The Hidden Tribe of Pakistan’s Mountains

Stumbling Into the Forgotten World of the Kalash

I didn’t come to Pakistan to find people. I went to the mountains. For the cold air that slices through your lungs. For the markhor, that elusive, spiral-horned mountain goat that draws hunters and filmmakers like me from all over the world.

But what I found in a narrow valley in Chitral close to the Afghan border was something I never expected. A world out of time. A people that made me lower my camera, forget the shot, and... stare.

We had been hiking for days. The terrain was unforgiving, with jagged cliffs, loose shale, and altitude that made every breath a deliberate act. My shoulders ached under the weight of gear. The guide ahead of me, a lean Pashtun man, moved with the ease of someone born to this landscape. On the fourth day, after losing sight of a herd of ibex, the guide paused at a bend in the trail.

“You want to see something... different?” he asked, catching his breath.

“Different how?” I replied.

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “There is a village. Kalash. Not like us. They don’t follow Islam. They have their gods. They dance. They drink. The women wear strange clothes. Some people say they are white.”

I raised an eyebrow. “White?”

“Yes. You will see.”

I followed him without thinking twice. An hour later, I stepped into another world.

A Tribe Frozen in Time

The valley opened like a secret. It was quiet in a sacred kind of way, full of something ancient. Children with light eyes chased goats past wooden houses. Women stood on balconies in black robes with neon thread work, their headdresses heavy with beads, shells, and tiny coins. There was laughter, smoke from a cooking fire, and a group of young girls singing something melodic and unfamiliar. It felt untouched.

At first, I was sure I’d misread it. This can't be Pakistan. But it was, just not the one I thought I knew. These were the Kalash people. And they didn’t just look different. They were different.

They speak their language. They follow a religion older than Islam, older even than Christianity. It’s a form of animistic paganism complete with nature spirits, mountain gods, fire rituals, and seasonal festivals. They celebrate spring with dancing and wine. They bury their dead above ground. They believe that some people are “pure” and others “polluted,” depending on how close they are to the divine. It’s a worldview carved from the earth itself.

And yes, many of them have light skin, green or hazel eyes, and even reddish hair. Their features don’t resemble their Pakistani neighbors. There are myths that they descend from the army of Alexander the Great, who passed through this region in 326 BC. It’s a story no one can prove, but everyone loves to tell. The truth is, the Kalash don’t care much for where they came from. They care more about holding onto who they are. That’s not easy in today’s Pakistan.

I asked the guide later what people in Chitral think of the Kalash. He hesitated “They are... strange,” he said. “Some people admire them. Others think they should convert. There are Muslims who say they live in sin. But they are peaceful. Good people.”

The truth is more complicated. In private, some Pakistanis feel protective of the Kalash, proud that such a unique culture exists within their borders. But others see them as a blemish, a stubborn relic refusing to bend. There have been conversions, often under social pressure. Some imams travel to the valleys preaching Islam. Kalash children who leave the valley sometimes return wearing hijabs, their beads tucked away in drawers - bit by bit, the outside world chips at their way of life.

And yet, they endure.

Holding the Line Against Time and Change

I met an older Kalash woman who spoke some Urdu. Through the guide, I asked her how long her people had lived here. She laughed. “Before the Muslims came. Before the British. Before Pakistan.”

"And how do you feel about outsiders visiting?"

She looked at me sharply, then softened. “If they come to listen, they are welcome. If they come to change us, they should stay away.”

That night, they invited us to stay. A small room, a meal of lentils and flatbread, and a bitter homemade wine passed around in tin cups. The stars above the valley were fierce and clear. Somewhere outside, a drumbeat echoed off the rock face — someone was dancing. I didn’t take my camera out. For once, I didn’t want to capture the moment. I wanted to be in it.

I thought a lot about that visit on the way back from the hunt. About how rare it is in this world to find a culture that hasn’t been smoothed out, packaged, or repurposed for tourism. The Kalash isn’t living to please anybody. They’re surviving, stubbornly, proudly, against the tide of modernity, extremism, and forgetfulness.

A People More Endangered Than the Animals I Track

As a hunter, I’ve seen wildness vanish in a decade. Forests were turned into farmland. Traditions watered down to entertain tourists. But the Kalash, it reminds me of something that can't be replaced once it’s gone.

The Kalash people reside in a remote valley on the outskirts of Pakistan. Still, their way of life speaks to something the modern world has almost forgotten: the strength of identity, the value of tradition, and the quiet power of living in harmony with one's beliefs. In a time when the West is drifting from its roots, the Kalash stand as a reminder that holding on to one's identity is not backward, but brave.

I came to film a trophy. I left having witnessed something far more valuable: a people who still live on their terms.

Garrick Cormack

Professional Hunter | Big Hunt Photographer

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