We have been warned: domestic flights to Gilgit are often cancelled due to the unpredictable weather in the Himalayas. We land in Islamabad at five in the morning. The flight to Gilgit is scheduled for eleven o'clock. We spend the six hours in between on a bench in a waiting area with a carpet that is already curling up and coming off. Sleep is out of the question. At least, not for us. A little further, a woman in a burka is happily snoring away.

From 11 a.m., the flight gets postponed several times. Ultimately, at two o'clock in the afternoon, it turns out that it has been cancelled. There are men outside wearing traditional Pakistani headgear who are not surprised. One of them advises us to take a flight to Skardu in two days' time. From there, it's a four-hour journey to Gilgit. ‘So you'll be there the day after tomorrow,’ he says, bobbing his head. I thought only Indians did that, but apparently it’s a thing here too.

Waiting does not fit into our schedule. The travel agency arranges a van. We set off for a 14-hour drive, which ends up taking 19 hours, straight through the Himalayas and across red marked territory. Should the car break down on the way, we don't even need to call the embassy. They won't come to help us here anyway. Through the Kohistan region, we get an armed escort: a police car in front of us, and two policemen in the back. They look at us sternly, their machine guns at the ready. Our guide shrugs. “Formality.”

At night, we drive over narrow mountain passes with dizzyingly steep slopes. Two roadblocks due to construction cost us another hour and a half. After two sleepless nights, we finally arrive in the Hunza Valley.

Over the next few days, we drive through the most spectacular landscape I have ever seen. We hike over a black glacier, visit a ruined fortress clinging to a four hundred metre high precipice and sleep in a hotel where it‘s minus twenty degrees everywhere, even in the rooms. In villages where the Middle Ages are still alive and well, the butcher, who also sells children's clothes, lives in a dingy, open wooden hut. Goat heads and chicken carcasses are scattered around like the dirty laundry in my bedroom after a long night of partying.

We take photos at a famous suspension bridge. Between every wooden plank is half a metre of open space. A mountain river rages thirty metres below. ‘There's only been one death this year,’ someone reassures us. For my anxious mum, I film myself walking across the bridge without holding on to anything.

Our guides talk about the power of the army, tensions with India and their view of America. The world is like a set of tectonic plates: The Netherlands is safely in the middle, Pakistan lies on the edge. And you can feel it too. Yet, the people are incredibly friendly and surprisingly open-minded. In Islamabad, we see transgender people begging at traffic lights. People open their windows to give them money. Our guide looks compassionate and says, "They have a hard enough life as it is."

Pakistan: breathtaking nature, delicious food, hospitable people, at times spartan conditions, but also luxury hotels. As long as you avoid the actual conflict areas, one day in Amsterdam is probably more dangerous than 10 days in Pakistan. A great, adventurous travel tip.

And oh, I almost forgot: I saw someone facetiming in a burka. And a goat in an old North Face jacket.