South Asia's earthquake crisis was initially seen as manageable -- three weeks on it is emerging as the most challenging emergency the world has faced, writes Graham Usher from Muzaffarabad in Pakistan-controlled Kashmir The Emergency and Relief Base Camp in Muzaffarabad is an impressive place. Less than a month after the earthquake hit northern Pakistan, over 100 international relief organisations are embedded here, backed by hundreds of local relief outfits. There are rows of multi-coloured tents, a mobile hospital, satellite dishes and the clatter of helicopters leaving for other, remoter parts of Pakistan-administered Kashmir. Many of the foreigners here are veteran "earthquakers", steeled by relief work in Bam, Iran, in 2003 and the even greater casualties inflicted by the tsunami last year. Pakistan is a major disaster for sure but there is nothing, you get the feeling, that aid, technology and logistics cannot conquer. "You need 500 tonnes of food a day to keep roughly one million people alive," says Keith Ursel, Emergency Coordinator for the UN's World Food Programme (WFP), matter-of-factly. 'The earthquake hit around 900 villages, only 30 per cent of which are accessible by road. So the priority now is more helicopters. But I'm optimistic we will reach all the villages eventually. The Pakistanis are adept at repairing roads," he adds. "They've had one thousand years of experience." I ask Mia Turner, WFP spokeswoman, how Pakistan compares with the other earthquakes. She brims with only slightly less enthusiasm. "With the tsunami the terrain was flat mostly. Here it isn't. Trying to land helicopters on mountains is tricky. Also the obstacles are moveable in Pakistan. You are told a road is open. Then there is another tremor, more landslides, and the road is closed. In Afghanistan we'd move food by pack-mule. But this quake killed 50 per cent of all livestock. That's what I mean: the obstacles move". Today the task is to move to villages nearby Muzaffarabad. "It's always a dilemma," says Ursel. "Do you feed more people close to you or fewer people further away from you?" We're going to Niazpura, a little village perched on the mountain less than 10 kilometres away. Despite its proximity, it has been inaccessible since the quake due to mudslides. We are told the road is open. We head off. Two jeeps lead the way followed by canvassed covered WFP truck crammed with high-energy biscuits. A straggle of local vehicles fall in behind, packed with milk, juices, bottled water and dates. We reach three kilometres. The supposedly open road has a fracture a four-wheel drive couldn't cross, let alone a 10-tonne truck. There is a makeshift refugee camp on a field below us and flattened houses on a bluff. People emerge from the cracks and tent flaps and engulf the convoy. The crowd is agitated but orderly. Two elders, wrapped in green chequered shawls and swishing bamboo canes, watch over them. "Most of the people are already here," says Tanvir Khan, another WFP worker. "We can feed them here". But what about Niazpura and those other villages that lie beyond the end of the road? It's not just Niazpura, says Mohamed Tanzim, a refugee from one of the tents. "There are six villages, less than an hour from here. We're hearing that out of 6,000 people, 2,000 are either dead or injured. Ninety-five per cent of all houses have been destroyed. You have to reach them." We decide to walk. The track is wet because of recent rains and the incline is steep. We come first to a pile of rock. It's moveable but it will need a heavy-duty army bulldozer. We reach a height, turn a corner and then stop. The road here has been squeezed into a concertina of ridges. We look down the mountain. The earthquake has sliced it in two. This road cannot be repaired. It will need a bridge and that will take months, perhaps years, to build. And the people don't have months. "We're assuming that whatever supplies people had at the time of the earthquake are now starting to run out. We have to get food to them in the next few days. It really is critical," says Mia, whose enthusiasm is starting to wane. What about air-drops? She shrugs her shoulders. "At this altitude helicopters can only carry one or two tonnes. It's going to be difficult". What about tents? "There are not enough winterised tents in the world, let alone Pakistan." So you will need the roads. "We need road engineers," she says. "If we can open the roads, it would solve everything." But there are no roads, and without them even the most well oiled relief work grinds to a halt. Contrary to initial estimates, WFP now believe that 2,000 villages will have to be reached by airlifts. In the Kashmir area alone, 800,000 people are without shelter, barely three weeks before the snows set in. This means 200,000 tents and 50 more helicopters will have to be sent to Muzaffarabad if people are to survive Pakistan's six-month winter. So far 60,000 tents have been delivered and less than 70 helicopters. "In the first few days after the earthquake the world clearly did not comprehend the magnitude and complexity of the disaster," admits Rashid Khalikov, the UN coordinator in Kashmir. The result is inevitable: because the relief cannot reach the mountain, the mountain -- in the form of thousands of displaced people -- is coming to the relief. Over the lip of the destroyed road a man appears, followed by a child, then three women, then more children and finally two elders. The youngest -- carried in the man's arms -- is 18 months old. The oldest is 60, a bundle of clothes slung over his shoulder. "My name is Mohamed Imran Arar," says the man. "We are one family. I'm from Killahouta village. It's totally smashed. The earthquake hit us like a sea storm. We have no homes, no tents, and no water. We've received no help. That's why we are walking". Where are you walking to? "Muzaffarabad. We hear there is an Emergency and Relief camp there. We hear it has food".
