Where the Indus is Young (10 page)

We stopped for lunch high above Mendi, where Akbar knew the inhabitants of half a dozen hovels close to the snow-line. From here we had an unsurpassed view of the mountains; our whole horizon was bounded by a white fire of glittering peaks. When we sat on the ground a dirt-stiffened blanket was hastily produced to make us comfortable, but even after the regular midday wind had got up, and was stinging us with dust, we were not invited indoors. The only visible inhabitants were a few small children, ragged, filthy, undernourished and afraid to come near us. They made no response to Rachel’s overtures and the littlest ones were scared of my camera. But there were animals everywhere: yak, cows, calves, sheep, lambs, goats, kids, ponies and hens. Only man’s oldest companion was missing; I haven’t yet seen one dog in Baltistan, or one cat.
Presumably
this is because of the acute shortage of suitable food.

Akbar fetched our lunch from a hovel whose inmates were too
shy to appear. The meal consisted of one round of tasty maize bread and a tin plate of watery lentil soup flavoured with garlic and wild thyme. Thyme grows abundantly on these mountains and is still aromatic if one crushes the wiry brown clumps on which some dried leaves remain. A staple diet of thyme doubtless explains why the local goat-meat is so appetising. We stood up to go the moment we had finished our meal, for by then the wind was vicious, and as we moved away a woman’s voice called Akbar. When he rejoined us he was bearing a gift for Rachel of three tiny eggs, which at this season cannot be bought at Dambudass bazaar for love or money.

Two hours later we were again on the edge of the Gorge, and now my heart sank not at the thought of the
ghrari
but at the prospect of negotiating that unspeakable path. Descents are always more difficult and Akbar had gone far ahead with a Mendi friend. Holding Rachel’s right hand (the drop was on our left), I moved down slowly and steadily, trying to keep my eyes off the river – which was not easy, since its noise and movement had an hypnotic effect. All went well until we came to a point some 250 feet above the water where the path simply ceases to exist. For a distance of perhaps two yards – only two brave, carefree steps! – one has to negotiate a cliff-face on which a bird could hardly perch. The rock has been worn smooth by generations of brave, carefree Mendi feet and this bulge overhangs the river so prominently that it is impossible not to look down, and my giddiness was increased by the sight of all those lumps of icy snow swirling and whirling below us. To circumvent the bulge one has to arch one’s body outwards, while keeping one’s head lowered to avoid the overhang, and there is no handhold of any kind.

As I crouched there, with one foot on the slippery polished rock, trying to work out how to get by without releasing Rachel’s hand, a terrible, nightmarish paralysis suddenly overcame me. I felt that I could neither go on, nor, because of Rachel, retreat up the path, which just behind us was only marginally less appalling. I realised that I had completely lost my nerve, for the first time ever, and it was an indescribably dreadful sensation – by far the most terrifying experience of a not unduly sheltered lifetime. The next stage (I was
on the very verge of it) would have been pure panic and almost certain disaster. But then Rachel asked, altogether out of the blue as is her wont – ‘Mummy, how are torpedoes made, exactly?’ And this question may well have saved our lives by momentarily taking my mind off the Indus.

I was afraid to turn my head, lest Rachel might be infected by the fear on my face. I simply gave my standard reply to such
technological
questions – ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, darling’ – and the sound of my own voice uttering those familiar words at once steadied me. As Akbar stared at us from the landing-stage I shouted, ‘Please take Rachel!’ and he raced up the cliff. I passed Rachel to him across that horrific stretch of non-path and the moment she was safe regained my nerve. Nonchalantly manoeuvring myself around the bulge, I cheerfully imagined that if I did fall in I could probably swim out. But I shall never forget those paralysed moments. I seem to remember writing something yesterday about preferring to go to Mendi without Akbar. I take it all back. What would have become of us without him? Would the maternal instinct have restored my nerve – or had the reverse effect? I think the latter: I was pretty far gone.

After that the
ghrari
held no terrors, though with an icy gale being funnelled down the Gorge it swayed much more than this morning. Nor was there any chowkidar on the far side. Instead, a rather weedy youth, about to cross to Mendi himself, made heavy weather of pulling us up the home stretch. When we had disembarked, and were waiting for Akbar – who was pulling the youth across – I noticed that about a yard of the cable has been frayed to one-third of its original thickness. Presumably it is still safe but I am glad I did not observe this detail before we started.

The chowkidar reappeared to join Akbar on his journey and demonstrated how a
ghrari
can be operated solo, by the passenger hauling on ropes attached to iron rings which run along the cable; this is a much slower and jerkier method than being pulled.
Two-thirds
of the way over something stuck and the chowkidar had quite a struggle to get it unstuck. Meanwhile the little box was gyrating wildly and I felt for poor Akbar. Strangely, the
ghrari
was not designed
to hold two adults comfortably and our friend was half-sitting on one side of the contraption. I judged him to be in extreme peril, yet clearly he himself was not at all apprehensive.

Ponies are sometimes roped to
ghraris
and hauled across the Indus; but not often, because the mortality rate is so high. And when the frantic creatures plunge into the river they usually take the box with them, thus seriously disrupting local communications. No boat or raft can be used within the Gorge, and no fording place contrived at any season, which proves how sensationally anti-human this terrain is.

We stopped at the Hotel for much-needed tea and there found another outsider, a neatly-dressed man of about thirty-five. He
introduced
himself in passable English as ‘Mr Aman, Officer Incharge for road-building in Ronda District’. A slightly awkward situation at once arose, for we are occupying the VIP suite that Mr Aman had expected to find ready for him. However, no one here thinks it odd for the sexes to share bedrooms so he is moving in with us. This entails my sleeping on the floor. Aman did not quite ask me to, but he moaned so much about Ronda’s extraordinarily low nocturnal temperature, and the misery of having no bed, that I surrendered mine just to shut him up.

I find Aman’s company singularly uninspiring. He is a Nagarwal who now lives in Skardu, from where he came today in a military jeep. Like many of his race he has brown hair, pale blue eyes, very white skin and conspicuously-developed jaw muscles – a result of having been reared on tough dried apricots and hard apricot kernels. For the past two hours he has been sitting warming his hands over our stove and watching me writing this. He has not spoken one word and his silent scrutiny is exasperating. It also underlines a basic difference between East and West. Although a man of some education, he is apparently capable of happily doing nothing for an indefinite period. I feel I am unlikely to discover any great affinity with a man who could come bookless to Ronda. But then the habit of reading books for pleasure has not yet really caught on
throughout
this subcontinent; even those with the necessary education and money usually read only magazines and newspapers.

When we arrived here we let it be known that we wanted to buy a pony, but the jeep era has banished working-ponies from most villages within a day’s walk of the track. However, this morning Mazhar told us that a pony is on offer in a hamlet high above Gomu, so our next step is to find out by trial – but not I trust by error – if he and Rachel are compatible.

As soon as one embarks on a business deal in the Orient one has to change gear. Today I resigned myself to waiting for the
pony-owner
’s promised appearance, while not allowing myself (or the eager Rachel) to count on it. To get out of Aman’s way we spent hours doing sums and reading amidst the black rocks below the Rest House, from where we could see the pony coming if he came – which of course he didn’t.

Since New Year’s Eve the daytime temperatures have been dropping perceptibly and our waterfall has now been frozen solid for
forty-eight
hours. It is quite difficult to chip off enough ice for cooking and washing – not that the latter activity occupies much of our time. The universal filthiness of Baltistan discourages attempts to keep clean; these could only lead to frustration, not to mention pneumonia. Neither of us has undressed since we left Islamabad, but we are none the worse for that, at least in our own estimation. (Admittedly my readers might think otherwise, should some magic carpet suddenly transport us to their homes.) The first few days in dirty clothes are always slightly uncomfortable; then one happily settles into one’s niche among the great unwashed.

Aman is still, alas! with us, sitting opposite me as I write, flicking through Ian Stephens’
The Horned Moon.
I lent it to him in a desperate effort to render him less irritating but as he is turning the pages rapidly, with a well-wetted forefinger, my effort is having the reverse effect. He seems to half-resent our being here though we are providing him with free heating, lighting and accommodation.

There has been a dramatic deterioration in the weather today, which is hardly surprising on the fourth of January in the Karakoram. We
usually wake at sixish and read for an hour or so in our flea-bags, as no one in their right mind would get up here before the sun does. But this morning reading was difficult: we each had to glove the exposed hand. Several times during the night the whining of the wind woke me and by 8 a.m. it had become a shrieking fury that sent clouds and pillars and curtains of grey dust flying through the air – weirdly beautiful to watch, but no fun to be out in. And we were out in it, because we breakfasted at the Hotel as refugees from Aman. He has an odd way of making one feel uncomfortable without saying or doing anything positive enough to be described.

We were both impressed, between gale gusts, by the silence of a completely frozen landscape. Until they have been stilled one doesn’t realise how much background noise is provided by streams, irrigation channels and waterfalls. Much of the track was covered with sheets of thick ice, and waterfalls had become towering,
transparent
columns, surrounded by the bizarre elegance of giant bouquets of icicles formed around clumps of thyme. Fantastically convoluted masses of ice hung from roadside rocks and Rachel was so overcome by all this loveliness that she soon forgot her discomfort. The air was so cold when we left the Rest House that she could scarcely breathe. I have been breaking her in gently and this was her first morning to be out before the sun reached Thowar – not that it ever reached us today.

When we left the Hotel at 9.30 the sky was a uniform chilly silver and the peaks were being veiled by fresh snowfalls. We had hoped to find Aman gone about his day’s business (the paying of PWD coolies) but he was only starting his prayers. Then he had to have his breakfast and attend to his toilet – a lengthy process, as he carefully creams his face and spends fifteen minutes grooming, oiling and setting his wavy hair in front of a hand-mirror. When Rachel asked, ‘Mummy, why don’t we have a mirror?’ he was deeply shocked to realise that a
woman
had ventured into Darkest Central Asia without this essential piece of equipment. He is good-looking in an effeminate way but has a mean, petulant little mouth and evasive eyes.

Our potential pony lives at 12,500 feet and his owner appeared
without him at noon, explaining that the way was too icy this morning to risk taking him down. Nor could Aman get much work done; most of the men he was to have paid were unable to leave their high hamlets. All day everybody huddled around whatever heat was available and the wind howled and moaned like a creature in agony; everything in our room was permeated by fine dust and the mountains disappeared as the sky sank lower and darker over the Gorge. At three o’clock I went to the Hotel to fetch paratas for our supper and found the door closed for the first time. About thirty men were crouching around the fire in the flame-lit darkness (there is no window) and a chorus of friendly welcomes greeted me. It seems a long time since the evening of our arrival, when we were regarded with such grim hostility. As usual I had a long wait while our paratas were being kneaded, rolled, shaped and fried by a cheerful ragged youth with a running nose who I’m sure hasn’t washed since birth; he is the fourteen-year-old Balti apprentice of the Pathan proprietor. I wouldn’t dare take Rachel to such a filthy region during summer: now it is too cold for bacteria to survive.

Going home I overtook an old man with a bushy beard and a big grin who was wearing a long scarlet lady’s overcoat that might have been fashionable in Europe fifteen years ago; one wonders by what unlikely series of journeys it arrived here. Behind him three very small boys were struggling with a threadbare blanket, trying to make it long enough to protect them all from the searing wind; they looked like an illustration in some tear-jerking Victorian novel, yet when I passed I saw that they were giggling happily.

On every rock ice gleamed dully, under that sunless, pale grey sky, and the sandy dust whirled in sudden choking spirals, and the bleak walls of the Gorge towered blackly over a snow-flecked Indus. Ronda today seemed a place desolate and tortured and torturing, without mercy or hope. Yet in three months’ time its oases will have come to life again and in five months they will be Paradise Regained.

Mazhar brought news this evening of a jeep-drivers’ strike. The idea of striking seems very alien to this part of the world but I suppose it goes with modern machines. The drivers’ grievance is that the Pakistani Army road-construction gangs working in the
Gorge never forewarn them about blasting operations. Therefore jeeps are often held up for hours and these delays can necessitate travelling in the dark on a track which not even the most reckless driver will voluntarily tackle at night. The jeep-wallahs are demanding that the Pakistanis should imitate the Chinese, who give a forty-eight hour warning before every closure. But obviously this is asking too much; life’s not like that in Pakistan.