Full Tilt (25 page)

This trek lasted for about an hour and a half, of which at least half an hour was spent resting. The ponies’ hoof prints were clear in the wet earth between the rocks, otherwise I would certainly have gone astray, not knowing the direction taken by the nullah. I was getting a bit desperate when I suddenly found myself crossing a level meadow free of rocks and ankle-deep in water from the thawing snows above. By now I felt so exhausted that I scarcely noticed the precipice at the edge of this meadow and almost went over on to the rocks 1,500 feet below. When I’d recovered from my escape I peered down to see seven little
black figures (three ponies and four men) in the middle of a vast glacier beside the nullah. At first I couldn’t understand how either men or beasts had got down there; then I realised that they must have used the glacier, which extends upwards for some 2,000 feet, bisecting the semicircular ‘bite’ out of the mountain, on the west side of which I was standing. But I still don’t understand how even mountain ponies were induced to make that terrifying descent. And, observing the scene below, I noticed that three of the ponies had had it, and were resolutely refusing to cross the bridge of snow over the nullah. Personally, I shared their point of view.

However, our descent proved the simplest part of the whole journey. On reaching the glacier I shouted to attract the men’s attention, and then pushed Roz over at the steepest point. She shot down at a rate that would have dislocated any lesser bicycle and was stopped by the bed-rolls which the men placed in her path. Next, I pushed myself over, at the least steep point, and half-rolled, half-tobogganed down – a painful progress, but one which at least required no effort. The pony-men had heard of my proposed expedition and when I arrived at their feet, in a bruised and breathless ball, I was greeted with joyful acclamation. Their leader, a very old and dignified man – who in Europe would not be allowed by his daughter to go out on a showery day – was almost in tears of relief, and ordered one of the men to carry Roz across the nullah.

We were now only a mile from Basal, and this snow bridge looked a fitting climax to the day. In two places the melting glacier had already caved in, and the pony-men had placed two planks of wood – specially carried for the purpose – across each five- or six-foot-wide crevasse. Standing on the verge, one looked down into the roaring water twelve feet below and, speaking for myself, I felt most unhappy to realise that at any moment – possibly the next moment – another wedge of glacier – possibly the wedge underfoot – would detach itself and collapse into the nullah. To add to the general feeling of insecurity the three ponies were thudding over the level snow between the crevasse and the bottom of the slope and I reflected that had they been trying they could have done no more to encourage its further disintegration.

However, the men’s indifference to what I regarded as extreme peril calmed me down (I hadn’t yet heard that six local men were recently drowned in a similar situation) and when Roz had been carried across the nullah I remained behind to give what help I could in persuading the ponies to venture over the planks. The unfortunate animals were lathering with fright and absolutely refusing to budge. Then I had a brainwave, which it took some time to put across in sign language, though it was simply a suggestion that if the rest of the party left the scene the three unnerved ponies might follow of their own accord. So I trotted across the boards firmly pretending that I was on O’Connell’s Bridge and we all climbed the other side of the glacier to the road and made off briskly. Sure enough pathetic whinnies followed us and a moment later came the clatter of hoofs on boards and within five minutes the nervous ones had rejoined the party. This incident well illustrates the very low IQ of those men, who think that by cursing and kicking an already terrified horse they can influence him to do what he dreads. Of course they considered ‘Begum Sahib’ a genius for suggesting the obvious! In a way my device was cruel too – giving the poor creatures the impression that they were going to be abandoned on a glacier for ever – but at least it was short-term cruelty. The rest of this entry must wait till tomorrow as I’m too tired to finish it now.

To continue yesterday’s entry: on leaving the narrow gorge with its snow-bridge we entered the head of the famous Kagan Valley – a very lovely sight in the light of the setting sun. Here the mountains all rise greenly to grey rock summits and on their gentle slopes graze buffalo, comically draped in heavy blankets, and huge herds of goats. Basal is what we’d call a ‘townland’, where the
tribes-people
camp during the summer when they bring up their herds, and the nearest hamlet is nineteen miles away. But there is a seasonal ‘hotel’ where the trans-Pass caravans stop. This consists of a tiny lean-to – not high enough for me to stand upright in – roughly built of boulders and roofed with pine-branches; there are
only two walls so you can imagine the cold wind shrieking through at 14,000 feet! The proprietor, a young tribesman, sleeps outside in a goatskin tent and the fire is of dung, lit in a little hole in the ground. The fresh green leaves of a local weed carpet the floor and water comes from the young Kagan that rushes deafeningly by two yards away. I’ll admit this accommodation doesn’t sound luxurious, but after a day such as we’d all been through it seems positively Ritzy; it’s only two miles from the top of the valley and I walked there with the pony-caravan.

On arrival we sat beside the tiny fire while tea was being made – me feeling so tired that I couldn’t even attempt diary-writing. But after five tin mugs of Samson-strong tea (very sweet) I came back to life and wrote by oil-lamp for the two hours it took to cook our supper of lentils and bread. Dung is excellent fuel, just like good turf, but it’s slow to cook enough for six ravenous people and the
chapattis
took what felt like weeks, each one being done separately on a flat piece of iron over the fire. (There are few bakeries in Pakistan and bread is usually made at home.) But I’ve been long enough in the East now to have forgotten how to feel impatient, so I enjoyed the cosy peace there in the heat while outside the blue sky faded to cold green and then was quickly black and filled with a glory of golden stars. Only the rush of the river and the deep breathing of the pony-men, who had all fallen asleep while waiting for food, broke the silence.

As we were eating, an extraordinary character came in – obviously a tribal chieftain of some sort as he was laden with gold ear-rings and bracelets and fabulous silver and stone necklaces and wore rings on every finger. He stood about six foot two in his bare feet and had the oldest face I’ve ever seen, yet was erect and vigorous. His long black hair and beard looked odd against the wrinkles and he had very sharp but kindly brown eyes and still excellent teeth. It goes without saying that he was filthy dirty and stank to high heaven – even more than the pony-men! He had evidently come to welcome them as the first over the pass this year and there was terrific salaaming and hand-shaking all round. On arrival he disregarded me completely but then he got used to the idea and became quite friendly. After he’d gone more
strong tea completed the meal, which to me was the most wonderful I’ve ever eaten anywhere – despite the fact that I was sitting watching the bare-handed cook stoking the fire with dung in between kneading
chapattis
. Having taken turns puffing a post-prandial hookah the men went to sleep again and I continued writing till nearly midnight, when I curled up in my bedroll which was on hire for a shilling from the proprietor but seemed astonishingly free of inhabitants. I woke at 6.30 a.m. with an awful earache, as the cold had been intense all night and I couldn’t sleep with my head covered because of the smell of the bedding. Also this evening I’ve a rotten sore throat and snuffles – inevitable after yesterday’s wetting and freezing – but that’s a small price to pay for the Babusar Pass.

We left Basal at 7.30 a.m. today, after tea and
paratis
fried in
fresh
ghee, and I took it easy, covering only the nineteen miles to this village. The Kagan Valley is so beautiful that one has to stop every hundred yards to sit and look. (Anyway, sitting and looking were about all I was good for today, as my back and shoulder muscles ache dreadfully from carrying Roz.) The Kagan River widens gradually and is a most beautiful shade of green as it races in the sunshine between great, grey boulders, bursting into violent cascades of white foam at intervals. For the first six or seven miles the road switched up and down green mountainsides and I had to cross three more glaciers (one tricky, two easy) and four rock falls brought down by the thaw. These presented difficulties as they were always at high points of the road overhanging ghastly drops. (One’s ‘head for heights’ certainly improves in this area; six months ago I’d have shuddered even to think of cycling over loose rocks and slippery mud above such ravines.) I could see again the hoof-prints of the caravan, which had left Basal at 5 a.m., and the whole region was, by yesterday’s standards, quite thickly populated with nomad herdspeople, though no dwellings were visible. I saw two magnificent eagles and the air was filled all day with lark-song. What a wonderful place this world is! Here was a valley of glorious beauty yet quite unique – different from the Ghorband or Gilgit or Indus Valleys – with its scintillating snow-peaks and regal fir trees, brilliant green meadows right up to the snowline and glistening glaciers in the
gullies, waterfalls tumbling and sparkling everywhere and jewel-like wild flowers, rippling bird-songs and the faint, clean aroma of some unfamiliar herb.

We arrived here at 5 p.m. to find that some half-dozen wooden shacks make up the hamlet, plus a tea-house to cater for caravans. Coming round a bend I saw down below, in a deep hollow between the hills, the camel-caravan of fifty animals camped beside the
tea-house
and my pony-men busily loading up with their essentials. Then, as I came towards them, I noticed the fleecy coats and
brightly-coloured
turbans and marvellously-embroidered waistcoats of the cameleers – there was no doubt about
their
native land. I stopped the first one and said ‘Afghanistan?’ and he said ‘Yes, Bulola,’ and I shook hands vigorously and said ‘Afghanistan very good and Bulola very good’ (Bulola is the village next to Bamian), and he was as pleased by the meeting as I was, and we went off arms around shoulders, Afghan style, to have tea together. Then about fifteen other Afghans arrived and I told them where I’d been in Afghanistan and we performed the Afghan ritual of gravely admiring each other’s guns and knives and they told me that I must time my return to Afghanistan to coincide with the King’s birthday in October, when the national game of buzkashi is played at its best in Kabul. Again, as when coming into Afghanistan from Persia, I notice the remarkable superiority of these men in both mental and physical vigour, as compared to the peasants I’ve been with for the past weeks. It’s possible to have quite a
complicated
conversation with the Afghans through signs and a few words of Pushto and English, they’re so very quick on the uptake.

I’m now sitting outside one of their tents writing by firelight while supper is being cooked, having ridden with two of them to a hamlet up a tributary nullah to deliver cloth. The way was level grassland and never did I think horses could move so fast; it was a glorious sensation to gallop along the valley with the setting sun lighting up the snows ahead and my horse, having had nothing to do all day, going full stretch on the smooth turf. Fortunately I didn’t want to stop him, as I don’t believe I could have. I’ve been promised a trial ride on a camel in the morning.

After an excellent supper of goat’s meat grilled over a wood-fire, and lentils and bread, I slept soundly, rolled in snug sheepskins in a circle of Afghans around a fire which we kept up all night. I was wakened by the sun coming over the mountaintops on to our faces – such beauty to open one’s eyes to! The soft, bright green of grass, the dark green of towering pines, the almost luminous green of the nearby river, the pale blue of the early sky and the pure white of glaciers between sharp, rocky peaks above smooth, sloping pastures. While the breakfast-water was boiling I was given my camel ride – very short and unsweet. (1) The camel knelt down. (2) I sat on the saddle. (3) The camel stood up. (4) The camel took one step. (5) I fell off. Fortunately this was exactly what the camel-owner had expected me to do and he caught me halfway to the ground. As these are the longlegged Arabian camels, seven to eight feet tall, this was a good thing. Actually the shorter, sturdier Bactrian variety are more common in Afghanistan itself. A camel saddle is a preposterous thing, like a wooden pouffe balanced on the hump; doubtless there are ways of
not
falling off, but my Pushto was unequal to following the owner’s instructions.

After breakfast two men were going on another cloth-selling expedition to three tiny hamlets away up on the wooded slopes of a mountain and on invitation I accompanied them; we used mules for the very steep, rocky paths of the forest. Then I reluctantly left my friends at 12.15 p.m., having lunched off clover, bread and chicken; I tried to give them a present of cigarettes but of course they absolutely refused to accept it.

The weather pattern has been consistent during the past few days; it remains very sunny till about 12 p.m., then the sky quickly fills with clouds, the temperature drops and light showers freshen the air. It was delicious free-wheeling down-valley this afternoon with dense green trees all around and a grey sky overhead; except for the height of the mountains and the fury of the river, I might have been at home.

There was an amusing interlude today when I turned a corner of the
track and saw a party of four unmistakably English people walking towards me. My astonishment was considerable, yet it was as nothing compared with theirs when they beheld a tattered and battered European female advancing with a bicycle from the northern wilds. Even English reserve could not withstand the shock, so they stopped to unravel the mystery and then told me that they came from Delhi and were camping on the banks of the Kagan. They thoughtfully suggested that I should stop off at their camp and ask the servants to feed me, and Mrs Haddow invited me to stay with them when I arrive in Delhi and gave me their address and telephone number on the spot. The farther one travels the more one becomes aware of the extraordinary wealth of generosity and kindness that exists in the world.