A lifeline for quake survivors

BARANI, Pakistan -- Dressed in a white turban and flowing blue robe, Amraz Khan climbed into a small steel basket suspended 400 feet above the Jhelum River. As the basket swung in a stiff wind, he and another passenger pulled on a rope for a nail-biting ride to the river's far side.

The white-bearded Khan offered a tip on the crossing: ''I do not look down -- ever," he said.

Before the devastating Oct. 8 earthquake, numerous bridges spanned the deep gorges carved by the Jhelum into the dusty landscape here in Pakistani-controlled Kashmir. Some could handle a small vehicle, and others were merely suspended walkways.

Now, many bridges are gone or unstable. Others hang precariously by single cables, marooning this isolated village.

For many, the only way across is the ''rassa," the risky basket contrivance Khan took to visit quake-injured relatives across the waterway.

In the local Punjabi dialect, rassa means ''strong rope." The pulley device near Barani was built in 2000, a single steel cable anchored in two slabs of concrete on both sides of the river, 700 feet apart. Kashmiris have used such pulley cars for decades to span the Jhelum and other rural rivers.

But since the quake, the passenger volume has tripled, turning the rassas into critical lifelines. Hundreds of residents of Barani and the two nearby villages were killed or injured in the quake. Survivors used the pulley bridge to haul out the wounded. Then they brought out the dead, one by one.

Today, residents use the rassa here to transport relief aid and water. The alternative is to walk 6 miles to the nearest standing bridge.

There has been only one injury. Days after the quake, five men crowded into the basket designed for only two riders. Halfway across, one dropped into the raging waters below, barely surviving.

''Sometimes I cannot believe I am in this chair," said Altaf Hussain, 32, a Barani resident. ''But we have no choice. People have fought for the rassa."

The pulley bridge even has its rush hours -- mostly in the early morning, when the wait can last three hours. Dusk is also busy, when residents wait anxiously to cross. Darkness, they know, sharpens their senses, heightening the roar of the river below.

The unwise few who embark alone with heavy loads often get stuck over the river, unable to pull themselves to the other side unaided. They have to wait, suspended in midair, until someone arrives on shore to help them.

Back at the rassa near Barani, Mohammed Sharif waited his turn to cross. ''After the quake, we used it to take our wounded relatives to the hospital," he said. ''The rassa has saved lives. But it has yet to take one."