The sun slips away from the Karakoram mountains far too early. The Indus River carves its way along the valley floor as the steep, rocky peaks are bathed in a kind of surreal red glow. As the villagers walk along the paths behind their herds, there is a sense of twilight that one rarely finds in a western city or town. The goats jingle along, adorned with bright wool collars. Children walk quietly along, absently tapping a stick on the ground. Old men, cigarettes delicately perched between their withered fingers, cast a straightforward glance at us, revealing nothing.

The cultural chasm is startlingly real as we glide through the twilight in our fully equipped Toyota, CDs entertaining us as the villagers walk their herds from the grazing areas to their homes on the craggy peaks. It leaves the traveler with a concept of a foreign landscape that must be akin walking on the moon: after all, what does an American city bear in common with a remote village in the mountains of Pakistan? What, if anything, do we share?

It’s a very real question in the wake of the terrible natural disaster that devastated the coastal villages along the Indian Ocean.

I have heard a lot this New Year’s Day about the commonality and brotherhood of man, both tidy phrases that are trotted out during times of disaster to appease the guilt of the prosperous west. And yet, on the human level, does the gift of cold, hard cash doled out by a bureaucratic machine really exhibit any brotherhood at all?

Stops are planned carefully along the Karakoram Highway. There is no such thing as a casual tourist. Each move must be calculated with the precious on a surgeon: where you will stop, what you will do when you stop, how you will minimize your exposure on the ground. The rule of thumb in this mountains is that of the wily snow leopard: elude a potential attack by staying on the move and guarding your path.

The village of Dasu was the next dot of formalized civilization on this rugged journey and we both wanted a short break to stretch our legs at the midpoint of a 14 hour drive. As the river rumbled several hundred feet below, we found a small, government run guesthouse perched on a red cliff and decided to stop.

The gate was closed but soon, a young goatherd who was acting as the caretaker of the property was at the gate, unwinding an improbably complex series of wire and rope to open the gate. He welcomed us warmly, despite the fact that the guesthouse had closed for the season. We washed up quickly, taking in the mountain air and admiring the ever receding sun from the mountain cliff. The goatherd, a young man wearing layers of woolen clothes and what must have been an exceptionally warm blanket, made friendly conversation with us as we enjoyed the view. When we inquired about the guesthouse he added, very sincerely, that it was closed but, if we liked, we could have his own room for the night and he would sleep outside.

We declined and were soon on our way. The goatherd, accompanied by a smattering of goats, stood at the gate as we left, his eyes, like that of the old mountain people, revealing nothing as we headed down the dirt road and back onto the path that is considered one of the marvels of the modern age.

In this time of luxury travel, as tourists continued to prowl the beaches of Thailand in the wake of a terrible natural disaster, we hope you will consider the deeper meaning of hospitality. It is not, as most five star hotels would have you believe, the delivery of fresh fruit and champagne on arrival. That is commerce and you pay for the privilege. True hospitality is an act of compassion, given freely, a cup of tea in a remote mountain village; the friendly smiles of children who peer at you with interest and delight across the cultural divide; and the quiet goatherd who would freely offer you his room on a cold October evening in a remote mountain valley.

We hope that the New Year brings you countless such moments of enlightened adventure. Travel, after all, brings the possibility of truly experiencing the world; of peering, if only briefly, from one culture to the next.

It was a thought heavy on my mind as the stars blanketed the night in the harsh Karakoram mountains.

We took our seats in the car, adjusted the volume on the CD player, removed our designer sunglasses and headed for home.

==Donna L.M. Khan