Some 50 years ago, I developed a keen interest in the travels of the first western explorers that penetrated the Himalayas before WWII and in the 1950s. In the 1970s, I made several journeys into the Himalayas myself. I trekked extensively in Nepal Himalaya, Indian Himalaya, Sikkim and Bhutan, studying Himalayan architecture, namely house architecture, but also the architecture of Hindu and Buddhist temples and monasteries.

Subsequently, in the 1980s, I trekked around Tibet and traveled further into China and extensively in southeast Asia, the Philippine and the Indonesian archipelago. As I roamed about the Indonesian archipelago, from Sumatra to East Timor, and studied about headhunters, ikat design, symbols and heirlooms, and discovered that the early Indonesians, more accurately the Austronesians actually sailed as far as southeast Africa and Madagascar already around 500–700 CE, making them among the first to bridge Southeast Asia and East Africa across the Indian Ocean, I became so fascinate by their maritime capabilities that next my travels took me all over East Africa and to Madagascar itself.

While the 12th century saw significant cultural exchanges around the globe, it was not the initial point of contact or settlement for the Austronesians in Madagascar. Their 500–700 CE earlier arrival timeline aligns with linguistic, genetic, and archaeological data, underscoring the sophistication of Austronesian seafaring exploits and their undeniable pivotal role in shaping Madagascar’s cultural identity. They brought with them not only their language, which forms the basis of Malagasy today, but also agricultural techniques, namely rice cultivation, design of outrigger canoes, and distinctive cultural practices such as buffalo veneration and unique house design. It was when I trekked in the Madagascar highlands and came across the Zafimaniry house type that I first time wondered whether the house type and vernacular design solutions they practiced didn’t have a connection to the Himalayas.

Trekking throughout Nepal Himalaya in the 1970s, I became fascinated with the Himalayan house type. While the logic would have it, the concepts behind the Himalaya house design must have spread into the Himalaya from the Indian subcontinent, as I traveled more in Southeast Asia and noted the similarities with the house type throughout this diverse region, I pondered whether it was plausible the Himalaya house type crossed the Himalaya into Tibet and from there spread throughout southeast Asia, and eventually found its way to Madagascar.

As I traveled around Madagascar in the mid-1980s, I could see that specifically the Zafimaniry people’s wooden houses were indeed reminiscent of Indonesian houses on stilts, even though I found this type of house in the Himalaya as well. That proved the ancient migration of the Austronesians clearly linked distant worlds long before modern globalization, and the roots whence they sailed from were somewhere throughout today’s Indonesian archipelago and elsewhere in southeast Asia.

But was it really that’s where their house design concepts originated from? Despite the clearly established link with the Austronesians, I was not convinced southeast Asia is where it all originated from. However, from the sources I reviewed, there is little explicit research directly tracing house type origins from the Himalayas to Southeast Asia, Indonesia, and Madagascar. Most academic discussions of architectural diffusion focus on Austronesian influences, starting from Southeast Asia and radiating outward through maritime trade and migration networks.

However, from my perspective, the roots of the Austronesian house type align with the anthropological view that Himalayan architecture too has unique symbolic and functional features (e.g., central hearths, spatial organization reflecting cosmology) that could have influenced neighboring regions as far as southeast Asia. While explicit scholarly confirmation of the Himalayan house type influencing Southeast Asia and Austronesian house design is none to my knowledge, the connection could be explored further by linking studies on early Himalayan domestic architecture with known Austronesian practices. Books like The Living House by Roxana Waterson discuss how Southeast Asian architecture embodies cosmological symbolism, which could share parallels with Himalayan traditions but stops short of specifying such connections as it focuses on the indigenous peoples of Southeast Asia.

My hypothesis might represent an original angle for interdisciplinary research. If so, my direct observations and travel experiences could inspire new academic exploration, perhaps indeed linking Himalayan architecture to broader cultural exchanges across Asia and the Indian Ocean.

But this kind of research is something I have no longer a sole interest in and time to pursue. This post merely inspired my coming across photographs from my travels among the Zafimaniry in the highlands of Madagascar 50 years ago. While my academic interests may not interest cyclists, and the Zafimaniry highlands do not figure anywhere to be an epic cycling destination, may this post inspire you to give Madagascar a closer look. Very few travelers actually go there, which is indeed a shame, as Madagascar is one of the truly fascinating outposts of the earth. That said, I must admit this memory I shared with you inspired me to ponder coming back to visit Madagascar, this time with my bicycle.

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In the early 1980s, a journey through the Karakoram and Hindu Kush mountains was a voyage into the heart of mystery and wonder. Leaving the Uyghurs of the Chinese Turkestan behind, crossing Khunjerab Pass, the gateway into the heart of the mountain ranges of northern Pakistan and the fabled land of Hunza, one entered a world where tribal cultures converged.

Keeping Hunza as my base, I ventured up into the grandeur of lofty peaks, a portrait of rugged beauty, amazing moods and colors. I trekked to the snow line of Nanga Parbat, Rakaposhi, and to the impressive Baltoro glacier.

Also known as the Burusho of the Hunza Valley, the Hunza people live lives of remarkable longevity, having their health and vitality attributed to a diet rich in apricots, nuts and seeds and locally grown grains and vegetables. Against the backdrop of sharp peaks and glaciers, the Hunza people embodied the harmony between humanity and nature.

Away from the heart of Hunza, seemingly untouched by passaging time, beneath the surface a complex social fabric unfolded, where strictly defined gender roles and firearms were a constant reminder of the harsh realities of life in remote mountains. Being friendly and respectful was the key for a stranger to pass through their remote villages unharmed.

After exploring Hunza, instead of heading south to Gilgit and Baltistan, I continued west. Gilgit-Baltistan, a Shia-majority region of the otherwise Sunni-dominated rest of the country, suffered frequent bouts of sectarian violence in the 1980s.

Heading west into the heart of Hindu Kush was where many tribes and peoples mingled, creating a vibrant mosaic of traditions and customs. The route offered to explore the remote valleys of these mountain ranges, a crossroads of the Tajiks and the Wakhi of the Wakhan Corridor, the Nuristanis, the Pashtuns, and the Yidgha, the Kho, and the Kalasha of Chitral.

To reach Chitral from Hunza was a journey not without its challenges. The treacherous mountain roads cut through some of the world’s most rugged terrain, and tested the courage and resilience of the passengers; the drivers were in a league of their own having to navigate landslides and cross raging rivers. Only a handful of rough jeep tracks led west and anywhere near the Afghan border and the remote reaches of the Wakhan Corridor. The rough roads and sturdy jeeps were the lifeline connecting isolated communities to the outside world, albeit with frequent delays at river crossings, where stuck jeeps and pickup trucks were a common sight.

As I crossed Shandur Pass and the Upper Swat deep into the Hindu Kush, finally reaching the Chitral Valley, the landscape transformed, and the cultural tapestry took on new hues again.

My destination was the Kalash valleys of Bumburet, Rumbur and Birir, in the mountains beyond Chitral Bazar. Here, amidst stunning landscapes and surrounded by Sunnis (namely the Kho who are Sunni and Ismaili Muslims), the Kalash, the indigenous and original inhabitants of Chitral, thrived. Their unique culture, a polytheistic faith of animism, worship of ancestors and gods reminiscent of ancient Hinduism, survived through generations, with origins dating as far as 2nd century BC.

Some hundred years earlier, in the late 1890s, the Kalash culture extended to that of Kafiristan (a word that implies ‘Land of Infidels,’ coined by their Muslim neighbors) on the Afghan side of the border, whence in fact lie the Kalash cultural roots before they migrated to their present-day homeland. But that was until the people of Kafiristan finally adopted, or better, were forced to adopt Islam and discarded their ancient religion. Meanwhile, the Kalash have sustained their beliefs unaffected by that of their Sunni neighbors (unfortunately since 2015, the indigenous Kalash have been under violent threat by the militant Afghan Taliban, who routinely crossed into Chitral from Nuristan, stole their livestock and provoked the Sunni Kho to force the Kalash to convert to Islam, a pressure that has resulted in some forced conversions already).

From their distinctive house type of massive beams erected on steep hillsides, akin to that of Kafiristan villages of Nuristan, of interest to me and one of the key reasons I ventured into this remote region, and the decorative style of elaborate headdresses and garments worn by their women, the Kalash were a testament to the resilience of human spirit in the face of adversity of life in a remote region.

As the Kalash settlement pattern extended to the Afghan border, defined by the high ranges of the Hindu Kush, a new reality of life was at play in their isolated valleys. On the other side of the mountains, the Afghans fought the Soviets for four years then and the fight was nowhere in its end (continuing for six more years). Where I reached the last of the Kalash villages, Afghans came here to regroup and rest before returning across the border to fight the Soviets; this was three years before the CIA armed the Afghan mujahedin, the resistance militias, with the US-made Stinger anti-aircraft missiles. The Afghans I encountered in Bumburet valley then were friendly and proudly posed for my pictures.

Mine was more than just a physical odyssey—it was a voyage of discovery, a chance to witness the rich tapestry of cultures and landscapes that make this corner of the world unique. As I finally neared Peshawar, having traversed for days the landslide-broken road from Chitral, and I glimpsed a sign pointing west toward the Khyber Pass, the principal eastern gateway to Afghanistan and once part of the ancient Silk Road, I realized I was here before. It was ten years earlier. I passed through here twice, first time en route from Europe to India and then the second time on the way back almost a year later.

As I write this post, a memory of travels forty years ago, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to travel all of those Karakoram and Hindu Kush mountain roads today. Although I know the roads have improved, though landslides continue, remembering well the ordeal it was to ride the rough roads atop jeeps with many locals and cargo, today I’d travel here only on an MTB or on a gravel bike. For the sheer beauty of these landscapes, if you are of the adventure spirit, do put Karakoram and Hindu Kush on your list!

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I will never forget the moment I took this photograph. It was late afternoon, some fifty kilometers north of the Nepal-Tibet border crossing at Zhangmu. Atop the barren Tibetan plateau some 4,500 meters above sea level, it got cold and a fierce wind was blowing. The setting sun was magical, alas, blinding at this altitude. Yet, a village woman cast her defiant look straight in its direction, as if to quell its piercing rays. The look in her eyes, the harsh, wrinkled face chiseled by icy winds that whip the prayer flags to frenzy atop the highest region on Earth. Stretching to the south, the snow-covered peaks of the High Himalaya — Gaurishankar, Cho Oyu, Mt. Everest massif, areas where I trekked last only a year earlier — loomed steadfast under the azure sky. The Nepal midlands and the Indian subcontinent extending far beyond to the south, now only an image etched on my mind, invisible.

After my treks through the Nepal Himalaya in the 1970s, I was eager to visit Tibet. Unfortunately, Tibet was still off limits to visitors for much of the decade. But in the late 1970s, at last, as the dust settled on China’s tumultuous Cultural Revolution, the newly opened Kodari Bridge became a threshold to a world awakening from a long slumber. Mere 2,300 m (7,500 ft) above sea level, in the rain shadow of the High Himalaya, spanning the Bhote Koshi River, the Kodari Bridge in the early 1980s turned into a gateway to Tibet, with Kathmandu as the staging point for the arduous journey to Lhasa and the “Roof of the World”.

The Cultural Revolution, a decade of political and social upheaval, had cast a long shadow over China. Tibet, a land steeped in ancient traditions, felt the brunt of this ideological purge. Ransacked and destroyed, some 6,000 Buddhist monasteries stood in ruin across the desolate high altitude landscape. Religious practices outlawed, tens of thousands of monks and nuns dead or in reeducation camps, fifteen hundred years of unique Tibetan cultural identity became threatened.

I was fortunate to be among the first handful of intrepid travelers that stood at the precipice of history, ready to cross the Kodari Bridge and ascend into the icy winds atop the plateau. I recall my anticipation as I walked alone across the bridge to the Chinese side of the border. The morning I did, I was the only Western traveler making my way across and then steeply up into the thin air of 4,000 to 5,000 meters (13,000 to 15,000 feet) in altitude. Nepal, a vibrant tapestry of cultures, would give way to the stark beauty of the Tibetan plateau. Villages nestled amongst soaring peaks, prayer wheels turning in the wind — these would be the first sights to greet me. But the real intrigue lay beneath the surface as I uncovered it in the days ahead.

The Tibet I encountered would be a land in transition, during a time of immense change, a chance to witness a culture rise from the ashes, stronger and more vibrant than ever before. Monasteries, once silent testaments to a vibrant faith, would slowly stir back to life. Monks, hesitant at first, would emerge from the shadows. Some only recently returned from prisons, their maroon robes a stark contrast to the desolate landscape. The air would be thick with a blend of hope and uncertainty.

The journey between the Nepal border and Lhasa I experienced was unlike anything I could have imagined, and would be impossible to repeat in the years to come. This was the time to roam freely across the vast, frozen plateau and the craggy remote mountains. Scaling steep slopes dotted with isolated monasteries, I witnessed them coming alive, often with only one or two monks rebuilding their isolated outposts of faith. The views and panoramas of and from these isolated locations and frontiers of once thriving monastic settlements were breathtaking. The monks and villagers that came to help them rebuild were so hardened by life, and stoic, yet friendly, all the while they focused on their quest where time did not matter.

My treks into remote pockets of Tibet along the skeleton of a new road connecting remote villages between the Kodari Bridge and the reawakening towns of Shigatse and Gyantse en route to Lhasa were absolutely spontaneous, unhindered by checks and permits. But that changed once in Tibet’s capital in a brief span of 2 to 3 years. The more travellers arrived in Tibet, by then also by air, the more they faced strict rules and regulations curtailing free movement without permits and needing to be accompanied by guides. Culminating with March 8, 1989, when Chinese authorities imposed martial law on Lhasa, the decade at the beginning of which I experienced Tibet’s unique slice of history was over.

Indeed, I was most fortunate to discover the many amazing places between the Nepal border and Central Tibet. Mesmerized by my experience, from Lhasa I continued across Tibet north to Qinghai and on to Xinjiang, the Chinese Turkestan, at the time also still undiscovered by tourism. Crossing Xinjiang, eventually I traversed the Khunjerab Pass into Hunza in Pakistan. Trekking in the Karakoram, roaming about Hindukush, yet another frontier virtually unknown to outside visitors, still years before the real onset of mass travel. And little did I know then where everywhere else would my travels take me thereafter.

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It was precisely the character of Yemen’s mountainous highlands and the unique architectural style of their villages that brought me to this region of the world, for both the adventure of trekking this remote region and my academic interests. While for now, Yemen is an unlikely destination for trekking or cycling for years to come, its undeniably amazing landscape will lure adventure travelers one day again.

Yemen’s architectural style, particularly its village design and house architecture, reflects the historical context of the region having to defend against external threats and adopt to the harsh environment.

One of the most iconic features of Yemeni village architecture is the “qasaba” or the fortified village. Qasabas are typically built on hilltops or elevated terrain, providing strategic advantages for defense and visibility. The layout of these villages often includes narrow, winding streets and alleys designed to confuse and deter potential attackers. Constructed close together, they form a cohesive defensive perimeter around the village center.

One striking feature of Yemeni village architecture is the “tower houses” or “mud skyscrapers” that dominate the skyline of many highland settlements. Because of the compact settlement pattern of the Yemeni villages, I usually camped near their villages or in remote areas, but more than once, when I unzipped my tent in the early morning, a group of villagers waited quietly near my tent with a kettle of hot tea …

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