque survives here though — the mosques of reconquered Iberia were generally converted or pulled down rather than left standing, which is its own kind of historical evidence. Thus, three civilisational histories collide in this very small town from a global perspective, none of them willing to erase the others entirely.

Tomar in between the Crusades and Caravel

Here is the twist that makes Portugal unlike anywhere else in the crusading story. When the Templars were suppressed across Europe in 1312, the Portuguese crown declined to destroy them. King Dinis had them reconstituted as the Order of Christ, which inherited their properties and eventually made Tomar its headquarters. In the 15th century the Order’s governor was Prince Henry — whom the English-speaking world today remembers as Henry the Navigator.

So, the wealth of a crusading order was redirected into caravel ships. The red cross of the Order of Christ went onto the sails that ran down the African coast, around it, and eventually to the shores of the Indian subcontinent — to us.

The assault on Ceuta in 1415 — then a Marinid Moroccan port, today a Spanish exclave still claimed by Morocco and rarely out of the news on migration — was launched in the language of crusade, and is conventionally where Europe’s overseas empires begin. The small town of Tomar had a big role to play in that Imperial birth.

Back to the future: Porto, where the past refuses to stay past

The fleet that took Ceuta was built and provisioned on the River Douro, and Porto has never quite let go of it. What surprised me on returning to the city was not that the medieval past survives here — that is true of most of Europe — but that the modern city keeps going back for it, rebuilding the Middle Ages in iron, in painted tiles and in midsummer fire. Porto is not a ruin you visit. It is a set of images that the 19th and 20th centuries chose for themselves and are choosing still.

Porto is a city built at an angle. The old riverside quarter of Ribeira drops towards the Douro River in terraces of tiled façades, laundry lines and impossibly narrow staircases, and above it the iron span of the Ponte Dom Luís I bridge — a 19th-century flex from the workshop world of Gustave Eiffel — hangs over everything like punctuation.

It was from this water that the Ceuta fleet sailed. Porto’s people call themselves tripeiros — tripe-eaters — and every restaurant on the Ribeira riverfront will explain why: in 1415 the city handed over all its meat to provision Prince Henry’s ships and kept only the offal for itself. The story is legend rather than record. But it is why the city still eats tripas à moda do Porto on Thursdays, slowly cooked with white beans and cumin: a crusading expedition, 600 years on, still on the lunch menu.

Meanwhile, a few streets uphill is the São Bento railway station, its entrance hall covered wall to wall in blue-and-white azulejos depicting battles, harvests and royal weddings — perhaps the most beautiful railway station I have seen, and I say that having travelled fairly widely across Europe.

What I had not expected was what the tiles on the walls showcased. Painted by Jorge Colaço between 1905 and 1916, the great panel on the southern wall is the conquest of Ceuta — the expedition I had spent the week thinking about at Tomar, laid out in blue and white above the departure boards. Even the word has travelled: azulejo comes from the Arabic Al-Zulayj, the little polished stone. The past is not lingering here — it has been put to work.

Saint John’s night

Walking further downtown, I realised I had the luck to be there for the Festa de São João: nominally a feast of St John the Baptist, functionally the largest street party in northern Portugal. Grandmothers sell garlands of garlic flowers. Complete strangers hit you on the head with squeaky plastic hammers, gently and without explanation. Sardines grill on every pavement, paper balloons drift over the Douro River, and the city stays out until sunrise.

It is a useful corrective to the idea that European public life has gone entirely secular. The Catholic calendar is still the armature on which the year is built here but it has simply been colonised, joyfully, by everyone. And yet the calendar is itself a palimpsest: a midsummer fire festival far older than the saint, baptised and then kept. Layer over layer, the same habit as the tiles depicting Porto’s past to the contemporary times.

Porto’s Harry Potter bookshop

As I moved somewhere between the fortress cathedral and the street party sat Livraria Lello on Rua das Carmelitas, and no honest account of Porto or Portugal can leave it out. Opened in 1906, it is a neo-Gothic fever dream: a crimson staircase pouring down through the middle of the room like something spilled, stained glass overhead, carved galleries stacked to the ceiling with books.  It went up in the same decade as the São Bento tiles, and is doing much the same work: a bookshop of the electric age dressed as a late-medieval chapel, down to the neo-Manueline flourishes borrowed from the architecture of the caravels. Porto was thus performing its own past long before anyone thought to look for Hogwarts in it.

The bookshop’s fame rests on a rumour — that JK Rowling, who lived in Porto in the early 1990s and taught English here, drew on the shop for Hogwarts. She has denied it. And yet, she spent two years in a city of granite staircases and university students in long black academic capes, with a bookshop like this one a short walk from where she worked.

It’s hard to believe that none of it settled anywhere.

Either way, it is among the finest bookshops I have set foot in. The only real drawback is the entry charge that comes with being a tourist attraction: as I write, it’s a minimum of 15 euros, redeemable against the purchase of a book — sensible crowd control, no doubt, but a cost to factor in.

Leaving Porto and Portugal

On my last evening, I sat by the Douro River and thought about the ships that left this river with a crusader’s cross on their sails and came back with maps that would eventually reach my own part of the world. In the textbooks I grew up with in Pakistan, the Crusades end in 1291 with the fall of Acre. In Portugal they do not end at all.

They are still part of how people describe themselves. That, to me, is what travelling to a place does that reading about it from afar cannot. The historical account that you inherited was never wrong — it was, however, only a fragment.

All photos by the author

It was a game of hide-and-seek.

Nanga Parbat is the ninth-highest mountain on Earth: an ice-and-scree-covered behemoth, known most for death. In the Shina and Tibetan scriptures, though, he is called Deo Mir, the Mountain of God. In mountaineering circles, he is the ‘Killer Mountain’, given his insurmountable ego and treacherous temper.

I gathered this much from reading trip reports back in 2020, when I was planning an expedition of my own. I am no mountaineer, but I would take the liberty of calling myself an orophile, and so I settled on a relatively achievable conquest: the base camp.

One of the older accounts of reaching the base camp described the trek as a thrilling, steep and physically demanding journey marked by dramatic gorge trails, sudden weather shifts and deep isolation. At the time I encountered the sentence, I was an overenthusiastic 23-year-old journalist living in Karachi. When asked why I wanted to trek to the base camp of that particular mountain — instead of enjoying ‘just a vacation’ — I mindlessly cited Simone Moro. “It’s like a giant planet standing in front of you, seducing you to climb it,” the Italian mountaineering legend had said.

I did not want to climb the mountain — I wasn’t even equipped to do that. I just wanted to let nature lure me there. I had two beginner-level treks to my name: one at home and the other in Nepal. Both entailed only a few hours of discomfort though. But the Nanga Parbat base camp, ChatGPT and I agreed, was a ‘Type-2 kind of adventure’ for my feeble experience. Opting to do this with a group of Gen Zs I barely knew was another gamble.

The journey began in 4x4 jeeps clambering along on a narrow, single-lane dirt and gravel path carved into steep rock cliffs without any guardrails. Calling dibs on the passenger seat did me no good — the fierce Raikot sun burnt my exposed arms, the blistering dry wind slapped my face, and the views looked straight down into a roaring gorge.

The two-hour-long rattling briefly halted when we encountered a jeep on the narrow road, which meant one of the two vehicles had to move over, manoeuvring closer to the edge to give way. The only respite were the occasional, fleeting views of the Parbat. But I refrained from looking too closely — I had to earn the view.

The first time I set eyes on the Parbat was on a short trip to Skardu a couple of years earlier. He had blanketed himself with low-hanging clouds. There was something oddly inviting about the Parbat. It was for this reason that this time around I had pre-planned our meeting, minute by minute.

Our jeep ride ended at Tattu village, from where the trek kicks off, crowded with duffel bags and backpacks left behind for porters to carry. My excitement was palpable: I was finally ready to stare at the Parbat. But as our guide Naveed bhai said, the Parbat decides who he wants to reveal himself to, and that time was yet to come.

For the next hour or more, I marched toward Fairy Meadows, winding along a craggy trail littered with empty plastic bottles and horse faeces.

To my right, a mountain wall rose into the sky, its face covered by pale white stones mixed with green moss. On the other side, the earth broke into a gorge right at the edge, a chasm where the bottom was hidden by bushy treetops. A thin silver line of a gushing river cut through the rocks far below, heard before it was seen, its low roar a faithful companion as we made our way along the trail. Whenever the scorching sun bore down on my back, a draft of cool, damp air rising from below provided respite, as if on cue.

The Parbat, meanwhile, stayed put, peeking from the secondary ridges that cut across the landscape like jagged teeth. His stony eyes, the only visible feature of his face, looked down on the sprawling valley, and me. “You don’t challenge the ego of the Parbat,” a friend responded to my whining.

Our first stop was the 50-50 Cafe, a comforting sign that the difficult parts of the trek were now behind us. The rustic refuge featured a tin roof, weathered stone walls, a compact dining hall, and an open kitchen reverberating with the crackle of damp wood. Within 10 minutes, a bowl of Maggi noodles came out, piping hot. I devoured it; the steam rising from the bowl soothed my cold nose, and then set off for the remainder of the journey.

The trail had now dramatically changed. I stepped into a cool sanctuary of ancient trees, instantly greeted by the scent of pine needles, sweet sap, and cool mountain moss. The ground beneath me transformed into soft earth, moist as a freshly-baked cake, the sunlight filtering through thick tree trunks to paint needle-thin gold patterns on the dirt. The tight canopy shut out the glaring mountain sun, creating a cool, shadowed refuge, which meant I could now only get glimpses of the cobalt blue sky as the Parbat towered above us, never fully revealing himself. He was indeed a restless giant, standing rigid and immense above the valley.

“You are staring at a wall; it rears from the abyss at your feet to a height for which the neck must crane back […] it is a buttress worthy of its role,” historian John Keay wrote of the Parbat years ago.

My reverie was soon cut short when, without any warning, the thick foliage began to stretch, thinning out into a steep final push — the loose gravel, zig-zagging dirt path, and precipitous gorge were all back. This time, with much more force. The towering pine trees were now all behind me, their bundled needles standing tall in shared anticipation: the meeting was close, merely a few footsteps away. I wanted to race to the top, the wait too long to bear, but the ragged terrain and my smoker’s lungs demanded attention. One step at a time, I chanted.

Exactly seven minutes later, I stopped in front of a signboard. An arrow pointed to the right.

For all the waiting, anticipating and planning I had done beforehand, I couldn’t bring myself to look at the Parbat. The back of my throat had run dry and I could sense tears welling up in my eyes. I fixed my eyes on my dirty shoes and drew in a deep breath. When I looked up, he filled the horizon — his exposed rock face shot up from the abyss, blue veins of ice spreading across the dark stone. At its foot, a 15km-long glacier — blanketed in dark rock debris, dirt, and moraines — rested, feeding the green valley hidden below.

Beautiful was not the right word to describe what was before me; arrogant was.

“Tu hai kon [who are you],” his stony gaze seemed to ask. The question, not asked aloud, hung heavy in the air as he rose insultingly close to the sky, as if he built a staircase to heaven just to look down on the rest of us with disdain, unfazed by the desperate vanity of mortal conquerors. He stood alone because he could. And that, more than his height, was what felt arrogant.

“Such a dude,” a friend interrupted my thoughts. I smiled and a comfortable silence settled between us. We stood at the edge of the trail, our eyes eager to take in the expansive view before us. From somewhere along the trail drifted a familiar melody: “Mujhse pehli si muhabbat mere mehboob na maang.”

Not long after, other members of the group found us, and we set off toward our guest house at the far end of the trail. When I entered through its fence-like white gate, another friend, the only person I knew before embarking on this 12-day trip, jumped in celebration. “I won the bet,” he cheered. He had put money that I’d be among the first five group members to get there. My insides bubbled with happiness, some of which spilt out in a happy dance, pink cheeks and a wide smile.

By the time everyone made it to the guest house, the sun was setting, its rays transforming the Parbat into a glowing monolith that changed colour with every passing minute, catching brilliant golden, orange and pink hues standing out as the deep valleys under it faded into the twilight. The first stars appear one by one. As the sky darkened, they multiplied until the horizon burst into a glittering cosmos.

Although now faded into a silhouette, Parbat’s presence still commanded the night. He never moved; not when the clouds drifted, or when the stars wheeled overhead. For most of the night, we remained glued to the guesthouse’s famous wooden deck — filthy, exhausted and unwilling to go inside. Empty teacups and dinner plates were strewn around us as laughter drifted into the otherwise hushed night.

But eventually, conversation found its way back to Naveed bhai. Mountains like these refuse to remain geological; before long, they become stories. Somewhere above the glaciers of the Deo Mir, he began, is a place made of crystal ice. There, beyond the reach of ordinary people, the queen of fairies lives with her companions. At twilight, when the clouds drift across the Parbat’s summit, they say the fairies break into dance. Those whom they choose are welcomed into their kingdom, and those whom they reject may never return.

Then came the love story.

About 100 kilometres away, as the crow flies, stands Rakaposhi. Locally known as Dumani — the Mother of Mist — she is everything the Parbat is not: graceful where he is imposing, luminous where he is austere. There was a time, Naveed bhai said, when the two mountains stood close enough to touch. Then came a great upheaval. The earth convulsed beneath them, tearing them apart, leaving the valleys of Gilgit-Baltistan between them. They have remained there ever since — facing one another, unable to meet.

“But they still speak,” he insisted. At dawn and dusk, when the first light catches their snowfields, and the last light leaves them, the mountains converse across the valleys. The changing colours are not merely alpenglow but longing, grief, and a love that has outlived continents.

I knew her. I had stopped to take a long look at her in Nagar. I distinctly remember feeling awestruck by her beauty and grace. Only then did I understand. All along, his gaze had never been fixed on me. Not on the valley beneath. Nor on the rivers or the forests or the pine trees. It was on Rakaposhi, always.

Silence settled over the deck after Naveed bhai finished. No one spoke, we simply looked back at the Parbat, each of us carrying a different version of the story. Then, for the briefest moment, a shooting star streaked across the sky behind him, illuminating his face before darkness reclaimed him again.

“We think we come to the Parbat,” Naveed bhai said quietly, “but it is he who decides when we are allowed to come.”

Sitting on that deck beneath a sky full of stars, I felt the journey had already shifted. The game of hide-and-seek had never been between the mountain and me. I had simply wandered into a story that wasn’t mine to tell. As the night came to a close, I looked back at him one last time before going inside. The mountain hadn’t changed — I had.

“This place was always called Homer’s Valley by the locals. Travellers from all over the world would come and see the cave where Homer is said to have composed his poems,” explained Turkish researcher Altan Altin, who has written a book on the subject.

In fact, nobody knows exactly where Homer wrote his epic poems and there is much mythology around the idea of his cave. Today, of course, the debate has become livelier and more immediate thanks to Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster film The Odyssey.

The poet has for a very long time been associated with the Izmir region of Turkiye’s Aegean coast, which for most of its history was known as ancient Smyrna.

“The Smyrnaeans have the river Meles, with its lovely water, and at its springs is the grotto, where they say Homer composed his poems,” wrote the 2nd-century Greek chronicler and geographer Pausanias.

Those words have fuelled a centuries-long debate, one that continues today, about Homer’s life and the location of the river where he was thought to have been born in the year 8 BC.

Remarkable precision

Visiting the cave, which is filled with rocks, is not easy.

Inside, travellers have left Greek scrawled on the walls, although it is not clear how old the writing is.

Although other places, notably the Greek island of Chios, also lay claim to Homer’s origins, ancient Smyrna and its hinterland – where Bornova is located – are closely associated with the poet.

“For me, there’s no doubt, Homer is from Bornova. In any case, he is from Ionia, which includes Smyrna and Chios. He’s from these lands,” Altin told AFP.

Ionia is the name of an ancient Greek region on Turkiye’s Aegean coast.

To support his thesis, Altin pointed to a 3rd-century BC frieze depicting the deification of Homer, which he says reproduced the Bornova cave with remarkable precision.

“This bas-relief was already known, but no one had ever noticed the identical details to those found in Homer’s cave. This is the first time such a detailed geographical description came to light,” he said.

Archaeological evidence from the area also suggests a link to Homer.

“The discoveries from the excavations, especially coins bearing Homer’s likeness, show us that the inhabitants of ancient Smyrna considered the poet to be one of their own,” archaeologist Mehmet Akif Erdem said.

“The Iliad and The Odyssey were written in the (ancient Greek) dialects of Ionic and Aeolic, suggesting that ancient Smyrna and Bornova could be among Homer’s native lands,” he said.

Homer everywhere

Beyond the academic debate about his origins, Homer is everywhere in Bornova.

At Yesilova Hoyuk, a Neolithic site considered to be the oldest known prehistoric human settlement in Izmir, there is a bust of Homer with the inscription: “I compiled The Iliad and The Odyssey epics on this land. I lived in Bornova.” The town — which already hosts a book fair dedicated to Homer and has a statue of Trojan War hero Hector in a local park — is planning to refurbish the cave and open it to visitors to capitalise on the revival of interest in the ancient poet.

“Preserving Homer’s legacy is a duty we owe to humanity. He is one of the founding fathers of literature,” Bornova Mayor Omer Eski told AFP.

“The stories he tells are about this land. The question is not whether we should claim Homer or not. His story is also ours,” he said.

But not everyone shares his vision.

In 2024, municipal officials from President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s ruling AKP party proposed renaming Homer’s Valley after a Turkish fighter, saying the site should not have a Greek name.

“Erasing Homer’s name would be one of the worst things we could do to Bornova,” retorted the mayor, whose aim is to “make Homer known to the whole world as a person from Bornova” and to make the town a tourist attraction.

Proud to be his compatriot

Mustafa Kocyigit, who runs the Gargantua bookshop in Izmir, said the success of Nolan’s film has revived interest in Homer and boosted sales of the poem The Odyssey.

“I knew Homer was from these lands, but I didn’t know he was specifically from Izmir. We are incredibly lucky,” said teacher Safak Tosun outside one of the city’s cinemas where the film is showing.

“I feel proud, honoured and deeply privileged to be his fellow countryman.”

For the researcher Altin, there are clues in Homer’s writing that he says shows the poet came from the area.

“When you dive into the Iliad, you really understand that Homer was an Anatolian. You find anecdotes and cultural references that are completely unknown elsewhere,” he said.

He believes Homer’s origins should not stir up rivalry between Turkiye and Greece.

“Homer is 2,800 years old, while the Turkish-Greek border is only a century old,” he shrugs.

“Homer is Greek. Homer is Anatolian. None of us is older than he is, not even our countries.”

The enormous Trojan plain swallowed the horizon. The never-ending swathe of land bathed in a simmering yellow that turned orange and then suddenly a deep, stubborn red, thick with secrets as the sun set. For a moment, I was inside the story, one that started almost 4,000 years ago.

This is also where Odysseus might have stood. Cunning, valiant, and depending on who you ask, the mastermind behind Troy’s fall. The Greek king who convinced his men to hide inside a giant wooden horse. The ‘complicated man’ who spent years trying to find his way home from a war he had just won. The man enshrined in Christopher Nolan’s new film, The Odyssey.

But the story begins right here — not in a film studio in Iceland, Italy or Morocco, but in the city of ancient Troy that now sits in Türkiye’s Canakkale province, some 30 kilometres from the city centre.

Most people know the city from the famous Brad Pitt film Troy. Few know that it is a real place. That blockbuster ended with Odysseus walking away from the doomed city. In it, he asked for one thing: “If they ever tell my story, let them say I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Hector, tamer of horses. Let them say I lived in the time of Achilles.”

A complicated man

Odysseus got what he asked for but Troy got something too: immortality. The city that was never forgotten, mostly because of the venerable Greek poet Homer, whose very existence remains shrouded in mystery, and also because while some cities from the Bronze Age have faded into archaeological footnotes, the world kept retelling Troy’s story. It was also from these burning plains that Odysseus set sail into a decade of chaos, monsters, and gods with grudges.

Centuries later, curious travellers and history nerds still flock to the city of Truva (the Turkish name for Troy), a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Sandwiched in a tightly packed dolmuş or shared taxi that smelled of sunscreen and old upholstery, everyone had their own reason for making the 45-minute-long journey to the ancient ruins. Some come convinced Troy is a myth and want to be proved wrong. Others come clutching dog-eared copies of Homer’s Iliad. And some, much like the Greek tourist sitting beside me said with a slight chuckle, come because they read somewhere that Helen, the Spartan queen whose elopement with Troy’s younger Prince Paris instigated the long, exhausting Trojan war, was the most beautiful woman in the world and want to see what all the fuss was about.

Outside the minivan’s tiny tinted window, the city’s coastline stretches. The Dardanelles glitters to the left. Lofty mountains rise to accompany you to the right, and the water is so blue that it almost looks fake.

The ancient site arrives before you expect it. But it doesn’t come as a surprise. There’s no grand gateway or dramatic entrance. Just a wooden Trojan Horse standing tall at the gate, built for photos, mainly. Old bending olive trees cast little pockets shade over the excavation trenches and wooden ramps that spread across the site, looking like an incomplete map. Valonia oaks, thick and completely unbothered, line the path. There comes a time when the dead silence and rustling of leaves get on your nerves, but the field crickets keep up a low, constant chirp.

The tourists briskly walk past the trenches and foundation walls. The marked layers, Troy I through Troy IX, show years of human ambition compressed into a few metres of soil. The weight of it is not dramatic. It is quiet and the kind that does not ask anything of you.

The cube-shaped treasure

Some 750 metres from the ancient site, there’s a long walk to the award-winning Troy Museum. From the outside, it looks like a rusted and deliberately plain cube that has been pulled from the ground rather than built on top of it. In the scorching heat, stepping through its doors felt like a relief.

Inside, there are no stairs, only ramps. You descend first, then rise again, moving through seven sections in a slow spiral. Each of the ramps takes you into a different era, a different civilisation, a different Troy. The walls hold gravestones, sculptures, scene recreations, and photographs at mural scale. The best part about the museum is that it does not shout at you — it makes you take your time.

On the lowest level, the floor is glass. Beneath your feet, pottery shards dating back to 3000 BCE lie exactly where they were found, symmetrical and placed closely next to each other.

Rıdvan Gölcük, Turkish archaeologist and former museum director, was quite direct when I asked him what this place offers that Nolan’s Odyssey cannot. “Cinema offers us a magnificent illusion. But this is where that illusion ends and the truth begins. Nolan may have filmed his Odyssey from Morocco to Iceland. But this museum stands on the very ground where Odysseus walked, breathed, and drank water.”

He was not being theatrical at all.

“This is not a set. This is not Disneyland. The museum offers you the red pill. Because this is real.”

The ramps continue upward. Bronze Age weapons. Greek ceramics. Roman coins. Ottoman artefacts that remind you this ground kept being lived on long after Homer’s epics were composed. It was a city that refused to stop existing and offered so much more with every new dig.

Right at the top is the rooftop. In a cinema you watch a story, at the Troy Museum, Gölcük says, you step into the Homeric geography where the story was born. You can walk in the garden, look from the terrace and see the bay where the Achaean ships landed, then walk the streets of the ancient city minutes later. “This is Zero Point,” he pointed out.

Zero Point — the place all the stories lead back to. There are things the museum tells you that no film will.

Storytellers write history

German adventure-archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann excavated Troy in the 1870s and declared he had found Homer’s city. He had not.

In his rush to reach what he imagined was the right layer, he blasted through the actual Homeric Troy with dynamite. The gold he pulled from the ground — diadems, cups, jewellery — was smuggled out of Ottoman territory and taken to Berlin, only to be seized by the Soviets in 1945. It now sits in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.

The Troy Museum, the most logical home for the treasure of Troy, does not have it. “History is inconvenient that way,” said one of the guides listing the treasures the museum is missing.

“They say history is written by the winners,” Gölcük said. “I do not entirely agree. Because the Iliad is not the epic of the winners. It is the epic of the losers.” Think of every name that survives from Troy. Hector. Priam. Andromache. Hecuba. The Trojans. The people who lost.

“Odysseus thought he was leaving behind a city in flames,” Gölcük said, with a very different perspective about the epic. “What he actually left behind was an immortal name — Troy — that has outlasted every age.”

Nolan’s Odyssey is pulling in massive numbers, with a $264 million global debut and collecting both praise and critical acclaim worldwide. It begins where the 2004 film Troy left off, with Odysseus sailing away from the fallen city, asking to be remembered. Twenty-two years of cinema. Ten years of mythology. The place that connects both films is here.

I left the rooftop as the last red light faded from the plain. The crested larks had gone quiet. The bee-eaters had settled somewhere in the Valonia oaks. The profound silence took over once again, whispering that Troy does not need anyone to remember it.

Julius Caesar came here and walked the ruins. Alexander the Great made a pilgrimage to Troy. Schliemann came here and loved it so much he destroyed part of it. But Homer, if he was one person, which nobody can agree on, may never have visited Troy. He may have been working from oral tradition passed down by traveling singers, rhapsodes across generations, not from his personal observation. He may never have even seen the Aegean.

The most influential description of this place in human history may just be based on mere powerful storytelling. Now, Nolan has sent the entire world back to the beginning of the story.

The pet-friendly dining scheme, outlined in the 2025 Policy Address and officially rolled out on July 9, targets Hong Kong’s 240,000 pet-owning households — which keep over 400,000 cats and dogs — to unlock new business opportunities for the catering sector.

“For the permitted venues, the effect can be quite visible. Some operators are already talking about a 20-25 per cent increase in business, and a 10-20pc uplift looks realistic for cafes and casual restaurants that actively court the pet crowd,” said Zhang Yifei, a senior lecturer at HKU Business School.

Jonathan Leung, a Legislative Council member for the Catering Functional Constituency, said that while some restaurants have seen their turnover double, owners’ adaptability to the scheme has varied widely.

“Some cafes have operated smoothly, whereas certain fast-food outlets and cha chaan tengs (Hong Kong-style diners) have encountered operational difficulties, with complaints from customers uneasy about sharing dining space with dogs. Traditional banquet restaurants, once considered unlikely to join the scheme, have performed strongly because their larger premises can accommodate private rooms and group bookings for dog owners,” Jonathan Leung said.

The programme has also drawn mixed responses from dog owners. Aria Leung, a diner bringing her dog, Haku, to a pet-friendly restaurant, said: “Pet-friendly restaurants will gradually become part of everyday life, and I expect to spend more at such venues in the long term.”

By contrast, Nathan Choi, a dog owner, said he had chosen not to take his dog, Horlick, to restaurants to avoid conflicts with people who dislike dogs. “I was initially thrilled to have more dining options, but disputes and misunderstandings over dogs in eateries have arisen,” he said.

Such concerns reflect the challenge restaurants face in accommodating dog owners while maintaining a comfortable environment for other diners.

This plays out in lively and sometimes awkward scenes: in some eateries, dogs have barked and snarled at each other, while patrons uneasy around animals have moved to other tables.

Albert Yuen Yuk-kin, director of the Food and Environmental Hygiene Department (FEHD), said that roughly 20 complaints regarding minor breaches were received in the first four days after the policy was implemented. As of July 16, two licensed restaurants received warning letters for repeated breaches involving cooking or heating food on dining tables.

Faced with operational challenges, several restaurants have decided to withdraw from the scheme. Taste of Asia Group Ltd, a local catering group operating several popular diner chains including Café 100%, announced on July 11 that it would apply to revoke dog-access permits for certain Café 100% branches, saying that allowing dogs inside may affect other customers’ dining experience due to limited space and seating layouts.

Despite the withdrawals, industry interest in the scheme remains strong, according to Jonathan Leung. “Around 20 restaurants have withdrawn from the scheme, yet many others are still queuing up to join,” he said, describing the changes as an inevitable market adjustment.

FEHD figures show that 2,205 restaurants applied for the first phase of dog-access permissions. Among 1,616 valid applications, a ballot picked 1,000 operators to fill the full quota. Waitlisted operators will fill vacancies left by restaurants that fail to complete the formalities or withdraw from the scheme, meaning the pool of permitted eateries remains fluid.

As permitted restaurants account for only about 5-6 pc of Hong Kong’s licensed restaurants, the scheme’s impact on the whole catering sector remains modest for now, Zhang said. “My back-of-envelope estimate is net new receipts in the order of HK$500 million ($63.78m) to HK$1 billion a year, well under one per cent of a sector that turned over HK$28.4bn in the first quarter of 2026, or roughly HK$110bn annually,” he explained.

Nevertheless, Zhang stressed that the scheme provides small and mid-sized operators a differentiation tool, with a permit fee costing just HK$140. To drive sustained growth under the scheme, he suggested building an ecosystem spanning transport links, pet-friendly shopping malls, parks, and hotels.

Some operators are experimenting with combinations of leisure venues and dog-friendly dining to extend consumption chains, with Ocean Park as one example. Three of its restaurants welcome dogs, and its Members’ Doggy Day has been extended from two days a week to five.

“Positive feedback has been received regarding the new dining arrangements,” said Ivan Wong, chief executive of Ocean Park Corporation. He added that the main attraction is that pet owners can tour the park and dine with their pets, rather than leaving them at home.

“I expect dog-friendly dining to move from novelty to a standard amenity segment within three to five years, with the quota expanded substantially,” Zhang forecasted.

Jonathan Leung also shared an optimistic outlook. “Many restaurants targeting dog owners will carry out tailored layouts and renovations, and the scheme is set to flourish further,” he said.

This story was originally published in China Daily, an ANN partner of Dawn

Through Fanoos in 2017 and Coke Studio Explorer (CSE) in 2018, he built a reputation for uncovering Pakistan’s forgotten sounds, traditions and cultures — stories that often existed far from the country’s urban centres. His latest project, The Great Pakistan Adventure (TGPA), marks a departure from music, but not from the curiosity that has always driven his work.

Pakistan’s digital creators have spent years reshaping the country’s image for online audiences, taking viewers beyond postcard landscapes to discover the people, traditions and untold stories that lie beyond the tourist trail. TGPA builds on that momentum with an ambitious four-part web series that can be viewed on YouTube and blends cinematic documentary filmmaking with expedition travel.

It follows four of the country’s best-known storytellers as they explore dramatically different corners of Pakistan.

From forgotten folk traditions to the songs of remote mountain communities, Zohaib Kazi has spent his career documenting Pakistan’s sound landscape. With The Great Pakistan Adventure, he takes that mission beyond music, revealing lesser-known people and places that shape the country’s identity

Rather than relying on a single host, each episode is led by a content creator whose interests naturally align with the journey: motorcycle traveller Abrar Hassan heads into the mountains of the Hushe Valley in search of the elusive snow leopard and the communities working to protect it; journalist and storyteller Maryam Raja travels through Sindh to uncover its living heritage, wildlife and enduring traditions; travel filmmaker Bilal Hassan — better known as Mystapaki — ventures across the deserts of Cholistan and Bahawalpur; and adventurer Nadir Nahdi traces Pakistan’s little-known surf culture and coastal communities from Karachi to Balochistan.

Directed by Zohaib, the series moves beyond conventional travel programming, using each expedition to examine the relationship between landscapes, identities and the people whose lives are deeply connected to these places. The result is less of a showcase of destinations and more of a portrait of Pakistan told through four distinct voices, each revealing a different facet of a country that continues to surprise even those who know it well.

While the BYD Shark 6 serves as the vehicle connecting these journeys, it never overshadows the stories, acting instead as a means to reach some of the country’s most remote and compelling landscapes.

“The intent was to shed light on a lot of human stories,” points out Zohaib. “It’s about exploring our identities as Pakistanis.”

The project occupied nearly eight months of his life. Concept development began in September last year, and post-production wrapped in late April. Timing every shoot around the right season meant long stretches of waiting — and even longer periods were spent filming in some of the country’s most unforgiving environments.

“We were trying to catch things in the right season,” he explains. “It was a long journey.”

For Zohaib, the challenge wasn’t simply logistical. It was creative. “We have the world of vlogs and then we have documentaries,” he says. “We’ve been trying to bridge the gap between them.”

This meant convincing both the client and the production ecosystems to embrace something that sat between a cinematic documentary and accessible digital storytelling. “There was resistance at first,” he recalls. “But they were very receptive.”

Zohaib’s reputation for culturally nuanced storytelling was precisely why he was approached for the series. Yet, despite its adventure-driven premise, Zohaib instinctively steered the project back towards people.

“I love cultural storytelling,” he says. “Your curiosity gets interactions. Things aren’t how you understand them. You get a real reality check.”

A career built on cultural curiosity

Curiosity and cultural storytelling have always been Zohaib’s forte. He first joined Coke Studio (CS) in 2009 as a music producer and composer, where he worked alongside some of the country’s most celebrated musicians.

His work became known for blending traditional Pakistani musical forms with contemporary production, helping introduce regional folk sounds to mainstream audiences. Rather than simply arranging songs, Zohaib sought to preserve the authenticity of indigenous musical traditions while presenting them in a modern format that resonated with younger listeners.

Following the success of CS, Zohaib conceived and directed CSE, an ambitious documentary series that required travelling across Pakistan in search of undiscovered musical talent and endangered folk traditions. The project took him to some of the country’s most remote villages, where he documented local musicians performing in their native languages and cultural settings, before bringing them into the studio for original collaborations.

More than a talent hunt, CSE became a celebration of Pakistan’s extraordinary musical diversity, introducing audiences to voices and traditions that had rarely, if ever, reached national television. One of the most memorable songs to come from CSE was ‘Pareek’, by Ariana and Amreena, two Kalasha girls from Chitral.

Fanoos marked a natural evolution of Zohaib’s work beyond music into broader cultural storytelling. The documentary series explored Pakistan’s living heritage through artisans, crafts people, oral traditions, architecture and communities whose knowledge has been passed down through generations.

Rather than focusing solely on history, Fanoos examined how culture continues to evolve, highlighting the relationship between people, places and identities. Visually cinematic and deeply immersive, the series reinforced Zohaib’s reputation for telling nuanced stories that celebrated Pakistan’s often-overlooked cultural landscapes.

Together, these projects have established Zohaib as one of Pakistan’s leading cultural storytellers. While CS introduced audiences to the country’s musical richness, CSE took viewers to the communities where those traditions originated and Fanoos expanded that vision to encompass Pakistan’s broader cultural heritage.

TGPA builds on that same philosophy, replacing music with travel and adventure, while retaining Zohaib’s enduring focus on people, identity and place.

Waiting for winter

Nowhere is that philosophy clearer than in the series’ opening episode, filmed in the Hushe Valley. Conventional wisdom suggested shooting in May, when the roads would be open and conditions more forgiving. Zohaib chose the opposite.

“If we wanted to experience what Hushe is really about, we needed to go when it is at its remotest,” he says.

They arrived after dark. Overnight, snow buried the valley. “It was the harshest of conditions,” he laughs. “Especially for someone from Karachi who isn’t a climber.”

Yet, those hardships delivered exactly what he had hoped for: a version of Hushe that few visitors witness.

The episode also brought together three of Pakistan’s most iconic mountain communities through the people who best represent them: Sajid Sadpara from Sadpara, Sultana Nasab from Shimshal and the people of Hushe itself.

When I point out that he had managed to include all three communities that have produced generations of Pakistan’s high-altitude porters and mountaineers, Zohaib smiles. “Thank you for noticing that,” he says. “The intention was to inspire people to experience snow tourism. Ice climbing is a sport that’s huge in so many countries but it’s something we can develop here too.”

For him, featuring mountaineers such as Sajid wasn’t simply about celebrity. “These kinds of shows reach the mainstream,” he says. “These are the people who should be on billboards. They’re the ones doing the real work.”

Meeting Sajid himself proved memorable. “[He’s] someone who’s climbed 14 8,000-metre peaks without oxygen… I shook hands with him and thought he should be doing mixed martial arts,” he jokes.

However, more than the filming, Zohaib remembers the conversations. “I wish I’d recorded a podcast there. The conversations were so inspiring. They stayed with me.”

Refusing to tell stories through pity

Another episode that has resonated with audiences follows Karachi-based surfer Nadir Nahdi as he learns to surf with the young men of Buleji, whose passion for the ocean has quietly built one of Pakistan’s most remarkable grassroots surfing communities.

Zohaib was already familiar with their story. His wife, photographer Insiya Syed, had previously documented them for Reuters. But revisiting the subject required a different perspective.

“We were very careful not to paint anyone as a victim.” After a pause, he adds, “We didn’t want to make poverty porn.” Instead, the narrative focuses on skill rather than circumstances.

“If the boys from Buleji can teach Nadir how to surf, then that proves they can teach. We wanted to show that rather than saying it.”

Watching Nadir finally stand on his surfboard became one of Zohaib’s favourite moments of the entire production. “When it finally happened, we knew we had our story.”

Just as importantly, he hopes viewers come away seeing Karachi differently. “There are places to surf here. There are places to cliff dive. This can be a proper tourism destination.”

The song he’d been searching for

Perhaps the most extraordinary moment during production almost never made it into the series.

For over a decade, Zohaib had been searching for a traditional climbing song. He was told it was sung in villages near K2. Apart from a grainy camcorder recording from the ’90s, he had never managed to find it. Then, hours before leaving Hushe, something unexpected happened.

“We came back from ice climbing and everyone in the guesthouse started singing it,” he recalls. The villagers had chosen the song to welcome the crew home.

“I recorded it two or three hours before we left,” he says. “I’d been looking for it for 12 or 14 years.” It was, he admits, a deeply personal moment — one that perfectly captures the obsession that has defined much of his career.

What does Pakistan sound like?

That obsession extends beyond filmmaking. For the past three-and-a-half years, Zohaib has quietly been building what may be Pakistan’s most ambitious sound archive — a collection of around 5,000 recordings gathered from across the country.

The project grew out of a simple frustration. “If you search for Pakistani sounds on global libraries, you either don’t find them or you get poor-quality recordings.”

That absence has consequences. “When international productions depict Pakistan, they often end up using sounds from somewhere else — Cairo, for example — because that’s all they have.”

For Zohaib, the archive is about more than preserving audio. It is about preserving identity. “Ten years from now, when my son asks AI what Pakistan sounds like, I don’t want the answer to be generic ‘South Asian’ sounds.”

The archive even allows listeners to navigate Karachi through sound, clicking on locations across the city to hear recordings captured there. “We’re trying to trap time,” he says. “Before these places change.”

It is, in many ways, the same philosophy that underpins TGPA. Behind every landscape lies a story worth preserving. Behind every spectacular shot is a conversation, a tradition or a sound that risks disappearing if no one takes the time to record it.

For Zohaib Kazi, adventure has never really been about reaching remote places. It is about paying close enough attention to discover what has been there all along.

Originally published in Dawn, ICON, July 12th, 2026

One of the world’s most reclusive countries, the former Soviet republic adopted strict visa requirements after gaining independence in 1991 and closely monitors travellers.

While this policy remains largely in place, tour agencies in the Central Asian nation have noticed a recent decrease in visa rejections and this year authorities announced plans to expand the tourism sector.

At the archaeological ruins of Nisa, an ancient fortress near the capital, Ashgabat, AFP spotted a Western tour group taking advantage of this tentative thaw.

“I wanted to see what the mystery was about,” said Nick Frey, a 28-year-old US tourist admiring the fortress.

“I think the uniqueness is really what stood out.”

Turkmenistan declared itself “permanently neutral” under its post-independence leader Saparmurat Niyazov, a policy that he used to justify extreme constraints on contact with the outside world.

For 15 years, the former Communist official shaped the capital in his image, ordering it to be rebuilt as a marble citadel complete with a towering gold statue of himself.

Since Niyazov’s death in 2006, successive presidents — Gurbanguly Berdymukhamedov and his son Serdar — have kept the system in place, along with the cults of personality and grand architecture.

Ashgabat has the highest density of white marble buildings in the world, according to Guinness World Records.

‘World’s weirdest country’

Turkmenistan’s odd architecture and reclusiveness has made it a magnet for content creators on social media, some of whom have dubbed it the “world’s weirdest country”.

“The first thing I noticed was the whiteness of everything,” said Liza Zorn, a German tourist who visited Ashgabat.

“It was the first time in my life I saw white traffic lights.”

Among the sights she came to see was the “Gateway to Hell”, a gas crater that has been burning for half a century and is one of the more internationally known tourist spots in the desert-covered country.

Before arriving, all holidaymakers must prove their tourist credentials and their itinerary is strictly mapped out.

“You have to have your plans organised by a tour agency like ours and everything has to be approved,” said Effie Frank, a supervisor at the Saiga Tours travel agency.

In recent years her agency has not been refused any letters of invitation, essential for obtaining a visa.

“It does seem like it’s getting a bit easier to come to Turkmenistan,” she said.

After visiting Nisa, the 20 or so tourists with her group returned to Ashgabat for Carpet Day — a national holiday honouring Turkmen rug artisans — before visiting yurts and tasting local produce.

Carpets are one of the three most important national symbols, along with the Akhal-Teke horse and Alabai dog.

We are ready

President Serdar Berdymukhamedov, who runs the country in tandem with his father, appears to be warming to the new visitors.

“The country’s tourism industry is increasingly expanding,” he said earlier this year, adding that he wanted to develop international cooperation.

The industry is still in its infancy.

“Firstly, there needs to be political will. Secondly, a simplified visa policy. And thirdly, well-developed infrastructure,” a Western diplomat in Ashgabat told AFP on condition of anonymity.

These three elements are not yet fully in place.

While luxury hotels are springing up in Ashgabat and Avaza, the main seaside resort on the Caspian Sea, the rest of the country is poorly equipped for visitors.

Turkmenistan still relies almost exclusively on gas revenues to power its economy.

The country — which closed its state tourism authority during the Covid pandemic — does not regularly publish data on the number of arrivals.

But Azat, an employee at a local travel firm, was enthusiastic.

“Tourists visiting this country could, with multiple-entry visas, continue their tour along the Great Silk Road,” he told AFP.

He also proposed collaborating with Uzbekistan, as there are many archaeological sites close to the border that are inaccessible to foreigners.

“We are ready to welcome large numbers of tourists from neighbouring countries,” he said.

A law passed last year to introduce electronic visas is yet to be implemented.

“We feel safe coming to this country for our faces,” said the Dubai-based consultant, one of millions of beauty enthusiasts now boosting South Korea’s tourism numbers and economy as they throng its thousands of skincare clinics.

But these days tourists like Zu seek treatments such as red light therapy or Botox to smooth out wrinkles, as well as ultrasound “skin lifting” to tighten jawlines, not just the nose jobs and double eyelid surgery of earlier years.

“The growth of foreign patients is outpacing that of foreign tourists,” said Hong Seung-wook, director of global healthcare business at the Korea Health Industry Development Institute. His department is tasked by the country’s health ministry to attract foreign patients.

Foreign visitors spend more on medical services

Just over two million foreigners visited South Korea last year for medical treatment, nearly double the 2024 figure of 1.17m, the health ministry said in April.

“We now see foreign tourists spend more on medical services than on tourism in Korea,” said Hong, adding that health authorities hoped to keep up the momentum by promoting services such as anti-ageing treatments to middle-aged visitors.

Zu, a former flight attendant who has visited South Korea at least six times, said she tended to pack several non-invasive treatments into a single trip.

That is a growing trend exemplified by hashtags such as “#koreaglowup”, popular among users of social media such as Instagram.

The major attractions are cost and South Korean expertise in beauty techniques that enables it to offer technologies and techniques often years ahead of those in the West.

Several visitors told Reuters that skincare treatments in South Korea could be as much as a fifth cheaper than those at home, while communication was not a problem, as many clinics employed multilingual coordinators.

“I like that there is a variety of K-beauty treatments in general that are not even offered in the US,” said Cindy Gu, a 30-year-old social media video editor from the United States.

She was waiting to undergo a facial lifting treatment at Lienjang, a beauty clinic in Seoul’s upscale Gangnam district.

Competition is key to affordability

Competition is the key to affordability, said Se-rin Lee, director of Lienjang’s aesthetic dermatology department, as there are so many beauty clinics in South Korea.

“The competition is pushing the prices of services down,” she said, adding that Lienjang’s foreign patients averaged about 100 a day, each with an average spend of about 1.5m won ($1,000).

About 15,000 clinics offer skincare treatments, mostly run by general practitioners rather than dermatologists, the Association of Korean Dermatologists says.

“Korea is doing a really great job in many areas, not only in skincare,” said Zu, adding that she was working on a project to deliver experiences for travellers to Korea and connect the country with the world. “Now my dream is to live here.”

There are no two opinions when it comes to coconuts being a staple and a quintessential part of every kitchen of this island country, as they are used extensively while cooking curries and making cocktails to give them a texture, flavour or creaminess. However, dosas with idli and sambar can also be qualified as runners-up in the race to win hearts and appetites here in Sri Lanka.

My first lunch on the island was at a street-side café: a masala dosa, also known as thosai, served on a banana leaf. It wasn’t much to write home about at first glance, but the first bite told a different story.

If your tastebuds are accustomed to the South Indian style of dosa, which is crispy and paper thin, this dosa was only somewhat similar. It was less crispy, spongier and even thicker when compared to the South Indian variety. In other words, it was an acquired taste.

Once the dosa batter was laid out, it was stuffed with spicy potato curry, unlike the mashed potatoes we’re used to seeing. It was paired with idli and sambar.

The idli — soft, steamed rice cakes made from fermented rice batter — was fairly bland, but the sambar was a flavour bomb in the form of a stew made from lentils, eggplant, tamarind, spices and herbs, offering a tangy, savoury tingle to the palate and performing a balancing act.

It was after a few bites that the server brought out the coconut chutney, which was definitely the showstopper. A simple coconut pulp made with green chillies, ginger, curry leaves, tamarind and coriander, served with a garnish of mustard seeds, it was incomparable to anything we eat in Pakistan. Every ingredient was making its presence felt and it was a perfect amalgamation of sweetness and tanginess with a hint of spice.

My Sri Lankan host didn’t let us order any soft drinks with the meal and instead whispered something to the server. As we were about to finish our meals, he brought out four giant coconuts with straws on the side. “These are called Thambili, and they are king coconuts,” he explained before the server took out a cleaver, sliced the hard, fibrous shell and cracked the husk.

The saccharine water inside the shell was finished up in seconds and it was then time to crack the shell open with a mallet and scoop out the white inner flesh with a spoon carved out of the shell. It was an refreshing blast of vitamins.

One item that I had listed as a must-try were hoppers, also called appam in the local dialect. To my surprise, they were a dime a dozen in every eatery, be it a fine dining establishment or a stall on the side of the road. I did not have to wait long, as my hotel was serving hoppers at breakfast at a live cooking stall.

It was a treat to watch the chef behind the stoves managing three burners at a time. I wasn’t surprised to find out that hoppers are also cooked with fermented rice flour and coconut, like many items in Sri Lankan cuisine.

After pouring the batter in a deep concave-shaped cast iron bowl, she spread the batter swiftly with a few twists and turns of her wrist, before breaking a fresh egg into the bowl with a sprinkle of salt and pepper and placing a lid on the small container.

Once the batter was crispy around the edges, the bowl-shaped hopper was dished out on the serving plate. Various condiments like coconut chutney, chilli paste, seeni (sweet caramelised onions) and a red onion sambal with lime found their respective corners on the plate to complement the hopper. It was simply divine.

I had to make two more rounds to satisfy my cravings and when the lady at the stand suggested that I try the sweet hopper too since I liked the savoury ones so much, I had to give them a go too.

On our second day in Colombo, our hunger for seafood reached new heights. After browsing various websites, getting recommendations from local taxi drivers and calling a few Sri Lankan friends, we hopped on a local train running alongside Marine Drive and ended up at a beach-side restaurant named Barracuda, sandwiched between a railway track and the Indian Ocean.

Located right next to the sandy beach, with mangroves and palm trees scattered all around, this chic place was buzzing with soothing live music. There were fairy lights dangling from trees branches, pebbled pathways leading to the billowing waves below and an ample supply of cool breeze to greet guests. Although Chinese and Thai dishes dominated the menu, Barracuda was mainly recommended to us for the seafood.

After scanning the menu thoroughly, we ended up ordering seafood platters with different combinations of prawns, crabs, lobsters, grouper, cuttlefish and other local varieties of seafood. These were prepared in a number of different ways, some were fried, others sizzled. Things were poached, curried and even steamed.

The server strongly recommended chilli crabs as an appetiser and to a resounding yes from us. The platters were enough to send anyone into a food coma. The meaty crabs soaking in curry sauce, fish marinated in tamarind and parsley, prawns wrapped up in a crispy crust and a cornucopia of chutneys and sauces all over the platter — it was all simply delectable.

No trip to Sri Lanka is complete without a visit to the tree plantations, so it was time to move away from Colombo’s hustle and bustle after two days of staying in the busy metropolis.

The saying “the most difficult roads lead to the most beautiful destinations” proved to be true when we arrived in Kandy. Surrounded by mountains, tea plantations, rain forests and garden terraces all at once, the city can be compared to our own Murree or Bhurban.

Although we had planned to spend just one day in the mountains, the two-hour drive to a tea plantation site in Nuwara Eliya made us extend our stay for another night. After an hour on the serpentine road, we decided to make a pitstop as soon as we passed by a small roadside café that grabbed our attention.

With a thatched roof perched atop a thin tree trunk frame and barn-style furniture with solid wood planks as table tops and stools, the vibes of this TripAdvisor-certified café were both tropical and rustic at the same time, perfectly complementing the Buddha quietly placed upon a pedestal. The place called for a dhaba-style treat of chai and local snacks.

Aloo bonda is a crispy deep-fried snack that pairs well with tea. Although they appear similar, this wasn’t your average pakora lookalike. The server informed us that aloo bonda is made from sweet potatoes and a blend of curry leaves, mustard seeds, ginger, finely chopped sautéed onions, cumin, green chillies and lime juice.

The mixture is shaped into small balls, dipped in batter and fried till golden brown. It was packed with herbs and flavours and we lost count of how many we ate as we sipped hot tea and swiped bondas off the plate.

The finale of our trip was a visit to the 150-year-old Damro Labookellie Estate Tea Factory in Nuwara Eliya. The view was simply breathtaking. Being the oldest tea estate in Sri Lanka, the place is always packed with visitors and tourists.

After a short tour, the guide informed us that this factory produces high-grade black tea as well as premium white tea. Since it was difficult to savour the flavours and the aromas of the two different teas from the samples offered, we were left with no choice but to buy packs of both to know the real difference.

Black tea was a hardcore affair, dark in colour and robust in flavour. White tea, meanwhile, was much sweeter with a gentler boost.

As this was the last day of our visit, we opted not to accrue additional luggage costs on the flight home and buy packets of loose tea instead of the fancy boxes offered to us at the plantation.

Ala Khutah (In His Footsteps), the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia’s latest initiative to provide meaningful experiences in the land of the Two Holy Mosques, allows visitors travel along the 470-kilometre route with visits to 41 different historical sites and a number of interactive exhibits.

The project’s inauguration by the governor of the Madina region was announced by Turki Al-Sheikh, chairman of the Kingdom’s General Entertainment Authority. In a post on X, he said the project documents the “historic milestones” of the Hijrah and “promotes deeper understanding of the Prophet’s life”.

The trip can be booked through a dedicated mobile app, available on both the Google Play Store and Apple’s App Store. The Primary Package — the only one available on the app at time of this story’s publication — spans four days from the Cave of Thawr on the outskirts of Makkah to the Quba Mosque in Madina and is priced at 4,230 rial (Rs315,300) for four people.

The package includes overland transport on public buses, accommodation for three nights, entry to all ticketed attractions and five interactive experiences, according to the app. Meals are not included in the package and while non-Muslims are welcome on the trip, their entry to the Cave of Thawr is barred.

Interactive experiences include a 30-minute presentation on The Wonders of the Camel, sensory storytelling at Khaymata Umm Ma’bad — where the Prophet’s arrival brought life to the drought-struck desert — and an immersive experience of how travel in the area differs between summers and winters.

Across the seven stations built along the route — corresponding to the seven places the Prophet spent the night during his journey — over 68 shops and 112 restaurants have been built to cater to visitors.

The experience, which was inaugurated just in time for Ramazan, is sure to attract large numbers of devotees and even visitors interested in Islamic history and Arab culture. Al-Sheikh, who oversees most of the Kingdom’s tourism initiatives, said the Ala Khutah aims to attract a million visitors in its first phase, reaching a target capacity of five million by 2030.

Cover photo: Ala Khutah/App

Advertised as a special tourist train running from Karachi Cantt to Zero Point/Marvi — the last station on the Pakistani side of the old Thar Express route — the initiative by the STDC promised a weekend of unique sights, sounds and adventure.

Tickets cost Rs20,000 for the two-day trip, which included food, transportation and a berth to sleep on. An additional Rs3,500 got passengers shared accommodation at a guesthouse to spend the night.

What is the Thar Desert Safari Train?

The train, which ran on its sixth trip from Karachi to Hyderabad and onwards to the border between India and Pakistan on February 14, is one of two special ‘tourist trains’ being run by the Sindh Tourism Development Corporation (STDC).

Passengers board at Karachi, Hyderabad and Mirpurkhas, after which the train runs to Chhor — a small town in the middle of the Thar desert. Upon reaching Chhor, they are moved onto buses and taken to Parchhi Ji Veri (PJV), a hilltop resort, to watch the sunset, have dinner and enjoy a musical programme.

The impressive lineup of performers included a local singer and snake charmer — a jogi — a singer from Hyderabad who serenaded attendees with ghazals, and Faqeer Wahid, son of renowned folk artist Allan Faqeer, who boarded the train at Karachi and accompanied the travelling party throughout the trip.

Activities at the PJV resort included archery, dirt biking, camel rides and even a zipline — which was not operating when we visited. The hill and the nearby town are named after a folk hero named Parchhi who dug a small sweetwater well — veri in the local Sindhi dialect — some 10 to 12 kilometres from Chhor on the advice of a local saint.

After dinner, those who paid for accommodation at the guesthouse were taken to Umerkot, while the rest of the passengers headed back to Chhor to spend the night on the train. The next morning, the party departed for Khokhrapar — the last operational Pakistani station on the ‘Dukhi Train’ line — before moving on to Marvi after being cleared by the Pakistan Rangers.

The commander of the unit charged with border security in the area greeted passengers at the platform and briefed them on the history of the area and its rail line. The Maharaja of Jodhpur had the line constructed in the 1890s to transport wheat during a famine.

Initially called Raja jo Rail or The Raja’s Rail, the train was taken over and upgraded by colonial authorities and used to transport supplies — notably water — to their troops in the area. Local legend says people began to call it the Dukhi Train (sorrowful train) because the water splashing out of rail cars made it look like the train was sobbing as it chugged through the desert.

The line, as Zahid Hussain — a Pakistan Railways employee with almost 40 years of experience — earlier told me, had been upgraded further by independent India and Pakistan. It was used to link Khokhrapar to India’s Munabao all the way till 2019, when the Thar Express service was suspended indefinitely.

Hussain recalled a time before the border had been fenced and travel between the countries restricted. He said wild deer would move freely across the desert and people would use the rail line to visit their relatives. He regretted that the border closures hurt local residents and created distances between families.

At Marvi, we were asked not to photograph any “enemy installations and buildings” out of respect for various “memoranda of understanding and agreements between the belligerent parties”. Walking out past the border fence and into the open desert, we could clearly see the Indian tricolour flying ahead. We stopped at the international border — a literal line drawn in the sand — and were told the Indians had been informed of our arrival well in advance to avoid any untoward incidents.

After the brief visit to the border, we were taken to the ‘meeting point’ — a collection of buildings on the Pakistani side that serve as neutral ground for bilateral deliberation between forces from both sides. Tea, pakoras and jalebis were brought out as we lounged in rooms usually reserved for high stakes negotiations. Outside, Faqir Wahid and his troupe treated us to a medley of national songs and his iconic dance moves.

After that, it was back onto the train for the seven-hour journey to Karachi, stopping at Chhor, Mirpurkhas and Hyderabad along the way. Breakfast and lunch were served on the train for both the outbound and inbound journeys and snacks were provided to passengers on the return leg after we crossed Hyderabad.

Here’s what worked

The experience was definitely a unique insight into both the culture of far-flung desert communities and the security arrangements along one of the most tense international borders in the world. It was also a welcome escape from the chaos of city life, with cellphone coverage dipping drastically after we crossed Mirpurkhas.

The entertainment programme at PJV was fun, with children and adults alike staring wide-eyed as venomous cobras followed the movement of Sattar Jogi’s flute. The second singer of the night, Farah Lashari, took requests and everyone enjoyed singing along to classics like ‘Kali kali zulfon’ and various Sufi kalams. The train’s own travelling musicians received uproarious applause everywhere they performed.

Meals on the train were also decent, with breakfast comprising an omelette with two slices of bread and lunch and a dinner of chicken curries with sides of rice and roti. Lunch on the first day had a gulab jamun for dessert which was replaced by a second entree of daal on day two. Meals were served to passengers at their seats, but they could also choose to eat in the attached dining car.

Many had positive things to say on the way back, including Railway Scouts leader Mehboob Hussain, who was accompanying a group of boy scouts and girl guides on the trip. He said the trip aligned well with the scouts’ ethos of exploration. He appreciated the initiative as a bridge between city-dwellers and the inhabitants of the desert, especially praising the visit to Zero Point as an educational experience.

Professor Saima Akhtar, a senior academic at the University of Karachi, said the trip was an “adventure” and she didn’t recall being uncomfortable at any point in the trip. She was accompanied by her family and students from her department of Public Administration, for whom she said the trip was one of “experiential learning”.

Dr Akhtar said she had been looking to take this trip ever since it first ran and was glad to have finally gotten the opportunity. She also remarked that the drop in ticket prices, which earlier stood at Rs30,000 for the initial journeys, was representative of the country’s “economic decline”. She was especially appreciative of the guesthouse her group stayed at in Umerkot, telling me they got to pick fruit and vegetables from a nearby field as a bonus experience.

And what didn’t…

For a journey that has already run five trips, some aspects certainly needed improvement, especially when it came to passenger comfort and accommodation on the train. The cars and cabins, which housed many people for over 24 hours of the journey, were — and excuse the pun — a train wreck.

Worn out seats, missing footholds that made climbing onto the upper berths an ordeal and broken light fixtures and switches dampened the otherwise pleasant experience. The non-availability of blankets on a train for the chilly desert night, with the air-conditioning running on full blast, made sure the sound of shivering reverberated through the two passenger bogeys.

Hussain, a retiree with a lifelong wanderlust, told me he wouldn’t bring his family on this trip despite having travelled on trains with them throughout his life. He said the cleanliness on the train was “very, very pathetic, from the washrooms to the cabins themselves”. His point was only reinforced as a cockroach scurried past us as we talked over nuggets and tea.

He said the musical programme at PJV and the visit to the border were “excellent” and appreciated the exclusive access to experiences that was only available on this specially organised trip. Outside of that, he said he wouldn’t take another such journey, choosing instead to drive himself and explore at his leisure.

The final word

The Thar Desert Safari was definitely a unique experience, one that most people in Karachi and other urban areas don’t usually have the opportunity to enjoy. The initiative would have been worth far more appreciation had this been its inaugural run.

However, the many kinks that the STDC failed to work out on its sixth journey left a bit of a bad taste in one’s mouth. If the goal is to attract tourists — especially foreign tourists — the experience falls short in many ways and needs to improve.

While the price tag gives the impression of some element of luxury — at least to the Pakistani mind — that luxury, sadly, is nearly non-existent.

That isn’t to say that I regret taking the trip, just that I wouldn’t do it again unless a serious effort is made to make the journey — not the destinations, those were great — more comfortable.

News of his plight brought out countless well-wishers, who have handed him endless supplies of food, toys, a comfortable cat house — and his very own Instagram page run by a fan.

He’s not alone: according to City Hall, Istanbul has more than 160,000 cats living on its streets who are regularly fed and fussed over by the city’s 16 million residents.

These street cats are looked after with an almost religious devotion.

Whether on the Asian or European side of Istanbul — or the ferries connecting them — cats can be seen everywhere, snoozing on restaurant chairs, wandering through supermarkets or curled up in shop windows.

And they are rarely, if ever, disturbed.

“Istanbulites love animals. Here, cats can walk into shops and curl up on the most expensive of fabrics. That’s why they call it ‘the city of cats’,” explains Gaye Koselerden, 57, looking at Kanyon’s toy-filled corner which looks like a child’s bedroom.

From pre-Ottoman times

Like Kanyon, many strays have turned into much-loved neighbourhood mascots.

In Kadikoy, locals set up a bronze statue in 2016 to immortalise Tombili (Turkish for chubby), a pot-bellied feline whose characteristic pose — lounging on benches with one paw draped over the edge — spawned countless internet memes.

When Gli, the tabby mascot of Istanbul’s sixth-century Hagia Sofia basilica-turned-mosque, died, an obituary in the Turkish press recalled how she was stroked by US president Barack Obama when he visited in 2009.

At the neighbouring Topkapi Palace, for years the opulent residence of the Ottoman sultans, they have just restored a centuries-old cat flap.

“Cats have always been here, no doubt because they are clean and close to humans,” the site’s director Ilhan Kocaman told AFP.

The presence of so many cats in the city has often been explained with reference to “the deep affection the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) had for them”, explained Altan Armutak, an expert at Istanbul University’s veterinary history department.

When Ottomans seized Constantinople in 1453, “they found cats waiting to be fed outside fish stalls and butchers’ shops,” he said.

“Giving the cats food was seen as an offering in the name of God.”

Living side by side

Six centuries later, cats have retained their historic presence in Istanbul, although these days City Hall is trying to manage their numbers, sterilising more than 43,000 cats last year, 12 times more than in 2015.

And the authorities are concerned about residents’ often over-generous offerings of food, which they fear is encouraging the spread of rodents.

“Normally, cats chase rats. But in Istanbul, you can see the rats eating the food alongside the cats. We must tackle this,” the region’s governor, Davut Gul, recently warned.

Although several such clips did the rounds on social media, they seem to have had a limited impact.

“I’ve lived here for four months and I’ve never seen a single rat,” said Fatime Ozarslan, a 22-year-old student originally from Germany as she put out a sachet of wet food in Macka Park, which is home to at least 100 cats.

“In Germany, we have many rats, but here, with so many cats, they must be afraid,” she smiled.

Without its cats, Istanbul just would not be the same, she said. “Here people and cats live side by side, as equals.”

Cover photo: AFP

You may have come across this term in the context of fashion; it can be described as timelessness, minimalism, refined, thoughtful, low-key, and high-quality. In GB, this luxury is twofold: it has to do with everything that God created in this naturally blessed region and that man built in the name of tourism.

Simply put, quiet luxury in GB’s context is to have the time to take in its striking natural beauty and serenity, that too from an equally striking setting.

As the hospitality industry grows in these areas, many resorts, local-run home stays and boutique hotels are cropping up for getaways and retreats ranging from culinary to wellness that don’t require you to sell your kidney.

The options here have the potential to dim the appeal of international destinations, particularly in this economy.

However, let me acknowledge that there is one word closely associated with quiet luxury that I left out for GB: effortless. Seeing the beauty may take as little effort as simply opening your eyes but reaching it is another story. Limited air options, long and sometimes risky road routes, unpredictable weather conditions – these are just some of the issues one has to take into account when planning these trips. It also requires understanding that tourism on this side of the country is still very new and building proper infrastructure in a territory with complex landscapes, and high-altitude locations — sometimes numbering in thousands such as Basho Valley in Skardu at 11,800 feet — will take time.

The argument I’ll make here is that most travel requires effort of some kind; some of us travel across the world with long layovers, go through visa hassles, and spend more than we save just for a view from a plush setting. Call it a resort holiday, a spa getaway or a zen retreat, the purpose of such trips is to immerse yourself in an alternate reality that breaks away from daily routines. So while you may have to factor in last-minute changes, trust that GB offers just that — a chance to free your mind of to-do lists and your phone of WiFi connections (you’ll only want it for the camera).

Log entry: In both my visits this year, the locals spoke of how tourism financially supports households across the districts, but in 2025, this flow of income was affected by the Pakistan-India tensions in May and then catastrophic natural calamities in parts of GB in August. “We want people to come, we want them to understand how to support us even in tough times,” said a resident of Skardu, adding that visitors should trust locals with their safety and listen to their guidance. When I asked about concerns regarding mushrooming hotels, they talked more about the hope that they’ll create opportunities for the people of the areas. However, in multiple conversations, they stressed how tourists needed to show more respect towards the place and its people. “Whether you want to open a hotel or stay in one, you have to adopt our way of life, don’t impose yours on us,” said a Hunza guide, his words echoed by many others.

GB has 10 districts and I visited six of them this year over two trips: Gilgit, Hunza, Nagar, Skardu, Ghanche, and Shigar. Apart from Nagar, which we visited for the picturesque Hoper Valley (9,000 feet) where you’re driving through the mountains amid higher neighbouring peaks to reach the cherry blossoms and Hoper Glacier, I spent at least a night in the other five. There are many companies curating these trips for visitors (shoutout to GoZayaan for planning mine) that offer competitive packages covering accommodations, flights, local travel and sudden changes to itineraries.

There are many tempting accommodation options in GB; this travelogue talks of places where I stayed and would stay again. They all came with stunning views — some by design, all by simply the privilege of existing in a location where all one has to do is look up to be awestruck.

Heritage luxury

It may not seem like a good sign to start with a hotel chain, but these are not your typical showily expensive 5-star properties: we’re talking forts and palaces steeped in history turned into classy accommodations.

There’s the 11th century Altit Fort in the former princely state of Hunza where the cottages at the edge of the gardens put you in the lap of the valley; Shigar Fort where you can stay in the 17th century palace of the Raja; and the majestic Khaplu Palace in Ghanche which 200 years later still exudes grace worthy of the label “royal” — all managed by Serena Hotels.

From amenities to service to the views, these sites speak luxury, not scream it. Part of the Aga Khan Fund for Economic Development, the Serena chain has aided in the renovation of these historic sites, promoting local culture and crafts, and providing employment for the community.

Tips:

• Eat at the restaurants in Khaplu but also make room for the delicious trout (with an option to catch it yourself) in Saling Valley in Ghanche. Make time to watch the sunset from one of the three royal balconies in the palace.
• Do not miss the walk behind Shigar Fort — I thought of gatekeeping this information passed on to us to avoid hordes of visitors next time but the views were so truly, wonderfully exceptional that no one should miss out and so I must pay it forward.
• For Altit, just book the cottages — it’s your front-row seat to the majesty that is Rakaposhi.

Secluded luxury

When you enter Shigar from Skardu you do so via a switchback road that goes up and down and twists around. You’ll have barely just taken in the colossal dunes of Sarfaranga Desert when golden peaks beautifully enveloped in the clouds greet you and then another turn opens an even more expansive view with mountains, patches of green and riverbeds as you drive through to reach your destination: Dera Lamsa in Lamsa village.

The resort, facing the Shigar River, is the perfect spot to gaze at the views, with its best feature being the private terraces, which are just that — private, not to mention spacious. They come with panoramic views that, without exaggeration, made me stop typing and close my eyes to relive them.

The evenings in Lamsa are velvety blue and luminous. The stars light up the sky while halo-like light radiates from small settlements in the distance.

The resort itself is still new, only in its second year and hasn’t seen many visitors in 2025 due to the war hysteria and then the flood scare, as one of the people involved in running the place told me. There’s also a gorgeous Heritage Villa, which feels more like a resort than the rooms do but isn’t available throughout the year, at least up till the point when we visited. Some teething issues aside, it’s the sort of place that could easily become your go-to for every trip to Shigar.

Tip:

Watch the sunrise — see the pink hues turn golden then white as the clouds descend. It’s a live nature show that happens every morning and is well worth that alarm going off.

Log entry: Don’t get sucked into the ‘Hunza versus Skardu’ debate — it’s a moot point because the two, which are similar in theory, are very different places and experiences. Also, familiarise yourself with the geography of the region because while the guides and other locals are very nice and eager to share information, they’ll appreciate that we don’t consider all districts of Skardu as Skardu; they take pride in where they come from and how individually unique each place is — like in the case of our guide in Baltistan who was from Shigar. Our guide in Hunza was from Ganish village and took us around to show what makes it special, later also inviting us to his home for dinner with his family. Both places have beautiful languages, memorable food and music that can travel with you, so really, don’t spend time on comparisons.

Outdoor luxury

Rule 1 of planning trips to GB: plan for the unexpected. Our original itinerary said glamping in Deosai — now banned — but the roads led to Katpana Desert as the ones to the former were blocked due to a landslide. There’s not much to complain about the unexpected when the trade-off is a cold desert, also referred to as ‘desert of the stars’, with a lush green namesake lake that is so still and mirror-like that you’d think the reflection of the mountains and clouds was painted on top of the waterbody.

Glamping — glamorous camping — is still relatively new to Pakistan and Glamp Pakistan is among the most prominent names in this space.

We stayed a night in the ‘New Safari Gold’ glamp that includes rustic and tastefully colourful interior, ample furniture, a private outdoor space (with a bonfire pit and a swing) overlooking the lake, and a chic bathroom that could compete with some of the finest hotels in the business.

The food was very good, and the service was exceptional. What else can you really ask for in the middle of a desert?

Tip:

Just lay on the sand when night comes, otherwise you’ll have a stiff neck from looking up constantly at the stars — and you will be looking constantly at the sky full of stars (I’d like to think Katpana is what Coldplay was singing about when they wrote ‘A Sky Full of Stars’).

Affordable luxury

Homestays are family-run accommodations, so you know you’re bound to get good food — and that was just the case with Lavender Cottage and Guest House in central Skardu. I love dumplings; ‘mamtus’, the local version in GB, was the first meal on my first trip and they were delicious.

Fast-forward to the second trip’s last night and I had them again (after having some more along the course of both visits) at Lavender Cottage and believe me when I tell you that they were unequivocally the best. My friend and I also had the ’tresspi balay’, a local soup made with beef stock, beef chunks and homemade noodles — so good (and generous!) that we kept filling our bowls. The rooms were comfortable and clean, and the gardens were filled to the brim with flowers.

The hospitality was warm and personalised, just like at Riverdale Resort in Gilgit. Riverdale gives you the feel of a modern tree house, right next to the gushing streams flowing into the Gilgit River. Our room was on the bank of the river and its adjoining terrace extended over the waters. While they call themselves a resort, I’d categorise them as a homestay, run by a gentle man named Hadi who’s been entrusted by the family that owns it.

Hadi was the ideal concierge; from suggesting the best spot for breakfast on a property filled with scenic seating to bringing a tray of the local Tumuro tea just as you’re thinking of it. The grounds are beautifully kept, the rooms tastefully decorated and the location away from the bustle of Gilgit.

Tip:

If you like absolute silence for sleeping, then you’ll need noise-cancelling headphones at Riverdale as the river won’t quiet down. Also, don’t fuss if some things take long or if the amenities aren’t glamorous; these are small enterprises that pride themselves on making your visit feel personal, not pristine.

Modern luxury

While all the stays were researched and selected ahead of time, Byarsa was booked on the way to it — flights from Gilgit stopped during the India-Pakistan “will they, won’t they” period, so my friend and I had to take the flight from Skardu while airspace was still open. Unexpected changes is one thing but possibly having to stay for an unknown period while war breaks out is another, so needless to say the room was booked amid some anxiety for the sole purpose of spending one night.

Byarsa, on the Lower Kachura Shangrila Road, turned out to be a rustic, suave glass-panelled sanctuary stocked with luxe Honey, I’m Home toiletries. They also call themselves an eco-friendly property, said to be working with the local government to form a proper waste disposal system in the area.

The boutique hotel on that rainy, uncertain day felt like a warm and cosy hunting lodge, the kind that smoothly slides under the modern luxury label, much like the art and wellness resort Ambiance in Hunza. Located in Aliabad, it has comfortable and tasteful rooms but the architects and designers knew what elevation offers: views, views and views.

Speaking of spaces designed solely to give you the feeling of being in the mountains without actually being IN the mountains, Ambiance Resort has outdoor decks for dining, a bridge connecting its buildings and room balconies overlooking the Karakoram Range.

The hotel also has a few trekking paths for the days you don’t feel like going into town. It prides itself on its art collection and you’ll see works from “over 80 young Pakistani artists”, as the brand says, across the property, with its in-house dining venue named Art Café. Easily one of my most colourful stays, the lobby itself gives the impression of a contemporary art gallery.

Tip:

Book the massage at Ambiance’s Resonance Spa. Nevermind that finding a spa in the middle of the mountains after long drives and tiring trials (that seemingly unassuming walk back from Husseini Bridge in Hunza comes to mind) feels like the ultimate luxury, the massage itself was top notch. They’re not the cheapest treatments but worth splurging for a spacation.

As mentioned, much has been said about the beauty of these places, so I’ll leave it at this: words, pictures and even the best Instagram reels can’t capture what unfolds in front of you when you visit — whether it’s the Passu Cones coming into full view in Hunza or the otherworldly landscape of Shigar as you enter it — and the journeys to these destinations give you the gift of time, so use it well.

Log entry: Valleys in Gilgit-Baltistan are plenty but not all easy to get to; the route to Basho Valley has some patches of proper roads, the other times you’re just on uneven terrains that are so narrow that the thought of a vehicle coming from the other side makes you rethink your journey.

I’m pretty sure my insides moved a little, given the bumps experienced on the rutted route, strongly recommended to be only undertaken in a jeep. The drive is worth all the bumps and bruises for the wondrous sights you’ll pass, including the glacier streams below (the faint-hearted, however, should not peek at them during the drive up).

Hoper is also a narrow and rough drive (also not one for the faint-hearted — or those who believe in railings) but less adventurous than Basho and thus, kinder to your body. And then there’s Sok Valley in Skardu, the route to which isn’t as memorable but ranks highest in my books as a destination among the three, foremost for its serenity. It’s the kind of place where hours can go by listening to the river, watching its colour change, and marvelling at God’s artistry that made the peaks surrounding the valley all so distinct.

All photos and videos by the author

Searches linked to #TravelTok increased by 53 per cent, while #FoodTok rose by 52pc, #StudyTok searches were up 60pc, and #FitnessTok recorded the largest jump, growing 66pc compared to 2024, the company said in its annual report.

“TikTok Search has become an essential part of daily life in Pakistan,” said Umais Naveed, TikTok South Asia content operations lead, in a statement. The platform has noted that travel queries from Islamabad to Altit Fort in Hunza indicate a growing trend for exploring Pakistan’s landscapes and landmarks.

In a statement, TikTok said people use the social media application to explore destinations, catch up on moments as they happen, and find quick, relatable guidance from creators who speak their language and understand local contexts. Notable search trends on TikTok by Pakistanis in 2025 included product reviews, software, mehndi designs and AI prompts.

The top searched words on TikTok in Pakistan in 2025, in terms of places, were: Islamabad, Altit Fort Hunza, Chenab River, Lahore and Karachi. The most searched news and moments were: Babar Azam’s 100 century, Pakistan v South Africa, Pakistan v India, ‘Nadia Meri Soni Sawani’, and floods.

Originally published in Dawn, December 25th, 2025

Visitors from outside the EU or the European Economic Area — which includes Iceland, Liechtenstein and Norway — will have to pay 32 euros ($37) from January 14, a spokesperson said on Friday. Britons will have to pay the higher rate.

Four burglars made off in daylight with jewels worth $102 million on October 19, exposing glaring security gaps at the world’s most visited museum. In November, structural weaknesses prompted the partial closure of one of its wings.

The museum’s administration, urged by France’s state auditor to prioritise security over acquisitions, said last week it would install 100 external cameras by the end of 2026 while pressing on with a six-year renovation project.

Nearly nine million visitors passed through the museum’s doors last year, almost three-quarters of them foreign. The price increase is expected to bring in an extra 15-20 million euros a year.

Other museums such as the Palace of Versailles, built in the 17th century for King Louis XIV, the Gothic-style Sainte Chapelle chapel, the Paris Opera House and Chambord Chateau, in the Loire Valley, are also expected to raise prices next year.

Police have arrested the four suspected burglars and others suspected of complicity. The jewels have not yet been recovered.

“The idea is to offer customers an original experience they can share on social media,” Abdallah Islam, manager of the A12 cafe in Riyadh, told AFP.

At the cafe, Saudi women lift their black face veils to sip ice-cold beer. “Is there alcohol in this?” one customer asked, nervously eyeing his pint.

The incongruous scene, with veiled women clinking glasses, signals the changes under way and in the conservative kingdom, home to Islam’s holiest sites, as deep-seated taboos are gently prodded.

The A12 cafe, on one of the busiest avenues in the capital, displays a large picture of a foaming pint on its window. Its managers say the cafe has been packed since April when it began serving draft beer — a German Warsteiner with 0.0 per cent alcohol, poured into large mugs and served with peanuts, pub-style.

Around the tables, young men in white thobes — the traditional Saudi garment — film themselves sipping their drinks, while a waiter pulls pints behind a shiny black bar. Some watch football on a television screen while enjoying a cold brew.

Since the rise to power of Saudi crown prince and de facto ruler Mohammed bin Salman, cinemas have reopened, women are allowed to drive and foreign tourists are being welcomed.

Alcohol, however, remains a red line. Booze has been banned in Saudi Arabia since 1952, shortly after the son of then-King Abdulaziz got drunk and, in a rage, shot dead a British diplomat.

Beer fear

For years, some residents of the city have been known to make their own bootleg wine. Others turn to the black market, where a bottle of whisky can fetch several hundred dollars.

In January 2024, the country opened its first liquor store in Riyadh, catering exclusively to non-Muslim diplomats. But alcohol will not be served during the 2034 World Cup, the Saudi ambassador in London told a British broadcaster this year.

“The kingdom must tread carefully with any potential legalisation of alcohol, as it would contradict its image as a credible leader of the Islamic world,” Sebastian Sons of the German think tank CARPO told AFP. Saudi Arabia and Kuwait are the only Gulf countries that still ban alcohol.

Back at the A12 cafe, curious Saudis are coming to see what the fuss is about. “The look of it is scary — it looks like alcohol,” said Sheikha, 18, who asked to be identified by her first name only. “The word ‘beer’ alone is scary,” she laughed. “But I got over my fear, and honestly it’s refreshing.” The young woman, accompanied by a friend, decided to try the experience after seeing videos on TikTok.

For the cafe’s manager, the point is to be able to offer the bar experience “but within the limits of local values”. It is a delicate balance in a youthful country where many are keen to experiment — but without crossing the line.

“In our country, there are no alcoholic drinks,” said Ahmed Mohammed, 18, as he set down his empty mug. “And we don’t want there to be any. “

The online sensation hit 100 billion views this month and is in Riyadh to launch Beast Land, a theme park modelled on his videos that put people through elaborate endurance challenges to win large cash prizes.

“It’s probably one of the best days of my life,” the 27-year-old, whose real name is James Donaldson, told Reuters ahead of the launch on Thursday, in one of at least nine interviews conducted as part of his Saudi PR blitz.

“One of the top requests I get is: I want to be in a MrBeast video… So now (we are) creating that in real life where you guys can come visit it and experience what it is like,” he said.

Changing times

Over the past decade, once ultra-conservative Saudi Arabia has rapidly developed entertainment options as part of Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman’s Vision 2030 to diversify the country away from oil and transform society.

Young Saudis grew up with few avenues for fun, with cinemas and concerts effectively banned. Outsiders saw the kingdom as stuck in time. Both perceptions have shifted. The Saudi capital is now the scene of Riyadh Season, running almost half the year with near-daily events from boxing and slap contests to house music parties and sports competitions.

Lit up in neon-blue, Beast Land combines theme park attractions like rollercoasters with Donaldson’s American Gladiator-style challenges, such as a game where the last player to slap a button when it lights up falls to cushioned doom.

Donaldson says 70 per cent of his fans are outside the US and Saudi Arabia was also a natural choice due to easily accessible studio space to film his latest season of videos. “I’d say give it a try, it’s much more developed than you’d think,” he said.

The kingdom has been known to attract international talent with massive compensation: Cristiano Ronaldo’s contract with Saudi Arabia’s Al Nassr is estimated to be worth more than $200 million.

MrBeast has at times stirred controversy, with Mexico in May filing suit against a firm they say worked with him after he produced a video at the nation’s ancient Maya pyramids.

Wayan Wardika, the man behind a wonderful firefly conservatory in Indonesia, said this as the four of us — my wife and I, and an American couple, Johnny and Lulian — sat around a table under the palm trees on his family farm.

We were here deep in the jungles of Taro village, just outside of Ubud in Bali, at the Rumah Konservasi Kunang-Kunang thanks to my wife. She’d refused to settle for the typical Bali itinerary and kept digging online until she found this experience.

The four-hour evening, which cost $54.78 per person (approximately Rs15,400), included a visit to the firefly conservation lab, a walk through organic plantations, cooking and sharing a traditional Balinese dinner with Wardika’s family, and firefly viewing at night. Transport was not included but could be arranged.

Wardika began telling us about his childhood. Back then, Taro had no electricity. At night, fireflies were everywhere, so many that he’d catch them in jars to light his way home, something his grandparents scolded him for. They believed fireflies carried the spirits of their ancestors and you weren’t supposed to trap them. But there were thousands of them.

Over the years, farmers started using pesticides, villages got electricity, roads brought more people and more lights. Within 20 years, the fireflies almost vanished.

Watching this happen haunted Wardika.

He’d been working on cruise ships, traveling the world, and every time he came home there were fewer fireflies. Finally, in 2020, he moved back to Taro and launched “Bring Back the Light” — a project to bring fireflies back to Bali.

He built the lab and taught himself the science of firefly breeding. Now he works with biologists and local farmers who’ve switched to organic farming.

As he spoke passionately about his work, I realised what it looked like to find your calling. Sitting there, I wondered if I’d ever felt that way about anything. I hadn’t.

Thankfully, Wardika interrupted my minor existential crisis. He stood and gestured toward the lab — a modest room tucked beneath trees planted decades ago. Nita, one of the biologists, was waiting for us.

Inside, rows of glass jars lined wooden shelves and Nita explained what we were seeing — firefly larvae. Some just weeks old, others nearly ready to pupate. She walked us through their life cycle — egg to larva to pupa to adult — a process that takes around two years. Two years of growing in the soil, hidden and patient. Then comes the adult stage, when they can finally fly and light up the night, lasts only two to four weeks. Less than a month to glow, to find a mate and to leave something behind.

We stepped out of the lab into the golden hour. Wardika’s son, Krishna, then took over, leading us into the fields. He walked us through rows of coffee plants, durian trees, and moringa bushes growing along the edges. Everything here was organic. No pesticides, no chemicals. It had to be — this was the environment the fireflies needed to survive.

By the time we made it back, the family had set everything up in the kitchen.

Ingredients laid out on wooden surfaces, pots ready over the fire. Krishna waved us over with a smile.

By now, Johnny and Lulian felt less like strangers and more like old friends. We’d moved past the polite introductions and into the easy back-and-forth of people who actually liked each other.

Krishna and his aunt walked us through preparing the meal. We chopped vegetables, prepped chicken for the bamboo shoots, and mixed spices. The work was simple, communal. All of us moving around the same space, contributing what we could as night fell.

When we finished, it was time. The moment we’d come for. Krishna turned off the surrounding lights and asked us to keep our phones tucked away too. The darkness that settled in was complete. Pitch black. The kind you never experience in cities.

We followed him down a path toward the rice paddies, moving slowly, our eyes adjusting with each step.

Around us, the Balinese jungle hummed softly. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, frogs croaked somewhere in the distance, the breeze moved through the rice stalks with a soft rustle.

Then I saw it — a tiny flicker of light, low near the ground. Gone as quickly as it appeared, I thought I’d imagined it. But then another one blinked further out in the paddies. Then another. Small bursts of yellow light appearing and disappearing across the field like tiny fallen stars.

The males are flying, flashing as they move. The females stay low, in the grass. When she sees a pattern she likes, she flashes back. That’s how they find each other.

We stood there watching, mesmerised — there was something about it that turned us all back into children seeing magic for the first time. I don’t even know how long we stayed, but eventually, Krishna led us back toward the house where dinner was waiting.

We sat down for the meal — moringa soup, bamboo-grilled chicken, tempeh skewers and steamed vegetables with coconut. The conversation flowed smoothly as we ate our delicious meal. Krishna mentioned something about his wife, and when we asked, he smiled shyly and said they’d just gotten married. Before we knew it, his phone was out and we were all watching his wedding video. He blushed as we congratulated him, clearly proud but embarrassed by the attention.

Heading back through the darkness that night, I kept thinking about the word jugnu, Urdu for firefly. I’d first learned it as a child from Iqbal’s poem Hamdardi in school. A nightingale lost in darkness, unable to find its nest. A small jugnu appears and offers to light the way home, despite being just a tiny creature.

To me, jugnu was just a beautiful word we read in poetry. Living in Karachi, a concrete jungle drowning in light pollution, I’d never actually seen a firefly, but watching those tiny lights pulse across the paddies, I finally understood what Wardika was fighting for — the chance for his grandchildren to see what he saw growing up. For jugnu to be more than just a word.

Officials believe the Grand Egyptian Museum, or GEM, alone could draw as many as seven million additional visitors annually after it opens on Saturday, helping boost total visitors to around 30 million by 2030.

Overlooking the Giza Pyramids, the 500,000-square-metre edifice will house tens of thousands of artefacts, including what is billed as the complete collection of the treasures of the boy-king Tutankhamun, many displayed for the first time.

The new space includes immersive exhibits and virtual-reality devices, in contrast to cluttered, old-fashioned displays in the older Egyptian Museum in downtown Cairo. Egypt, which has needed repeated bailouts to stabilise its economy, uses the foreign currency it collects from tourism to pay for crucial imports such as fuel and wheat.

Cultural tourism hopes

Last year the country drew 15.7 million visitors who spent a record $15 billion, according to official figures. Tourism had collapsed to a low of $3.8 billion in 2015/16, the victim of extended political turmoil after Egypt’s 2011 uprising.

However, factors including fraying infrastructure, poor planning and security restrictions have held back the tourism sector’s potential. Even with the recent recovery, Egypt trails regional rival Turkey, which said it had more than 50 million international visitors last year, bringing in over $60 billion.

Ghada Abdelmoaty, an associate professor at the Higher Institute of Tourism and Hotels in Alexandria, said visitor targets were realistic. “The museum accommodates a huge collection that was previously kept in storage due to lack of display space,” she said.

Popular with many travellers for its Red Sea resorts, Egypt hopes the GEM’s opening will also draw an increasing proportion of cultural tourists.

Such tourists typically stay longer and spend more than those who come mainly for beaches, analysts say.

Official figures don’t say how many tourists come for cultural reasons, but a 2021 study of GEM’s possible impact estimated they made up less than a quarter of the total. Abdelmoaty put the number of cultural tourists at only 10 to 15 per cent of all international travellers.

Remon Naguib, chief commercial officer at Orient Hospitality Group, said his company was working to integrate the new museum into “joint programmes” designed to attract visitors to experience both.

Tourists could “come and visit the museum, then spend three nights in a Red Sea destination, including Ain Sukhna, which is just one hour from Cairo,” he said.

Roads given facelift, pyramids entrance moved

Tourism revenues became even more important over the last two years as attacks on Red Sea shipping chased shipping away from the Suez Canal, another major foreign currency earner.

Tourism itself has proven vulnerable to shocks including political violence in the 1990s and 2000s, the Covid-19 pandemic and Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine — two countries which accounted for nearly a third of tourist arrivals in 2021. Tourism has also been hurt by the war on Gaza.

To fully capitalise on the GEM’s opening, the museum “has to be complemented by very high-quality tourist infrastructure — hotels, transport, and beyond,” said Ragui Assaad, professor of international economic policy at the University of Minnesota. That means addressing issues like transport in Cairo, a megacity with an estimated population of 23 million. Roads leading to the new museum have been given a facelift, while a new airport has been built about 25 kilometres (15 miles) from the GEM to circumvent clogged streets.

Entrance to the Giza Pyramids has been relocated to the back side to reduce crowding and keep visitors away from the area’s famously aggressive tourist touts.

Tourism Minister Sherif Fathy said last month Egypt had added 5,000 hotel rooms to its existing 235,000 and hoped to add yet another 9,000 before the year ends.

In the process, she photographed the city’s heritage buildings, libraries, churches and marketplaces, sharing them with her followers on Instagram.

“Guiding our cousin through the hidden gems of my beloved city on his first visit to Pakistan was both rewarding and heartbreaking,” she wrote. “Rewarding, because Karachi’s history is unbelievably rich and beautiful — heartbreaking, because so much of it is being destroyed. This can’t be right. If I can be of any help in preserving these treasures and protecting Karachi’s heritage, I’d love to connect with the right people.”

St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Among the highlights of her tour were two striking pictures of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Situated on Shahrah-e-Iraq near Empress Market, the church was built in 1881 in the Gothic Revival style, with the capacity to accommodate up to 1,500 worshippers.

In its courtyard stands the Monument to Christ the King, constructed in 1931. The cathedral remains one of Karachi’s most prominent religious and architectural landmarks, quietly carrying over a century of history within its stone walls.

Empress Market

Khan also shared a glimpse of her stop at Empress Market, one of Karachi’s busiest and most historic marketplaces.

Built between 1884 and 1889 during the British Raj, the market is known for its striking Gothic architecture and houses hundreds of stalls selling everything from fresh produce and spices to textiles and pets.

The site has a sombre history. It was originally used by the British to execute participants of the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny. Today, it stands as both a reminder of colonial legacies and a hub of everyday Karachi life.

Frere Hall and its treasures

The actor’s tour wouldn’t have been complete without a stop at Frere Hall, the 19th-century Venetian Gothic landmark that once served as Karachi’s town hall.

Constructed in 1863 to honour British administrator Sir Henry Bartle Frere, the building today functions as a public library and cultural hub.

Its ceiling mural by Sadequain remains one of the city’s most iconic works of art, while the surrounding Bagh-e-Jinnah lawns offer respite from the urban sprawl.

Inside, Khan shared a series of images from the Frere Hall library.

These included shelves lined with ageing tomes, a 1762 edition of A Journey from St. Petersburgh in Russia to Ispahan in Persia by John Bell, a worn copy of Funk & Wagnalls’ New “Standard” Dictionary, and even a 1953 issue of Dawn!

She also photographed a volume of Japanese poetry translated by Arthur Waley, highlighting the eclectic and layered collection the library houses.

Karachi’s layered identity

By guiding her cousin, and, by extension, her social media audience, through Karachi’s churches, markets and libraries, Khan has spotlighted not only the city’s history but also the urgency to help preserve it.

Karachi is both “rewarding” and, in its current state, “heartbreaking”, as Khan said. It is a city where fragments of colonial architecture, sacred spaces and cultural heritage survive against the odds. As its past comes into focus, reminding us that beneath the city’s chaos lie stories worth remembering, we should also remember that they’re worth saving.

“It’s not the cheapest island, but it’s rich in soul, history and people who welcome you with genuine warmth,” she wrote in an Instagram post breaking down her trip in a bunch of slides.

For Ashraf, Zanzibar isn’t just a destination — it’s a feeling that lingers. “The call to prayer drifting through Stone Town’s alleys, the tide pulling the ocean back and forth in Paje, the sunsets in Nungwi that make you forget time,” she recalled.

The basics

According to the host, flights will set you back around $600 to $1,200 (Rs170,000 to Rs340,000) depending on the airline. A visa costs $180 (Rs51,000), and mandatory insurance is $44 (Rs12,487).

Her biggest travel hack? Carry USD cash. “It’s accepted almost everywhere,” she advised.

How long to stay

“Give the island time,” Ashraf urged. “Two weeks is perfect — anything shorter feels rushed.” She also suggested splitting the trip between the beaches and Stone Town for the full experience.

Where to go

Start in Nungwi, a village at the northern tip of Zanzibar known for its calm waters, soft sand and some of the best sunsets, she advised. “Pro tip: Best spot for swimming — tides here are kinder than in the south,” she wrote.

Next stop: Paje. Perfect for kitesurfing and a laid-back vibe, Ashraf described it as “a great base if you like a buzz” but recommended booking early in the season.

End the trip in Stone Town, with its spices, street food and winding alleys steeped in history. “Stay two nights — enough to explore without rushing,” she suggested.

Where to stay and how to get around

For transport, Ashraf noted that taxis cost around $50 (Rs14,000) per ride, but renting a car was far more convenient. She and her husband paid $35 a day for a local permit. “It gives you freedom to explore,” she said.

Accommodation on the island ranges greatly. Resorts start at around $150 (Rs43,000) per night and can go up to $400 (Rs113,000) or more. Bargaining at markets is expected, while food remains an “affordable joy,” according to Ashraf.

In a slide, she recommended “stays for every mood”.

For a luxurious stay, she suggested Zuri, Baraza, The Residence, and a private island lodge in Mnemba. For Boutique stays, she listed Emerson Hotels, The Nest Boutique Resort, and Zanzi Resort. And for eco-friendly, economical options, she recommended the Chumbe Island Coral Park and Jambiani guesthouses.

“Pro Tip: Mix it up — a luxe resort plus a boutique stay gives you the best of both,” she shared.

Pros and cons

In another slide, she listed the pros and cons of travelling to Zanzibar. “Pros: Dream beaches, rich Swahili culture, seafood and spices, diving and wildlife, and of course, the people,” whom she described as kind, warm and sweet. “Pro tip: Take time to chat — locals have the best stories,” she noted.

“Cons: Pricey resorts and taxis, vendors on the beach, power cuts and patchy WiFi, service runs on island time. Pro Tip: Lean into the slow pace of island life,” shared Ashraf.

Final thoughts

Her final thoughts about Zanzibar were: “Zanzibar is more than a postcard. Come with patience, curiosity, and time! It will stay with you forever. And me? I’d love to come back again… it feels like the kind of island that’s even more fun when shared.”

For her final pro tip, she said Zanzibar is great for couples, but friends and families will surely make the nights longer and the laughs louder.

Situated along the Silk Road, the major trade route between China and Europe, Uzbekistan is home to countless monuments of historical and architectural importance — from the Amir Timur Museum and Khast-Imam Complex to the Minor Mosque and Barak-Khan Madrasah. Beyond Tashkent, the historic cities of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Khiva are brimming with similar treasures.

As a Muslim, one of the great comforts of being in a Muslim-majority country is the assurance that everything you eat is halal. I had already listed four must-try dishes for my stay — somsa, pilaf, khanum, shashlik, and kazy — but the in-flight promotional video nudged me toward even more culinary adventures.

Bread in Chagatai

On my first morning in Tashkent, I headed to Chagatai, an old neighbourhood famous for its bread-making and surrounded by historic mosques and the Hazrati Imam Complex. The taxi driver dropped me in a narrow, bustling street with the reassuring words, “You can’t get lost here. Don’t worry, you’ll find your way around.” He was right.

The air was rich with the aroma of freshly baked bread, known locally as non or lepeshka. Every corner seemed to host a small bakery, their clay ovens turning out breads of all shapes and sizes. To my surprise, some vendors used baby carriages draped in embroidered white cloth as makeshift bread carts.

“There are two kinds of non: obi (plain) and patir (with sesame seeds),” explained a friendly local in the bakery queue. “In an Uzbek household, bread is not just food; it must look beautiful too.”

Watching the bread-making process was a treat. The dough, a mixture of milk, yeast, melted butter, salt, and sugar, is kneaded, shaped into flat rounds, and artfully decorated. A wooden stamp (chekich) creates intricate patterns, sesame seeds are sometimes sprinkled on top, and the bread is baked in a blazing tandoor. The baker, leaning halfway inside, presses the dough onto the hot clay wall before retrieving it with a metal tool.

Fresh from the oven, the bread is everything at once — hot, fluffy, chewy, and perfectly textured, with a crust far gentler than a French loaf. Traditionally eaten with kiamak (a dairy dip), honey, figs, or fruit, I paired mine with peaches from a nearby fruit cart, an experiment I’m unlikely to repeat.

Chorsu Bazaar

No trip to Tashkent is complete without a visit to Chorsu Bazaar. Under its massive blue dome, meat vendors occupy the ground floor, dry fruit sellers the upper level, and the surrounding streets brim with pottery, ceramics, jewellery, fruit, and vegetables. Inside, butchers arrange their cuts in circular stalls like a maze — every part of the animal is for sale, from chops and tongues to brains and intestines.

Buying dry fruits here is an art form — the moment you pause, vendors lure you with almonds, raisins, and pistachios from beneath the counter. The prices start high but can be bargained down to a fraction.

Uzbek dry fruits are exceptional: almonds crack like crème brûlée, each shell revealing two nuts; pistachios are larger and saltier than their Pakistani counterparts. Leaving without at least four to five kilos of each would be a mistake.

Shashlik Market

Just a short walk from Chorsu lies the Shashlik Market, its alleyways smoky with the scent of grilled meats. I sampled lamb skewers, beef kebabs, and fried fish, though the famous horse meat sausage, kazy, tempted me too. The barbecue resembled Afghani kebabs but was less juicy. The fish, however, was meaty and flavourful.

The real star here was khanum, a steamed dumpling of potato and onion wrapped in soft dough, sold by a vendor with a cult following. Served with raw onions, dill, and green chillies, it was mild on its own but transformed into a perfect bite with a bit of heat and acidity.

Somsa at Boboy Café

At Boboy, a traditional café in Tashkent Mall, I finally tried somsa, flaky pastries filled with lamb or beef mince. My beef somsa, golden and crisp, delivered an explosion of flavours: cumin, black pepper, red pepper, and perfectly balanced seasoning.

With its thick, multi-layered crust and savoury filling, it was a crunchy, buttery delight, a far cry from the South Asian “samosa” it inspired centuries ago.

Besh Qozon’s Pilaf Finale

I saved my last day for Besh Qozon, a legendary pilaf restaurant drawing crowds from morning to midnight. Here, giant cauldrons — some the size of bathtubs — simmer over wood fires. The process is mesmerising: sunflower oil, meat, and carrots are layered with onions, garbanzo beans, berries, saffron, and rice, then steamed under metal plates.

I ordered the spicy pilaf with lamb, beef, and kazy, accompanied by quail eggs and dolma. Golden rice glistened with meat juices, carrots were tender and sweet, and each meat cut — from succulent lamb to salty horse sausage — brought its own character. Every spoonful was a rich medley of flavours and aromas.

My four days in Uzbekistan ended here, and with my final bite of pilaf, I could finally declare my mission accomplished.

Photos used in cover image courtesy Uzbek Embassy in Pakistan

I’d suggest leaving the characters in the novels and heading out to explore all the city has to offer. Bucharest is an interesting blend of a contemporary yet historical urban landscape.

Taking a stroll in the old town to marvel at the medieval era buildings, walking on the wide pebbled roads, getting captivated by the columns at the palace of parliament or stepping into ultra-modern shopping malls, Bucharest continues to amaze you with every step and at every site.

On the advice of a friend, I chose to stay in the old town area, which was a 35-minute drive from the airport. The place was the picture of a ghost town during the morning until lunch hours started and one was able to witness the sudden buzz of activity with cafés and restaurants began filling up with hungry customers. As the night fell, these streets came alive with loud music, with outdoor areas and souvenir shops shining brightly along the streets.

Blending well into the world of Romanian gastronomy, I managed to befriend a server on a smoke break outside an eatery. “My friend, Romanian cuisine is all about vegetables, cornmeal and meat. Our tastebuds circle around these three essentials, call it comfort food or traditional or common food as you may,” he laughed.

For Romanians there is no compromise on the freshness of ingredients. Everything that goes into a dish, be it meat, herbs, veggies or fruit, needs to be fresh from the market or the farms, seasonal, and organic. You definitely won’t see okra in December or broccoli in June on a Romanian dining table.

From my very first meal in Bucharest, I was startled to discover the bond between Pakistani and Romanian cuisines, especially “the quintessential use of garlic”. The vegetable is used liberally in many Romanian dishes, just like ours. However, unlike in Pakistani cuisine, Romanians use garlic on its own, without the addition of ginger. My dish was no exception. Accompanied by a garlic sauce mixed with oil and water, I was advised by the server to spread the garlic sauce on the bread or pour it over the dish, whichever I prefer.

To start, I ordered Paine Cu Cartofi, a potato leavened bread baked on a hot griddle. “It’s mixed with potato and wheat flour with a ratio which varies from recipe to recipe,” explained the server who suggested I try it. It was filled with mashed potatoes that gave the loaf a soft texture and a rich taste. I paired it with a must-have — Zacusca, a red pepper spread that’s basically a vegetable paste made from roasted red peppers infused with mushrooms, eggplants, a hint of oil, crushed tomatoes and onions. Zacusca tasted like tamatar ke chutney but a much thicker and spicier version that was bursting with flavours.

The amalgamation of the fresh veggies made their presence felt individually with their distinguished taste. Zacusca on a toasted slice of bread with your morning tea could be a great alternative to the traditional omelette or fried egg we usually consume at breakfast. This traditional dip is over 100 years old and is consumed in almost every household in Romania. It’s also present on the menu of every eatery.

As Pakistani eateries offer a choice between mashed potatoes, baked or French fries with steaks and other meat dishes, Romanians offer polenta, one of the most popular and traditional side dishes basically made of boiled corn mush, salt, sour cream and often cheese to make a smooth mashed portion. It’s crusty on outside and gooey on the inside but essentially tasteless. It was just like a corn ball with no seasoning or herbs to distinguish it. I was told that many Romanians use polenta as a substitute for bread.

Although seafood is not a very popular item, one is able to find a few eateries only serving seafood such as lobster, octopus, sardines, trout or carp coated in cornflour or batter and deep fried, charcoaled and served with garlic sauce and polenta. My choice was obvious. Since lobster was too great a damage on the pocket, I opted for grilled octopus, which I had to pick from the raw seafood counter. The octopus was a bit chewy but full of herbs and fried in butter. It was my meal for the entire day as I could not finish the whole plate.

During a visit to a shopping mall’s food court, I ordered what another customer was ordering — Bulete de Cascaval and Dovlecei Gratinati. You could call Bulete de Cascaval cheese balls. They were golden-brown with a crispy crust courtesy of their deep frying, made with Romanian fried cheese known as cascaval. The cheese balls looked very ordinary at first glance — similar to what one eats at any fine dining restaurant in Pakistan — but what made them different was the hard, salty and yellow cow milk cheese within that was only half melted despite being deep fried. It carried a very powerful taste.

Dovlecei Gratinati is also a popular snack. It features a gratinated zucchini sliced, sautéed or baked with various filling options and topped with cheese. I ordered it with a chicken topping. Romanian cheese was more overpowering than the zucchini whereas the chicken was caught in the crossroads and barely made its presence felt.

Next on the list was Sarmale — pickled cabbage wraps containing minced meat, rice and caramelised onions, served with sour cream and polenta with sprinkled herbs on top. Sarmale is a very popular eastern European dish also found in menus around the world but Romanians make it with sour or fermented cabbage, and that’s the trick that makes it stand tall amongst its contemporaries. Packed with flavour and simmered in a savoury sauce of tomatoes, the tastebuds can easily distinguish the taste of the meat, rice and onions separately. Being sour, Sarmale had a slightly tangy touch which left its mark in every bite.

A tourist in Romaina cannot leave the country without dining at the famous Caru’ cu bere, a jewel in the country’s gastronomical crown and the magnum opus of Bucharest eateries. It’s not just the interior that leaves visitors in awe; the facade of the building is just as majestic and can’t be missed out on, even if you’re just walking past on the street.

The eatery is housed in a brewery that is over 130 years old and believed to be one of the oldest in Romania. It has two main rooms, terraces, and a cellar. The wooden Belle Epoque interior, stained glass windows and painted ceilings cast a spellbinding effect once you enter through the revolving doors. Caru’ cu bere has hosted visitors such as Ted Kennedy, prince of Japan and the Rolling Stones. The building is officially classified as a historical architectural monument.

I had made my booking way in advance, yet when I arrived I still had to wait for 40 minutes. I was guided past a hall full of guests, with live string instruments being played, and seated on one of the terraces that allowed me a magical bird’s eye view of the restaurant — the bar downstairs, the intricate painted ceiling, the columns and arches.

A four-page menu in a spreadsheet format was laid down by the server to scan. To be on the safe side, I was recommended to order the Supa crema de legume cu crutoane de casa, basically a vegetable soup with homemade croutons, and the Poveste Pescareasca, the fisherman’s tale, for the main course.

The soup was full of nutritious veggies such as potatoes, celery, onions, zucchini and carrots so finely blended that the soup did not lose its texture, and topped with homemade croutons that added a nice crunchiness. However, having said that, I had to add tabasco to add that kick of spices required for my Pakistani palate.

The reason I ordered the fish was not because I was in mood for the seafood, but because the picture on the menu was a true vision. The baked trout fillet arrived fully decked as if it were cooked by a jeweller rather than a chef. This pièce de résistance was filled with with champignon mushrooms, capers, red bell peppers, mustard seeds and a roasted pepper compote.

The ray-finned freshwater trout was cooked in corn oil and was oozing with butter, lemon juice, vinegar, and a hint of sour cream accompanied by a large portion of polenta. The hardest part now was to disfigure this chef’s marvellous creation and polish it off from the plate. But I managed it and the taste was beyond description. It took me quite some time to finish my meal as I did not want to let it go so quickly. Each ingredient which played its role to compile this work of art must have been chosen for a reason. It was like a manna from heaven and worth every euro!

It was my last day in Bucharest and I wanted to end the tour on a spicy note. A small eatery near a bus station pulled me in as I scanned the menu at the entrance door. I had already decided what to order even before being seated. “Ardei Umpluti and orange juice for me please,” I told the server as soon as we made eye contact. I could not go wrong with my order as Ardei Umpluti is a stuffed bell pepper cooked in tomato sauce.

My order arrived within 15 minutes and was a large portion for a single person. It arrived with a portion of sour cream dip and crusty bread, which I was really glad to see as I had prayed “please, no polenta again”. The bell peppers were hollowed out to be stuffed with a spiced meat and rice mixture, placed over tomato juice and baked in the oven until they were tender enough to fall apart. It was a complete meal.

The juices from the bell pepper and the minced meat mixture melded their flavours, and each bite was creamy and spicy. The shell casing was crunchy with the precise ratio of sweetness to acidity and heat providing the perfect balance of flavours. The cap of the bell pepper was put back on, which gave it the appearance of a cauldron. I skipped the sour cream dip, instead dipping the crusty bread in the pepper shell for a a great accompaniment for my meal.

As I was finishing up, I saw the server carrying slices of what we would call fruit cake. Out of curiosity I enquired about them. “It is called Cozonac and it looks like a loaf but it’s actually a cake filled with chocolate and raisins. If you look inside, it has swirls of chocolate filling,” she informed me. When I took a bite, it indeed tasted like a sweet bread with poppy seeds and raisins, something I think would pair well with evening tea or coffee.

It was great to end my tour on a sweet note, although four days were not good enough to do justice to the richness of Romanian cuisine, as I believe I only scratched the surface!

“I zone out a lot these days. It’s like your brain is trying to catch up but can’t,” said Kiani, one of Pakistan’s leading mountaineers. “Some people go back to a strenuous workout immediately after an expedition to fight body and mind fatigue. I need rest and body massages!”

A Dubai-based aerospace engineer, associate vice president at an international banker, cofounder of a tech startup, amateur boxer, and mother of two, Kiani has redefined what it means to break barriers. In just under four years, she has climbed 12 of the world’s 14 peaks above 8,000m, climbing seven of them in less than six months. She became the fastest Pakistani climber to summit 12 peaks and the only Pakistani woman to reach such heights. It’s an accomplishment unmatched even by any Pakistani male climber. In recognition of her achievements, the government awarded her the Sitara-e-Imtiaz on March 23, 2024, making her the only female athlete in the country to receive this honour.

But Kanchenjunga was a challenge unlike any other she had faced. “Oh, it was tough. Not so much technically, more mentally and emotionally.” She recalled during the expedition there was hardly any connectivity, not even a satellite phone, “only sporadic instances of connectivity”. Halfway through, she found out about the outbreak of conflict between India and Pakistan in May, while being away from her husband, her two daughters, parents, and in-laws.

“The mountain felt endless. My anxiety grew every day,” she said. “Once we caught a tiny signal, I called the Pakistan embassy in Kathmandu to get an update on the situation.”

Another source of concern for her was that at a time of heightened tension between Pakistan and India she was climbing Kanchenjunga alongside a Nepali-Indian army mountaineering team, which had five Indian members. “At that point, I was sceptical about engaging with Indians. Perhaps the saving grace was that they were stationed 100m below my group, which included myself, leading Pakistani climber Sirbaz Khan, and five more climbers.”

But in the “true mountain spirit”, the Indian climbers were respectful and kind — “They even helped Sirbaz Khan when he got drowsy from exhaustion.”

The journey begins

Kiani’s journey in high-altitude mountaineering began in 2021. That July, she summited Gasherbrum II in the Karakoram range. A year later, in July 2022, she stood atop K2. She reached the summit less than an hour after Samina Baig, the first Pakistani woman to conquer K2 earlier the same day. Ten days later, she scaled Gasherbrum I, scoring a ‘double-header’, the first Pakistani team to attempt it.

Looking back, she said, “Gasherbrum I was the hardest climb of my life. Winds hit 70 kilometres per hour as we pushed near 7,000m. At one point, I was so exhausted I considered unclipping from the safety rope to end it. I’d never felt that before, and haven’t since.”

Then came 2023 — a year of milestones. In April, Naila reached the top of Annapurna I in Nepal. After reaching the summit range, she had to be evacuated due to mountain illness. In May, she climbed Everest, becoming the second Pakistani woman to do so, a full decade after Baig’s historic climb. Just a day later, she scaled Lhotse between Nepal and China. Next in line were Nanga Parbat and Broad Peak in Pakistan, Manaslu in Nepal, and Cho Oyu between the Tibet-China border. In October, she was forced to abandon her summit attempt on Shishapangma because of deadly avalanches.

Next May, she climbed Makalu, on the Nepal-China border, to add another peak to her list. Earlier this year in May, she summited Kanchenjunga, bringing her total to 12.

On the global stage, however, its unusual for women to summit all 14 8,000-ers. Only 16 women in the world have completed the circuit so far. Edurne Pasaban of Spain was the first woman in the world to climb all of them in 2010; Nirmal “Nims” Purja, the former Gurkha and British special forces soldier from Nepal, climbed them in just six months and six days in 2019 and Kristin Harila from Norway along with Tenjen Lama Sherpa of Nepal broke Purja’s record by climbing 14 peaks in 92 days in 2023.

One wonders what compels Kiani to brave such treacherous paths, especially when other women have already set a historic goal that she may never be able to rewrite. Take Adriana Brownlee from the UK who set a record as recently as 2024 by becoming the youngest woman ever to summit 14 peaks at age 23, or Sanu Sherpa of Nepal who became the first person in the world to complete the circuit of 8000-ers twice.

“I don’t climb for glory. I climb to show that a Pakistani woman can stand on the world’s highest peaks, and belong there,” declared Kiani.

Her mountaineering journey began with a desire to celebrate her wedding uniquely, as “a small affair” in the mountains. So, she and her husband landed in Skardu ready to start their lives together. But just as they arrived, a family emergency forced her husband to return home, leaving Kiani alone in the remote mountain town to press on and to trek to Concordia, the gateway to the K2, in the Karakoram mountain range. At approximately 4,700m above sea level, Concordia is considered to be one of the world’s most spectacular mountain junctions, from where one can view four of the five highest 8,000m-high peaks in Pakistan — K2 (8,611 m), Broad Peak (8,051 m), Gasherbrum I (8,080 m) and Gasherbrum II (8,035 m). “I wanted to see K2,” she said, and her husband convinced her to do it by saying, “Once we have kids, you might never get to go again.”

Dressed in a red bridal outfit, she posed for a photoshoot in Concordia against a backdrop of towering peaks. Later, the photo went viral on social media. “Everyone assumed it was our actual wedding. Instead it was me posing as a bride without my groom!”

That was 2018. “Back then, I’d think, why would anyone put themselves through treacherous climbs? Are they pagal [crazy]? I watched the film Everest, based on the true events of the 1996 Mount Everest disaster, and told my husband, these people must be mad!”

By 2021, that sarcasm turned into curiosity and then action. That year she summited Gasherbrum II — her first 8,000er. Back then, “I wanted to be around elite mountaineers. I wanted to know what it takes to be up there,” she recalled. When she ascended Gasherbrum II, she became the first Pakistani woman to climb three 8,000-metre peaks.

Summiting G2 flipped a switch inside her. Already a mother of two, she found herself hooked on the thrill of standing atop the world’s highest peaks. “Once you enter the world of 8,000ers, it’s not about adventure anymore. It becomes about records, about pushing your limits — strength, endurance, resilience. You’re constantly testing what you’re made of,” she explained.

Away from the mountains, Kiani is a mother to two daughters — one six years old, the other four. She laughed when asked if they understand what she’s achieved — “Not quite.” What they do grasp is “simple and sweet”, that their mother disappears to faraway mountains, where it’s freezing cold. “The deeper meaning behind those words I suppose will come in time,” she said.

Kiani grew up in a conservative household in Rawalpindi, where her father wouldn’t let her wear half-sleeves or go to the park. “He’d say, ‘Achay ghar ki larkiyan park nahi jati’ [girls from respectable families don’t go to parks],” she recalled.

So when she summited her first peak, G2, she was nervous about telling him. “To my surprise, he was super supportive.”

Today, while her mother and mother-in-law still wish she’d stop out of concern for her safety, her father is “always cheering me on.”

It goes without saying that Kiani’s passion takes her to places where death is just a step away. And the risks are only growing, as climate change makes avalanches more frequent and unpredictable. According to a 2023 report titled Snow and Ice Avalanches in High Mountain Asia — Scientific, Local and Indigenous Knowledge, published by the European Geosciences Union, a organisation for earth and planetary science in Europe, at least 1,400 mountaineers lost their lives between 1895 and 2022 on the 14 peaks above 8,000m, and a few other prominent 6,000ers in the Himalayas. Alarmingly, 33 per cent of these deaths were caused by avalanches.

Kiani too has had her share of close calls. It was during the Shishapangma expedition that she made the most difficult call of her climbing career — to turn back. She recalled that the first avalanche came suddenly, sweeping away three climbers from the team. At that point, no one knew if they had survived or how badly they were hurt. “I knew a tragedy had occurred,” she said.

She said it was late in the day and the summit fever was high as her team was just 200m or 300m from the top. “We had to push a little further to be right at the top.” But there were no fixed ropes on the ice-covered slope, and the risk of another avalanche was real. Kiani turned back.

Twenty-five minutes later, another avalanche struck. “I could have lost my life,” she said.

An expensive sport

Climbing an 8,000m-high peak is as much a financial challenge as it is a physical one. Kiani climbed Gasherbrum II completely self-funded, but of the 13 peaks she has attempted, she has summited 12, and funded about two and a half herself. The rest have been sponsored by the Bard Foundation, supported by Bilquis and Abdul Razak Dawood.

The cost of a full expedition can range from $20,000 to $50,000. That is before the cost of gear is factored in. According to Kiani, a high-quality ice axe runs between $200 and $400, mountaineering goggles cost around $250, a summit suit goes for about $1,000, and high-altitude boots alone can cost at least $1,500.

Then there’s the permit fee.

In recent years, the Gilgit-Baltistan government hiked permit fees for foreign climbers. The permit cost to climb K2, for instance, jumped from $1,700 to $5,000 per international climber, a move that drew sharp criticism from the mountaineering community. After court intervention, the fee was reduced to $3,500 in 2025. Permits for other 8,000ers were also brought down to $2,500 for the summer season.

In contrast, Pakistani climbers pay far less. A K2 permit for a Pakistani climber now costs around Rs100,000. They’d have to pay Rs50,000 in the autumn and Rs30,000 in the winter. That’s a large gap, but for many locals, even those fees are a barrier. “The permit and gear pile up the financial burden. So much so that many skilled climbers in Pakistan never get the chance to go for the peaks,” Kiani said regretfully.

Some alpinists, however, defend the higher costs, suggesting they help protect the environment and deter casual climbers. Though Kiani gets the idea in essence, she said, “Pakistan isn’t Nepal. We need more tourism, not less.”

Instead of raising prices, she believes Pakistan should enforce better systems, such as requiring climbers to bring down their waste, like they do in China. “Mountain communities here rely on tourism. If you limit access without offering alternatives, you’re hurting people’s livelihoods,” she added.

Kiani is candid about the state of support services for high-altitude climbers in Pakistan. “Most of our porters are brave and incredibly strong — but they’re under-equipped and untrained. We don’t have a single certified mountain guide in the country.”

She added that they’re not trained in rescue techniques or even basic first aid. “Most don’t speak much English either, which limits their interaction with international climbers,” she said. In stark contrast, “Nepali Sherpas are a different league. They’re professionally certified, rigorously trained, and can earn up to $10,000 a season. In comparison, a Pakistani porter might earn just $2,000 a year,” she explained.

For this reason, most high-altitude climbers on expeditions in Pakistan come through well-established logistics firms from Nepal or other western countries that provide certified guides, rescue coordination, and technical support.

Pakistan’s mountaineering ecosystem, in comparison, is deeply connected to the military. From rescue operations and helicopter support to NOCs, much of it runs through the army.

Kiani acknowledged the Pakistan Army’s role in revising its helicopter evacuation policy. Previously, a round trip to K2 required two helicopters and cost around $26,000, but now, a single helicopter now handles the rescue, reducing the cost significantly to $9,900.

The route to the mountains

Soft-spoken and petite, Kiani is quite at odds with what many might expect from a high-altitude climber. While her background in boxing has helped with stamina and strength, she admits that training while living in Dubai isn’t always practical. She works out at a gym with a trainer, mostly focusing on strength, resistance work, and Zone 2 cardio. “Honestly, I need someone to push me, or I lose motivation,” she said.

Though hiking is an ideal form of exercise before the start of any expedition, she finds it hard to manage juggling being a parent and working. “Even getting to hiking spots like Ras Al Khaimah or Fujairah in the UAE takes the whole day. So I usually try to fit in proper hikes closer to the actual expedition.”

She’s careful, not rigid, with her diet. She avoids oily, spicy meals and follows a rough 80/20 approach, mostly eating clean with the occasional cheat meal. Before a climb, she tries to put on a little weight, knowing she’ll lose some during the expedition.

When packing for an expedition, aside from all the essential gear, there’s one thing Kiani never forgets — a tweezer. “I always pack a tweezer,” she laughed. “It’s such a Pakistani thing. We love our brows! I don’t think most foreign climbers care about that stuff. We do!”

And sometimes, there’s lipstick too. “I wore it on Gasherbrum II, even K2. Just for the summit photos.”

She recalled a Spanish climber, Stefi Troguet, known for her signature red lipstick on every ascent.

But Kiani was quick to add that looks are far from a priority on most climbs. “Some peaks are so brutal, it’s pure survival mode. You’re not thinking about your looks. You’re thinking about making it down alive.”

Sometimes, she said, high-altitude climbing feels surreal, especially “when we’re above the clouds, suspended between earth and sky”. Once, she noticed a distant glow on a far-off mountain and mistook it for a climber’s headlamp. “But it kept getting brighter…and kept rising. That’s when it hit me and my fellow climbers that we were looking down at the moon.”

That moment, filled with awe and disbelief, has stayed with her. It’s experiences like these, she said, that are quietly transformative. “In that stillness, under the bright blue sky, I feel deep gratitude for my life, my loved ones, and the beauty of our world.”

She plans to climb Shishapangma and Dhaulagiri I, located in Nepal, next year — her final step toward completing all 14 8,000m-high peaks. If successful, she will become the world’s 17th woman to achieve this extraordinary feat.

In his video posted on Monday, Buckley claimed that locals had said the resort was dumping waste into the lake and showed the contrast between brown, murky water emerging from the boundaries of the resort and the blue water of the lake.

“The beauty of Lake Attabad is the colour of the turquoise water, and if this continues, you can literally see the brown going all the way around […] where we’re standing at the moment, the winds coming towards us, it smells bad,” he said in the video.

After the video was shared online and garnered one million views and over 37,000 likes, authorities in Gilgit-Baltistan sealed on Tuesday a section of the resort and fined its owner Rs1.5 million for non-compliance with environmental standards.

Gilgit-Baltistan Environmental Protection Agency (GBEPA) Director Khadim Hussain, the Hunza deputy commissioner and other officials inspected the hotel’s environment and sewage system.

The district administration shut down the entire extension of the resort. The sealed portion will remain closed until corrective measures are completed and formal clearance is granted by the EPA after a re-inspection.

The administration has also launched a review of all no-objection certificates issued to hotels and restaurants in the Attabad Lake area.

Dawn tried to contact the management of Luxus Resort Attabad, as well as their offices in Lahore, but no one was immediately available to comment on the issue.

In an Instagram video posted on Tuesday, Luxus denied the claim and said the “adjacent water streams coming from the mountains have natural sediments like mud, rocks and minerals”.

“When these turbid water streams mix with the blue lake water, this causes the muddy/cloudy appearance of water seen near Luxus Hunza.”

The resort said the phenomenon was known as “confluence”, where two separately flowing water bodies meet. “If one of the water bodies is high in turbidity, then this causes a muddy/cloudy water surface at the point of confluence. This phenomenon is more pronounced during the summer, which is why every summer, Luxus Hunza is falsely accused of dumping waste water into the lake.”

Following the action from authorities, Buckley posted another video and said, “The hotel I called out yesterday in Pakistan has been found to have been dumping sewage into the lake. This started from my post, and it has now reached a national level. [It’s] all over the news, the government has gotten involved, officials have arrived to the building. I’m in disbelief, to be honest.”

He maintained that Luxus denied all claims and did not provide any credible documents against his allegations. Buckley also thanked everyone from Pakistan who interacted with the post.

“I don’t like drama or getting involved in this stuff, but I felt it was important to address, and within 24 hours, there has been swift action.”

He also distanced himself from the scenario, citing safety reasons, and thanked everyone who raised their voices, adding that it was a shame that nothing was done sooner.

“I haven’t changed my opinion on Pakistan,” Buckley clarified. “I still think it’s a wonderful country, I’ve had lots of great experiences. I’m just documenting my travels as honestly as possible.”

In August of last year, the Hunza district administration and GBEPA took stringent measures against other hotels for similar violations.

At that time, Luxus Resort and Dolphin Floating Resort were sealed due to improper management of grey water from washrooms and kitchens.

Some Pakistanis are accustomed to Greek salads and Greek yoghurt, but my trip to the capital of Greece helped unearth a treasure trove of local cuisine. The first place on my list was Klimataria, a traditional tavern established in 1927 and said to be one of the oldest taverns currently standing in Athens.

Ignorant of the city’s dining scene, I walked to the restaurant and at the gate was swiftly asked what name my reservation was under. “Don’t have any, just a walk-in tourist who’s heard a lot about the eatery,” I replied with a smile.

The hostess erupted into laughter and informed me that the earliest available date was June 23. I had no option but to plead my case.

“Would you give any consideration to a foodie tourist who has flown hundreds of miles from Asia to have a meal at Klimataria?” I asked. After a long pause, I was told to come the next day 12:30pm for lunch on one condition — that I leave within 45 minutes. Had the mythic goddess of the grain manifested and helped me get a last-minute table, or was it just my own luck? One thing was for sure: my lunch plans for the next day were cemented.

The restaurant is built on the ruins of an ancient temple. Complete with rustic interiors and stone walls, wooden wine barrels stacked atop each other, and ivy creeping along the walls, it was like sitting in your own veranda.

Maria, the current owner, helms affairs as she looks after guests, seating and even took orders along with her young Greek servers.

Greek tzatziki, fava (a creamy paste made from yellow split peas) and crusty bread were served as soon as I was seated. The bread was perfect — a crusty exterior with fluffy insides. The tzatziki, a traditional Greek dip made with garlic, yoghurt and cucumbers, was cool and refreshing with a light, creamy texture. The fava was cooked with chopped onions, garlic, lemon juice and olive oil and was topped off with raw onions, green chillies and olives.

Thus started my gastronomical journey in the city of Athens.

For the main course, I ordered a lamb roast with potatoes. The lamb shoulder, marbled with fat and slow-cooked in extra virgin olive oil, was tender, flavourful and fell off the bone as soon as it was lifted, melting in the mouth. The baby potatoes, seasoned with oregano, complemented the lamb perfectly.

The meal was reminiscent of the Shinwari Gosht at Charsi Tikka House in Peshawar. Make of that what you will.

For dessert, the server suggested ekmek kadaifi — the Greek version, as the dish originates from the Ottoman Empire. The first layer was pastry soaked in sugar and cinnamon, followed by a creamy vanilla custard filling and topped off with whipped cream and a generous sprinkle of pistachios. This showstopper was light and well-balanced, with all the flavours pronounced and distinguishable; pleasing to the eyes and to the tastebuds at the same time.

The next stop was Tylixto, a famous joint serving souvlaki. The eatery, located on a street in Monastiraki, could accommodate 10 to 12 guests at a time and relied heavily on takeaway orders. Regardless of the time of day, Tylixto had a line outside the door and a minimum wait of 10 minutes for takeaway — a testament to its popularity.

Thick toasted pita bread, with oregano-infused chunks of chicken stripped off skewers, dijon mustard, zesty lemon and tzatziki sauce, and topped with French fries was my quick meal fix, keeping me satiated for some three to four hours. The restaurant offered shaved beef and lamb options, as well as kebabs wrapped in pita.

The wrap itself was very light and crafted so perfectly that from the very first bite, one could taste all the ingredients present.

Needless to say, it was time to try some dessert, and Kirnos was the perfect place to delve into some delicious treats with a side of history. The bakery is said to be a century-old, family-run business that specialises in loukoumades (think Greek doughnuts), a treat once served to the ancient Olympians. The neoclassical building that houses Kirnos had a modern exterior but once I stepped foot into the bakery, I was transported to ancient Greece — with old furniture and paintings.

A single order of six loukoumades, the minimum order, was served on a silver platter. The doughnuts were drenched in a honey syrup and sprinkled with cinnamon and chopped walnuts. The absolutely divine treats were fluffy and airy, and what initially seemed like a large order quickly consumed.

My next meal was the famous Greek comfort food, moussaka. The eggplant casserole-based dish comes with meat filling, typically minced meat, tomato, potato and herbs. Once baked or pan-fried, it’s topped with homemade bechamel sauce and topped off with traditional Greek cheese called kefalotryi.

On first taste, the beef moussaka was similar to lasagna, but the second spoonful packed a punch and tasted strongly of eggplant. The kefalotryi cheese was nowhere close to cheddar — it was tangy, sharp and spicy with a rich aroma and firmer texture. The dish was so delicious that the name of the restaurant, located on Plaka, entirely slipped my mind.

On a stroll, I stumbled upon Mau — and couldn’t resist trying a couple of their pies. At the local hole-in-the-wall, I ordered the classic feta cheese pie with phyllo dough wrapping and sheep milk, or kasseri cheese pie. The famed feta pie was thick but flaky and was on the saltier side, while the second pie was buttery and flaky.

No tourist, let alone a foodie, could depart from Athens without a visit to Diporto, a restaurant nestled in a basement, like a hole in the ground, with no sign outside, and yet it’s been in business since 1887. Despite the lack of signs, the eatery was easily spotted because of the long queue outside.

Once you step down, you enter a dimly lit space with a faded concrete block mosaic floor, a wall lined with wine barrels, and a vintage marble sink. The atmosphere is so evocative of ancient Greece that it feels like stepping into a time machine. If you’re looking for truly traditional and authentic Greek cuisine, this remarkable restaurant is a must-visit. There’s no menu, the waiter simply tells you what’s been cooked that day, and the chef writes the prices on a paper napkin at your table.

Luckily for me, the dish of the day was grilled mackerel. The blue and green seafood speciality with a shiny silver underbelly was small in size, but the taste was indescribably delicious. The fish was covered in virgin olive oil and cooked charcoals, sprinkled with Greek herbs and came with a lemon wedge, courtesy of the restaurant’s 85-year-old chef. The experience at Diporto was simply exquisite.

The time to honour my sweet tooth had arrived, and portokalopita — a traditional Greek syrup cake made with phyllo and infused with orange — was a must-try. “It’s made with dough instead of flour, orange juice, orange peels, and a hint of cinnamon,” the server explained, recommending homemade vanilla ice cream to go with it. The cake was dense and soaked in honey syrup. My compliments to the server for the perfect vanilla pairing!

Walking through the streets of Athens, one often comes across yellow carts stacked with koulouria (pretzels or bagels), a popular street food. Unable to resist, I picked up a sesame-crusted one. It was quite crusty and a bit hard to digest, so a cappuccino from a nearby coffee shop came to my rescue. Slightly salted, it seemed like the perfect breakfast on the go.

Lukumades played a modern twist on loukoumades, the traditional Greek doughnuts. The transformation not only gave the doughnuts a new look, turning them into small, fried doughnut balls, but also elevated their flavour with fillings like caramel, vanilla, Nutella, chocolate, and pistachio. The place is always busy, with long lines of waiting customers. The only downside to this new craze is that one box contains eight doughnuts, even if you’re craving just one.

Greek cuisine goes hand in hand with Greek mythos. It is unpretentious and comfortingly familiar, yet full of transformation. With no cringe-inducing effort, it recaptures a spirit of hospitality — enough to keep Demeter pleased, even in the year 2025.

But when you’re in Dubai, you’re spoiled for choice and choosing which restaurants to visit is quite a task. We’ve compiled a list of four amazing restaurants in Dubai with very different cuisines — Italian seafood, Indian fusion, British-American, and Mediterranean — and some of the best dishes at these restaurants.

Alici

Alici was an interesting choice for someone who doesn’t eat seafood to visit, but rest assured, the restaurant has many options for people who don’t want a fishy diet.

One of my favourite things about Alici was its decor — think blue, Mediterranean, lemons, and fish.

From the very cute olive oil bottles on the table, to the pictures and fish on the walls, the decor at Alici was far from stuffy. With its dim lighting, the restaurant has a distinctly sultry feel to it — and it had a gorgeous view of the water from its balcony.

We ordered an assortment of things, starting with the house salad that could have been skipped. It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t something I’d want to fill up on, not when the rest of the food was so good.

The bread was great and I loved their little olive oil containers that looked straight from the Amalfi coast.

The Fritto Misto for the table contained fried calamari, red prawns, sliced purple potato, zucchini, chilli jam, citrus and mayo and was something I stayed away from. Everyone else said it was very good.

The Tartare di manzo, nocciole e tartufo nero, or beef tartare, on the other hand, was a hit, with a wonderful nutty texture that melted in your mouth. That, of course, came from the hazelnut mayo, burnt leeks, potato chips and black truffle.

We also selected a truffle flatbread for the table, which was nice, but nothing spectacular.

For the mains, while others sampled seafood dishes, I opted for a creamy risotto with wild mushrooms and black truffle that I have no words to describe. Rich, creamy and packed with flavour, this dish was something I ended up forcing myself to finish while others erred on the side of caution and stopped eating when they were full.

I had no such compunction and decided I had to finish every bite of this risotto — it was that good.

I didn’t try the seafood dishes, but everyone else seemed to enjoy them. However, since this is a food review, I’ll include the pictures of things I didn’t eat as well.

The Salmone Grigliato featured a grilled salmon fillet atop vegetables.

The Garganelli con ragù di agnello e pecorino featured homemade garganelli pasta covered with lamb ragu and pecorino cheese.

One of the most surprising things about Alici was how amazing their desserts were. A crowd favourite was the Fondente Al Cioccolato which can best be described as a chocolate lover’s dream. Filled with dark chocolate and Nutella fondant and paired with liquorice ice cream, this was something everyone made space for, no matter how full they were.

One of my favourites was the lemon mousse with wild berries and vanilla soil. It was tart and creamy, and the berries added a juicy component to the dish. Inside the lemon mousse was a tart berry compote of sorts that balanced the dish perfectly. While everyone else was going wild over the chocolate dessert, this was my favourite.

We also ordered the lemon cheesecake with mandarin compote and the tiramisu, and both of them were great. However, they were eclipsed by the other two.

Duck & Waffle

A new and rather interesting addition to Dubai’s culinary scene is the 24-hour restaurant, Duck & Waffle. Serving what it describes as a fusion of British and American cuisine, this restaurant aims, as the owner described, to cater to everyone.

Its decor was a touch more casual than what you’d ordinarily see in Dubai and the menu was simpler than other fine dining restaurants.

There was indoor seating as well as outdoor seating, adding to their something-for-everyone theme. I especially loved the DJ-ing duck poster as you enter.

They have a fixed, all-day menu and set menus for lunch, breakfast, Sunday roast and weekend brunch. We chose from their lunch menu, which featured a choice between three starters, three mains and two desserts, as well as some items from their all-day menu. Some of the choices were obvious — who can resist a mango pavlova? — while others required some deliberation.

We started off with a salad, truffle fries and the potato and leek soup. The soup was alright, but, surprisingly, the salad was more of an attention grabber for me because of its dressing. The fries were loaded with parmesan.

From the mains, we had a choice of rigatoni, roasted sea bass and smashed burger, and I, of course, chose the rigatoni, which was very nice and creamy.

Some of the others got the burger, which they said was pretty good.

We also got the eponymous duck and waffle, which sounded a little strange but ended up being great. We were treated to the sight of the waiter carving the duck for us before assembling the duck and waffle combo. The roasted duck came topped with a fried egg, on top of a large waffle. The duck was succulent and roasted well, and paired nicely with the waffle and syrup.

The mix of savoury and sweet was decadent and I was glad we were sharing the dish, because I definitely wouldn’t have been able to eat this as a meal on its own.

We ended our meal with a wonderful mango pavlova that was light and airy, as any good pavlova should be, and torrejas, which was similar to a french toast, covered with maple caramel apples and cinnamon ice cream.

During our meal we met the owner of Duck & Waffle, Hadi, who told us about his hopes of creating a place where people could visit at any time of the day and get just what they’re looking for. With a pretty extensive and varied menu, I think he might be on his way to achieving that.

Khadak

Not to be confused with the Urdu word karak, Khadak is a new Indian fusion restaurant named after a famous street in Mumbai. It has been started by chef Naved Nasir, the former chef director at Dishoom, the London restaurant chain.

The ambiance at Khadak was lovely — it was like visiting a casual and comfortable home. The decor was homey with a twist — lots of light, warm-toned wood and statement pieces, like a colourful mural in the entrance that encompassed both the walls and the ceiling, and a wall of bells.

It was too hot to sit outside when we visited, but the seating area featured a wall with faded lettering in English, Urdu and Hindi that read “Dastan is the final word in storytelling”.

Our meal started off very strong with Morel Cheese Kulcha with Truffle Butter. This was creamy and delicious — a warm and lovely bite that was very unexpected but very welcomed. This is something you must get if you visit Khadak.

We also got some very fun mocktails, chosen from a cute menu advertising that the drinks were inspired by the people of Khadak.

Then came the Karari Kale Chaat, which was a hit — it was the perfect thing to have in Dubai’s rather oppressive heat. It featured a crispy kale tempura, drizzled with chutneys, yoghurt, and pomegranate and was a great addition to the table.

There was another chaat on our table — the Broccoli and Pomelo Bhel — which was also nice, but wasn’t as interesting as the Karari Kale Chaat. It was heavier than the first one, with grapefruit, pomegranate, broccoli, puffed rice and nuts.

The Radio Cafe Kheema Pao was nice enough but at the end of the day, it was qeema similar to what you’d get in any home in Pakistan. This was also my issue with the NM Chicken Shammi, which was just a shaami kabab.

I think both of these dishes were nice, and spiced well, but when you’re coming from Pakistan, you don’t really want to eat meals you’d be able to get back home for a fraction of the price. I think both of these dishes would have appealed far more to someone living in Dubai who perhaps didn’t have such easy access to them.

Something we’d been recommended to try was the Khadak Raan. It was a good, hearty meal but was a little on the saltier side and needed some naan to balance out the flavour.

The next item we tried was a little controversial, to me at least. We got biryani.

The Laccha Biryani with Bone Marrow Gravy was warm, comforting but it really wasn’t biryani. This is coming from a born and bred Karachiite, so take it with a pinch of salt. To me, biryani is spicy and certainly isn’t covered in obvious gravy, so I decided to evaluate this dish on its own merits. If you take away the biryani from its name, it was great. It was warm and comforting, and something I’d definitely order again. The gravy was rich and thick, spreading over the rice and mutton, and complementing them perfectly.

For the desserts, we had the Rasmali Baklava by Nadia Parekh, which is nice and light. I especially liked the addition of the kumquat chilli jam, which added a tart element to a dessert that was airy light, thanks to the thin phyllo sheets.

We also got the Chocolate Chikki by Nadia Parekh, which was rich with salted peanut toffee, and cardamom milk chocolate mousse. Compared to the rasmalai, this was decadent. A fun take on traditional chikki — or peanut brittle — this was like chikki meets Snickers bar and it was very good.

We also the Kulfi Falooda, which was nice but at the end of the day, it was just a kulfi falooda with a lot of dramatic flair courtesy of a smoke show. I realised after visiting all these restaurants that in Dubai people really like smoke shows with their food.

The one advice I’d have for anyone visiting Khadak would be to be more adventurous — sticking to things you know will just have you comparing them to food you get back home and that’s doing a disservice to the chef and yourself.

Somewhere

The fourth restaurant on this list is Somewhere, a Mediterranean restaurant, with a great name.

The restaurant itself is decorated in earthy tones reminiscent of the cultures it represents. The tall ceilings and curved walls were covered in a pinkish-brown terracotta colour, and complemented by white-washed vases and small statues, lending to the earthy, desert vibe.

When we visited, the patrons at the restaurant seemed to all be local, which lifted our hopes for a very authentic meal.

The menu was extensive and available in picture form if you asked a waiter for help. One thing for Pakistanis in particular to remember is that Mediterranean food is rarely spicy. It’s seasoned but its flavours are milder, something many of us tend to dismiss because we’re so used to bold flavours. The flavours at Somewhere weren’t bold, but they were definitely there.

We started off with a sweet potato salad that was topped with yoghurt, pomegranate and what appeared to be black gram or kaali daal. It was tart — thanks to the daal and pomegranate — but had the perfect crunch, thanks to the papar sprinkled on top. This was an instant hit.

The Wagyu Lahm Bajeen, essentially a beef kabab, was great. There’s just something about wagyu that makes it taste good no matter what form it’s in.

We also got the Black Angus Beef Hummus that featured hummus, beef chunks and pine nuts, drizzled with olive oil. This was good but it didn’t blow me away.

The Wagyu Kabab Bao was amazing — perfectly seasoned and in one of my favourite forms of carbs, a light and fluffy bao. The bao had Somewhere emblazoned on it, in a very nice touch. It was topped with crispy fried onions and is the perfect thing to order if you’re looking for a more fusion-style of food.

The Beef Shawarma Beetroot Rice was an interesting dish. We ordered it because almost every table seemed to have it, and it looked pretty cool. The purple rice stood straight up on the dish in a conical shape and was surrounded by beef. I did not like this at first and felt the beetroot aftertaste was far too strong. However, I am nothing if not hungry, so after trying a few more bites, I thought it wasn’t bad. Another few bites in and I decided I actually liked it. It tastes like a rice bowl you’d get at a healthy restaurant — light on the sauce, heavy on the vegetable flavour — but it wasn’t bad.

We also ordered the far less exciting looking Shish Taouk, which was actually nice and true to the original. It came on skewers, sans rice, but after the beef kababs, we were too full to do justice to it.

The real winner of the night, however, was the dessert. The French Coffee Baklava was recommended to us by our waiter, and it would have been a real pity if we had missed out on it.

A base of spongey cake covered in coffee ice cream, light phyllo layers and what I think was fried kunafa, this was an amazing dessert. The coffee was not bitter at all, nothing was too sweet and overall, it was light and amazing.

We also ordered the Kunafa croissant, but that was just okay. To be fair, I think everyone is done with pistachio kunafa desserts and nothing could measure up to the French Coffee Baklava.

Disclaimer: This trip was sponsored by Dubai Economy and Tourism. All the meals and activities were paid for by Dubai Economy and Tourism.

There are so many activities you can splurge on to make your vacation a one-of-a-kind experience like no other.

From checking out the sights on Ain Dubai, to creating your own perfume at Oo La Lab or immersing yourself in art at Arte Museum, here’s a list of six things to do in Dubai that aren’t on everyone else’s itineraries — yet.

Live like a sheikh (for 90 minutes) at the Burj Al Arab

We’d all like to live like the sheikhs but unfortunately, that’s not in the cards for us. We can, however, see how the uber-rich live via a guided tour through the world’s first seven-star hotel the Burj Al Arab. This experience is not for the faint-hearted — all the gold plating and rich will have you feeling distinctly overwhelmed, but fret not. You’ve got a private butler showing you around and giving you nuggets of information about previous residents of the very grand suite.

During your tour, you’ll explore the Royal Suite and the Experience Suite, and get a chance to take in the grandeur that is the Burj Al Arab. Decorated in red, purple, pink and gold, with gold plated everything (including the TV!), the suite is straight out of a movie.

The butler told us that each suite has its own distinct decor, and most of them are done in shades of blue, which makes sense given the decor of the halls, which is also in shades of blue.

The hotel itself is shaped like a sail-shaped and is distinctly nautical in its design.

One of the most interesting aspects of the suite were the bathrooms — two huge rooms with a golden-tiled showers and massive tubs, this is a true symbol of opulence and grandeur you’d expect at a seven-star hotel.

The tour isn’t an everyday activity, but it is worth visiting at least once to see how the one per cent of the one per cent live.

Create your signature scent at Oo La Lab

If you’re in the market for a fun activity that isn’t shopping but you still get a gift at the end, check out the Fragrance Design & Mixology Sessions at Oo La Lab where you get to create your own scent from scratch.

This may look easy, but it requires a keen nose and idea of what you like. You start with selecting your base notes, mid notes and top notes from their wide selection of fragrances, then get to choose how much of each you want to put in. Much like a chemistry lesson, you use beakers and droppers to measure out your perfume into a 50ml bottle that you can name and take home with you.

It sounds easy enough, but when you’re presented with such a wide array of scents, it’s difficult to choose which ones you like best.

This is the perfect activity to head to solo or with your friends, having fun while experimenting with scents. While we were at this event, we even spotted someone solo, immersing herself in the process of creating her own perfume.

At the end of this session, you get to go home with a cute perfume and the satisfaction of knowing you had a big hand in creating it, which is so much better than buying it in a store.

Oo La Lab is located in Dubai’s Design District and also has stores in Singapore and Bangkok.

Immerse yourself in art at the Arte Museum

If there’s one thing you must experience while in Dubai, it’s the Arte Museum at the Dubai Mall. This immersive art experience is a great way to spend your time. It has a number of exhibits that seem to keep changing. When we visited, the theme was Nature Beyond Time and Space: Eternal Nature, with Korean art taking up the (screens on the) walls.

The museum is open from 10am to 10pm and once inside you’re instantly transported from the hustle and bustle of the mall outside into a serene space, replete with soothing background noise. We were lucky to have visited when there weren’t too many other people, so we got a lot of the space to ourselves. One piece of advice would be to plan your visit when there aren’t too many other people, so you get to experience it in silence.

The museum makes use of mirrored walls and floors, projections, lights and sounds to create an immersive experience. Though we’ve included photos in this piece, pictures don’t do this museum justice. It truly has to be experienced.

On a side note, it’s also a great space to take pictures for the ’Gram. The psychedelic art encompassed nature at its finest and had two interactive art spaces which allowed you to colour in an animal and watch them come to life on the screens before you, which sounds like it would be great for kids but in reality is a great experience for anyone of any age.

My favourite parts were the Waterfall Infinite, which felt like water was coming at you from every corner, and the Garden Paintings of Joseon.

The last section is a café that incorporates art and projection into its offerings. There you can get a slice of cake or a coffee and have art projected onto it in a fun, interactive finale.

This is something everyone will enjoy, even people who aren’t art buffs.

Dream big at Dream Dinner Show Dubai

If you’re in the mood to really splurge, head on over to the Dream Dinner Show Dubai for dinner and a show like no other. The venue for Dream is the Address Hotel and it’s swanky — as you step into the lobby of the show you know you’re in for a luxurious treat.

The staff at the entrance are dressed like they’re performing at a luxurious circus, which is quite reflective of what’s going on inside.

The show features singers, dancers and acrobats, all dressed in elaborate costumes. But remember, this is dinner with a show, not a show with dinner —  the intervals between shows were long. You’re supposed to concentrate on your dining companions and the food — which is delicious by the way.

We started off our night with a lovely Smoked Truffle Beef Tartare and Aubergine Parmigiana, both of which were delicious. We then went all out and selected the Roasted Cornfed Baby Chicken, Crispy Skin Wild Salmon and Grilled Rib-eye steak, all of which were rich and decadent. One thing I would say is that they could have used some more sides, because a girl can’t survive on protein alone.

For dessert, we got stuffed french toast with strawberries and crème brûlée, both of which were amazing. Their menu is extensive and features an array of delicious appetisers and entrees.

As you eat, you’re serenaded by some amazing singers covering some very fun songs. My favourite was a cover of N’Sync’s ‘Bye Bye Bye’, which was entirely unexpected but very welcome. And if songs aren’t enough to entertain you, the acrobatics will surely catch your eye as performers swing from the air and leap across the stage while you savour your dessert.

Dream is a formal show, so you get a great excuse to dress up with your friends and enjoy a fine dining experience that isn’t all about the food. It’s also a very fun — and different — way to spend an evening.

Allow Ain Dubai to give you a bird’s eye view of the city

Have you been on the London Eye? Meet its swankier cousin, Ain Dubai.

Ain Dubai boasts the world’s tallest observation wheel, with a height of 250 metres, and has 48 cabins. The entire experience of riding the wheel is about 45 minutes, give or take, but it definitely doesn’t feel like it.

With breathtaking views of the Dubai marina, sitting in a luxury cabin, this relaxing journey allows you to take in the gorgeous view in comfort. If you opt for the premium experience, you get access to a VIP lounge, an even more luxurious cabin with seats instead of a bench and a bartender on hand to serve some delicious fruity drinks.

This is great for people who love taking pictures and want to be able to experience the whole city all at once.

If you’re worried about the height — 250 metres is no joke! — don’t be. The Ain Dubai observation wheel isn’t like a ferris wheel — it moves slowly, allowing you to take in the view while leaving any fears behind.

I must caution you though, taking a trip on Ain Dubai will leave you wanting to go swimming after seeing the blue waters below!

Perfect your putting at Swingers Dubai

One fun activity that hasn’t made its way to Pakistan yet is mini golf — and it should, because it’s so much fun! If you’re in Dubai and are looking for a fun activity, check out the recently opened Swingers Dubai.

Located on Bluewaters Island, the two-storey art deco clubhouse has food, music and mini golf. These things don’t sound like they should go together, but they definitely do.

Their crazy golf course, features three themed adventures — the Hot Air Balloon Course, the Waterwheel Course, and the Clocktower Course. The course itself is decorated with bright flowers, making it seem as if you’re taking a walk in the English countryside.

Now golf may not sound like the most exciting sport — and you’re right. But that’s why this is mini golf, which is so much more fun.

There are only nine holes, but each one is a challenge. You also get to compete against your friends, much like in actual golf. The only catch — this time you’re inside, you don’t have to walk kilometres to get from one hole to the other and you get to play with great music in the background, sipping on some fun drinks.

Disclaimer: This trip was sponsored by Dubai Economy and Tourism. All the meals and activities were paid for by Dubai Economy and Tourism.

Visitors to the HaHaHouse in the Croatian capital Zagreb are blasted with a puff of white smoke once they step inside to blow away their worries before climbing into a “giant washing machine”. The “centrifuge of life” then whips them away Willy Wonka-style down a twisting slide into a pool filled with little white balls where their journey to a happier place starts.

Its creator, Andrea Golubic, said she had the idea for the museum during the pandemic when many people were feeling down, depressed, and isolated.

“I realised that I had a mission ù to heal people with laughter,” added the upbeat 43-year-old. The idea “came straight from the heart”, Golubic said, and on that very day I listed 78 exhibits… that’s how the HaHaHouse began.“ Golubic said it was her carefree seven-year-old self that inspired her — “a picture of me as a first-grader, with wide teeth and dying of laughter. I was constantly joking as a kid,” she said.

Visitors press a button to be “disinfected from negativity” as soon as they step into the museum, which has eight interactive zones. One has a rubber chicken choir cheerfully cackling out hits like ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”, there is a karaoke room with distorted voices and a “Sumo Arena” for wrestling in puffed-up costumes.

There is also some serious history of humour from ancient to modern times, conveyed through theatre, film, or the net. The museum also explains humour styles, from wordplay, slapstick, toilet and dark humour to satire with the help of some choice one-liners.

“I’ve had so much plastic surgery when I die they will donate my body to Tupperware,” is one of the featured singers from US comedian Joan Rivers.

Originally published in Dawn, February 12th, 2025

As I gaze at the last of the mooncakes I brought with me from China, I am also reminded of how it was first served to me there. The little cupcake-sized delicacy had been neatly cut into four quarters to consume just a little at a time and not gobble the entire cake at once. I was offered and presented mooncake boxes as gifts on several occasions while in China, it being the mid-autumn or Mooncake Festival season there around the time of my visit.

Speaking of gifts, I am also reminded of the day I was myself preparing small souvenir bags with little brooches made of dolls dressed in Pakistan flag colours to present to friends in China. Just in time I saw the little ‘Made in China’ tag on the cardboard each little doll was pinned to. I quickly cropped that part of the cardboard before repacking the dolls in their neat little red goody bags. 

All my life, I have heard the terms “Pakistan-China dosti zindabad” and “Long live China-Pakistan friendship”. When I was little, my parents used to tell me different stories about the Chinese. My mother would tell me about their hard work and resilience. My father would tell me about their strong commitments and strength of character.

I got to see all of these qualities and more when I became part of a small group of eight journalists invited by the Chinese Consulate in Karachi to visit China “to deepen our understanding of China’s economic and social development … and strengthen friendly exchanges with the Chinese media”. During our 10-day stay in the country, we visited many famous landmarks such as the Great Wall, the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square in Beijing, as well as the Museum of the Chinese Communist Party in Shanghai.

The Chinese themselves love to visit these places, as we gathered from the long queues there. At the Great Wall, we met a woman who was over 100 years old. While we took a cable car to the top, she climbed the stairs herself.

Earlier, while exploring the grounds we noticed with a great sense of pride an inscription on a big white plaque that read first in Urdu, then Chinese, followed by English:

“A portion of the Great Wall from the North Tower 6-7 was restored through a friendly donation by the Government of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan as a token of eternal friendship between Pakistan and China. His Excellency Mr M Akram Zaki, Ambassador of Pakistan to China, unveiled this plaque on 20-3-1989.”

Our Chinese hosts smiled as we read the inscription and posed for pictures with it. It was a proud moment for us Pakistanis, one we previously were not aware of.

Back to the heights, in China, we also got to see exceptionally tall buildings perhaps just slightly shorter than the hills and mountains of the Great Wall. Being lucky enough to have visited some of the largest cities in the world, I can safely say that I have never seen such architectural magnificence the likes of which I saw in Beijing and Shanghai. Not only are the buildings very tall, they are also spectacular. It is amazing then that during the 1960s, Chinese delegations used to come to Karachi to see our Habib Bank Plaza building in Karachi and marvel at its height. 

The Chinese don’t seem to have any concept of rest. And they expect the same of everyone else because they know no better. A busy itinerary was set for us by our hosts. We were taken around on various visits from the day we landed in Beijing, that is, as soon as we had checked into our hotel and gotten accustomed with the new Nihao Sim that we were given by our hosts. In China, unless you use a VPN, you cannot access WhatsApp, Gmail, Google, Facebook, YouTube and the like. For communications, WeChat reigns supreme. So, equipped with WeChat, we were on the coaster bus and out and about soon after breakfast, set to return to our hotel after dinner.

I know you are likely wondering what we ate in China. A bit must be said here about our hosts who made sure that we were only served halal food. We had five hosts who came to receive us at the Beijing airport. They were all bright young journalists from China Economic Net (CEN) — Wang Kai (Katie), Xiong Weisheng (Wilson) and Liao Yifan (Doudou) — and two young photographers whose names we could never understand therefore we nicknamed one Romeo and the other Juliet despite both of them being young men.

Romeo and Juliet were always working in a pair — if one took pictures, the other would be making videos. They were both bulky, something rare for Chinese people, and both dressed alike, too, in T-shirts and cargo shorts. Neither spoke English. But what they lacked in language they made up for through their helpful nature. The pair were like our shadows, always around to extend any kind of help. They wouldn’t let us carry heavy bags. They would be offering us bottled water after every little while. They were there for anything and everything. After a couple of days, to our amusement, we also found Katie, Wilson and Doudou referring to them as Romeo and Juliet.

The Chinese like to have an English name as well as their given names. During dinner with Pakistan’s ambassador to China, Khalil Hashmi at Pakistan House in Beijing, I happened to glance at the name card in front of Wilson which read ‘Weisheng’ and pointed out to him that they had his name all wrong.He smiled and said, “No it’s correct”. Then pronouncing Weisheng, he said: “See, sounds like ‘Wilson’ doesn’t it?”

Despite the busy schedule, our young hosts and their sweet-smiling boss, CEN’s Director of the International Cooperation Centre Yin Cui, who we would meet off and on, made us feel so welcome that it felt as if we were visiting family. When I was having trouble registering the local sim from my phone, there was Doudou who took out her own phone sim and registered mine from her phone while copying the details from my passport. Then when she had to run, Wilson downloaded WeChat for me and also added me as a friend.

When one member of our group had an anxiety attack on our first night in China and was found roaming outside the hotel at 2am in a bewildered state by Wilson, he rushed him to hospital where he was checked thoroughly before being brought back. Had he himself not mentioned it the next day, we would not even have known about it because Wilson never uttered a word. Wilson also served as the Chinese currency cashier for another member of our team who had only brought dollars with him. But then Wilson, still in his 20s, could also be naughty as after finding the same Pakistani journalist on LinkedIn, he found his brother and sent him a picture of the group member to claim that he had kidnapped him for ransom. Then the joke was on Wilson when the brother told him to keep him. 

Katie, the one leading our young hosts’ team, would find restaurants serving halal food wherever we went. The food, steaming hot, would already be on the table, well, on the Lazy Susan, when we reached the restaurants. There would always be barbecue, seafood, salads and potato and meat curry with some pasta, sometimes along with sweet yoghurt. There was also always steaming hot water in a teapot and green tea at hand. The Chinese are in the habit of sipping hot water before every meal. They also like eating in small quarter plates that can be refilled with whatever you need from the Lazy Susan.

The wheels keep turning in China. Men and women both can be seen riding motorbikes, usually E-bikes. And the pavements are lined with blue, turquoise, yellow and mustard bicycles, depending on their company colour, which can be rented for use and left on the pavement at one’s destination for someone else to do the same. They are locked, by the way, and can be unlocked by scanning the QR code visible on a small screen on them. An entire month’s rent for any company’s bike is 15 Yuan (about Rs581) and for half an hour it is 1.5 Yuan (about Rs58). 

There is also no shortage of buses and subway trains for commuting in China. But it came as a surprise that many Chinese people are not aware of the term bullet trains. They have trains that are even faster than bullet trains but they simply call them high-speed trains. When one of us mentioned that we were taking the bullet train to Shanghai, they looked very confused and asked what that meant. 

On said train, you are not allowed to carry liquids exceeding 100ml. When one senior Pakistani journalist’s expensive cologne bottle (worth around Rs40,000) was confiscated at the Beijing station because he had decided to ignore the advice about carrying liquids on the train, he was most distraught and kept complaining for the entire four-and-a-half-hour journey from Beijing to Shanghai. 

This time we decided to not pay him any heed. Most of us, anyway, were sad about another matter — the separation of Romeo from Juliet and us! We were informed by Katie that Romeo was to stay back in Beijing because he had to cover a trade exhibition there. But before he went, he booked our train seats and was also there to see us off at the station. Knowing we were not to see him again we bid him farewell with hearty handshakes and big hugs.

We were informed in Shanghai, by Michelle, another young CEN journalist, who was handling things for us there, that halal breakfast would be served to us on the 40th floor of our hotel. I wondered how many floors the hotel had — the answer was over 80. Reaching the hotel on my first evening in Shanghai, I was tired and a bit confused about my room number when I spotted some Chinese folk chatting near the lifts. They explained to me that the first numbers on my key card meant my floor and the digits next to it indicated my room number. Then it was their turn to ask me where I was from. On hearing my reply, the women hugged me and the men shook my hand with so much affection that it made me slightly teary-eyed. No wonder Indians in China often say they are Pakistanis.

After several days, first in Beijing and then Shanghai, we returned to Beijing to catch our flight to Pakistan the next morning. Juliet gathered our luggage from the train station and went to the hotel ahead of us to check us in, while we stopped at a halal place for dinner.

It was our final night in China. The next morning, it was time to say goodbye. Sweet Yin Cui brought big boxes of mooncakes for all of us as parting gifts. My suitcase was already full of mooncakes presented to us on so many other occasions along with the other souvenirs and I simply could not find space for another big box of mooncakes though I did take it, out of politeness, hoping to discard it at the airport (I could not do it in the presence of our hosts). 

Moments before boarding our bus, Romeo arrived, out of breath. Finding the senior journalist he was looking for, he handed him that cologne bottle that had been taken from him at the train station a few days ago. Romeo had noticed what had happened and come back to collect it as he was not going to Shanghai with us. And he kept it with him all this while. No words were spoken because Romeo didn’t speak English. But there was understanding. The journalist held Romeo in an embrace for so long that we almost renamed him ‘Juliet’.

I picked up my box of extra mooncakes and glanced at my backpack. I was sure I could make space for them in there. I was already leaving my heart in China…there was no point in leaving anything else behind.