Where the Indus is Young (25 page)

On the way home we met a young teacher from Saling – he entertained us there the other day – and got into conversation about what passes here for ‘local politics’. Our friend lavishly praised Mr Bhutto for helping the Northern Areas in practical ways and declared that his is the first Pakistani government to take any real interest in Baltistan. I don’t know how true this is, but most Baltis seem to be enthusiastically pro-Bhutto and those not impressed by his efforts belong to the tiny educated class. Elsewhere one would say that this is because his reforms have interfered with local vested interests, but no such interests exist here. Some critics argue that subsidised foods sap the peasants’ pride and could – as with aid to refugees – quickly get them into the way of regarding cheap food as their right.
However
, having glimpsed the extremity of poverty that prevails in most Balti villages, one cannot but commend any effort to relieve it by any means.

Mercifully Khapalu has so far been spared the worst degree of poverty. The people are perceptibly better fed, healthier and less filthy than elsewhere. Yet post-Partition political developments have withered their natural trading life, which depended on the ancient routes to ‘Outside’ via Leh or Srinagar. Traditionally Baltistan’s links with Gilgit, Hunza or Chitral were few and tenuous: communications were too difficult and the Baltis looked steadily east, to Ladak and Kashmir. So in times past many Baltis were more prosperous than they have been since their country became an artificial politicians’ cul-de-sac.

Another holiday for Hallam, while we walked
around
the mountain behind the Palace, into that side-valley I visited alone the other day. The long climb took four hours and we passed through three hamlets, the highest distinguished by an imposing square wooden mosque with a pagoda-like roof. By 10.30 we were dripping sweat and had our jackets off, yet we were glad to put them on two hours later, when we stopped to picnic at about 10,500 feet. Below us the valley lay glittering in bright sun and the remains of yesterday’s cloud was draped about the high peaks. Directly opposite was poised the 17,000 foot summit of Marshakma, virgin-white against the cobalt sky, solitary and serene, cut off from its base by a cloud bank. ‘It makes me feel queer,’ said Rachel, staring across the valley with a hard-boiled egg in one hand. ‘In what way?’ I asked. ‘Nice queer,’ she replied, ‘but I can’t describe it.’ Nor can I.

While we were eating there was a terrific BANG! as though
someone
had fired a gun in our ears, followed seconds later by the uncanny booming crash of an avalanche, evidently quite near. A primitive fear stirs below the level of rationality, as the habitual silence of the mountains is shattered by this tremendous muffled roar. For long moments it echoes and re-echoes through valleys and ravines, seeming to bound almost visibly from one colossal rock wall to another. We have been warned to take great care on the Hushe track, between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. This is also the season of rock-falls. Near Bara we saw a fearsome cascade of boulders and stones hurtling down a steep slope alarmingly close to the nearest dwellings.

From river level our objective had seemed not very far and not very high, and the intervening slope had looked smooth and simple. Yet it was far from being either smooth or simple: at times the path dived into ravines, or had to wriggle around or climb over
considerable
hills. One doesn’t notice these from a distance because they are dwarfed by the sheer, massive, brown rock walls enclosing this side-valley, which in turn are dwarfed by the mighty snow-peaks at its head.

We came home through the bazaar, and were yet again invited to
drink tea by the Postmaster. As we sat sipping near the stove the door swung open and a tall, youngish man appeared: he was streaming sweat and carried a sack over his shoulder. Around his waist was a broad leather belt with an enormous brass medallion announcing
MAIL RUNNER.
And he must indeed have run, for he left Skardu – sixty-two miles away – at 7 a.m.
yesterday
and arrived here thirty-three hours later. The Postmaster told us that jeep-drivers occasionally stop to offer him a lift, but he holds it a point of honour never to accept. A remarkable attitude nowadays. Today he brought the first mail to come in from Pindi since 4 January and we watched it being solemnly unsealed and sorted. His burden had not been heavy. Even after such an interval, Khapalu’s post consisted of only one parcel (a copy of the Koran for the High School), one magazine (for the Raja), and about forty letters.

A gloomy day of farewells to favourite people and places; we both hate the thought of leaving Khapalu, though one could scarcely have a more alluring destination than Hushe. In the course of our goodbye visits we received much conflicting advice. We have been told that the trip to Hushe will kill Hallam; that the track will certainly be quite clear by tomorrow; that the cold when we get there will kill us all (but this seems unlikely), and that by now avalanches must have destroyed the track in many places. We shall soon see for ourselves. At least Hallam will be carrying a much lighter load on these next stages; I used the last of the
ata
this morning and we have very little of anything else left in our food-box.

It was horrid saying goodbye to Raja Sahib; he has become one of the dearest of the many friends I have made over the years in several countries.

The larger part of the way is on the sides of the highest and most frightful mountains; as a rule there is no room to walk save with the greatest caution and in single file; in some places, the mountain being broken down, now by the weight of the snow, now by the force of the waters, it comes about that the path is totally lacking.

FR I. DESIDERI, SJ
(
c
.1720)

In valleys like the Shyok … paths are more imaginary than real.

GIOTTO DAINELLI
(1914)

This evening I am in a position to state that Hushe is at present inaccessible. We had to turn back at 4 p.m., but it was an honourable defeat. Having negotiated two of the avalanches that now lie across the track, we were thwarted by a third.

Our good friend Ali, the chowkidar, volunteered to get the Murphy expedition across the Shyok. Hallam was unloaded and unsaddled at the footbridge and Ali twice crossed with the load and a third time with Rachel. (He even offered to give me a pick-a-back, but I am not quite anile enough for this.) Rachel and I then sat on a pile of stones in brilliant sunshine while Hallam was ridden downstream, in search of a fording place; there is no permanent ford because the beds of Himalayan rivers change annually. After three-quarters of an hour we began to feel anxious and Rachel suggested a walk down the valley to see if anything had gone wrong. Scanning the level, unbroken miles of snow – still two feet deep – we at last saw poor Hallam, gallantly struggling towards us, with Ali beaming
triumphantly
though wet to the knees. Soon scores of icicles were hanging from the long hair of Hallam’s belly, but like all Baltis he seems indifferent to immersion in glacial water. Ali said he gave no trouble,
despite having to swim the deep central channel because no true fording-place could be found. Only as we approached the bridge did I realise that I had not thought twice – or even once – about leaving our gear unattended. To be in such an honest region is very relaxing – and simplifying.

Saling this morning was a bog of mud in which the track often became indistinguishable from the surrounding fields, paths and streams. At this stage of the thaw land and water merge in a most confusing way, but always there was someone around to put us right when we strayed. Then we were climbing gradually towards the junction of the Shyok and Hushe Valleys. Because the Shyok Valley here turns sharply, this seems like the junction of three valleys; and for a mile or so, before one turns north towards Hushe, the landscape has a spaciousness rare in Baltistan.

As we left the Shyok Valley the slope on our left was marvellously coloured: green, pink, yellow, rust-red, burgundy, white. I have never seen such a variety of rock colours on one mountain. We had been warned about this stretch and the track was indeed littered with newly-fallen chunks of rock, some almost large enough to block the way. Below, on our right, the Hushe River appeared occasionally where its winter ‘lid’ of snow and ice had begun to thaw. Then after a few miles we descended abruptly to the valley floor and found beside the track a swift narrow stream from which we all drank gratefully, for the sun was hot. Soon we were again climbing steeply, until we came in sight of a hamlet on a high spur, its hovels apparently piled one on another above tiny terraced fields and tall spreading trees. Ice and slush formed a grim mixture underfoot as we crossed the spur, leaving dozens of astounded natives behind us. But then Masherbrum appeared, looking every inch of his 25,600 feet, and in the presence of such a regal mountain all minor discomforts were forgotten. This mighty white triangle so decisively dominates the valley that the landscape seems almost stage-managed. As we plodded on a tall, elderly villager came hurrying after us, begging me to photograph him. When I had done so he almost wept to find that I could not immediately produce his picture from my camera: obviously he is accustomed to the Polaroid magic of mountaineers.

From here the valley floor was invisible; we were on a wide ledge of cultivable mountain and the track ran level for a mile or so before dropping to another hamlet. There we lost it temporarily, in a wilderness of mud, and the young man who put us right begged as usual for medicine and cigarettes. What is not usual is the number of small boys who beg for money in this valley, sometimes quite aggressively. Nowhere else in Baltistan have we encountered begging; it must be a side-effect of mountaineering expeditions.

Here the valley narrowed and became melodramatically rugged, its walls varying from sharp spears of grey rock thrusting into the blueness, to brown, fortress-like ridges; and several rounded snowy summits above steep white slopes looked as though they might at any moment release an avalanche – but we were not then in a danger-zone. The thaw has made little impression at this height and our path was a channel of mud through thick whiteness. Many trees stood out darkly against the snow, interspersed with colossal rocks, so we knew another village must be close. It was, and our arrival caused an uproar. Several men wearing tattered expedition garments (so squalid compared to their own graceful ‘toga’ blankets!) warned us against going further. I assured them that we would take no risks and return to the village for the night if the path proved too difficult.

Hallam had to be unloaded to get him through the narrow
lane-ways
between the hovels, as the alternative route round the hamlet was too icy for a
ghora
, and two young men roughly demanded payment for carrying the load 200 yards. A few young women followed us for a little way, good-naturedly trying to dissuade us from continuing, but they soon realised that the lunatic
ferenghi
was determined to go as far as she could. Slowly we crackled and sloshed through iced mud below a tremendous wall of serrated rock which threw back the roar of the river – now a rushing, leaping torrent, amidst a cataclysmic disarray of boulders. We had left the
mid-valley
concentration of hamlets behind and when next we lost the track there was no one to guide us and we had to learn by error that the steep path up which we struggled was only a goatish cul-de-sac. Returning to river level, I scouted among the boulders and
eventually found traces of footprints. Hallam followed me with feline agility through a wilderness of uneven rocks, but when we came to the first of two deep, narrow gullies Rachel had to dismount while I led him up and down hellish gradients which caused the load to slip forward on to his neck. It then had to be removed and re-roped before we could go any further. Both gullies contained racing streams with beds of loose stones that were difficult for a
ghora
, though we humans crossed easily enough on stepping-stones only slightly immersed. Emerging from the second gully we could see the Hushe close by on our right – a foaming waterfall between giant, glittering rocks, its greenness vivid amidst the otherwise
unrelieved
white-grey-brown of snow and precipice.

We were on an unexpected snow-field which stretched for half a mile to the base of the valley’s western wall. There a definite track could be seen climbing sharply before levelling out to continue north far above river level. Some five or six miles away the valley became a mere cleft and a faint brown blur of trees marked Gande village. Masherbrum seemed very close, a sublime medley of crags and peaks, eternally armoured in ice and snow. Across the
snowfield
we followed the not-quite-obliterated footsteps of the obliging gentleman who had been our absent guide for some time past. He had been carrying a load of hay and periodically a few wisps appeared reassuringly. Reaching the path we found it strewn with the remains of several new rock-falls, including one jagged hunk the size of a sofa, and I was glad of this excuse to tell Rachel not to talk, lest the vibrations of our voices might bring disaster on us. When we had climbed to the level stretch we found it narrow and very snowy but not unduly dangerous if handled with care. The steep white slopes directly above might have been unsafe earlier in the day but this shaded side of the valley was already re-freezing. Then we rounded a slight curve and Rachel exclaimed, ‘Look! Is that an avalanche?’ It was, fair and square across the path – but only a minor one, some fifteen yards wide and evidently quite ‘stale’, with our guide’s footprints proving it could be safely traversed, at least by humans. Not that I much liked the angle of it – or the drop, should one slip. By our present standards that drop was nothing to get
excited about (perhaps 150 feet), but it would be an unimpeded fall to the stony valley floor. Moreover, how would Hallam react to the feel of an avalanche beneath his hoofs? And – even more pertinent – how would the avalanche react to Hallam’s weight? But, as I was thus dubiously contemplating the situation, Rachel took command. ‘I’ll dismount,’ she said briskly, ‘and go across first. Then you can lead Hallam over.’ I looked at my ewe-lamb with fresh misgivings; the mere act of dismounting on this narrow path seemed to me rather unhealthy. But already she was down and handing me the reins and the non-maternal half of me thoroughly approved of her attitude. I watched in silence as she crossed, coolly and carefully planting her boots in our guide’s footprints and steadying herself with my
dula
. Then it occurred to me that we had no alternative but to continue, since it would be impossible to turn a
ghora
where we were. This realisation cheered me illogically as I led a faintly protesting Hallam across. Once he stopped suddenly, and as he laid back his ears I loosened my hold on the reins, fearing for a ghastly moment that he was going to panic himself over the edge – thereby fulfilling the prophecy of our more pessimistic Khapalu friends. But when I spoke soothingly he recovered his nerve.

Rachel continued on foot, as there was no room for her to
remount
, and about 200 yards further on, around the next curve, we met the twin of the first avalanche. ‘Here’s another obstacle!’ cried Rachel gleefully. Over she went, as before, and this time Hallam gave me a very reproachful look; but after much head-shaking and many grumbling snorts he at last responded to my coaxing. Beyond this obstacle the path widened considerably but Rachel chose to remain on foot and scampered far ahead, with the result that I got a nasty shock when we came to Obstacle No. 3, around yet another curve. This avalanche was quite a different matter: wider, steeper and definitely not negotiable by man or horse. But it had left a fifteen-inch (I measured it) strip of path free, and while out of sight Rachel had strolled along this ribbon of frozen snow above a jumble of boulders far below. I concealed my horror and rapidly reviewed the situation. The alternatives were for Rachel to return on her own or for me to cross and hold her hand on the return journey.
Remembering my nightmare experience near Thowar, I reckoned that the former was the only sensible course. Then, looking beyond the avalanche, I saw that some thirty yards ahead the path had been not merely blocked but completely demolished by a landslide. Hundreds of tons of rock had simply swept it out of existence – evidently very recently, since our guide’s prints were one-way.

I stood feeling sick while Rachel returned. On her way she glanced down at a fearsome conglomeration of fallen boulders and called out cheerfully, ‘I don’t think anyone could survive if they slipped here.’ It’s only February, but I am backing that remark as this year’s most blinding glimpse of the obvious.

Mercifully it was now easy for Hallam to turn – I haven’t attempted to work out what we might have done otherwise – and he re-crossed the two smaller avalanches without even a token protest. Both Rachel and I felt deeply disappointed about missing Hushe. But no one could say we hadn’t tried.

The return to Marzi Gone was austerely beautiful, as the cold blue light of evening filled the desolation of this valley. And Masherbrum was more than ever commanding, his high snows reflecting the setting sun above a world long since drained of brightness. I vowed then that somehow, sometime, I would return to Baltistan at a season when it is possible to become more intimate with the giant peaks.

We got back here at sunset (six o’clock) and the whole village turned out to greet us. In the van were those two young men who earlier had carried our load and now seemed determined to
monopolise
us. When Hallam had been stabled with an evil-tempered yak we were conducted up a ladder to this small room where they and two other young men share three charpoys. Tonight Rachel has been allocated one charpoy, for a fee of Rs.5, and I have spread my bedding on a floor carpeted with thick straw matting.

For an hour or so after our arrival the scene was past description as dozens of men, women and children physically and verbally assaulted each other in their efforts to enjoy a close-up view of the Misses Murphy. The passage of expeditions certainly hasn’t quenched their Balti thirst for observing foreigners, probably because most expeditions choose to camp at some distance from
settlements. It saddens me to see how the mountaineers have
unwittingly
sown the seeds of greed all along their route. Five men barged into the room to try to sell me Balti jewellery for ridiculous sums and became quite abusive when I pointed out that their ‘treasures’ are shoddy imitations of Tibetan work and not worth a rupee each. An even more discordant note was provided by three powerful Japanese transistor radios, given to our hosts last summer. When these were switched on simultaneously I had to exercise all my self-control not to ask their owners to switch off. No doubt I over-reacted, but these raucous sounds were literally physically painful, after so many weeks of Himalayan quiet. Until that moment I had not fully realised what an integral part of the local beauty this quiet is. Apart from an occasional jeep, one hears nothing mechanical or loud in Baltistan. Even the people’s voices are low and soft, and Balti, like Tibetan, is a lulling, gentle language. (Except in rare moments of over-excitement, as during the Muharram procession in Skardu, or when Murphys descend on small hamlets.) It is ironical that the remotest valley we have visited is the most spoiled by outside influences. Happily, however, the Baltis retire early. By eight o’clock our room-mates had switched off their hideous contraptions and gone to sleep.