Where the Indus is Young (15 page)

On the outskirts of the town a little building stands on its own in the snow not far from the hospital, with ‘Goiter Clinic’ writ large over the door. It was built a few years ago but has not yet been opened. This is typical of Skardu, where those with worthy ambitions to improve things for the locals repeatedly find themselves thwarted by inter-related staff/communications/transport problems.

We managed our equestrian affairs more rationally today, arranging that Rachel could go ahead of me for half a mile or so, but must pull up and wait. Tedious for her and Hallam, but one can’t have one’s young permanently out of sight.

On the way home I suddenly felt very weak, thirsty and hungry; but the two tiny tea-houses we passed had neither tea nor food. Then, when I went to put the kettle on, our dratted stove played us up and had to be dismantled. When I had broken two fingernails, while trying to adjust the intractable wicks, Rachel observed maliciously, ‘You’re using a lot of new words today.’ And after all that the small kettle took forty minutes to boil. New wicks are indicated.

This has been the sort of day that would drive one to screaming point at home; but here, because everyone is completely indifferent to time, it was positively relaxing.

We were told that kerosene would be available at the Government Supplies Depot in the New Bazaar at eleven o’clock, so off we went at ten-thirty to join a patient throng bearing every imaginable sort of container – including a chipped enamel chamber-pot the origins of which I studiously investigated. I should have been able to guess that it once belonged to a touring British Official.

As we sat in the sun near a tethered Hallam, we were approached yet again by a harassed-looking young policeman who has been haunting us for days. Abbas Kazmi has repeatedly assured him that our passports are in order, our characters unblemished and our motives of the purest, but he still seems to feel it his duty to throw doubts (most politely) on the legality of our presence in Baltistan.
To allay the poor man’s anxiety I offered this morning to show our passports to the Chief Superintendent for Baltistan and the relieved young PC arranged to meet us at 3 p.m. outside Police Headquarters.

At 12.40 the Depot opened and we were informed that tomorrow we must go to the Office of Government Supplies and fill in an application form in triplicate for a ration of subsidised kerosene. So on the way home we borrowed a gallon from Abbas Kazmi, who always seems able to solve our problems. There is no unsubsidised kerosene left in the bazaar and without our stove we could scarcely survive: these are the very coldest weeks of the year.

At 2.55 I was tethering Hallam to a verandah-post outside Police HQ and at 3.45 our young PC friend appeared to explain that the Chief had not returned to his office after lunch – so would we please come back at 11 a.m. tomorrow.

We then went for an hour’s walk/canter and got home just before the night cold took the valley in its vicelike grip. On the way I tried unsuccessfully to buy some form of bread; food was much more plentiful in remote Thowar. Here the population has recently been artificially increased by an influx of Pakistani government officials and their staffs and sometimes their families – not to mention the military, who cannot have
all
their food airlifted in, though they try to be as self-sufficient as possible. However, Skardu is best for Hallam’s fodder and he is responding well to a good diet. He doesn’t look any fatter, but there is little in common between the wreck who dragged himself out of Thowar and the spirited steed who now goes streaking towards the horizon at a touch of Rachel’s switch.

Sadiq Ali visits us regularly every morning, often accompanied by one or more friends, relatives and neighbours. The locals say we are the first foreigners to have wintered here for over forty years, which may or may not be true. Certainly we are a novelty, the more so as we do not live aloofly in our own camp or in the Rest House, but are available for inspection at all times. Our door can be bolted from inside as well as padlocked from outside, but I have never yet used the bolt, even at night. (What greater tribute could be paid to the
essential friendliness and goodness of the Balti atmosphere? One feels completely safe going to sleep at night in an open house.) In such places as this the foreigner must choose an extreme: either to live in the sort of isolation traditionally associated with Western travellers or to integrate and forget about privacy. In Hindu
communities
the latter course is difficult because of caste taboos, as I found in both Nepal and south India, but in Muslim lands there are no such barriers. The prolonged and often silent scrutiny of unknown chance callers can be very trying, yet it would be churlish to begrudge these wide-eyed visitors the pleasure they get from watching me washing-up, or brushing my teeth, or polishing the tack, or reading to Rachel, or peeling onions to give some air of reality to our packet soups.

De Fillipi remarked that ‘By nature the Balti is … of a timid disposition with a mixture of respect and fear but without servility towards the European’. He is so without servility that when I go off to fetch my morning bucket of water it occurs to none of my breakfast-time callers – sitting warming their hands at the stove – to offer to fetch it for me. But in fact I like this attitude of leaving me to fend for myself; there is no unkindness implicit in it and that is how I want to live here.

Sadiq Ali is full of good advice which he somehow manages to get across in Balti. For complicated explanations he enlists a nephew, Mohammad Ali, who speaks a little English with an effort painful to watch. Mohammad Ali is nineteen, spotty and ambitious; he has light brown hair, hazel eyes, a too-pale face and crooked teeth. Having had some contact with mountaineering expeditions he wants to migrate down-country where he believes he can get ‘best-paid job in office’. I have been trying to dissuade him from quitting his job here – he works in some recently-imported government department – because with a Skardu education he could not possibly get any job
down-country
. His ambition, however, is not uncommon. While the Pakistanis pine to escape to England or America, an increasing number of young Baltis pine to escape to Pakistan.

Sadiq Ali – with his crinkly, tanned face, blue eyes and concern lest Hallam feel cold at night – reminds me of an undersized,
bow-legged, horsey Irishman. He has insisted on lending us a ragged but still useful horse-blanket and he frequently brings us gifts of dried apricots and mulberries, mingled with a few tiny raisins and walnuts. He also buys Hallam’s fodder – undoubtedly a profitable occupation – and has even managed to locate a source of precious barley. His morning visits normally last about an hour; then he wanders off to his winter job, which is in the Government Supplies Office near the Police Bazaar, where we too were going this morning in quest of our kerosene chit.

The office is part of the old British administrative headquarters and everything is falling to bits – doorways, windows, floorboards. All is twilit, crowded and confusing, with staff and visitors wrapped in blankets and huddled around wood-stoves and files hanging out of disintegrating cupboards. But Sadiq Ali soon found the man we needed, a charming Gilgiti who conjured efficiency out of chaos, handed us our chit within five minutes and then entertained us to lukewarm tea, decaying biscuits and intelligent conversation.

So far so good – but would the kerosene depot be open again today? Nobody was sure: peons were sent running to other offices to enquire: finally the Gilgiti said he thought not, this being Friday. Therefore we went next to the Police HQ – another old and shaky structure – and were greeted in the Chief Superintendent’s office by a most delightful elderly character with a courtly manner who proved to be a brother of the deposed Mir of Nagar. He and I had more lukewarm tea, while Rachel flirted with delighted recruits on the parade-ground, and he explained in startling Cambridge English why the local police are so worried by our visaless passports and eccentric insistence on touring alone in mid-winter on foot. A few government departments in Islamabad have got their lines badly crossed. On the one hand the Northern Areas police have been ordered to treat all foreigners with suspicion and double-check their visas and permits. On the other hand the Ministry of Tourism has decided that foreigners are not to be discouraged from visiting Pakistan’s chief tourist attraction by the necessity of obtaining permits. Moreover no one has bothered to tell these misfortunate unlettered young constables, most of whom have never even been to Gilgit, which nationals do
not
require visas to
enter Pakistan. No wonder they fret about us settling near their sensitive borders for the winter. The remarkable thing is that they have been so consistently polite and co-operative, when in their eyes I practically qualify for handcuffs. They have been put in a most invidious position, from which they should be quickly extricated. This can easily be done by requiring tourists to obtain permits – a standard procedure nowadays, to which no reasonable traveller could object unless frustrating delays were involved.

From the Police HQ we proceeded to the PWD HQ, about two miles away towards the southern mountains. Because of imported bureaucracy we need a chit from the Chief Civil Engineer, authorising the chowkidar of Satpara Rest House to admit us for three nights. As the Chief Engineer has gone to Gilgit (his native place), we were sent a furlong up the track to the office of the Assistant Engineer, who had just left to say his Friday prayers. We are to return at 10.30 a.m. tomorrow, since the five-day-week has not yet arrived in Skardu. But this means postponing our departure for Satpara.

A bazaar hunt for new stove-wicks occupied the next hour. Then I was unable to insert them, so we went to call on Abbas Kazmi, our all-purpose saviour, only to find that he too had gone to the mosque. However, we were invited in by his next-door neighbours, the Sadiqs, an endlessly hospitable family who have already several times
entertained
us and now seem like old friends. Mr Sadiq is stout, jovial and very busy, being President of the local Pakistan People’s Party (Mr Bhutto’s party). His nine handsome, healthy, charming children dote on Rachel; they range from a grown-up daughter to a cherubic
four-year
-old nicknamed Apollo. Mrs Sadiq is President of the women’s branch of the PPP and works hard to arouse feminine interest in regional developments and improvements. But I find it hard to believe that she is achieving much, or that the average Balti male would wish her to. She looks like the more fine-boned type of Spanish beauty and is warm-hearted and competent, with a dry sense of humour that quickly becomes apparent though she speaks no English.

There was a newcomer in the family circle today, a strikingly handsome woman who looks about twenty but has five children
including an elegant son as tall as herself. She it was who volunteered to put in my new wicks and when Abbas Kazmi returned from the mosque he introduced her as Mrs Sadiq’s niece and the wife of the newly-appointed Assistant Commissioner for Baltistan.

In a warm, sparsely-furnished room, crowded with people of all ages but dominated by Apollo, we had tea and slices of home-made cake – which rare delicacy aroused our uncontrollable enthusiasm, though normally neither of us eats cake. By then the Assistant
Commissioner
had joined us; he is a youngish man from the Kharmang valley and no less congenial than his wife. It was 3 p.m. when we left and anywhere else these people would certainly have invited us to lunch. But here not even the most prosperous householder can easily feed unexpected guests.

I make a habit of fetching water at sunset and as I set out with my bucket this evening the snow-laden valley was already full of pale dusk. Beside the stream a few poplars and willows stood blackly against a cold greenish sky and in the near distance the Rock loomed huge and dark and strangely purposeful. Then unexpectedly to north and east the highest summits briefly reflected a pink-
orange-copper
glow; and for a few unforgettable moments those peaks seemed detached from their own massive shadowy bulks – islands of radiance, floating far above the twilit world.

At last the inevitable has happened: an almost unendurable
toothache
beyond reach of skilled care. When it started five days ago I pretended it wasn’t there – my usual formula for treating bearable pain, the theory being that minor pains go away more quickly if ignored. By last night, however, it had become abundantly clear that in the present case stoicism is not the answer. This is my first ever real toothache, as distinct from vague twinges, but today is Saturday so I must wait until Monday for treatment. The hospital, which includes the dental clinic, closes down from noon on Fridays to 9 a.m. on Mondays. Odd behaviour for a hospital, but we
are
in Skardu … However, I tell myself that things could be much worse – an infected appendix for instance, or a broken spine.

After breakfast we went in search of our Satpara chit and for two hours sat awaiting the Assistant Engineer in a tiny room where a friendly group of PWD officials were crowded around a stove. Those who had studied engineering in Peshawar University spoke adequate English and one young man – with shoulder-length wavy brown hair, a mustard-coloured suede jacket and sky-blue knife-creased trousers – introduced himself as ‘an electrical and telephonic
engineer’. He volunteered the riveting information that Skardu’s telephone system, which was installed by the British and still occasionally works, is the 1864 model. One wonders if any
equipment
installed anywhere in 1964 will still be working in 2075. He also told us that it costs four million rupees to import into Baltistan a generator worth three million. Even today the mountains are mighty. Of course we didn’t get our chit. The Assistant Engineer had gone to – who knows where?

The minutiae of domestic life take up quite a lot of time here. Rock salt is well named and one buys it in large lumps: I spent thirty minutes this afternoon hammering half a seer into practical bits. Then I devoted an hour to carefully cracking our large collection of apricot stones, so that the nourishing kernels remained intact. My harvest was about half a pound, which the ravenous Rachel ate for supper. It was a choice between kernels and dahl, which she had already had for both breakfast and lunch. We finished our supply of imported food yesterday and because of the earthquake cannot now hope for those supplementary rations which Naseem was to have sent up by jeep.

This morning in the Old Bazaar we made what seemed at first sight a heartening discovery – four small toasted buns selling at twenty-five paise (two and a half pence) each. Unfortunately,
however
, they are too hard for Rachel’s teeth and jaws to make the slightest impression on them: nor could I cope, in my present delicate dental condition. But as they are obviously several months old already they should keep for another few weeks. In the next tiny stall I found a curious yellowish-grey greasy substance which was full of hairs and grit but looked as though it might be edible. I cautiously tasted some and it is either goats’ cheese or goats’ butter – too strong for Rachel but I like it and bought half a pound for Rs.3. Now all I need is something to spread it on.

Rachel spent today with the Sadiq children while Abbas Kazmi took me to visit Shakir Shamin, who has published a book of poems in Urdu and was introduced as ‘Baltistan’s only author’. Shakir is
engaged to the eldest Sadiq girl, which means that despite his being a close friend of the family he cannot at present visit their home unless his betrothed is away. He lives in a not-yet-completed bungalow about half a mile beyond the town where the land rises towards the high Satpara valley. There are several inoffensive new buildings on that slope, mostly government offices and the residences of senior army officers and civil servants.

Shakir is Director of Development Schemes for Baltistan, a
comparatively
well-paid, if frustrating, post. But neither money nor influence can procure more than the minimum of food at this season and lunch consisted of one small fried egg each, a dish of curried spinach between the three of us and six rounds of
roti
. Shakir repeatedly apologised for the meal though I was being
perfectly
sincere when I assured him that by current Murphy standards it seemed a banquet.

I have felt slightly ashamed of myself today. At times the nerve pain became so unbearable that I could not fully conceal it from my companions, who obviously thought me exceedingly effete to be so put out by such a commonplace and trivial affliction. I was reminded of the last lines of my favourite travel-book, when Eric Newby and his companion, after their short walk in the Hindu Kush, meet Thesiger and are dismissed by him as a couple of pansies. There was I, rather fancying myself as the hardy traveller roving through remote Baltistan – but the first touch of real pain has revealed me in my true colours as a degenerate product of twentieth-century over-
civilisation
, accustomed to having the best possible medical treatment the moment anything goes wrong. Now I am in such hellish agony that I cannot write any more.

Last evening Sadiq Ali told me that Skardu’s Punjabi dentist, being averse to Balti winters, has long since gone home to Lahore; and I was not glad to hear that his understudy is a young Balti. This morning my ache was a few degrees less hellish and I considered leaving it to nature. But then I decided that that would be rash, when we are soon going into the wilds.

The Government Hospital – new but already grubby – is a rambling one-storey building staffed by the army, for lack of qualified civilians willing to live up-country. In the large, gloomy, empty hallway we were greeted by a handsome Punjabi sepoy, from the Corps of Engineers, who supervises the electricity supply when there is any. He said the dental surgeon would soon come and pointed down a long, silent, shadowy corridor to a protruding notice marked ‘Dental’. When I rather tactlessly asked if the dental surgeon really was one he assured me that he had graduated last year from Lahore University and has documents to prove it. I then asked if there were any patients in the hospital – the stillness was uncanny – and the sepoy twirled his fine moustaches and said that mostly they had gone home for Muharram but would probably return afterwards.

Twenty minutes later we were summoned out of the
waiting-room
by an unkempt young man wearing several days’ beard and a grubby
shalwar-kamiz.
Some underling, I assumed – and was
considerably
disquieted when he waved me into a streamlined but dusty dentist’s chair, picked up an unshiny instrument with unclean hands and began to poke hesitantly around my mouth. As I indicated the seat of the pain I realised that he spoke no more English than a schoolboy in the bazaar, though English is the language of instruction in Pakistan’s dental schools. I made a violent gesture signifying ‘Yank it out!’ but the ‘dental surgeon’ (he really must have inverted commas) shook his head while a fleeting expression of alarm crossed his face. At that moment five laughing young men erupted into the room and everybody exclaimed joyously, shook hands, embraced closely, kissed warmly and began an animated conversation while I sat forgotten, surveying the room and again recognising Skardu’s characteristic aura of unreality. The sleek German equipment seemed very up-to-date but there was no source of running – or even standing – water and I doubt if such equipment could ever be operated effectively on the available electricity supply. After a few moments, and without a glance in my direction, the dentist and his friends disappeared for a quarter of an hour. Rachel advised an immediate retreat, having not unreasonably concluded that our oafish friend had failed his examinations. But by then the whole
scene had begun to have a certain macabre fascination for me and I longed to see how the situation would develop.

When Oaf returned he ignored my mouth and began to fumble uncertainly through cupboards. Eventually I saw that he was assembling the makings of a filling, and though I do not normally object to being drilled without an injection I now found the prospect unpleasing. But I need not have worried. Oaf said, ‘Mouth big open!’ and then clumsily stuffed something into a completely irrelevant crevice between the aching tooth and its neighbour. Much of the filling promptly disintegrated on to my tongue, causing a new kind of pain. When I yelped indignantly Oaf betook himself to a drawer and after much rummaging found a bottle of oily liquid which tasted vile as he applied it vigorously in an unsuccessful effort to remove the metallic deposit. This evening I have a very sore tongue, as well as a toothache. The rest of the filling fell out during the afternoon – naturally enough, as no cavity had been prepared to receive it.

Before we left, our well-meaning Oaf produced from some far recess six yellowed codeine tablets, a dozen oval brown pills and six capsules which, judging by their blotched complexions, have been grossly over-exposed to damp and/or heat. Another young man came in to tell me when to take these medicaments: obviously Oaf was loath to reveal the limitations of his English. As he was wrapping the pills in grimy pages from a schoolchild’s discarded exercise-book two fell to the floor and he and I watched them roll away. But neither of us referred to the loss, thereby tacitly agreeing that it was of no great significance. When we got home I scrutinised the remainder and felt it might be wise to preserve them as antiques. Mercifully the slight improvement noted this morning is being maintained; probably some dying nerve has almost expired.

At noon we unearthed the Assistant Engineer in the Forestry Department HQ and got our Satpara chit. But we have been advised not to go to Satpara with less than two gallons of kerosene as fuel of any sort is very scarce there, and the present oil shortage is acute. Yesterday, in Shakir’s house, we all sat in overcoats and mufflers since firewood is too dear now to be used before sundown. It would cost at least £14 a week to keep a small wood-stove burning moderately well
all day and nobody here has that kind of money. Our own way of life – taking exercise from nine-ish until four-ish – is the most economical and effective heating-system.

Last night’s snow fall was the heaviest of the winter and today the valley is laden with brightness. Yesterday I was struck by the fact that after
eight
days Skardu’s previous snowfall was still pure and glittering, except along the very edge of the jeep-track. Where else in this polluted world would week-old snow in a town centre look newly fallen!

Normal life in Skardu is now in abeyance, for these are the last days of Muharram. The feeling in the air reminds me of an Irish Good Friday.

This morning we got two gallons of kerosene from a sly Kashmiri hoarder for an outrageous Rs.34. He argued that since wood has gone up to Rs.50 a maund this was not excessive. But as we want to see the Muharram processions on the 23rd Satpara has been
postponed
to the 24th.

All day it was snowing lightly and when we went for a ride/walk towards the valley’s southern wall ours were the only sounds and movements to disturb the stillness. From high above the town we gazed upon the whole length of Skardu’s valley, through a silver curtain of pirouetting flakes – and then suddenly the deep silence of that white world of mourning was shattered by a passionate,
semi-hysterical
declamation from a mosque. This eerie sound seemed to tear at the peace of the valley, harshly vibrating across the bright snow and being caught and thrown back by the dark precipices behind us. It was a local version of the Shiahs’ ‘Passion Play’, during which mullahs remind the faithful of what took place at Karbala, when Hussain was trampled to death under the hooves of horses, and his little son killed by a flying arrow, and his nephew mutilated and slain by the sword. To the Shiahs Hussain is a Christ-like figure, who atoned by his death for the sins of mankind. Shiahs also stress the pre-existence of Mohammed; the Prophet is said to have appointed Ali (his son-in-law and Hussain’s father) as his successor a few days before he went
back
to heaven.

The Baltis are almost all Shiahs (except in the Shyok Valley), which seems odd when they are completely surrounded by Sunnis – in Kashmir, Pakistan, Gilgit and Chinese Turkestan. An ancient tradition attributes their conversion to four missionary brothers from Khorassan, whom one would expect to have been Shiahs. But it seems these brothers in fact converted them to the Nurbashi sect, which still flourishes in Khapalu and survives throughout the Shyok Valley. Then, it is said, the local rajas, noticing that the oldest and most aristocratic families of Kashmir were Shiahs (of Persian descent), themselves became Shiahs for snobbish reasons and were imitated by their people.

Today’s dental development was the replacement of that
indescribable
nerve-pain by an extreme soreness which seems almost pleasant in contrast.

Yesterday in the bazaar we met a handsome young army officer who introduced himself as Captain Doctor Haroon, a Kashmiri seconded to the Government Hospital. When we had chatted briefly about Balti problems he invited us to breakfast with him today in his
living-quarters
at the hospital, promising me some data on the new Rural Health Scheme – which I fear is but another humanitarian castle in the thin air of Baltistan.

At 9.30 a.m. we found the hospital as deserted as the town. A notice explained in several languages – none of which the average Balti could read – that the whole establishment closes down at
weekends
and for public holidays and religious feasts; in other words, it is at present a statistic rather than a reality. However, Captain Haroon was awaiting us and I settled down to get as much information as possible from him. But within moments I had been made uneasy by his pawing of Rachel. One is accustomed to men and women alike affectionately kissing and cuddling her, but his fondling was different. And soon Rachel of her own accord took refuge from him on the far side of the room, though normally she likes nothing better than sitting on men’s knees. He next tried to undress me on the pretext of examining my husky outfit: and when forced to desist he fetched a
photograph album from his suitcase – portraying himself at every stage of development – and sat beside me on the charpoy with an arm around my shoulders and his face close to mine. Plainly he was at an advanced stage of sexual frustration and because of Rachel’s presence I felt rather alarmed. When he began to kiss me frantically she was looking out of the window but, as I tried to stand up she turned to see me being pushed back on to the charpoy and rekissed even more frantically – an activity from which our host desisted only when I gave him a crack on the head with my
dula
. Rachel has described the incident much more succinctly in her own diary – ‘A man kissed Mummy and she was very angry and I felt embarrassed’.