Acapella songs and Alpine views: How Croatia transported me to the Pakistan of my childhood

As our minivan maneuvered down the winding mountain road between the towns of Šibenik and Trogir on Croatia’s southern Dalmatian coast, I was taken aback—and back in time. “Wow, this looks so much like Northern Pakistan,” I thought. I couldn’t quite believe it as the twisting journey unfolded like a nostalgic reel of my childhood drives through the vast landscapes of Gilgit-Baltistan.

Central Dalmatia, known locally as Splitsko-Dalmatinska, lay before us—a jigsaw of fishing islands, ancient ports, mountains, castles, and a culinary scene as diverse as the region itself. It is renowned for its three UNESCO World Heritage Sites, including the medieval town of Trogir, and the rugged Dinaric Range, the highest in Croatia—a cinematic backdrop similar to the Karakoram mountain range I was more familiar with in Pakistan, the country’s highest and second highest in the world.

“This is exactly what the drives during my childhood looked like,” I said, swept away by a wave of unexpected sentimentality. I was struck by the phrase that we have more in common than divides us, even as I traveled through Central Europe, thousands of miles from my ancestral homeland.

We wove through Croatia’s green hinterland and past timbered houses, and I found myself reminiscing about family pilgrimages to the ‘Switzerland of Pakistan.’ However, equally reminiscent was the unwelcome companion of motion sickness; an ailment I had previously associated solely with the twists and turns of Pakistan’s Northern Areas.

A fellow traveler handed me a mint-scented mosquito repellent in an attempt to ease the impending sickness, just as my parents used to do in futile attempts to treat me with anti-nausea medicine. But as the minivan approached the peak of Trogir’s striking medieval church, the unexpected bond forming in my mind between Northern Pakistan and Croatia—two countries seldom uttered in the same breath—became even more apparent.

As Ana guided us through the cathedral, a group of men dressed in black waistcoats and polished black shoes caught my attention. Curious, I quietly broke away from my group and discovered these men engaged in a performance of the traditional ‘Klapa.’

Trogir is huddled between ancient walls on a small island connected by bridges to the mainland. The seaside promenade with its mountain backdrop, cafés, and yachts, felt like a distant cousin to the lively streets of Karimabad in the Hunza Valley. And as I roamed through Trogir’s narrow lanes passing countless stores of independent craftsmen selling handmade scarves, it mirrored the artisanal shops selling hand-woven pashmina shawls in Karimabad.

Our tour guide, Trogir born-and-bred Ana Jakić, met us at the entrance to the old town. “The Greeks named the town Tragurium,” she told us. “It meant ‘the place where the goats eat grass.’”

Although the goats have now retired, the 13,000 residents still draw their professions from the same cultural heritage as their forebears in this 2,300-year-old town. We followed Ana to Trogir’s most recognized attraction and architectural highlight, the Cathedral of St. Lawrence, built between the 13th and 15th centuries.

As Ana guided us through the cathedral, a group of men dressed in black waistcoats and polished black shoes caught my attention. Curious, I quietly broke away from my group and discovered these men engaged in a performance of the traditional ‘Klapa.’

Klapa is the local music of the Dalmatian Coast, usually predominantly male groups singing acapella. The sound instantly reminded me of the unified harmony of the chardha, a stringed lute that has roots in Persian and Central Asian music found in Gojal, Upper Hunza. Beyond the Hunza Valley, it can be found in Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and even Kashgar in China. Translated as ‘a group of friends,’ Klapa encompasses tales of love, loss, and Croatian history—and like clockwork, these men gather within Trogir’s medieval stone columns every hour to play these haunting melodies.

Then, it hit me. The entire scene, from the location to the Klapa singers’ attire, echoed another facet of Hunza Valley’s cultural heritage.

The valley’s Bulbulik Music School, Gilgit-Baltistan’s first folk music school, pays homage to the Wakhi community, an Iranian ethnic group that migrated from Central to South Asia in the early 20th century. Wakhi shepherds, originating from lowland areas, sing traditional Bulbulik tunes while herding livestock to the highlands, using music to communicate messages home.

I shared my observations about the parallels between Trogir and Hunza Valley and she gestured at my soup, revealing she’d read about Dao Dao, a centuries-old Indigenous hot broth noodle soup from Gilgit-Baltistan, similar to its Croatian counterpart … Her culinary curiosity mirrored mine and connected us through shared traditions.

In an interesting parallel, Bulbulik students, like Klapa performers, dress impeccably in white attire with black waistcoats and polished black shoes. They, too, strive to preserve their cultural heritage against erosion, and also effortlessly attract crowds with songs of love and hope.

Similar to St. Laurence’s Church courtyard, the Bulbulik Music School has become the Bulbulik Heritage Center, a significant cultural landmark. Within its walls, people practice and master a variety of Indigenous instruments, including the ghezek, a folk sitar-like instrument. Some members of the heritage center are now the last ghezek players in Pakistan.

Now lunchtime, I was determined to find a local restaurant, despite the prevalence of global fast food on tourist menus. I stumbled upon Marijana, a restaurant serving Croatian dishes where I asked the server if they had any vegetarian recommendations.

After momentary contemplation, she vanished, only to reappear 20 minutes later with a steaming bowl of custom-made Juha Od Rajčice s Taranom, Croatia’s classic tomato soup with tarana, a type of hand-rolled dough used as dumplings or noodles. I dove in. Watching me, my server inquired about my origin. “I’m from Lon…” I began then paused. “I’m Pakistani,” I replied.

Her eyes lit up. “I’d love to visit Pakistan!” she said. An animated conversation ensued, her enthusiasm for a country often misrepresented in the news palpable.

I shared my observations about the parallels between Trogir and Hunza Valley and she gestured at my soup, revealing she’d read about Dao Dao, a centuries-old Indigenous hot broth noodle soup from Gilgit-Baltistan, similar to its Croatian counterpart. Originally featuring yak meat, Dao Dao’s modern versions are made with chicken or vegetables, with once-hard, now softer noodle dough hand-rolled into thin strips. Her culinary curiosity mirrored mine and connected us through shared traditions.

Our banter expanded to the fears of tourist influx too, as she predicted Trogir’s destiny may mirror Dubrovnik’s fate. “We have it all—sun, sea, history, and food,” she tells me. “It’s just a matter of time before the crowds find us.” This sentiment is mirrored in the Hunza Valley, where tourism is also a double-edged sword. Like everywhere, inviting the world requires careful governance to ensure benefits are sustainable and shared. Northern Pakistan, like Croatia, grapples with balancing economic gain with preserving local customs. Both places exemplify the delicate dance between progress and preservation.

I finished the last spoonful of my soup, said goodbye to my new friend, and strolled back to the promenade to rejoin my group. I felt I’d not only encountered geographic parallels but also the universal threads of humanity that bind us. In Trogir, I found our shared experiences truly transcend borders. And if that isn’t what travel should ultimately be about, I don’t know what is.

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This trip was based on Intrepid’s Croatia: Sibenik & the Kornati Islands itinerary. Find out more about it here and find out more about Croatia through Explore Croatia‘s (the national tourist board) mobile app.

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