The hamlet near the clay cliffs had a startling Middle Eastern look, being built of mud-bricks instead of the usual Balti stone. Some dwellings stood on the cliffs, apparently growing out of them, but most of those were in ruins, their foundations having been partially eroded – a measure of how rapidly these curious cliffs are disappearing. They are honeycombed with exciting-looking caves which seem to have been troglodyte dwellings in the not too distant past. Rachel longed to explore these but I was less keen, in a region where the landscape is so mobile. This hamlet was also remarkable for the most gigantic vines I have ever seen – fantastic growths, some like a multitude of serpents intertwined, some growing right through the roofs and walls of houses, some forming footbridges over the broad irrigation channel and some extending for fifty or sixty yards, linking several apricot and mulberry trees.
Beyond the cliffs we found ourselves on an uncanny little plain, still partly snow-covered, where the uncultivable spongy soil was strangely resilient and broken up into many dark chasms too deep to be fathomed with the eye. Some were circular pits, at least 100 feet in diameter, others were long, narrow cracks and all had crumbling edges. Between these scores of death-traps the barren ground wobbled underfoot, like a bog, and I suddenly noticed that not one path crossed it at any point. I decided then that I did not like the feel of the place, either literally or metaphorically, so we departed from it as speedily as was prudent, sliding on our bottoms down a 500-foot cliff to an area of orchards and fields just above river level.
The district of Kiris is about sixteen miles long by ten miles wide and like every Balti oasis of any consequence it has a Raja – who I believe speaks some English, but unluckily is at present in Skardu. On our way back to the Rest House we passed his Palace, a square, three-storeyed house on the very edge of a cliff overlooking the Shyok. Apart from its being by far the largest building in Kiris it is unremarkable, and a young policeman from Shigar, who saw us walking around it, explained that ‘most good house in Kiris is big mosque – you come, I show’. So we went and were shown.
This mosque is close to Kiris bazaar – if six small stalls with three-quarter empty shelves can be so described – and by Balti standards it is indeed magnificent. In design it resembles the ordinary stone village mosque, which is square, flat-roofed and usually rather wretched-looking, with a wooden portico. But its scale and proportions give it a simple sort of grandeur, despite its state of disrepair. A close row of high wooden pillars supports the portico, and the spacious interior, which we were allowed to glimpse from the doorway, is divided into naves by austere, symmetrically arranged columns. Straw mats are scattered on the earth floor and four lamps hang from the high ceiling. Shiahs and Nurbashis – who interpret the Prophet’s teaching so very differently – worship here together. Northern Ireland Christians please note.
In an enclosure near the mosque are two broken-down tombs which at one time must have been quite impressive; the remains of their carvings show a degree of skill quite alien to modern Baltistan. Our guide identified them as the tombs of those intrepid missionaries who converted the Baltis to Islam. Maybe. But I am cautious about accepting as fact the historical data on offer hereabouts.
We saw five major rock-falls today and heard several more. At present there is little traffic on the jeep-track, visible from here across the river; otherwise accidents would be frequent because jeep-drivers, unlike riders or walkers, cannot hear the warning rattle of pebbles. The steep, smooth slopes above this stretch of track are classic rock-fall sources and massive boulders hurtle down from the heights at meteoric speeds.
Kiris is rich in rats. I am sleeping on the wooden floor and last night as I lay reading by candlelight they had the audacity actually to scamper over my flea-bag. Then when I blew out the candle they came along to eat the wax and I could hear them gnawing by my ear.
Kiris – 4 March
We woke at dawn to see a world newly white under three inches of snow, but by 8 a.m. this had turned to the first rain we have seen for three months. It continued all day, occasionally becoming sleet, and the cold damp kept everyone indoors. By 5 p.m., when the sky began to clear, Kiris must have had most of its annual ration. Rachel spent the day painting and doing sums while I attended to my customary bad-weather chores.
Skardu – 5 March
Our toughest day. The weather compelled us to do a forced march of twenty-six miles in seven and three-quarter hours with one five-minute stop. From which you may rightly deduce that Hallam and I are pretty fit by now, despite (or because of?) the limitations of the Balti cuisine.
At dawn the weather was difficult to judge but by 7.30 the sky had begun to clear and at 9.15 we set off. As we approached Gol more cloud could be seen gathering around the peaks ahead but for the next six or seven miles conditions remained tolerable – dry underfoot, and not too cold. The track switch-backed across a wide ledge between a dark chaos of mountains on the left and the deep gorge of the Indus on the right. When we came this way a month ago the whole area was white but now the thaw is complete. Beyond the Indus stark cliffs rose sheer from the water and at a little distance seemed to have the texture of brown velvet. We watched three spectacular rock-falls on these but our track was rarely at risk. Over the uninhabited twelve-mile stretch from Gol to Gomo Thurgon we saw only one other person – a mail-runner jogging along with a small sealed sack on his back. He looked at us with a strange expression, as though he didn’t believe it was true, and never for an instant altered the rhythm of his jog-trot.
I feared rain when the clouds thickened and sank lower and the wind blew more strongly and coldly against us. However, as we turned into the Skardu Valley it began to snow instead; not the attractive dry snow to which we have become accustomed, but dreary wet ‘Irish’ snow that melted as it landed. With every mile we became wetter and colder and soon visibility was down to fifty yards and liquid mud lay six inches deep on the track. Frequently through the gloom we heard the uncanny booming of avalanches and despite the extremity of my discomfort I rejoiced to have known Baltistan in this mood, too. One doesn’t expect one’s beloved to be always amiable. Sadiq tells us that throughout the Skardu Valley it has been snowing thus for four days and nights non-stop.
It was exactly 5 p.m. when we arrived back at Skardu and I thrust Rachel – soaked and shivering – into our cold little room. First I got Hallam unloaded (not easy with numb fingers), rubbed down and fed. Next I unpacked the load, got the stove going, undressed Rachel, wrapped her in a quilt, made tea – and discovered that our bedding, too, had been saturated. Therefore I had to settle down at once to the excessively laborious task of drying our flea-bags by the stove. And so to bed – not a moment too soon.
Skardu – 6 March
Today in Skardu nobody could walk ten yards without becoming mud to the knees and I found a stick essential to keep upright. The grey sky hung low and our ceiling has sprung so many leaks that there is hardly space between them for charpoys, while our floor has become a milder version of the ground outside; and poor Hallam’s ceiling is even worse. Four schoolboys spent the afternoon on the roof but I fear their shovelling will have further damaged the disintegrating mud. Many Skardu households have the same problem at present.
We spent the day calling on friends, all of whom warned us against leaving for Shigar before the weather improves. Despite Skardu’s unattractiveness just now, it feels good to be back in our Balti ‘hometown’ where we are welcomed so warmly by so many families – and by traders in the bazaar, and neighbours met at the stream, and policemen on the barrack verandah. Skardu may lack the Instant Friendliness of Khapalu, but once it has accepted you all is well.
Skardu – 7 March
There was a great improvement in the weather today, with disastrous consequences for us. The hot sun melted so much snow on our roof that when we got back from a kerosene-hunt we found all our bedding sodden. But it soon dried when hung outside. The early afternoon was repeatedly punctuated by the cracking and booming of av
alanches. Rachel spent the forenoon at the local girls’ school with some of her young friends; she finds it very difficult to keep upright while walking around Skardu under these conditions. The kerosene shortage is now acute because no jeeps are able to get through from Juglote, the track having been blocked by seven major landslides.
Skardu – 8 March
This morning we called on the Chief Superintendent, who told us that throughout Baltistan a tragic amount of fertile land is destroyed by erosion every year, which partly explains why many villages give an impression of having once enjoyed greater prosperity. If the Baltis were trained in methods of do-it-yourself flood-control enormous tracts of land could be saved. Obviously peasants who are capable of farming these mountainsides would profit by such training, though now they fatalistically accept the destruction of their most fruitful (literally) lowlands as the ‘will of Allah’.
During our conversation several jeep-owners, the majority Pathans, came into the office to plead for an issue of petrol, but all had to be refused. It was not clear to me why the Chief Superintendent of Police was responsible for petrol-rationing, rather than the Civil Supply Officer in the next room. But such is life in Skardu. Then it occurred to me to mention that I could find no kerosene, though the CSO had given me a chit. At once Raja Karim Khan attempted to solve our problem by despatching a young recruit to search for the precious fluid – complete with our jerrycan, chit and Rs.9. It is now bedtime and the youth has not reappeared: but undoubtedly he will, one day.
Tomorrow we are going to Satpara for a day-trip, weather permitting.
Skardu – 9 March
When we set off after breakfast there was some cloud on the peaks but much blue overhead, yet by 2 p.m. it was snowing again steadily. The whole Satpara Valley is still snowbound and the lake is completely covered in thick ice which supports a blanket of snow, so that one could pass it without even suspecting its existence. The jeep-track has long since been obliterated and the locals have tramped out for themselves an independent footpath which became so uncomfortable – and eventually dangerous – for Hallam that we had to turn back a mile short of the hamlet. By then a steady pre-snow wind was blowing and the clouds were down; I am fated not to see the head of the Satpara Valley on a clear day.
The regular habits of avalanches astonish me. As we were walking around the invisible lake we heard today’s first ‘gunshot’, followed after the usual moment of tense silence by a terrific rumbling boom – the loudest we have heard – seeming to come from the far side of a mountain on the west shore of the lake. I looked at my watch: it was 11.58. It is quite extraordinary how the first avalanche each day is heard between 11.55 and 12.05.
Deep grooves and long brown earth-stains were visible on the steeper snowy slopes and while coming from Skardu we had noticed fresh blood stains on the white path – a curiously melodramatic combination of colours. After about two miles we came to the scene of the accident, where the stains continued up a snowy slope to an expanse of bare scree. At one point high on the snow there was a wide patch of crimson, from which the victim had rolled down to the path, bringing a small rock-fall with him. Later we heard that he had been traversing the scree, searching for a lost sheep, when a rock hit him on the head. But like a true Balti he picked himself up, tied his shirt around the wound and walked four miles to the hospital – where he found no one on duty, because this is Sunday. So he tightened the tourniquet and walked another eight miles home. A few months among the Baltis make one realise how perilously effete we Westerners have become. After a few more generations of pampering and motor-transport our bodies will no longer be capable of normal functioning.
Skardu – 10 March
This morning saw an historic event of enormous interest: the removal by the Misses Murphy of their clothes, after almost three months. Rachel was disappointed – ‘Our bodies don’t look dirty! It’s all on our vests!’ Apparently one does not get progressively dirtier in a very cold climate. That protective coating of oil which establishes itself on the skin seems to repulse dirt. There was of course nothing to be done with our underclothes but drop them on the midden outside, from where they will soon be retrieved by some fuel-hunter. I decided against washing before putting on clean garments. Who knows what temperatures we may encounter up the Shigar Valley?
Today’s weather has been vile. It snowed wetly and continuously, the low sky was almost black and the icy damp seemed to chill one’s very marrow. Walking around the town was neat hell, with deep sticky mud trying to drag one’s boots off, or skiddy mud making it impossible to keep upright even with a stick.
This evening I am seriously worried about the kerosene crisis. For days we have been desperately borrowing from friends – a pint here, two pints there – and the young policeman was unable after all to find any. At this rate we shall have to go to Shigar without our stove and depend on the precarious local supply of firewood.
Skardu – 11 March
Today’s weather was fractionally less dismal than yesterday’s; and our horizons were brightened by the discovery of four gallons of kerosene, which means that we can return what we borrowed and leave for Shigar as soon as the sun comes out. I also found a few potatoes in the Old Bazaar – expensive at Rs.2 a seer but they made the best meal we have had for months.
Satu was available in the Kiris bazaar at Rs.1 a seer and I bought four seers for our Shigar trek; mixed with thermos-hot tea it provides a warm picnic lunch, instead of our usual hard-boiled eggs on a good day and dried apricots when times are hard.
12
Spring comes to the Shigar Valley
The Shigar Valley had no mean glories of its own. It is a broad, flat, open valley: but it is bounded on each side, and at head and at base by lofty mountains of the ruggedest type, culminating in needle peaks or covered with eternal snow.
SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND (c.1888)
Happiness depends on the taste, and not on the thing, and it is by having what we like, that we are made happy, and not by having what others consider likeable.
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Shigar – 12 March
A blissful day, weather-wise and every-otherwise. By 8.45 we were on the road, looking and sounding like tinkers as we jogged along with kettle, pan and dechi rattling in their tattered sack. This cheerful cacophony has become our Karakoram signature tune.
For seven miles we followed the Khapalu track, which has just been reconstructed with gravel and sand. (The local PWD employs one coolie to every mile.) Then we crossed the Indus by an oldish suspension bridge, where the river is about one hundred yards wide. Its smooth green flow is broken only by a few colossal, weirdly-shaped boulders; other gigantic lumps of granite lie tumbled along the banks and the bridge’s steel cables are anchored to some of these. On the right bank the thaw is almost complete and our track at once climbed to a long, wide shelf of silver sand, dotted with low clumps of a tough desert plant not relished even by goats. Towards Skardu this plain becomes a series of elegantly curved sand-dunes, and ahead of us a long wall of dark rock was lavishly veined with white marble. At its western end rose a solitary, sharp, red-brown mountain and our track squeezed through a gap between this and the dark wall. Beyond the gap we were looking into a shallow valley where a distant goatherd was taking his animals away from us towards some invisible pasture.
After crossing a level semi-desert the track swung north to wriggle steeply up between arid, shattered mountains that looked as though some giant vandal had been venting his ill-temper on them. Higher and still higher we went, on to a long, narrow saddle where snow still lay deep and the air had a crispness I welcomed after the hot climb. Ahead were unfamiliar snow-peaks, wearing ribbons of pale vapour, and on either side rose gaunt black cliffs curiously pitted with round holes. We took it easy here, ambling along under a dark blue sky amidst the sort of fierce beauty and infinite silence that make me feel I never want to leave Baltistan.
Then we were looking up the tranquil Shigar Valley to its junctio
n, some thirty miles away, with the much narrower Braldu and Basna valleys; and on our left Skardu’s Rock was again visible, presiding over the confluence of the Shigar and the Indus. The long descent ended on a wide ledge scarcely eighty feet above river level. This flat land, at the base of dark, barren precipices, was covered with rocks, boulders, stones and pebbles of every size, shape and colour; we recklessly collected until my parka pockets were bulging. Next came orchards and dwellings, with women weaving on roofs and yak standing around looking imperious. I noticed here some unusual shades of grey-blue and cinnamon-brown among the cross-bred cattle. When the track became too muddy we followed footpaths across fields and passed through a string of hamlets before skidding and squelching into the centre of the town. I at once recognised the conspicuous mosque, and all the tiny houses and giant trees around it, from the photographs taken by the Duke of Abruzzi’s expedition sixty-six years ago. Where else have the chief towns changed so little since 1909? No wonder my reactionary heart throbs with love for Baltistan.
Where the Indus is Young Page 27