I’d come down the high Karakoram passes from Afghanistan on lonesome, cliff-hanging trails long trod by ethnic Kyrgyz and Wakhi yak herders bent on old-fashioned barter. They brought over herds of 10 or 12 yaks, trading half away in Pakistan for rice, candy, portable radios, medicine, factory-made clothing, and cell phones that didn’t work as phones—there was no signal—but as tiny video players. They then hauled all these goods back to the wild pastures of Afghanistan on the backs of their remaining yaks. The Silk Road yet lives.
Chapursan in Persian means “What else will you take?” as in the question that all shopkeepers ask.
I traded away 2,500 walked miles of Central Asia for thousands more miles of South Asia, for a shaved-head Pakistani guide named Naveed Khan, and his goat-chasing dog named Athena.