Where the Indus is Young (18 page)

We paused at the foot of a long, crudely-made step-ladder and one boy led me up to a five-foot-high doorway. Bending to enter, I stumbled over the raised stone threshold and fell on to the horns of a ruminating dzo. She made indignant noises as she scrambled to her feet and my guide gave an alarmed squeal; but she hadn’t really taken umbrage and was in any case tethered to a roof-support. Half this
room was filled with neatly stacked firewood and sweet-smelling hay. My guide beckoned me on through an even lower door into a dark, smoky living-room, very hot and crowded, where my head just touched the roof-beams when I stood erect. In the centre was a
wood-stove
and sitting cross-legged on the floor beside it was an elderly man, with a small face under a big turban, running up a
kamiz
on a sewing-machine. I peered around as the womenfolk shrank back against the wall, modestly drawing their cloaks over their faces and protectively clutching their whimpering small children. The tailor stared at me, unsmilingly, while continuing to operate his machine. When I held out my container and asked for kerosene he stood up, still without any change of expression, and led me through the lowest door of all into an adjacent cubby-hole – his ‘shop’. It was stocked with two jerrycans of kerosene, half a sack of
ata
, four bars of soap, a cardboard carton of tea-dust, a bag of rock-salt and a small cluster of nylon socks hanging from a nail. (I fail to see the point of nylon socks in the Karakoram, but they have probably become a status symbol.) This, I felt, was as far from Harrods as one could get.

By now the news of my arrival had spread and as I held my container steady the room beyond filled with excited, curious youths. They jammed the tiny doorway, fighting to see me and talking rapidly in Shina, the Gilgit language. At some unknown date this settlement was either founded or conquered by Gilgitis and their descendants still speak Shina. The linguistic barrier has caused them to lead an exceptionally isolated life, even by local standards, and the consequent in-breeding has produced a type regarded by ‘true’ Baltis as undesirable.

When I left Satpara’s Supermarket I was followed by the youths – a wild, tough-looking lot, all in brown homespun and disposed to jeer at the foreigner rather than to attempt conversation. They deliberately led me astray and laughed raucously when I found myself on the edge of an impassable chasm. Then they ran away, leaving me to rediscover the right path as best I could – an exasperating delay, for the snowfall had become much heavier and there is a limit to even Rachel’s self-sufficiency. Back on the valley floor I searched for my own footsteps, but already these had been obliterated. However, I
could more or less remember the route and I thoroughly enjoyed the return journey. There is nothing more solitary and soothing than a walk across a deserted landscape of undefiled whiteness, where the only movement is the silent dance of the snowflakes.

Near the Rest House I overtook the two firewood carriers, sitting on a rock, and with friendly grins they applauded my speed. But then I am not permanently undernourished (only temporarily), nor was I carrying sixty pounds on my back. When I had passed them it struck me that the only three people out in the valley today were all concerned with the basic Balti problem of keeping warm.

I got back at two o’clock to find that Rachel had just cut the thumb and forefinger of her left hand with a razor-blade, while trying to sharpen colouring-pencils. The place looked like a slaughter-house and I – typically – had left our First-Aid box (unopened since leaving London) in Skardu. Luckily the chowkidar arrived then and redeemed himself by tearing a strip off his shirt-tail, burning it over the stove and rubbing the charred cloth into the cuts, which he then wrapped in tinfoil from his cigarette-packet. The St John Ambulance Brigade might not approve but the patient is now comfortable. And so is Hallam, whom I visited after a late luncheon of dahl and salt. (The onion supply has petered out.)

It snowed all yesterday afternoon and all through the night, and it was still snowing when I visited Hallam this morning. The western half of the lake was covered in ice which was covered in snow, and when I found that Hallam could move without limping I decided on an immediate return to Skardu lest we might find ourselves snowbound with neither food nor fuel. Loading was extraordinarily difficult, standing thigh-deep in snow with numb fingers, and either through stupidity or ill-will nobody made the slightest attempt to help. But at last all the vital knots had been tied, Rachel was in the saddle and we were off.

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.

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.

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.

Everybody 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.