Where the Indus is Young (9 page)

Our Gomu friends were delighted to see us returning safely from our inexplicable peregrination. They had tea ready for us in a tall pewter jug with an ornate handle and lid. To my sentimental delight and Rachel’s gastronomic horror it proved to be
Tibetan
tea,
complete
with rancid butter. Everyone rejoiced to find me so appreciative of their regional delicacy and we were shown the goat-skins which serve as churns and the sheet of yak-skin in which a few pounds of this precious butter, which had already been smoked for some months, was about to be buried under the snow. Several long strips of dried and salted yak-meat were hanging from the rafters above the fire. The Baltis, unlike the Tibetans, do not relish rotten meat; perhaps the local climate is not cold enough for this taste to be practical.

On the way home we met our first pure-bred yak, an already massive two-year-old. I had not previously realised how very
dissimilar
yak are to all other domestic cattle; they have feet like a ballerina’s and forequarters like a bison’s. This youngster took a great fancy to me. As I photographed him he approached to try to eat the camera and he was ecstatic when I scratched between his horns, already some eighteen inches long. But when Rachel appeared in her scarlet snow-suit he at once lowered his head, blew menacingly through his nostrils and began to paw the ground. I got out my camera to distract him and quietly told Rachel to
walk
out of sight … Mercifully the camera distraction worked.

We got home at 3.30 and I continued alone to the Hotel to buy chapattis for our supper. The strong wind that had risen a few hours earlier was still blowing down the Gorge, driving fine sand into
everything. Yet all the few bony, shrivel-faced children I passed were wearing only cotton shifts and shalwars – the shifts open to halfway down their chests. Rachel would be dead in twenty-four hours if thus exposed to such a wind.

Outside the Hotel stood several groups of timid-looking,
shaggy-haired
, ragged men, many with goitres like rugger-balls. They were patiently awaiting their monthly ration of government-subsidised wheat, which they grind themselves in their village water-mills. When a man’s share had been carefully weighed – with stones as weights – the precious grain was poured into sacks of sheep- or goatskin, some still with the wool on. Each man then sat on the ground and when a friend had harnessed him to his heavy load, with hide thongs, he struggled to his feet, grasped his stick and set slowly off on the long trudge home to some hidden hamlet in a crevice of the mountains. Watching them go – bent under their burdens and flayed by that savage wind – I remembered Sir Francis Younghusband’s
summing-up
: ‘Baltis have a careworn, depressed look at first sight. But they are a gentle, likeable people, and whenever the care of feeding themselves is off their minds they brighten up and unloose their tongues.’

This subsidised food scheme is an act of great humanity on the part of Mr Bhutto’s government; in such an area it cannot reasonably be considered a vote-catching device. Some Pakistanis argue that the Baltis don’t deserve it because their poverty is largely their own fault. It is said that they are bone-lazy and that the Hunzawals, with no greater natural advantages, have always managed to achieve a modest level of prosperity. I have never been to Hunza so I cannot dispute this point. I only know that all the scientific and mountaineering expeditions with experience of Balti porters have praised them warmly for their industry, endurance, loyalty, patience, gentleness, cheerfulness and scrupulous honesty.

Today we went down instead of up and at last found a spot where the Indus is approachable. For five miles we followed the jeep-track towards Skardu and though the sun shone all day it never reached us because we were descending to river-level. Moreover, a knife-edged
wind was cutting through the Gorge so we needed balaclavas, gloves and snow-goggles – these last to protect our eyes from the clouds of stinging dust frequently whipped up by the wind.

The grandeur, weirdness, variety and ferocity of this region cannot be exaggerated. We sometimes paused to gaze up at boulders the size of a three-storey house which were poised above the track looking as though a mouse could topple them. Rachel found these slightly intimidating and when for no reason a few pebbles came rolling down just behind us she jumped like a shot rabbit. Undeniably the potential hazards of this terrain give a special flavour to daily life. We are used to thinking of our physical surroundings as stable and long since tamed, but here the land is blatantly untamed and untameable.

The last stage of our descent, when we left the track, was down a grey, sandy slope strewn with grey stones and aromatic grey clumps of dried thyme. Between this slope and the river rose a grotesque hill of black rock with a rounded summit of golden sand; from the track it had looked like an island.

Reaching the water, we found it lapping gently on a small silver beach. It felt quite odd to be beside it, having so often during the past week gazed at it from such heights. To celebrate the occasion we solemnly drank some Indus from our thermos mug and wrote our names on the sand with my Ethiopian
dula
. But very soon the wind had erased us – which would make a good starting-point for a philosophical digression.

Near the water’s edge was a tumble of toffee-coloured boulders, large and small, which had been polished, as though with wax, by the action of the wind and the sand. The effect was most striking: these rocks gleamed like pieces of well-kept furniture.

Altogether different was the 2,000-foot cliff beneath which we lunched in a cave. This grey-black wall of jagged, fissured rock (our cave was one of the fissures) extended up and up and up in diagonal layers and looked as if the mildest earth tremor could send the whole improbable mass crashing into the Indus. I felt ridiculously uneasy while drinking my pea soup – a form of nourishment that inevitably provoked several of those cloacal puns to which Rachel’s age-group is so vilely addicted.

By two o’clock the wind had reached gale-force so we turned our tails to it and made for home. There was one hamlet on a ledge not far above the river about half a mile downstream from our beach, but all day we saw nobody; the ill-clad Baltis detest this wind.

It really is extraordinary how humans come to terms with such areas, showing infinite resourcefulness and determination in their efforts to sustain life. The local irrigation channels are a marvel of primitive engineering and take a lot of time and thought to keep in order. As the rainfall is practically nil, glacial streams have to be led, often for miles, along precarious mountainsides and across the faces of almost sheer cliffs to the rare oases of soil. Then, to receive this hard-won water, the soil has to be built up by hand into level terraces. If the Baltis were as lazy as some Pakistanis allege, they would long since have become extinct.

The construction of animal shelters also requires ingenuity. Even from close to, their roofs sometimes look like fields: which indicates how tiny many of the fields are. Then suddenly you realise that you are standing on a stable, and peering over the edge you see a minute wooden door in what had seemed to be the field’s stone
embankment
. Such shelters are occupied during spring and autumn nights by goats and sheep, and are used for storing winter fodder. Cattle are almost always stabled in the villages.

Every fertile patch of ground supports a variety of trees including many young poplars, which are planted as building-material; in winter these look very frail, standing tall, slender and naked between stalwart Asian planes, with their jigsaw-puzzle barks of silver and brown, and sturdy vine-entwined mulberry or apricot trees.

It is now ten o’clock and bedtime for me; I could not possibly stay awake to see the New Year in. Nor is there anything but tea with which to greet it. I find it very odd that one completely forgets about alcohol as soon as it is not available, though at home an evening without a drink would seem intolerable.

A sad start to the New Year. After breakfast we went to Dambudass for more kerosene and there met Syed M. Abbas Kazmi, one of the leaders of Skardu society, to whom we had been introduced in Gilgit. He arrived here last evening, on his way home, and told us of an appalling earthquake in the Swat area of the Indus Valley on 29 December. We are probably among the last people in the world to have heard of it, though it took place scarcely 150 miles away. The Aurangzebs moved up to Saidu on 21 December, but presumably are safe: the wireless would surely have mentioned it had they been involved. An estimated 7,500 have been killed and 14,000 left
homeless
. Some forty miles of the new Indus Highway have been demolished and repairs are likely to take a few months, during which no supplies can come through to the Northern Areas by road; therefore serious petrol and kerosene shortages are forecast.

Abbas Kazmi looks incongruous here. A slight, pale young man of Kashmiri – originally Persian – extraction, he was born and bred in Skardu but wears spotless, well-cut European-style clothes and speaks fluent English. It would not be unfair to call him a
dandy; he objected to five hens sharing the charpoy on which we were sitting outside the
chi-khana
‘because they will spoil our clothes’. Then he glanced at my grimy husky-suit and commiserated with me on the lack of
dhobi
facilities in Baltistan. I replied dryly that to us the
dhobi
situation is irrelevant as we have no change of outer garments. Despite his sartorial foibles Abbas Kazmi is a most likeable character, very knowledgeable about Baltistan and extremely kind. In Gilgit he had heard that I was planning to rent a room in Skardu for some weeks and today he assured me that this will not be necessary as we can use the empty house of a friend of his who winters down-country. In Asia it is always a good idea to broadcast one’s plans.

Here no subsidised kerosene is available and two gallons, sold by weight, cost Rs.25 instead of Rs.7 – not too unreasonable, considering the transport difficulties: moreover it is unadulterated, so this evening our room is at last free of noxious fumes.

The merchant Zaffir Khan, whom we regularly patronise, today invited us into his home to meet his family. He is a Pathan, as are the owner of the
chi-khana
and the proprietor of the Hotel. The locals are as yet too unworldly to take commercial advantage of their
jeep-track
and Abbas Kazmi explained that all along it Pathans are to be found running stores or hotels. Often these are relatives of the
jeep-drivers
who in summer regularly carry loads to Skardu. Both Pathans and Punjabis are disliked throughout Baltistan, partly because of the normal antagonism felt towards meddling outsiders by isolated communities, and partly because many immigrants cheat when financially innocent villagers wish to exchange chickens, eggs or fruit for tea, sugar or cloth. However, not all immigrants exploit and despise the rough rug-headed Balti kerns. Some, including Zaffir Khan, are sympathetic, condoling with them on the recent loss of their ‘Rajas’, who were really petty chiefs traditionally subject to the Raja of Skardu.

We were welcomed by Zaffir Khan’s elder daughter, a handsome young woman, self-possessed and charming. Like most Dambudass buildings, the Khan’s house is new, but sapling poplars are already growing in the small, neatly-kept courtyard. Against the sunniest
wall was a charpoy, spread with a clean quilt, and we sat beside the younger daughter, aged ten, and her little Balti friend, who wore a weighty necklace of silver ornaments. There is no girls’ school within reach but this young Pathan was practising Urdu with a reed pen and charcoal ink on a mulberry-wood board. The elder girl had attended school down-country, before their father decided to become a pioneer, and she is teaching her sister the three Rs. When I asked why the Balti child was neglecting this educational opportunity I was told, ‘She does not like to learn.’

After about half an hour our hostess carried into the courtyard a table covered with a spotless white cloth. Then a small servant-boy appeared with a pitcher of hot water, a cake of soap, a basin and a crisp, clean towel. There is never any escaping Pathan hospitality. And the meal, of predictable chapattis and goat-stew, was varied by small chunks of potato which for us transformed it into a New Year’s banquet.

This has been an unusually social day. On our way back to Thowar we were waylaid outside the Hotel by Akbar, the fifteen-year-old son of a Pathan government ‘contractor’ who for the past year has been living with his wife and family in a hovel-cum-godown near the Hotel. It seems that in Ronda District a government contractor is the man responsible for transporting and distributing the subsidised foods. Akbar invited us to have tea with his mother and two married sisters, whose husbands assist their father-in-law. As these Peshawar women keep strict purdah they find life in Ronda excruciatingly boring. None of the local women speaks Urdu or Pushtu, so they have no one to talk to apart from Zaffir Khan’s daughers and the ladies of the medical team. Akbar, however, obviously enjoys life here. He has offered to guide us to Mendi tomorrow, a trip which involves crossing the Indus by
ghrari
– a box suspended from a steel cable. I would prefer to go unaccompanied but can think of no way of politely evading him.

Mazhar has just been in for his regular evening chat. I have developed a real affection for him – something much more than the casual liking one feels for a fellow exile – and I am going to miss him greatly when we leave. He is the finest sort of orthodox Muslim,
high-principled 
and serious-minded, yet with an effervescent sense of humour, a mature quality of compassion and an intelligent curiosity about other cultures. He is not at all looking forward to doing his postgraduate course in the permissive United States, but he admits that in Pakistan it is impossible to get a first-class medical training.

This evening he told me of his marriage plans. When he returns from America he will tell his mother that he would like to marry a particular girl from the dozen or so that his parents will have selected for his consideration. An approach will then be made to the girl’s parents and if they consider Mazhar suitable it is most unlikely that she will refuse him. Mazhar does not doubt that this method of arranging marriages is best and the behaviour of young Western couples revolts him. In the tones of one who has witnessed some peculiarly depraved orgy, he described a boy and girl he had seen walking on the street in Pindi with their arms around each other’s shoulders. ‘This is all right behind curtains,’ he said, ‘but in public it offends every Muslim. It is a sight that makes us sick with disgust. How can civilised people behave like this when children and young people can see them? We do not understand.’ Poor lad! He is going to need treatment for shock when he gets to his Brooklyn hospital.

This morning when we met Akbar at the Hotel we were directly opposite Mendi, but the local landscape is so chaotic that to approach the
ghrari
a four-mile detour is necessary. What an approach this is! We had already partially explored it, in the course of our wanderings, and at a certain point had turned back in the honest conviction that we had come to an impasse, humanly speaking. A faint path was discernible continuing down the sheer cliff at an outrageous angle, but I had assumed that this was used only by the more youthful and agile Ronda goats. Today, however, we were led to realise that here lay the high road to Mendi.

Akbar went bounding blithely ahead, while I gripped Rachel by the hand, commended the Misses Murphy to Allah and cautiously followed him. As this path was not designed for leading people by the hand I had to proceed crabwise most of the time, thereby giving
myself an excellent view of the Indus, getting gradually closer, and always ready to be fallen into if one made the slightest slip. Today, for the first time this winter, the river is carrying many large chunks of frozen snow, which give it a sinister look. It would probably have been safer to proceed in single file but the maternal instinct is not always rational and I couldn’t bring myself to let Rachel go it alone, as she was perfectly willing to do. To her my quaint precautions seemed hilariously funny, but when the famous
ghrari
at last came into view she quickly sobered up.

A man was crossing from Mendi and we paused to watch that tiny figure in a swaying, shallow wooden box – the size of a small
tea-chest
, with one side missing – suspended on two wire ropes from a steel cable and pulley. The cable stretched 110 yards from cliff to cliff, 200 feet above the river, and on both sides solid landing-stages of cut stone have been built at the ends of the pathways.

After an ’orrible ’ush, Rachel asked in a small, unamused voice, ‘Will I have to go across by myself?’

‘Most certainly not,’ I replied decisively. Then I began to hope there would not be room in the box for two – or even one and a half – in which case I could beat an honourable retreat from this singularly unalluring mode of transport.

We continued down, trying not to watch that box jerking and swaying in the gloomy depths of the Gorge. As we reached the landing-stage the passenger was disembarking and Akbar beamed at us and held the ghastly contraption steady for Rachel to get in. I could see now that there was just enough room for one and a half persons.

‘Do you really want to go to Mendi?’ asked Rachel in faint tones.

‘It’s the very last place on earth I want to go!’ I replied frankly and fervently. Then, as I was about to suggest that we should turn tail, Rachel continued, ‘But if we went back now it would be not brave.’ Thus was an allegedly intrepid traveller shamed into bravery by a child.

The box rocked sickeningly as I lifted Rachel in and for one
fearsome
moment I thought it was going to run away on its pulley before I could join her. We were wedged tightly with our legs
dangling over the river, and I gripped the two wire ropes as Akbar let go and we went swaying off at the mercy of that one little wheel running along the cable.

Oddly enough, the moment the ordeal started it ceased to be an ordeal. ‘It only
looked
frightening!’ exclaimed Rachel. ‘Being in it is fun!’ And I quite saw her point, though to describe this ride as ‘fun’ seemed to be going a little far. One felt surprisingly secure, however – even when the
ghrari
stopped in midstream because the chowkidar who has to haul on the rope for the second half of the trip was chatting to a crony. It was certainly a memorable experience to look up at the soaring walls of dark rock on either side and then down at the swift, snow-laden Indus. I was relieved to note that here the river is deep; if the cable did snap at least we would not be smashed to bits on boulders.

As the chowkidar pulled the box up it proceeded slowly in a series of jerks, some of which felt violent enough to make me grasp the wires even more tightly. I reminded myself that scores of men from Mendi, and several other villages, uneventfully use this
ghrari
every day of the year; but it would be idle to deny that I felt relieved when we reached the landing-stage. My relief, however, was short-lived. Akbar admitted that the upward path to Mendi is ‘very dangerous’; even the Baltis go to their Maker from it with some regularity.

The Mendi side of the river is more fertile than ours, its habitable ledge extending for a few miles. But of course this is not a level ledge; traversing it involves crossing a deep, rock-filled ravine on a rickety, narrow plank bridge, climbing 300 feet up slithery grey scree slopes, climbing 500 feet down almost sheer brown cliffs, crossing acres of burnt yellow pastureland strewn with gigantic black boulders the size and shape of barns, scrambling up 200-foot embankments of friable cinnamon earth – and so on.

I found it difficult to distinguish between human and animal dwellings; some of the former are rudimentary while some of the latter are elaborate. Many stables are constructed of layered wood and stone, with upper storey of woven willow-wands.

Akbar pointed out the two ‘palaces’ of the local raja. The old one is high on an impregnable mountainside and fortified; the new one was
finished only a few years ago and is not far from the
ghrari
. Both are much bigger than a peasant’s house but built in the same style.

Here we saw Balti ponies for the first time; these sturdy, nimble little creatures are much pampered because this is a polo-mad area. But the abolition of the rajas is affecting polo: they bred the best ponies and generally subsidised and encouraged the game, usually leading the local team on the battlefield. Today we passed two long, beautifully kept polo-grounds, the only perfectly smooth and level pieces of land I can recollect seeing since we left Gilgit. On both, teams of boys were playing ponyless polo, which closely resembles hurling. They were using appropriately-shaped branches and the ball, made of leather thongs wound around a stone, looked remarkably like a sliothar. The strength and skill of even quite tiny boys was astonishing, as they went sprinting up and down those long fields at incredible speed. Several men sat in the sun on low, surrounding stone walls, shouting advice, and I had a narrow escape when one little demon, aged perhaps twelve, deliberately sent the heavy ball whizzing past my face so that I felt the wind of its passing. No doubt he was merely showing off his accuracy, but Akbar was rightly enraged. Had that missile got me on the temple I might not now be in very good health.