I felt a strange sort of exhilaration as we moved slowly along the lakeside through that world of snow triumphant. All the angular, dark rocks were now curved mounds of pure white, all the few leafless trees were fairy-tale illustrations, all the slopes of grey shale were sheets of unflawed brilliance. And still it was snowing – the sort of gentle, subtle, casual fall that seems very slight yet blots out footprints within moments.
When we left the lakeside the track became almost impassable and every step of the way was difficult for Hallam and me. But we were in no hurry. I felt I never wanted to leave this magic valley where today all harshness was disguised and even the torrent was hidden by weird arcs and canopies and viaducts of snow – like the works of some demented sculptor – while the dazzle of sunless light made it seem as though the earth were illuminated from within.
We got home at 2.30 and as I was unsaddling Hallam Rachel gave a gasp of horror and pointed to his near flank: an abscess the size of a tea-plate had just burst and pus was oozing hideously through his thick winter coat. I pointed out to the stricken Rachel that the worst was now over, from Hallam’s point of view, and while she gave him love and apricots I got the stove going and cooked a hot barley mash. Then Sadiq arrived and assured me that there is a good horse-doctor here, which information I received with some scepticism, remembering the quality of the human hospital. I’m not sure that a ghora-hakim can do much good at this stage – presumably one simply waits for nature to heal the wound – but I would like to have an expert’s opinion on what caused it.
Skardu – 28 January
Mercifully Nazir, the local ‘animal dispenser’, is some improvement on the local dentist. Having diagnosed an infected mongoose bite he said that Hallam must have a course of seven injections and advised a tonic to go in his barley mash. By the end of the course he should be fit for work. I observed that the expiry date printed on the injection box was November 1973 but as it cost only Rs.5 this is not surprising.
Apparently mongooses are plentiful here; they live in the roofs during winter and when they become frantic with hunger quite often attack animals, and even sleeping humans. Vampire-like, they suck blood from horses and cattle and these bites can quickly go septic, especially if the victim is below par. One night about a week ago Hallam made such a fuss during the small hours that I went out to see what was wrong but could find no cause for his alarm. I hope that mongoose was a visitor, not a resident.
Nazir is a Skardu man who was trained for six months in Lahore. He left school at fifteen, having passed no examinations, but he speaks adequate though halting English and is full of horse-sense and natural intelligence. Aged about thirty-five and powerfully built, he has a strong, square, honest face and no pretensions. Like most Baltis he is endearingly vague about the rest of the world and finds it hard to believe that not all countries are Muslim. He was astounded to hear that there are no Irish Muslims and that Irishwomen never veil their faces when they go into public places.
Both Nazir and Abbas Kazmi were distressed today about the news from Gilgit. The town is in a state of emergency, with telephone wires cut and a curfew imposed. At the end of the Muharram procession a gang of Sunnis attacked the Shiahs – there are many of both sects in Gilgit – and the police and army had all they could do to separate the mobs. According to Abbas Kazmi, the Gilgitis’ latent sectarian animosity is being used by political agitators. Home Sweet Home!
One becomes increasingly food-obsessed here and I regard the disappearance of dahl from the bazaar as a major news item. We have now embarked on a life of rice-pudding thrice daily. I cook the rice in water and then add sugar and condensed milk – this last being one of the few plentiful commodities in Skardu, though it is very dear at Rs.4.50 for a fourteen-ounce tin. Sugar is also dear and not plentiful; it has gone up during this past week to Rs.7 a seer and today I spent an hour tracking down half a seer.
Skardu – 29 January
This morning Sadiq announced that the Civil Supply Officer has taken pity on us and decided to issue us with rations of subsidised sugar, kerosene and ata (wheat flour). When it was suggested to me a fortnight ago that I should apply for this concession I had scruples about taking from the mouths (or oil stoves) of the poor, but to her who makes no application all is issued …
As we walked to the Civil Supply Office, with Sadiq and Mohammad Ali, the clouds were so low we could hardly see the Rock and each tree bore such a bulky burden that its not slipping off seemed unnatural. Snow has an interesting psychological effect on the Baltis. Today it was possible to be out without gloves at 8.30 a.m., which would be unthinkable on a sunny, blue-skied morning. Yet the locals persuade themselves that it is much colder on a snowy, grey morning, and in all the Civil Supply offices groups of men were huddled miserably around smoking stoves and everybody exuded self-pity. As they snuggled deeper into their blankets, or ankle-length Gilgit cloaks, or ex-army greatcoats, they repeatedly told each other that this is the coldest day of the winter, which is almost the reverse of the truth. The explanation may of course be that as the local food supply diminishes, so does the local resistance to cold.
Bureaucracy has not really taken root here as yet and we got our permits within twenty minutes; the same process would probably take at least a month down-country. Of course young men like Mohammad Ali think it proves their grasp of affairs if they make applications in octuplicate; this morning he became quite huffy when I declined to write out three applications each for sugar, flour and kerosene. Evidently my disregard for what he unexpectedly called ‘proper procedure’ was interpreted as a personal slight. He is a typical example of a semi-literate and not-very-bright young man being hypnotised by inane bureaucratic rituals. But one has to feel sorry for him. Even within the last fortnight his goitre has become more prominent and it is now affecting his voice. (Many male Baltis sound like castrati.) He has tried to get treatment, both here and in Pindi, but none of the pills worked. What a pampered minority we Westerners are, taking expert medical care for granted, as part of our birthright!
A major problem here is the food-container shortage; in Coorg last winter we had the same problem on a lesser scale. There the rich 5 per cent could always produce empty tins, jars, bottles or cardboard cartons, but in Baltistan there is no such affluent stratum. The locals carry everything in their blankets or in squares of filthy cloth or – if it’s just a pound of tea or salt – tied into their shirt-tails. Luckily our astronaut’s blanket and Rachel’s snow-suit were both sold in strong plastic bags, one of which now holds our flour and the other our sugar.
When we got home with our spoils my elation ebbed slightly; it is one thing to get a ration of cheap flour (twenty pounds for Rs.15, or seventy-five pence) and quite another thing to convert it into something edible, using a very small kerosene stove. While Rachel went to visit Farida, her local ‘best friend’ – a ten-year-old Gilgiti girl, daughter of Baltistan’s Chief Engineer – I returned to the bazaar and bought a five-pound tin of Belgian ghee for Rs.32 (the same amount of Pakistani-made ghee costs Rs.65), and a large handleless tin frying pan, which was sold by weight and cost Rs.4.75. When Sadiq saw this he said ‘NBG’ – or words to that effect in Balti – and produced from Hallam’s stable a heavy iron griddle coated with horse-droppings. I managed to remove most of the manure and then put it over the heat, whereupon the residual dung gave off a pungent odour which Rachel likened to incense. I thought the simile far-fetched, and not flattering to incense, but I forbore from arguing the point.
By then several spectators had accumulated. Apart from Sadiq and his son and daughter (aged four and two), there were Mohammad Ali, Nazir, an elderly teacher called Sanaullah who comes (I suppose) for indirect English lessons, Shakir Shamin’s servant, who simply finds us fascinating, and Mirza Hussain, the neighbourhood’s idiot. Mirza – a filthy but lovable character – frequently avails himself of Murphy warmth, squatting timidly near the door like a stray dog who expects to be kicked out at any moment.
Ever
ybody watched critically while I made my first attempt to cope with ata which is what we call brown flour. A terrific argument ensued when Sadiq again went to the stable and brought me an antique sieve, obviously much trodden on by Hallam but dung-free and still serviceable. The men insisted that ata must be sieved to make it into white flour, while I protested that I did not wish to discard the best of it. Everybody got into such a lather of anxiety at the thought of our eating wholemeal bread that eventually I gave in, carefully preserving what remained in the sieve for future use. They also deprecated my adding ghee and sugar to the mixture, and kneading it with both hands, and they roared with laughter when I shaped a dozen little scones instead of flip-flapping the dough from hand to hand to make chapattis. Then they all had to go because it was almost dark and still snowing. I was quite relieved to have them depart before the moment of truth. Rachel likened the scones to dog-biscuits but I was in the mood to relish anything other than dahl or rice-pudding. Only on my sixth did I begin to notice that they were rather charred on the outside and decidedly soggy in the middle. Better luck next time: it might help to add more ghee.
Skardu – 30 January
Today snow fell non-stop, though the sun was visible as a dim yellow disc when we went foraging at noon through the bazaars, seeking what we might devour. Our bag was four minute eggs (Rs.3) and a pound of onions. I made an onion omelette for Rachel and with concealed envy watched her eating it while I chewed my ration of dog-biscuits.
Then we had an unknown visitor, a tall boy of fourteen carefully carrying another minute egg. In excellent English he said that he had heard we were looking for eggs in the bazaar, but when I got out my purse he emphatically refused payment. A handsome lad, he told us his Punjabi father is married to a Gilgiti and has been here six years, working as a dhobi unofficially attached to the army. (The difficulties of a dhobi’s life during the Balti winter don’t bear thinking of.) I was much taken by Yakob, who speaks five languages – Punjabi, Urdu, Shina, Balti and English. Plainly he is intelligent above the average and there is a certain something about him which distinguishes him sharply from his local contemporaries. It is not that the Skardu folk are unfriendly, but at every level of society (not that there are many levels) one is aware of their being unused to outsiders and in general preferring to keep aloof from the unknown. Even when relaxed relations have been established, as with Sadiq and my many other regular visitors, one misses some quality that is found among even the poorest Tibetans, or the most isolated highland Ethiopians, and which for want of a better term could perhaps be called ‘natural good manners’. Yet that won’t do, for it wrongly implies that the Baltis are ill-mannered. What I am trying to express is something more negative and elusive: perhaps simply a basic insensitivity to others, bred by the Baltis’ exceptionally arduous struggle to survive, which can leave little over for the development of any social relationships not biologically or economically essential.
Skardu – 31 January
There was a startling change in the weather today – an unmistakable hint of spring in the air. It was almost mild, with warm sun and soft, hazy cloudlets floating above diamond-brilliant summits. From now on the heat of the midday sun will be the predominant force, though a lot more snow is inevitable.
I have never seen anything more beautiful than the trees this morning, especially the very tall poplars. Every branch and twig was encased in frozen snow and to look up at that silver glitter against the cobalt sky was like a glimpse of Paradise – every detail delicate and fragile and perfect beyond anything humanity could achieve.
On a more mundane level, everyone was out clearing their flat mud roofs with wooden snow-pushers. We walked through the bazaars in imminent danger of encountering a mini-avalanche, while piles of shifted snow, eight or ten feet high, blocked many passageways. Today’s foraging was rewarded by a pound of hairy goat’s butter which greatly improves the dog-biscuits. A daily forage is well worthwhile because small quantities of food trickle into the bazaars at irregular intervals. The weather has made most approach tracks to Skardu impassable, so the price of firewood has gone up to Rs.60 a maund. The price of kerosene has followed suit, and also the price of a cup of tea in the chia-khanas, where all cooking is done on wood-stoves. While taking a short cut from the Old to the New Bazaar I saw a frozen corpse in a disused hovel; every winter there are a shocking number of deaths from exposure in Skardu town.
We heard today that trouble continues in Gilgit, where troops have had to open fire on rioting sectarian mobs. On the road to Hunza the Pakistani army halted 5,000 Nagar Shiahs who were marching to support the Gilgit Shiahs, and on the road to Juglote they halted 3,000 Chilas Sunnis who were marching to support the Gilgit Sunnis. Nazir and Abbas Kazmi both found the situation humiliating and declared that all concerned were disgracing their faith and their country; the Chinese road-workers have had a grandstand view of the whole fracas and will now say, ‘What sort of religion is this, that makes men into barbarians?’ To ease their embarrassment I gave them an outline of recent Irish history.
Abbas Kazmi also reported that yesterday a jeep loaded with petrol went into the Indus twelve miles east of Thowar. There was of course no hope for the driver or his four passengers, whose perching on top of the load is said to have caused the accident by upsetting the vehicle’s equilibrium.
Skardu – 1 February
Last night I was baffled and not pleased to find a large wet patch on my sleeping bag. I peered apprehensively at the ceiling before remembering the week-old kid who had accompanied Sadiq’s children on their afternoon visit. This charming creature is very much a member of the family but not yet house-trained.
I must say I have never before lived in such unmitigated squalor. A well-maintained mud floor can be swept, but we have a half-inch carpet of fine dust identical to what one would find on the track outside in summertime. Therefore the floor is by now profusely littered with cigarette ends (most Baltis are heavy smokers), matches, broken apricot kernel shells, lengths of straw and lumps of horse-dung. Every move raises a cloud of dust and all our possessions are pale grey; to live permanently in such quarters must be very bad for the lungs.
Today from 10.30 to 3.30 the sun felt as hot as on a good May day at home, though it was again freezing hard by 5.30. We went for a long walk with Farida – a fluent English speaker – and her eight-year-old brother. I have never been asked to meet her mother, who possibly disapproves of mysteriously wandering females, but her father is an entertaining and erudite character. Farida often asks us in for tea and enjoys riding Hallam; she is a most self-possessed young lady, with a keen interest in the Wide World, and she seems likely to discard numerous taboos as she matures.
On our way home we found a young man sitting doubled up with pain on a boulder beside a stream under a solitary chenar. Beside him sat a friend, with ginger hair and bright blue eyes, who jumped up on seeing us and begged for pills. The patient was sweating weakly and on his companion’s instructions he pulled up his kamez to show a truly horrific bulge above the abdomen. I urged him to go to the hospital but his companion scornfully dismissed this suggestion and continued to beg for pills. I agreed then to provide a few painkillers, but emphasised that they would do nothing whatever to cure the disease. At once the patient struggled to his feet and set off towards our house, leaning on his friend’s arm. I tried to dissuade him from making this effort but he persisted – and then suddenly began to vomit blood on to the glittering snow. As he collapsed, and lay with his eyes closed, his friend made a gesture of despairing resignation and signed to me to leave them. (I had already directed the children to go ahead.) There seemed nothing else to do but – illogically – I have never in my life felt so callous. When I looked back at the prone dark figure on the snow, with that sinister stain beside it, I saw that Ginger was walking away too, in the opposite direction – presumably to fetch help. Near our house I met a group of Punjabi government clerks and asked if a jeep could be provided to take an emergency case t
o hospital; but even as I spoke I realised that my request was just plain silly. The young men shrugged and said that on Saturdays the hospital is closed and anyway government jeeps are not for the use of villagers.
A medical survey team has concluded that at least 30 per cent of Baltis need prolonged hospital treatment which cannot be provided owing to the lack of staff, medicines and equipment. Hallam is luckier. He has been responding well to his injections (or the passage of time) and we plan to leave for Khapalu on the 5th, doing the sixty-five miles in easy stages.
Skardu – 2 February
Today every path was like an ice-rink because after yesterday’s hot sun it froze hard last night. Nor was there much thawing: when the sky clouded over at noon a cold wind sprang up.
This morning I called at Sadiq’s house to photograph his children and found his young wife sitting in the sun in their small compound knitting a sock. Her seat was a Balti stool – a piece of wood some eighteen inches by twelve, on two six-inch legs – and on her lap sat the miserable little daughter of the house. This child’s whole person is ingrained with filth, her fair hair is hopelessly matted and her chin is covered with small, inflamed sores. I know that people inside glasshouses, and etc., but surely children’s faces and hands could be washed once a day, and their hair combed. Mamma is equally filthy and bedraggled. She is also very pregnant and has a ghastly yellow pallor and dreadfully bloodshot eyes; at twenty-one she could pass for forty. What a setting for another baby to be born into! And if she survives she will very likely have ten or twelve children, though she makes it plain the third is unwanted.
Where the Indus is Young Page 18