Life in a Chitrali village

Imagine towering masses of barren rock stretching high into the deep blue sky. Impossibly steep slopes of scree reach from the top of a mountain to the bottom, with a light dusting of snow at the top. Fields in the valleys are brown as it is autumn and after the harvesting, but many poplar and birch trees are turning yellow. Fruit trees are beautiful hues of red and gold. There is a river running through the valley, the roar of which can be heard miles away as everything else is so quiet. Streams meander down from the mountains, the water sparkling and dancing in the sunlight. Traditional mud and stone houses, blending into the landscape, are scattered between the fields and golden trees. There are no roads. At night it is pitch black, the sky is a carpet of stars, and the absolute silence is all-enveloping. Snow leopards, ibex and bears prowl in the mountains. Welcome to Baleem, Chitral.

People in Baleem are almost completely self-sufficient – they grow their own wheat and maize for flour, vegetables, beans, and they have yaks, goats, sheep and cattle for meat. They make their own clothes, and carpets out of wool. The food is incredibly fresh and delicious. Breakfast is usually local maize bread eaten with butter, cream or cottage cheese, freshly made.

All families in the village own land used for crops, trees and pasture. Although land is divided between sons, generally all farming is done by the one big extended family, and the produce is eaten by the whole family. All the houses have big stores, where they keep food over the winter. While I was there, people were visibly preparing for the long and hard winter. Crops were being dried on the top of the houses,

yaks were beginning to be slaughtered, men were walking through the village carrying huge piles of grass for the cattle. Women were cleaning the wheat, preparatory to sending it to one of the many flour mills.

These mills are small huts built over fast flowing streams, where the water turns a stone, grinding the wheat and turning it into flour. People pay one shovel load to the worker at the flour mill for each sack of flour. Because the winter is so hard and long, families can do little more than eat and sleep, and try to keep warm! Now however, it is usual for some people to come to Islamabad. As well as owning land, many of the men move to cities to work, and many of the women work as teachers.

About 80% of the villagers are Ismaili, and 20% are Sunni – there are nine (!) Jammat Khanas in the village, and one mosque. But there seems to be quite a lot of inter-marriage – many of Asif’s family are Sunnis. People’s families are huge. I lost track of all Asif’s relatives I was introduced to, and quite quickly. Asif would say: and now we are going to visit my wife’s sister’s mothers brother in law, married to the person we met yesterday. I was reduced to smiling and nodding, although things got a little awkward when he tested me on the people we met…. It even took me a while to get the hang of all his family that lived in his house – four brothers, their wives and many beautiful children. The people I met were very proud to be Ismaili – many people said to me that the area was peaceful because it is Ismaili. And people were exceptionally friendly – everyone we met, almost without exception, greeted us with a salaam and a smile, and I was invited into so many homes and served with so much food. I really do not know how I can repay such generous hospitality. I hope I am doing so slightly now, by spreading the word at how amazingly generous the people of Chitral are.

The village is a lot more liberal than I expected. Women and girls walk feely around the village and valleys, often doing hard work. They greet and shake or kiss hands with men – it is traditional here for younger people to kiss the hand of older men or women as a sign of respect. The houses are always open for guests. Women can be the head of the household if they outlive their husband. Then they are consulted on all decisions related to the running of the household and greatly respected. But many of the girls and younger women are very shy, especially with a foreigner.

Everyone speaks Khowar, (also called Chitrali). Chitrali is spoken through the whole of Chitral, surprisingly enough, but also in parts of Ghizer, the neighbouring district in the Northern Areas (only accessible over the 12,000 foot Shandur pass). Many of the younger children and older people speak only a very little Urdu, and no English, which caused problems some times. When visiting one house, with the whole family from tiny baby to great grandmother staring avidly at me, I tried vainly to make conversation. And so I asked the old lady: apka naam kya hain (what is your name, in Urdu). She answered: ‘jam’ which is ‘good’ in Khowar, obviously not having understood a word!! The whole family burst out laughing, and conversation didn’t really flourish. The area is so isolated that the older people haven’t needed Urdu in their lives. There is only one phone in the village, electricity only at night, and seven hours in a painful jeep ride to the nearest city. Even now, for example, most of the people ignored the new daylight saving time introduced by Islamabad, and worked on the old timings.

To be continued …..

A window onto culture at the roof of the world

This entry is a brief interlude in my Chitral story. Never fear, the next stage will be written very shortly, but in the meantime one of my colleagues (Tayib Jan) has written an article about traditions in the Wakhi culture. The Wakhi people come from the Wakhan corridor in Afghanistan, which is a narrow stretch of land between N Pakistan and Tajikistan. But Wakhi people now live in Afghanistan, Pakistan, China and Tajikistan, in the Pamir region. Nearly all Wakhi people are Ismaili, and their language is very similar to Persian. The following article is about their traditons and culture, particularly within the family. I really wish he had given it to me before I went to Chitral, as the culture there is quite similar, and according to this I made some fundamental errors. But never mind....

'Childhood, youth and old age are natural phenomenon, but they are also socially constructed and mean different things in different societies. Generally, for the purposes of gauging human development, stages are classified as beginning, early childhood, middle childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, middle adulthood and late adulthood. There are not age limits as such set internationally or nationally at what age we are young and at what age one gets old. It has more to do with the cognitive abilities and working capacity or physical activeness. Some people used to say that when the hair turns gray one becomes old, but today even very young children have grey hair. Socially it can be measured against more or less experience; a synonym for being knowledgeable against being naïve or novice. When youth assume that the old people are ignorant of the demands of time, or when old people think that the youth has a little know-how of the world and its complexities, cracks can develop in society.

Many societies and families have long traditions of authority in which most decisions are made by the elders. If the tradition of accepting the elders is deeply inculcated in the youth the system moves very smoothly. Otherwise, issues of disagreement escalate and on occasions turn into serious revolt. In some cases children have tried to get rid of their elders by sending them to old age facility centers or used some other innovative brutal ways. In other cases the youth have tried a simpler way of just ignoring them despite of the age related requirement that the need to be in some company at least for few hours a day to share the wealth the knowledge they have stored from childhood through youth and to the old age. Some old people are smart and lucky enough to find their grandchildren as their friends. They talk to them and love listening to their experiences and reflect on how much the world has changed.

The Wakhi older adults are good models of vigor and zest. Some people live to ripe old age, as my own grandfather grew as old as 120 years. There are some social factors attached to energy that boost their morale because they feel honoured in the society. In this paper I am going to talk about the titles used for them, decision making, and position at home, dinning, dancing and walking. This paper will not only help the honorable visitors of the Wakhi homes rather it will also allow our own youth to remind themselves of the traditional values of our society. I am aware of the fact that their will be commonalities in other traditions such as Brushaski, Shina, Khowar, and Dari but I will focus on Wakhi so that I do not confuse people.

The Wakhi elders can be called “Mapair”, “Akabeer”, Moye Safeed” or Akhasqool”. Mapair and Akhasqool have the same meaning as old man. Therefore people do not use both these words as they have negative connotations. Akabeer (wise man) and Moye Safeed (white haired man or women meaning experienced). But the most common word used is “Puop”, which means grandfather. The beauty of this title is that it is not necessary that a person needs to be a real grandfather to be called pup. All old males are called pup and while meeting them the first time after a long absence it is necessary to kiss the back of their hands. In return the pup will also kiss the back of your hand. Old ladies are called “Kumpir” meaning old woman and “moum” meaning grandmother. Old women are normally called mum whether they are really grandmother or not and it is an obligation to kiss the back of their hands while visiting them.

The elders of the family, whether male or female, make most of the decisions at home. The decision-making process is mostly participatory and based on common understanding. In the case of marriages, Wakhis are moderate as the boys and girls decide to whom they should marry. The process is carried out through informed consent of the family, especially with the elders.

The elders sit at the most honorable and reserved place in the traditionally built homes. The man sits on the right side and the woman on the left. Nobody else can take their position no matter whether they are head of state or the wealthiest person. The guests, however, can be offered to sit in their places but it is normally considered a good attitude to let the poup or moum sit in their position and the guest sits beside them. In the same fashion the rest of the house is divided into second, third and so on ages. If a person is really naïve it is said he/ she is so simple that “does not know how to sit or stand”. One needs to be really careful in visiting a Wakhi house to avoid taking somebody’s place. The youngest (no matter how educated or having good social status) gets a place in the “burj” means corner in a fully packed house. Relaxing your feet towards somebody or sitting in a way that somebody is at your back is the rudest act.

Food is normally served at a fixed time and at particular place, called the Neekard in the traditional houses. The sheet that is spread on the floor to put the food on is called “Destorkhon”, which is the same in Dari and Persian. It is generally a clean piece of cloth or plastic sheet and people sit around it. When the food is served every body waits the eldest of in the group to start first and other people follow. One of the people takes a full roti called “Shapeek” and offers it to others to take. In such situation one takes a small piece and thanks the person who offers it. Wakhi eating style is very formal, the host will keep on suggesting taking more. Sometimes when this is done by the host puop the situation gets serious! The puop suggests eating more food and can keep on loading your plate with meat or rice. In this case simply ignoring the offer or rejecting it is unacceptable behavior which is really rude. The young are supposed to keep a speed that they finish later than then elders. One can not stop eating until the elders are finished eating. When a person wants to take water he/ she offers others to take it first. In most of cases it is politely rejected by thanks “Schobosh” or “shukriya”. After the food everyone offers prayers for the host and the family who served them. The puop prayers in Wakhi are, for example “May God fill your house with riches”, May God bless all your family” and a lot or more which will be another topic of my writing.

Wakhi, especially men, like dancing but it is very well developed social activity. If somebody wants to see the hierarchy of age in a family or in a bigger clan one should see the dancing line. The line goes from the eldest to elders and to young children. Everybody in a dancing team should follow the team leader who is the most senior person in steps, body movement and speed. The whole dancing team will salute the eldest in the audience before, during and after the dance which lasts 5 to 10 minutes. To show respect the audience encourages the dancers by clapping. Crossing the elders to take the lead, taking a longer time, breaking the row, deferring the elders’ footsteps or standing at the wrong position is really impolite.

Wakhi people like walking, and the landscape where we come from means that we need to walk. Walking in the Wakhi tradition is really difficult - there are some complexities and formalities related to it. The Wakhi elders usually lead the walking and they keep the same hierarchy while walking in a line. This does not mean that whenever the Wakhi walk they walk in a line, but it has something to do with the landscape. There are a lot of narrow walking tracks spread all over the area so people are compelled to follow narrow windings.

Some people might think these are just symbolic but there are tokens of respect attached to all these rituals. There are no certain criteria by which respect can be measured rather it is day and night. The presence of light is called day while the absence of it is night. The same is the case with this semiotic representation of elders’ respect.

Kafiristan!!

Chitral is delicately balanced between Afghanistan and Swat, in the Hindu Kush mountains. Given this (interesting?) geographical location I had a major internal struggle over whether to go with a colleague, who had invited me to stay with his family over Eid. But both the Foreign Office and VSO said the area is peaceful, so I didn’t give in to fear and boldly went to a place where many other foreigners have been before.

After arriving in Chitral, after a mere 45 minute flight, I had to go to the District Police Office so I could register as a foreigner. After that surprisingly quick process, we started on the journey to Kafiristan – the Kalash valleys. The Kalash valleys are famous because the people there are the only non-Muslims in a large area. They have their own very different religion and traditions, and it is thought that they are descendents from the army of Alexander the Great.

The journey was quite incredible – the mountains were huge, the valleys green, and the road was, well very bumpy, to say the least. I thought I was getting used to mountain roads, but at some points this one was completely gauged out of granite rock – huge tons of rock seemed to be hanging delicately over the road. Plus, we had a normal car rather than one built for such roads, which clattered considerably, so I was rather worried about the state of the tyres.

As we got closer I felt more and more guilty that I was going to gawp at people like they were museum exhibits. But actually when we got there the guy I was with, Asif, had friends there – he seems to have contacts everywhere (used to be a politician!!). So we met his friends, who made tea for us, and then we were shown around the village. Walking around the streets was wonderful. It seemed to an outsider to be a gentle and slow rhythm of life – women were walking around carrying produce, chatting in the streets, kids were playing, and everyone smiled and greeted us.

The women’s clothes were colourful, intricately designed and made, and very beautiful. But it definitely wasn’t a village untouched by modernity - there were adverts for pepsi, and signs basically saying ‘NGO x woz ‘ere’. I really didn’t like that, it was like the NGOs were taking ownership over the village, and saying ‘congratulations to us, we’ve bought these people into the modern world.’ But at the same time I was told about one Kalash woman who had started her own NGO. And the Kalash people obviously hold very closely onto their culture. When women give birth or menstruate they go to a special house where men are not allowed. If a man goes beyond a certain line he has to pay a fine of one goat.

One thing really shocked me – Asif pointed to a particular direction, and said – walk three hours in that direction (admittedly over rather a large mountain), and you get to Afghanistan, Nuristan, and Taliban central. (Behind the mountain in the photo: Afghanistan).

I couldn’t take it in that I was so close to such a dangerous area, yet the Kalash valleys were completely safe and peaceful. I assume that the nature of the villages is very similar in Nuristan and Kafiristan – remote, mountainous, similar crops being grown, life dictated by the seasons. But how can villages so close to each other geographically have people with such a different attitudes to life, cultures and traditions?

In a second village we visited we went to the graveyard which was fairly disturbing, as they used to have open graves (not any more). As much as I tried not to look, I could still see bones in some of the old graves. After Asif met someone else he knew, we started on the long drive back to Chitral, but the excitements of the day were not over. When we got back into mobile phone range I got some texts from VSO saying that Islamabad airport had been closed and all flights suspended due to a bomb scare. It must have happened just after we left. I’m ashamed to say that I had another major panic attack. But I spoke to my parents who have completely changed their tune from saying get on the first flight back to the UK, to saying: oh just enjoy it. So I will, and decided to postpone worrying about how to get back until the time came.

We stayed with Asif’s brother in Chitral. Chitral city is quite conservative – there were no women in the bazaar, so I slightly stood out, even though I had my head covered. Even Ismaili women, who I stayed with, completely covered their face when they went out, and would not venture out without a man, even though in their village they were a lot freer. I was wondering why Chitral is so peaceful given its proximity to Swat, Afghanistan and some tribal agencies. Chitral city itself is mainly Sunni, as it lower Chitral, but upper Chitral is mainly Ismaili. However, there is quite a lot of inter-marriage between the sects. A couple of years ago when there were Taliban incursions into Chitral there were large and peaceful protests. In Dir at the moment, which borders lower Chitral and Afghanistan, the Taliban are making incursions, but citizens are taking matters into their own hands by forming militia. The other week four Taliban were caught in this way. And lists of known Taliban are published and publicly displayed.

The day after Kafiristan we embarked on the six hour journey to Baleem, Asif’s village. Asi kept warning me it was going to be a long and difficult journey, and I thought I was prepared after yesterday. However, we travelled in a local form of transport, so people were packed in like sardines, and several men were on the roof.

I was lucky enough to be in the front seat, but sat next to Asif with barely room to breathe. The journey was stunning though – we could see Terech Mir, the largest mountain in the Hindu Kush range, for a long time which was amazing, especially when the sun was setting. Although Asif had repeatedly told me that Chitral was green (in security terms – it was completely safe), when we got to one village he casually mentioned that this was where Osama Bin Laden’s left hand man was killed, and it was his cousin who killed him over a land dispute. I only managed a weak smile in response to that.

When we got to the village it was 11 o’clock at night, pitch dark and freezing cold. There were no roads in the village, so we had to walk about 20 minutes to reach Asif’s house. When we got there though Asif showed me to his own guest house! I was so tired I went almost immediately to sleep, to the comforting sound of the call of the jackal.

A round up of the last two weeks

Yesterday morning I was in Chitral and there was a small earthquake – the house I was in shook slightly. Yesterday afternoon I was in Islamabad and there was a sudden huge clap of thunder and I almost jumped out of my skin. This morning I was in the office and there was a big bang and the doors and windows of the office shook. Another suicide bomber.

What can I say? A return to Surrey looks quite tempting now? But Chitral was unbelievably beautiful and peaceful. The people were so open and friendly and I was treated with such hospitality and generosity it almost reduced me to tears at one point!

But I should backtrack slightly. The last couple of weeks have been fairly eventful, so I’ll start where I left off last time. First of all, here follow my experiences of Ramazan:

- someone at the office offering to go out and get food for me, and then coming back and producing some biscuits from UNDERNEATH his (rather sweaty) kameez
- jumping about a metre high whenever someone comes into my office and I am surreptitiously trying to eat something
- exchanging a conspiratorial wink with the cook whenever I go to get some water or food from the kitchen
- being brought some toast and apple after work by the Director’s 12 year old daughter who was fasting
- getting progressively more bad tempered as the days go on and I can only manage to eat a few biscuits during the day
- witnessing the beginning of a fight between two men in a nearby markaz at the end of the day
- sitting and watching food waiting for the call to prayer so we can start eating iftar (at sunset)
- going out for iftar at the viewpoint over Islamabad and eating a large amount of iftar food (samosas and fruit) and then having to eat a full dinner of curry
- when in Chitral jumping a mile high during a siren sound exactly like the Second World War air raid warnings. After looking up into the sky unproductively I realised it was the sign to start eating
- no power cuts!! (which, after Ramazan, have again restarted)

Secondly, here follows an entry that I wrote two weeks ago but delayed in uploading it because I was away in Chitral. Be warned, I was not happy two weeks ago.

'I have usually tried to be entertaining on my blog, which has often meant I have focused on the positive things and not when things go wrong. But I am now close to despairing. The security situation is spiralling out of control. The news is getting worse and worse every time I look at the BBC website. Pakistan shooting at US helicopters, BA cancelling flights to Pakistan, the High Commission advising against all non-essential travel to cities in Pakistan…. I have never personally felt threatened the entire time I have been here, and I have met hospitality, openness and friendship that has greatly exceeded my expectations. But now the news gnaws away at me leaving a constant feeling of insecurity every time I go out of the house.

And to add to that, last week I was rather angry at the actions of certain INGOs, and now I am just completely disillusioned by the entire development industry. First of all there is no accountability of donor organisations to local NGOs – because donors have the money they have the power, so can basically act as they wish. This has led to actions which at best can be construed as highly unprofessional – decisions delayed for months for no apparent reason, reversed decisions. The rhetoric of ‘partnership’ and ‘working together for justice’ that pervades all INGO literature and promotional material seems to be hypocritical.

Secondly, the whole system is unnecessarily complicated – a lot of money comes initially from big government donors (USAID, DFID, CIDA), which is channelled through INGOs based in the developed world, which then reaches local organisations on the ground. This leads to unnecessary complications as each different donor has different reporting requirements. It also leads to uncertainty and delayed decisions for the organisations who are actually working with the ‘poor’. Bureaucracy can take precedence over actually bringing change.

And finally, the system means that organisations working in the same field are reduced to competing for scarce resources, which leads to professional jealousy and competition rather than working together to combine expertise. It is not like there is not enough work for everyone.

The one hope for this country that is spiralling out of control is education. So I am unbelievably frustrated that the un-professionalism and bureaucracy of donor INGOs who, in their own rhetoric should be ‘bringing hope to the poor’ is threatening a local NGO that is not corrupt and has a real vision and commitment. If I compare MIED with some of the horror stories from other NGOs – senior management forcing employees to return half of their salary each month, absolutely no work being done and lying to the donors… MIED’s staff is so dedicated and committed – many have told me that they are sticking with MIED through all the uncertainty, even though they have been offered much better paid jobs elsewhere. And a few have said that they will work for MIED without pay if the worst came to the worst.

But today I agreed to extend my contract until the end of December. Why? Well, the events of the last two weeks still have not entirely extinguished the spark of hope that change can occur and that justice will be done.

After writing this I went away on holiday for two weeks, but that entry can wait for next time. It will be slightly more cheerful (with a few fab photos....)

A (normal??) day in Pakistan

This morning I woke up stupidly early for a Saturday morning as we were running a reflective workshop, so I had to get to the office to organise things. The workshop was to learn from and review our Early Childhood Care and Development project in Seren valley, which had to close because of the attack on Plan and their subsequent withdrawal from NWFP. Although our 100 ECCD centres and 2500 children are now without a donor, many caregivers are running the centres without being paid. This illustrates the depth of commitment and change that has taken place in the communities.

But anyway, that wasn’t the point of the session, which was to review the whole project, decide what lessons we had learnt and any recommendations for future ECCD projects (particularly relating to sustainability). Quite a tall order for a Saturday when people were fasting. I was seriously wondering how feasible it would be to run an intensive session when people can’t eat or drink, and on their day off. But I was really impressed with the commitment and interest that people showed. It was a definite learning experience for me - we had to cut a lot of sessions because of time issues. Also, I was facilitating one of the groups, which wasn’t exactly one of my strong points. By the end of the day I still wasn’t able to cope when groups of Pakistani men talking loudly in Urdu completely went off on tangents for 10 minutes and ignored what we were supposed to be discussing. Oh well.

So the session finished one and a half hours late, and 5.30 (ye Pakistan hai). We then waited for two hours for Iftar – the breaking of fast. I was able to catch up with people from Mansehra, hear about all the people who I haven’t seen since February, and who I wasn’t even able to say goodbye to. I caught up with someone who was shot twice in the attack on Plan, and heard about what some people have been doing since February. One guy is working in Peshawar with an NGO supportig schools in FATA – I will be writing in more detail about this later as it was a really interesting discussion. (The western media equate Pakistan with FATA with terrorism, so it was really good to hear about dedicated and committed individuals who are working to bring long term change in what must be one of the most difficult areas in the world.)

At the Azaan (call to prayer) we all congregated on the roof of the office and started eating Iftar – fruit, drinks and then samosas. There were even some doughnuts. It was a beautiful sunset, and very peaceful sitting there listening to the call to prayer coming out from all areas of the city, eating and watching the sun go down.

After that the men who wished to prayed on the roof, and then we had a proper meal – chicken biryani.

Twenty minutes later a huge explosion reverberated around the whole of Islamabad, 50 people died and the entire Marriott hotel has been destroyed. When will this end?

A short swim in the Hindu Kush

So Phander…. A small village in the Hindu Kush, five hours from Gilgit, seven from Chitral, and very close to the world’s highest polo ground, Shandaur. What does a village in the Hindu Kush look like, I hear you ask. Well, when I first saw Phander we drove over some terminal moraine and looked down on this large valley which was green with poplar trees and gold with the crops ready for harvesting. The mountains were huge and barren, some were just appearing out of mist and others were bright with sun. The river was a most amazing turquoise colour. And to cap it all there was a rainbow stretching over the whole valley. Talk about a little bit of heaven.

The Phander valley:

The first evening there we met some people who had worked in Mansehra and who were now working at the MIED girls college. They offered to take us on a 20 minute walk, so three hours later we were looking down in the pitch black at the twinkling lights of the village below miles away. OK, so I exaggerate slightly – it was actually a really fantastic walk. Part the way through I was silly enough to ask how people actually walk up the side of the mountains when they consist of scree and are almost vertical.

So one of the guys born and bred in the Karakoram offered to show me how – twas exceptionally scary just going up off the path a little bit and walking on such a steep slope, the Scottish Highlands seemed tame in comparison. I was literally crawling crabwise (slightly inelegant but survival seemed more important).

I survived, and we walked up to a small peak above the village. It was a really bare landscape – people were telling me seriously about witches and things, and I was scoffing, but I can understand how such legends develop in such a vast, inhospitable landscape, particularly because we were out there after dark. So we got to the peak just as the sun was setting, which was beautiful. I was slightly concerned with getting back down again though, looking down at all the vertical slopes below me. But we got back to recognisable footpaths before complete blackness, and thereafter we had to go very carefully down narrow lanes and through fields of crops. To pass the time the guys, who were from different parts of the Northern Areas, were teaching me the word ‘donkey’ in their mother tongues – Khowar, Waqqui, Shina and Burusheski (there were quite a few donkeys around, I don’t think it was a personal reflection).

Walking through the village the next morning was really interesting – there were many women and only a very few men at work in the fields doing the harvesting by hand with scythes. We went to a local NGO where the community are thinking about setting up a second girls college in a nearby village. My co-worker had told me the previous night that we were expected to run a session building the capacity of the Education Committee. The thought of helping to run a session where the participants spoke in Khowar, then having to translate to Urdu and then into English made my blood run cold, so I sat quietly at the back. It was interesting though, especially seeing how enthusiastic the community members were to start their own girls college.

One of my gallant protectors had organised lunch for us at his sister’s house, which was a traditional house over a hundred years old. As a woman, I was able to meet the women of the house, whereas the men had to stay in the guest room. The heart of the house was one large room used as a kitchen, living room, prayer room and bedroom. There were beautiful wood carvings on the wooden pillars, and the roof was very intricately designed. There were seven pillars in the house to represent seven key figures in Islam. There was just one wood stove where the woman did all the cooking.

I just could not believe it when they bought out rice, chappattis, two meat dishes and a vegetable dish for about ten people. How it was possible on one stove I do not know, and it all tasted delicious, particularly as it was cooked over wood. The women of the house did not appear at all though – it was the younger men who bought us the food and served us, and none of the family ate with us except the father. The family eat after the guests.

After that, as Phander is famous for fishing, one of my travelling companions got hold of a rod, so we went down to the river. Both my protectors had assured me before that they were well practiced with fishing, so I was expecting a good haul. Hmm, half an hour later they were saying that the rod was a big problem. I had a go as well, but with no more success, so then I became more interested in paddling in the freezing cold water. I had more or less decided against swimming as it was so cold, but then I slipped on some mud. It was rather embarrassing – all the women doing washing on the other side of the bank and the kids were laughing at me, but then I showed them the true grit of the Brits and actually swam (in full shalwaar kameez). It was flipping freezing, so I didn’t last long, and then ran back to the hotel with a see-through duppatta draped delicately around my sopping wet shalwaar kameez. Back at the hotel, facing a shower where the water seemed to come straight from the glacier, I did have a moment of homesickness, but that was only transitory.

The next instalment will be coming shortly…

To Gilgit and beyond.....

When I was leaving the UK I knew that I would be going up to the Northern Areas once back in Pakistan, which made getting on the plane at Heathrow a whole lot easier. Even so, whilst I was sitting at Heathrow I was going through all the cities it could be worse to go to than Islamabad – Baghdad, Kabul, Khartoum, and then I got stuck on the capital of Somalia (Mogadishu). But I cheered up when I got on the plane as I was upgraded! I never thought that happened in real life.

Anyway, the trip up to the Northern Areas took three days, and I went to a village called Phander between Gilgit and Chitral, where MIED has a girl’s college and runs some ECCD centres. We left Islamabad one day, spent overnight in Mansehra (don’t worry parents, was perfectly safe). We had to leave Mansehra at 5 o’clock the next morning, at which time I wasn’t at my best. It was dark and raining and I was told that there were two routes to Gilgit – either the Babasur pass or the Karakoran Highway. My two trusty companions told me we could go by the Babasur pass if I felt like taking a risk – otherwise we could go by the KKH and they would disguise me under luggage. Hmm, I think (hope) they were slightly joking. But at that time in the morning either seemed little short of a death wish and the idea that I was capable of making a decision which route was laughable. Anyway, my companions decided to go the ‘risky’ route over the Babasur pass. We hit the mountain roads a little after dawn, almost quite literally as soon there was a landslide covering the road. This didn’t daunt either of my trusty companions who jumped out of the car with unreasonable energy for that time in the morning and shifted a few big rocks.

There were a few tense minutes when the 4x4 tried to climb over the rocks that remained but that was successfully achieved and we were soon on our way again. I felt quite remarkably better after a breakfast of trout by a mountain stream, and it all seemed like an adventure again. We had breakfast at a tiny café / tent in the rain. There were two boys asleep in bed in the café / tent with a howling gale outside, which reminded me that I didn’t have things so bad really.

The rest of the morning up to the Babasur pass was a whole lot better. It was a spectacular route through the Kaghan valley and up to Naran, it was just a shame it was raining. The roads continued to be bad though, I couldn’t count the number of landslides and lakes we had to pass through. We had a lunch at Naran which is a known tourist spot, but then we really hit the unknown. On the map a proper road was marked up to Naran, after that it was just a dotted track. Given the states of the roads we had been on, I wasn’t particularly sanguine about what was to follow. But happy surprise – there was a proper road for quite a few kilometres. After that, things went steadily downhill (but going uphill!) In places there was no road and we had to pick our way around mud and boulders, and work out which general direction we should be heading. We gradually climbed to 4000 m, and passed cattle with coats on, camels, and houses made out of stone where families spend the summer with their cattle. We were practically the only vehicle on the ‘road’. We had to negotiate ‘bridges’ when I preferred to get out and walk, though that was almost as scary. Unfortunately it was really cloudy when we got to the top, and it was completely freezing. I had been v intelligent and bought a fleece with me but my two gallant protectors were shivering slightly. But we did have some of mum’s amazing chocolate brownie at the top of the pass. When we got over the top we started descending into Chilas, which is quite a conservative and tribal area. It is one of the areas in Pakistan where people openly carry guns.

The road got a whole lot better, and it took about three hours between Chilas and Gilgit, but we stopped at various places on the way to see a hot spring and some Buddhist carvings. We got to Gilgit a whole lot quicker than going up the KKH as the road was so much more direct. It was really an amazing journey – we went from being absolutely freezing through Babussar to about 40 degree heat in Chilas, through an area destroyed by the earthquake, a tourist attraction, 4000m mountains, an area so conservative and tribal that they still have gun towers in use, past ancient Buddhist carvings, past the point where the Hindu Kush, Himalayas and Karakoram mountains meet, and finally the bustling city of Gilgit. I have to say I was pretty shattered after that, so I don’t know how the driver felt.

The next instalment (trip to Phander) will soon follow….