Where the Indus is Young (32 page)

A non-glory of this Rest House is the water supply, despite numbers of sparkling streams nearby. I discovered today, when the chowkidar was missing, why our tea has been tasting so strongly of soap. About ten yards upstream from where he fills our bucket the local women wash clothes, secluded between two large rocks.

We spent the morning meandering around Shigar and taking Hallam for a ten-mile trot. During the afternoon I sunbathed while four friendly boys took Rachel to their various homes to meet their womenfolk. Today I have felt almost sulkily reluctant to return to the duties, labours and manifold complexities of Outside. As I lay in the sun, gazing at the still white glory of the surrounding peaks, I wished childishly that Baltistan were the only world I needed to know for the future.

There was an inevitable melancholy about today’s return to Skardu – our last trek with the faithful Hallam. Yet it was impossible to feel gloomy for long with the gentleness of spring in the air and the orchards no longer snowy and silent but budding and filled with new birdsong. Tiny shoots of tender green flecked banks that only eight days ago were heaped with snow, and now the valley floor is a smooth expanse of grey-brown sand while the track is firm and dry.

Having crossed the high saddle we stopped for two midday hours near the foot of the solitary mountain. Rachel made one of her elaborate sandcastles and road-systems while I sat against a boulder working for my lunch by breaking apricot stones. Three months ago I as often as not broke the kernel, too; now I give one expert rap and the shell splits neatly. When we got up to go I looked at my ‘litter’ and reflected that a true Balti would carefully collect that little pile of broken shells and carry it home for fuel. Perhaps I feel so at ease in Baltistan because of my essentially frugal nature, which in Europe is offended every day by our mindless ‘consumer society’ waste of food, objects and energy.

An hour later we were crossing the young Indus for the last time. We paused in the middle of the bridge to look down at its swift green strength where it swirls between monstrous sleek boulders; when we cross it next it will be a mature river, broad and brown, flowing powerfully past Attock Fort.

Skardu has been transformed by the thaw – this was our first time to see it not completely covered with thick snow. In spring it looks even less like a real town as everyone ploughs their fields, which lie between the bazaars and ramshackle government offices and drab new cantonment areas. Each householder farms a few fields,
whatever
his other occupation, and people I had connected only with their sedentary winter jobs were out this afternoon, sweating and already suntanned. Some were driving teams of cross-breds, while others scattered seeds from leather pouches or wicker baskets, or dragged crude wooden harrows over the lumpy earth. One
neighbour
of ours – a little old man with a short grey beard and merry eyes – had improvised a labour-saving device and was looking very
pleased with himself. Under a wooden lid, removed from a large chest, he had tied bushes of some strong, thorny scrub – and on the lid sat his beaming little granddaughter, thoroughly enjoying herself as grandad pulled her up and down his new-ploughed field.

This evening I at last brought myself to decide on a departure date: the 24th, Insh’ Allah and weather permitting. It is best to go quickly, since go we must.

Today is Now Ruz, a very important festival for Shiahs, as it has been for many races and creeds throughout the millennia. It certainly seems a much more rational New Year’s Day than 1 January, but unfortunately the weather refused to co-operate this year in Skardu. The morning was grey and chilly, with dark clouds sitting firmly on the mountains as we strolled through the bazaars looking for signs of celebration. Friends embraced smilingly as they met, groups stood about chatting and many were sauntering along holding hands and showing each other eggs painted purple, orange, pink or blue. New garments are traditional for Now Ruz and a few prosperous merchants were dressed in entirely new outfits, including exquisitely embroidered sleeveless leather jackets. A large minority wore nothing new and the rest sported one new garment, usually a shirt or shalwar made of some cheap gaudy material. These flashes of colour, where normally only home-spun clothes are worn, provided the sole festive touch as one looked around. Many shops were open, though Now Ruz is a Public Holiday, and it struck me that the tortured mourning of Muharram appeals more to the local temperament than this joyful occasion. Unlike the Khapalu people, these Skardu folk have little talent for gaiety.

During the afternoon we heard in the distance what might have been a Sousa march before the Baltis got at it, and Sadiq told us that a band always accompanies the annual soccer match between Police recruits and High School pupils. The notion of soccer to music tickled my fancy, so we made for the parade ground and saw a straggle of men and boys drifting around the edges, indiscriminately cheering the inept but well-mannered teams. The Baltis do not yet
take their football very seriously. On a short row of chairs along one sideline sat People of Consequence, and when we appeared another chair was at once provided. Yet there was the usual lack of ease in the presence of a ‘liberated’ woman. This is not a lack of friendliness but a total inability to relax with an unescorted and therefore probably immoral Western woman. A solitary female traveller is almost as shocking to the isolated, orthodox Shiahs of Skardu as a naked woman would be to the average Dubliner. Remembering this, one must commend these people for their tolerance and not complain about their aloofness.

We enjoyed the second half of the match, during which the band quickened its tempo when the game livened up and stopped abruptly when the ball went out of play, as it frequently did. The final score was one all. Then the Police prepared to give a display of Balti
folk-dancing
, whereupon the spectators became much more enthusiastic and swarmed on to the pitch to form three sides of a square. Our chairs formed the fourth side and the band sat opposite us on the ground – two drummers and a flautist. The dancers emerged from the crowd in groups of two, three or four and were amusing enough but not outstanding, apart from one pair of elderly men who engaged in a mock duel with wooden swords. Two dances struck me as very Tibetan and I discovered these were specialities of the Khapalu area. All the performances were accompanied by the crowd’s rhythmic clapping and I have never before seen the Skarduites in such a
lighthearted
mood.

For us Now Ruz ended on a sordid note. Rachel was abed and I had just begun this entry when a pathetic small voice said, ‘What’s biting me doesn’t feel like fleas.’ I took up my candle to examine the victim and the bites did not
look
like fleas, either. So I lit another candle, the better to hunt, and found Rachel’s clothes literally
crawling
with tiny grey body-lice. This was an extremely serious situation. I threw away all those filthy garments we removed before going to Shigar, so at present we have only the clothes we stand up (and lie down) in. Having made sure that the victim’s skin was
lice-free
, I thrust her, naked and shivering, into my flea-bag. Then I stripped to examine my own garments. Mercifully these are not
lice-infested, 
though I caught three fleas, and Rachel is now comfortably asleep in my vest and sweater under her own snow-suit. Body-lice are well named; there was not one louse on her pants, tights and stockings, despite the swarming mass of grey horrors on her upper garments. I dropped the infested clothes in a far corner of the field; first thing tomorrow they must be boiled. I find I react quite
differently
to fleas and lice. There is something so irresistibly comical about fleas that one can feel no real animosity towards them; a
flea-hunt
is a form of sport, demanding considerable skill, and one has to admire the creatures’ cheeky agility. But those slow grey crawlers this evening really revolted me.

This was the day I have been dreading. We sold Hallam for Rs.400 to Sadiq’s brother who lives nearby. I was even more upset than Rachel and became excessively snappish, not having her outlet of tears. Therefore when she most needed cheering she got unearned abuse instead. I had not thought it could be so awful: it felt almost as bad as parting from a dog. He was such a gallant member of our team, and in his quiet way such a personality. And now there is only that awful emptiness and silence in the next room …

Yet another sunless day – the whole valley a study in grey and brown under a sullen sky. Unless the weather improves there will be no flight tomorrow but, just in case, I did all my sorting out and packing up this morning.

At 2.30 we went to the polo-ground to see the first match of the season, between Skardu Town and the Karakoram Scouts. This is the sport (described by Vigne as ‘hockey on horse-back’) which really fires the Baltis, and hundreds of excited spectators were milling around at the foot of the Rock. Rachel was beside herself with delight at the sight of so many prancing ponies, gorgeously dressed and obviously revelling in the pre-match tension. When the contest started – two hours late, after a thrilling tent-pegging competition – it lacked both the murderous verve of a game I saw years ago in
Yasin and the polished skill of polo on the plains. Nor were the ponies in top condition at the end of winter; the civilians’ were too thin and the officers’ too fat. However, Karakoram polo can never be dull and the final score of six all seemed to please everybody. We then hurried off to a farewell party at which I was most moved to see a cherished two-ounce tin of Nescafé being opened in my honour – the first coffee I have tasted since 18 December.

At sunset a gale-force southern wind began to howl through the valley and just now (9.30) I have been out to look at the weather. The wind has dropped already and after three cloudy days the sky is clear. Alexander Cunningham reported that ‘Skardu’ may mean ‘the starry place’, and tonight the glitter of the stars seemed so close I fancied that by reaching high I could pluck them out of the blackness.

It is difficult to accept the fact that we shall probably be Outside in little more than twelve hours’ time.

We are Outside – and pretty frightful it is, too. No doubt the altitude change is partly to blame for my unfavourable reaction. I feel
uncharacteristically
depressed, my head aches, I might weep if you looked at me too hard and nothing interests me. Also, I am utterly repelled by the luxury of my immediate surroundings, and by the noise, bustle and smells of twentieth-century life. I miss Hallam, I miss the snow-peaks, the silence, the contentment, the thin clear air, the sense of exhilaration and energy and
peace
…

It must only be a matter of time before we go back to Baltistan – perhaps for an early autumn trek, when we can leave all jeep-tracks behind and follow small paths over high passes.

1 lightweight high-altitude tent

1 riding-cum-pack saddle, with crupper, leathers and irons

1 compass-cum-pedometer

1 quart water-bottle

1 small kerosene stove

1 two-gallon plastic jerrycan

1 tin kettle

1 tin
dechi

1 fork

2 knives

2 spoons

2 small plastic bowls

2 large plastic mugs

1 tin-opener

1 scissors

1 small towel

1 tin toothpowder

2 toothbrushes

1 cake soap

1 Boy Scout first aid kit

50 penicillin tablets

1 tube penicillin ointment

50 water-purifying tablets

50 sulphaguanadine tablets

200 Vitamin C pills

200 multivitamin pills

15 yards nylon rope

1 camera

10 rolls of film

4 maps

3 large notebooks

10 biros

20 coloured felt-tipped pencils

1 large sketching pad

6 school textbooks

3 exercise-books

1 big canvas zip-bag

1 very large rucksack

1 very small rucksack

2 electric torches

12 batteries

1 husky-suit

1 nylon anorak

1 pair slacks

2 woollen vests

2 woollen underpants

1 sweater

1 pair socks

1 pair hiking boots

1 scarf

1 Chitrali cap

1 pair silk skiing gloves

1 pair leather gloves

1 ex-German army parka jacket

1 astronaut’s blanket

1 high-altitude sleeping-bag

1 cotton-padded sleeping-bag

1 nylon cape-cum-groundsheet

The Karakoram and Western Himalaya,
Fillipo de Fillipi

The Horned Moon,
Ian Stephens

Pakistan,
Ian Stephens

War and Peace

Anna Karenina

The Mandarins,
Simone de Beauvoir

Literature and Western Man,
J. B. Priestley

The Seven Ages of Man
(Shakespeare Anthology)

1 padded snow-suit

2 sweaters

1 pair slacks

2 woollen vests

2woollen underpants

1 pair socks

1 pair fur-lined boots

1 Viyella shirt

1 pair woollen tights

1 pair sheep-skin gloves

1 woollen balaclava

1 hard riding-hat with chin-strap

1 down-padded sleeping bag

1 inflatable cushion

1 toy squirrel

The Kingdom Under the Sea,
Joan Aiken

A Book of Princesses,
ed. Sally Patrick Johnson

William the Fourth,
Richmal Crompton

Dr Dolittle on the Moon,
Hugh Lofting

3 2lb packets Batchelors dried soup

3 tins Complan

1 kilo Pakistani cheese

4 tins Australian cheese

4 tins tuna fish

4 tins corned beef