I hate the use of the word busy.

“Oh, I’ve been busy.”
“Much busier than you.”
As if life has turned into a quiet competition on who is carrying the heaviest load.

To me, being busy often sounds less like a fact and more like an excuse. A polite way of saying, I chose not to spend my time with you. Because time, after all, is never truly lost. Mind you, that time is allocated. And when someone tells you they are “too busy,” what they are really saying is that their time has been given elsewhere, to something or someone they deemed more important in that moment.

It’s a hard truth, but an honest one. We all make choices. We all prioritise. And sometimes, “busy” is simply the safest word to hide behind when we don’t want to admit those choices out loud.

Hmm… perhaps I’m being a little grumpy in my introductory paragraph.
Excuse me, just a moment of honesty slipping out. Lol.

Me? Yes! I’ve been busy too.
Busy in the way life usually is. Busy catching up with… I don’t know. Maybe work, life, or simply recovering from one back-to-back trip after another.

But even in the middle of that chaos, I still make time.
Time for the people I love. The three souls I hold closest, my pets and my mum. Because no matter how full my days are, the things that matter don’t get pushed to the side … they get protected.

And strangely enough, despite how exhausted I am right now, there’s a deep sense of satisfaction sitting quietly with me. That familiar reminder: do what you love, love what you do.

I think I love myself most when I’m wandering through unfamiliar lands … when I’m small, curious, and alive … more than when I’m at home, overthinking and worrying about a future that has never once followed my plans anyway.

I was in Pakistan for the second time last July, travelling once again with my trusted travel mates.

This time, our intention was clear. We were to visit the Kalash people of northern Pakistan. The journey itself was already an adventure. We took a domestic flight from Islamabad to Chitral, followed by a long, winding jeep ride into the remote Kalash Valley. Each turn pulled us farther away from the familiar and deeper into the mountains.

Nestled within the mighty Hindu Kush range, the Kalash Valley is geographically harsh and undeniably rugged. Life here is shaped by altitude, weather, and isolation. But for someone who loves nature, would truly love it — this place is breathtaking in a quiet, humbling way. Towering mountains, raw landscapes, and an overwhelming sense of distance from the modern world make you slow down, look longer, and feel smaller.

It is not an easy place to reach, nor an easy place to live. And perhaps that is exactly what makes it so beautiful.

In a country where Islam is the dominant religion, the Kalash stand apart as one of Pakistan’s last indigenous mountain communities still holding firmly to their ancestral beliefs. Numbering an estimated three thousand people, the Kalash continue to practise their ancient pagan religion, along with customs and rituals passed down through generations.

Over time, some members of the Kalash community have converted to Islam, choosing to leave behind parts of their traditional belief system and adopt a Muslim way of life. Yet they continue to live alongside their families and neighbours within the valley, a quiet coexistence shaped more by geography than ideology.

What immediately catches the eye are the Kalash women and girls. Every day, they wear thick, black embroidered robes, paired with distinctive headdresses and layers of heavy bead necklaces. Their attire is not reserved for ceremonies or festivals. It is part of daily life, a visible expression of identity and continuity. The men, on the other hand, dress much like other Pakistani men, wearing kurta shirts that blend seamlessly into the broader cultural landscape.

Despite the simplicity of their surroundings, the Kalash live vibrantly. Their colours, rituals, and way of seeing the world feel deeply rooted and unapologetically their own. For me, it is a culture that invites curiosity — one that deserves to be observed slowly, respectfully, and with an open mind.

Summer had just begun when I touched down in Islamabad.

It felt slightly ironic, because I almost never choose to travel during the summer. I usually plan my trips around the tail end of winter, spring, or autumn … anything but peak heat. Coming from a country that is hot and humid twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I would rather stay home than voluntarily experience another country’s version of summer.

Chitral and the Kalash Valley were easier to handle. The temperatures were similar to home, but the air was drier and often carried a cool mountain breeze. That alone made a huge difference. The heat existed, yes … but it was breathable, almost forgiving.

Peshawar, however, was a completely different story.

Summer in Peshawar is… wow. Challenging. With daytime temperatures reaching around 38°C but feeling more like 42°C thanks to the greenhouse effect, the heat clings to you. Walking through the narrow market alleys, hemmed in by concrete, crowds, and sun, was not exactly something I looked forward to. Each step felt heavier than the last.

But well… I survived Peshawar.
And sometimes, survival itself becomes part of the travel story.

I have always wanted to visit Peshawar.

Years ago, during my university days, one of my professors was from Peshawar. He has since passed away. Taken by dengue a few years ago, but I still remember our conversations clearly. He once told me, very confidently, that the tomatoes in Peshawar were as big as mangoes.

Naturally, that caught my attention.
Tomatoes as big as mangoes? Really? Where does one find such a thing?

Half-joking, half-serious, I told him that one day I would love to visit his hometown, Peshawar, just to see those legendary tomatoes for myself. He laughed, then immediately warned me, “Please don’t go to Peshawar. That place is dangerous. Not somewhere you should walk around.”

Of course, my curious mind has never been very good at listening to the word no.

So there I was, years later, walking through Peshawar … alert, cautious, but very much alive. And yes, I checked the tomatoes.

They were… normal.
Exactly the same size as the tomatoes back home in Malaysia.

I smiled to myself. Not disappointed. Just amused. Some stories aren’t meant to be proven true. They’re meant to stay as memories, attached to people who once told them with conviction, humour, and love for their hometown.

Walking the streets of Peshawar as a woman with a camera is not exactly easy. Local customs must be respected, and proper dressing is a must. I wore my favourite black abaya — yes, even in the summer heat — and surprisingly, it helped with the sun. But my gender quickly became a practical obstacle. Walking alone through the markets wasn’t an option; I needed a male companion to navigate safely. Thank God my local guide was both helpful and friendly, which made the wandering process much smoother and far more enjoyable.

Now, sitting at home and finally recuperating, I ask myself: what do I remember most about Peshawar?

Uhhhh… the food.

I had the most incredible lamb stew of my life. Guys, even better than anything I’ve tasted in Xinjiang. Every meal felt different from what I had in Islamabad, Chitral, or Skardu. I was told that Peshawar’s cuisine is infused with Afghan influence, being just 57 km from the Afghanistan border. And now… naturally, curiosity strikes: what’s the food like in Kabul? Hmmm… one day, I must find out.

For eleven days straight, I overindulged — lamb, chicken, lamb again — three meals a day. Never in my life have I eaten this much meat in a single day. Masya Allah. And it was a happy Masya Allah, because I love lamb. Not to mention, I needed that extra energy for wandering, climbing alleys, and, of course, carrying my ridiculously heavy camera bag.

What an experience.

I can see myself returning to Pakistan, over and over again. There’s a pull there … the mountains, the valleys, the rawness of the land, the warmth of the people. I can almost feel myself hiking those majestic peaks around Skardu, breathing in the crisp air, and catching the subtle, icy scent of glaciers.

Maybe it’s time to start strengthening my knees and legs — you know, actually preparing for those climbs. I should start tomorrow… or maybe the day after… lol. In Sha Allah, the mountains will wait, and I’ll be ready.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the world always rewards the curious, the persistent, and the slightly stubborn. And yes… I fit that description perfectly.

Time for bed. Catch you again on my next post.

Cheers

MM