15 nov 05 - 05 jan 06
I am getting more and more lazy here – or better: I don’t want to sit on the laptop instead of enjoying my time talking, dancing and relaxing. But now it is really time to give you some news, I have delayed it for more than a month now. The time in Lahore was joyful, interesting and sometimes astonishing. I got to know a lot about some background information which was not always nice.
When we came back home from a classical concert (European classic), Javed’s mother was angry. She blamed Salma living a luxurious life without making food for her father-in-law. The mother didn’t serve her husband. Food was there, she would have just had to serve it. The man beat her in former times, wasn’t the husband or father someone wishes. He was one of the best Tabla players in the Old City, still his students praise him – but they don’t visit him. He smells, passes urine where ever he is. The family keeps him at home. I asked Javed, if he had had a heart attack or something like this as he is walking quite wobbly, not taking part in daily life, not speaking clearly. “No, he just started passing urine and defecated in public and I was ashamed when people watched me cleaning the road. So we kept him at home.”
That’s how it started. 2 times a week Javed takes him down to road for a little while.
I persuaded Javed to allow me to buy some Tablas for him as the family sold his own ones 4 years ago.
And I have asked his father if h would like to teach me. He started smiling and playing rhythms on the iron parts of his bed. He is happy. He even starts washing his hands himself for the first time after years. Let’s see, maybe it will be a little better in the family…
On the same evening as we came home after the concert, the road was alive. Somebody had been shot down. Javed’s mother brought with her scolding also the news from the road. “While you are away enjoying life, people are killed here – and you don’t care! Be afraid, close the doors and the windows, don’t go out!”
But also Javed has some information – there is trouble down, also guns were involved but no one was killed – up to now. The 2 guys went to another area to resume their quarrels.
Next day we came to know that one was really shot in the leg.
I knew it was not really a calm area, but another day when we picked the kids from school, Javed whispered: “Look at that guy over there on the left, I will tell you a story later. … Once he flirted with a young girl. She was in 7th class that time (means 12 years old). Her father was very religious. He didn’t allow her to go out, she was driven to school and picked every day, had to use scarf aso. The boy fell in love with her, they saw each other through the window. Then she also fell in love. After some months they decided to run away with each other. He bought sleeping pills and she fed her family with them. At 3 o’clock at night they took a bus to a town far away where his friends lived. There they had sex for 2 days, till the family found them. The girl just said: “We are married now, I love him!”, but the boy’s ideas were different. He just wanted to have fun. The girl’s family wanted to see him in jail, but his father persuaded them to keep the secret. The result would only be shame on his family – though the real culprit was the girl because she had accepted the boy’s wish. This happened 4 months ago. Now he is showing off with it. The girl’s future is destroyed. She has to fear never to be married because she was “used” before and there will be no blood on the bed sheet. Not to talk about the rejection through her family. She will have a hard life.
I asked people, how much a man knows before he gets married. He usually knows nothing. Not even that blood should be there. In the next room there will be a close relative waiting for the morning to check the bed sheet. No blood means divorce at once.
My European soberness let me say: “Why doesn’t she cut her finger to drop some blood – if he really knows nothing. She could also have her hymen stitched again!”
These things were astonishing for Javed. He will not tell them on otherwise the examinations after the wedding night would be intensified.
As I told him, that in few cases it’s possible, that there is not enough blood to make a stain or that this hymen could have been destroyed while doing sports he was completely confused. “This means, that maybe sometimes the girl was divorced in vain?...”
All these things were still on my mind when the neighbours were celebrating marriage. On the first day – called Mehndi – a bunch of girls sat in the bride’s house singing and playing drums for some hours. Then some kids came with plates full of Mehndi cream (Henna), put it on the ground, filmed it and carried it away. Some of the cream was applied on the bride’s hands who appeared for 5mins. She was sitting in a lavishly decorated chair, taking the offered Rupees and looked like about to cry.
I heard, that all women cry when they marry, because after the marriage only the husband will give her the permit to see her parents. And he doesn’t really like her to go there. It is the only place for her to be treated well. Maybe once she won’t come back? - [just to state - there are exceptions]
He also told me, that in the first night (2nd night of celebrations, barat, when the groom takes her to his house) the new husband will give her a “lection” before starting with sex. “You will treat my parents well, you will do everything according to their wishes, you will care for me, my family and my relatives and never refuse their desires. If you act according to my request, I will sometimes take you to your parents, but never ever ask for it!” .. then the “duties” start.
How can one know that it is the same procedure in every family? Because tradition has it, that a recently married man takes the groom aside and tells him: “Listen, before you start sex, you should give your new wife a lection, to make her know what to do…”
Also the women inform the bride that there will be a lection and that she should agree – what ever stupid things he will ask from her. Otherwise no sex, which can mean divorce on the very next day as there will be no blood on the bed sheet.
And this is the most important thing. Not only for the groom – there is this relative waiting in the next room to check in the morning as mentioned.
And men know nothing about it. Javed confessed, that he was massaging his wife’s back as she suddenly felt pain. But not out of care or love, but because he was afraid of the auntie next door. Maybe she would tell people that he is inexperienced – no – inexperienced is the wrong word. Officially they are not allowed to have experience. Maybe clumsy is the right word.
I don’t want to know how many girls are hurt just because people have no idea of anatomy.
The old women whisper things like „Look how she walks, she was ‚opened’ last night, everything is fine!“ at the Valima (the 3rd day, celebration of “successful dealing of duties”)
During marriage there is not much to laugh for her. In the traditional areas (everywhere else than posh areas of big cities like Karachi, Lahore and Islamabad) mothers- and sisters-in-law aso. expect the own son to treat his wife as they were treated – which usually means beating.
It’s a vicious circle. Javed confesses, that in the early days of his own marriage he was told “You know, your father/brother-in-law, uncle… beat me when I did this and that. Look at your wife, she is doing the same. And you, you softie, you are not able to restrict this? That’s treachery on your mother/sister!”
It's quite hard to know this during a mass event like marriage parties, where I saw all these women who are allegedly beaten behind the doors.
I don’t wonder anymore, why they need ages to dress up, put make up and style their hair for an event like this. They can at least go out of their house – just with women, but anyway – out.
In the beginning I refused stubbornly, used all kind of excuses like skin allergy and knee problems, but they found an answer to everything till I was looking like a parrot with gold glittering Shalwar Kameez, staggering in high heels to the neighbours house. Fortunately there was no mirror there so I didn’t have to see myself.
After singing they eventually bring the wanted sound system and the neighbourhood was drowned in terrible bass sound by a badly tuned system – at 1 o’clock at night.
Somewhere there must have been somebody shouting “go!“ though I didn’t hear it, but suddenly the whole (female – don’t forget) community run on the rooftop like a stampede. There food was prepared. There is a German song – literally translated something like “please with whipped cream” and “battle on the cake buffet”. There was no cake, but battle seems to describe the situation best. They couldn’t believe, that I was just standing aside and giving way to the “most hungry ones”.
Javed was smiling from his neighbouring rooftop. He seemed to say „See, that’s why they don’t allow men there. The would be trampled to death...“
The whole marriage event is quite wicked. The next evening there was a function again. Barat – the day of the “lection” and bloody bed sheet. After this festival the bride has to go to the groom’s house – in a city 3 hours away which lowered her chance to see her parents more than once in 3 months. But hope survives…
Salma’s sisters were already dreaming of doing my make up. This time I had to take over. I wanted to show them how European eyes have to be done without looking like hit by a fist or a colour pot. They weren’t happy at all with my action, scolded me even. “No, don’t do this, you will look terrible!”
Finally they were surprised by the result. I haven’t cared about make up for many years, but I still know how to do it from my days as part-time cosmetics seller and model. That’s why I exactly know why I don’t like it anymore. Putting make up on my face to make it more beautiful is not my style. I don’t force anyone to watch me if he or she doesn’t want.
I didn’t tell the ladies, that I though would not have dared to walk in the streets as I looked the day before – except in carnival time.
I had asked myself how they would bring all the people to the marriage hall this evening to start kind of punctual with the function. The solution was standing in front of the street. A bus. 2 streets full of friends and relatives – only female – squeezed themselves inside the bus. Men had to find their own way, but it's easier for them to walk in the streets.
5 screaming, shrieking women in one row plus some kids. 7 helpful hands dragged and pushed me inside.
Inside the marriage hall there were 2 separate rooms with tight rows of chairs.
For 2 hours I couldn’t help the feeling of waiting for something, but I didn’t exactly know what for. The 200 women were laughing, screeching and chatting at the same time – in Punjabi. I didn’t understand a single word. For me it was just noise. I don’t really like crowds around me, let alone loud ones.
It should bring good fortune if one touches a foreigner at a marriage party, so all of these nice ladies and girls wanted to talk with me and shake hands. They were tagging my clothes, grasping my shoulder yelling “Hello, Isabella!” through the hall to get my attention. Usually I am very patient but these 2 hours showed me my limits. I asked Salma to keep them away from me, then I asked what we were waiting for or doing. “Waiting for the food and talk” was the simple reply. “Where is the bride?” „Over there in the small room!“ „When will she come?“ “Soon…”
She didn’t come. But dinner was brought instead. Again there was a run. The ladies piled heaps of food on their plates, especially “kulfi – ice cream”. Hundreds of hands ushered me to the pots. My explanation “I am not that hungry, I will wait until the big battle is over and my chances to come back without blues have increased…” was ignored. There we go!
“Do you have this dish? This you also have to take. You don’t have enough of this…”
While eating I pretended to be death dumb – a little bit of peace. After the meal chicken bones were strewn around on the floor. 15 min afterwards we left the battlefield. The tagging resumed.
The bride had still not been out so we visited her in the chamber. There she sat like a piece of bad luck.
Javed just said: „You are lucky that you didn’t stay till the end, when the groom takes her away. The whole (remaining) guests will cry because they loose a daughter, a sister, an auntie or a friend. And the young girls cry because they know the same thing will happen to them in near future.”
But the parents will be OK the very next day. Their most important duty is over, the whole life they had to “take care of the girl’s hymen” (Javed’s words) Always someone had to be near her, watch her, make sure that she is not in company of a boy or man. And they had to save a lot of money for a long time. A whole household must be given as gift for daughter and son-in-law and countless presents for relatives. If it was not enough, there wouldn’t have been a marriage. But sometimes they take loans to afford it.
Javed explained, that there were efforts to change these customs. Many books, newspaper articles, poems and other publications were printed, but the traditional community damn care about it. Some to-be-mother-in-laws or son-in-laws write a list of requested equipment and are not ashamed to expect a washing machine or even a motorbike.
After this evening I have had it. I didn’t want to greet aunties of someone anymore and was fed up from being touched – even by women. We have another kind of physical private sphere in Europe and sometimes I feel good with that. I just can’t get used to be tagged at my sleeves or turned over by somebody while I eat, read, talk, work, write or whatever just to be told AT ONCE that “there in the 2nd row is the auntie of the daughter-in-law of the lady who’s 4 kids you have seen yesterday.”
Somewhere I have to gain more patience. What is way enough for Europe never to get out of balance seems by far not enough for Pakistani women.
But something I did for my inner balance – though it was much more difficult than I thought.
Javed’s father taught me with smiling face but though kind of serious expression my first Tabla lesson. He was obviously happy to play again after 4 years on his own Tablas. He started carefully with untrained fingers but one could hear and imagine how it must have sounded years ago. But he will manage it. Zain, Javed’s youngest son, who was only 1 year old when they sold grandpa’s drums was stunned: “How could he learn to play in that short time?”
Javed’s mother was happily in Sargodha with her eldest daughter at that day, which suited me quite well. For the time of her return I wanted to give her also some gift. I felt a little strange to offer something to the old brawler but nothing to her who had suffered even more than him nowadays. From a professional point of few he needs attention more urgently right now, but though, I also had to adjust in the traditions here.
One thing I didn’t expect: I had said I wanted to learn therefore I would buy Tablas. So nobody could have said: “We don’t want to spend 1000 Rupees for the old man, this money we could use in another way!” So I had invented the story that I wanted to learn Tabla and had told them that if I would have to pay the lessons it would be much more expensive in some institute. I had thought he should play and I would not have enough time to learn anyway, but then he took it as his first challenge to have a student and was very proud. So I wanted to train hard not to disappoint him in the beginning. I was not very talented in moving single fingers (my African Jembe is much easier to play) and it took me an hour to get the first sound, but I keep practising.
One evening we drank some apple brandy, which I had brought from Nepal.
My host said after a while “Oh, my Charpoy is moving, everything is turning…” “Well, we call that ‘helicopter’ in German…” “Yes, helicopter, hi hi. Like the Indian helicopters. They always fly like no pilot was inside… you are sure that the bed is not moving?” “Yes!” „Oh, I have to lean on... *boom* - head crashed against wall – „No, not leaning...“
I was laughing a lot.
Oh, I forgot the best: the beginning: He poured Brandy for himself. I was looking around a bit helpless because the glasses were hidden very well (the kitchen/living/sleeping/playing/dining-room must be flexible, so everything is well stored). He followed my view and suddenly he understood: a glass was needed. He was used to be served by his wife though he is one of the few liberal husbands here around. But she wasn’t there and he didn’t want to keep me waiting so he stated with a big smile in his face: "No problem - I have seen movies!" I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Leave your right eyebrow down, no need to be suspicious. I wanted to say: I will pour for you. In your western movies always the man pours for the women.”
Inside the small room my world was OK, but this time it happened quite often that I came to know bad stories or had to watch them myself.
Again and again I had to rearrange my image of the great “joint-family-system”. Many kids have to bear daily beating, they are shouted at. Even in these joint families sometimes there is not enough time to take care of the individual person. To many persons are there and kids are the lowest in the hierarchy. No one takes time to explain something to them, to promote them. The same time is missing here which I already missed while working as social worker in a group of 25 children without assistant. Every child is so unique, would need time and attention to be raised and able to unfold its talents in a proper way.
Sometimes it’s hard to stand the inability to do something – anything against it. It’s hard to explain mothers, aunties and grannies to raise their kids with love.
To raise the point, that they will never be able to grow as a free, creative personality is in vein. The society expects people not to think freely but obey – even the grown ups.
And how to change a woman who was beaten herself by parents and husband ? How to change a husband who is expected to do it and has seen it all his life. And how to change grandparents who just know that it had been like this all the time and it’s still a common way to gain respect. My Urdu is not good enough for that, for explanations on psychological, cultural and human rights aspects.
In modern areas the situation is improving, but the system in the Old City is too complex to change it as a single person. Even if I beg the mothers, not to beat them because it hurts them or whatever, I just receive a strange glance and maybe they stop for this very moment, but a soon as I turn my back, they just start beating without reason “for the lost opportunity before…”
Also the situation of great respect for the elders doesn’t really come from heart. “You have to honour your parents, they are most important and they will pray for you to go to paradise.” Some parents tyrannise their children even when they are grown up, beat them, scold them, imply their wishes and thoughts. But they also don’t have an easy life. Salma’s father for example lost his wife 5 years ago. Now he is presumably 50, he is expected not to marry again. He leads an embittered life.
Also for the beggars who are fed well from society it is not compassion, it’s because “they will pray for you to go to paradise if you help them.” To paradise – to the virgins, which is the catching point. I allowed myself once the question: “What will be there for the women? Virgin boys?” Irritated glances all around. As I continued with a smile: „But maybe virgins are not so good because of lack of experience…” the confusion was perfect. But no answer.
Another day Javed and me met a Swiss couple on the way to Deosai office. They asked if it would be possible to enter the Sikh shrine near Badshai mosque. Usually foreigners are not allowed there, but Javed’s friend, a Sikh, was standing at the entrance. He invited us inside, gave us food, presents and let us even have a glimpse inside the holy shrine where prayers were on. In a small room inside this shrine there was a big bed with heavy warm blankets, AC and heater. “Whose room is this?” we asked. “This is the chamber of our holy book – the Adi Grant. It is believed to be the last prophet of Sikhs. (For European minds: given by the last human prophet) As it is a prophet himself, he needs a room, a bed, luxury. Now it is having a rest under the blankets, so please be quiet!”
After Javeriah’s birthday (Javed’s daughter, 7 years) I started my journey northwards. Taj was coincidentally in Peshawar and picked me from Daewoo Bus station. On we went to the house of his friends where I was invited to stay for the time in Peshawar. 3 Kalash live in a nice upper class house, I was surprised by the cleanliness and luxury there. Kalash are not known for their cleanliness, specially not boys (as everywhere ;o)). I was used to dump-like rooms of celibataires, but this was something else. A room was prepared for me with big bed, clean bed sheets, attached bathroom with running hot water. I felt like a princess. Suddenly after dinner they brought a birthday cake – as I had gone from the valleys before my birthday. I felt like a princess.
I enjoyed sitting and talking to boys without staring eyes and strange questions. Just talk and have fun.
I had planned to stay one day, but sometimes some things happen to change planes – I love that. So I stayed another day as we were all invited to join 2 Italian guys for dinner. What a dinner. Meat, real meat to cut with a knife, no fat, no veins, no tendons, no gristles. And salad. Real salad with marinade, not just cut onions.
It proved to be an interesting evening for the present people came from most different backgrounds with most different experiences. Zarin, a Kalash who studies here in Peshawar, sponsored by NGOs and private people, having DVD, Handy, Laptop, a luxurious house and a girlfriend. Then Taj, a converted liberal Kalash/Muslim who had been working in all the major cities of Pakistan running back to his beloved valleys in summer time, raised in Lahore, currently working as a manager and guide in the Valleys and who had a European girl friend for some years. Then the 2 Italian guys, one from Sicilia, one from the North who had been working for an NGO on projects for Afghan refugees. Nowadays they have the sad job to close down the last office as all the refugees had officially been sent back to Afghanistan after the end of the war. They are confronted with traditional life in Peshawar and boring liberal life in Islamabad’s International Clubs.
A colourful mix with Italian music from the Sixties in the background.
Here I also here the story of Ayyub Khan again. Presumably the richest man in this country. His “palace” is located on the road to Khyber Pass. Zarin had been there and confirmed the rumours of his legendary wealth. Golden tooth sticks and taps, Mercedes Benz, a garden containing a collection of plants and herbs from all over the world, Ayyub Khan’s own army, his 3 factories inside his residential area and other unbelievable stories. Also his money is not growing on trees, but he found an easy way to get hold of quite a lot of this global status symbol. He is or was one of the most famous drug smugglers in the world, with another army of peasants at his service carrying the expensive load across the Afghan border. For bigger deliveries he just bought a whole aeroplane for his ‘private trip’ and bribed the customs officers – they are due to their low salary easy prey in Pakistan. Another of his hobbies was printing USD with a machine bought for a “mere 15 billion USD” (his own statement). Due to this facts people in Peshawar had to face a long period when change of USD was forbidden in the region.
He boldly asked Benazir Bhutto who was president at that time if she would be kind enough to leave the governance of the country including her own position to him for a year. He would therefore be kind enough to pay back all the debts and loans which Pakistan had piled up in the years since it’s ‘birth’. No need to say that Benazir had refused.
He frankly told the CIA what he was doing in his free time, but as there was no proof available which could bring him to jail they had to let him go after a fortnight.
When police was after him in Pakistan he enjoyed the royal life with his fellow Charles, sorry: Prince Charles in his British palace. Lady Di, when she was still alive, visited him in Pakistan with her private helicopter once in a while – in a time when paparazzi were easier to fool.
Now after Ayyub Khan retired from his dangerous but successful jobs, he willingly answers to all questions which reporters or foreigners bring up. He allows them in their house with out problems – but for Pakistani citizens it’s a little different. Most of them are not invited there and will be sent back from the threshold. Maybe next time I will see if all these rumours are true myself… Let’s see what life brings.
The earthquake in Kashmir filled another hour but with rather bad stories. I wondered why the Pakistani Army which is the 5th largest in the whole wide world didn’t get involved much more. One might think they should have all necessary equipment as 80% of the annual Pakistani budget goes to the army. Any other country would use these resources first, before calling out for international aid. But Pakistan is used to it. Many years they tried to keep UN and all other troops out of Kashmir, their weak point – or strong point as they would say. I mean I appreciate that the victims get professional help – at least on paper and pictures – but I would have bet that government would have tried at least to restrict the UN’s movements. What they really do? Standing around and watching the international aid troops, Red Cross aso as if they were aliens. But if one has a closer look on their organisation and way to handle certain things it might be better for everyone to give them the spectators ranks. Sometimes they divert aid transports and sell the donated goods to increase their pocket money. Or they invent a new permit without one cannot reach the affected area – except you give some of these colourful pieces of paper with certain numbers printed on them.
With all the donated money and goods it would be easy game to build whole Kashmir again, but somehow it disappeared within the bureaucratic system.
3 friends of the Italian guys stayed at Muzzafarabad, the Pakistani capitol of Azad Kashmir. One of them just brushing his teeth watching his performance in the bathroom mirror. “As I blinked once, there was no bathroom mirror any more – there was no wall anymore. I was standing with my toothbrush in open air.“ But he was lucky, nothing happened to him.
Due to this stories I left my intention to go there and help behind and bought a ticket for the Minivan to Chitral.
Warm clothes I had brought from Nepal. Fleece and down jackets, warm trousers, a sleeping bag and other useful stuff like cloves and caps. It’s hard to get them here in a good quality. On the last day in Peshawar Taj showed me a 2nd hand bazaar with goods from Europe, brought on dubious ways from donations which should reach Afghan refugees. I was hesitant to buy “stolen things”, but some friends told me “If you mind about such business, you are in the wrong country”, so I bought myself warm pyjamas as they had not been available in Nepal – for 1 USD.
The trip to Chitral over the already known and feared Lawari Pass proved to be a funny one this time. A long bearded old serious looking man hardly to distinguish from a Mullah climbed the driver’s seat. The passengers started jokes about his fundamental religious views as there was no music in the car. In an instant he switched on the tape player, listening to romantic Hindu love songs and started telling about his long lost unanswered love as a teenager.
5 min after departure we paid 50 rupees for whatsoever to a bad tempered police man. Another 30 min later again 100 rupees. As a curious European I asked for the reason. „Because otherwise they would search the luggage!“ Knowing that the rooftop was full of any kind of goods it would have lasted another 2 hours which the driver didn’t want to loose.
A 3rd time some uniformed guys halted us, packing some more suitcases on the already overloaded roof. “Please bring them to the Scouts’ fort in Temagheera…!” - Alright.
At delivery the assistant driver damaged the side door which took an hour to be badly repaired for onward journey. Climbing the first meters of Lawari Pass the gear began to act at its own will. Every half hour it jumped out of its position and made the driver lie under the car to fix it. Stop and go…
After a while the car got stuck in the ice – I had a ‘déjà vue’. Some resultless efforts later the people tried to fix chains on the wheels. A good idea. “Chains are placed, drive a bit forward – ok!” – gear jumped out – adjusting chains, gear jumped out...
An hour or so we stood in the freezing cold before sunrise. It was even impossible to get inside the car as sometimes it was to close to the abyss.
According to the ‘schedule’ the transport should leave Peshawar at 6pm and reach Chitral at around 7am. We had left the city at 7:30pm. At 7am we had not reached Lawari top. 10am I left the car in Drosh, where Imtiaz was waiting for my arrival. I had promised him to spend some days with his family. The car straight drove to a workshop – I don’t know when they had reached Chitral which is another 2 hours from Drosh.
Imtiaz’ smile at my appearance told me “Well, I have told you stay overnight in Dir and take a Landcruiser for crossing Lawari…!
I had denied this suggestion as too expensive. I would have cost 120 rupees plus a hotel night…
Anyway, I was there and spent some great days in Sweer with his family.
The house is located high above the small hamlet, a wonderful garden inside the walls, colourful flowers, kids and animals playing on the grass. Behind the house one finds a vast area with fields, fruit trees, and place to run for children.
An oasis for children. You should see Imtiaz’ way of raising his kids with love, time, attention and lot of free space for them to experience themselves. He kept asking me about education and children in Europe, the different styles and opinions and which would be the best in my eyes. He was grateful for every hint though advice was not really needed. He has a natural gift and is one of the few men here which I would recommend as a good father.
Most of them are quite lovely with their kids some times – if they shut up at the right time or bring the desired things.
I enjoyed the days in nature with a cosy room to relax and warm up after an afternoon walk through layers of fallen leaves, the shoes making the familiar sound crushing them under their soles. Mehrin, Imtiaz’ daughter and all her other cousins, sisters and brothers from the whole joint family which contains the grandparents, 3 brothers with wives, servants and all their children, swept all reachable leaves to create a soft bed to jump in. With my head full of childhood memories I joined them.
In the warm rays of afternoon sun I began reading one of my favourite books “Lost Horizon” again, written by James Hilton in the early 30ies. My mind completely occupied by the narratives of the author I only interrupted myself to see some glimpses of the magnificent view around me, easily comparable with Shangri La I guess.
Purple flowers, leaves in all colours, clay huts on the opposite bench of the river and a blue sky with purely white snow capped mountain ranges completed a background of surpassing beauty. The air was full of the magnificent sound of falling leaves in the wind, sometimes whirling them up again, playing for a while in midair and let them float down again in perfect harmony. Now and then the sound of shouting and laughing children penetrated this game of nature – ‘moderate perfection’, as Hilton would call it.
Sometimes I miss this timelessness in this world which boasts of things to learn, to see, to experience. I have tried to take time for everything in my last few years but though one ordinary life sometimes seems not to be enough for all the interesting things on my dream itinerary.
And I love the way he describes each and everything in this moderate world with its moderate people, moderate governance, moderate obedience, moderate expressions and moderate feelings. The word moderate itself is a moderate word, I like it. Others say “Golden middle path” or so, which should express the same meaning but already asks for attention due to the chosen words. Well,.. try to read the book, it’s worth it!
After 3 relaxing days with delicious local food Imtiaz took me to Bumburet, the biggest Kalash Valley which I always tried to avoid in summer for its many tourists. Now it is calm and beautiful, like a valley of fairies. Here I wanted to stay for the Chawmos festival but I should come to stay some more days.
Taj and Faizi offer me a room in the closed Ishpata Inn hotel or in Faizi’s private house. I choose the hotel as I thought to stay just a little while and wanted to enjoy some privacy. “Where is the stove?” “We will bring it!” „Where is the hole for the pipe?“ „We will make it...!“ said Taj and pushed a piece of wall outside. I stood there a bit taken aback. “We had a stove at the same room last year and just closed the whole with a clay-water mixture.” I love this kind of easy going life.
Sun rises in the early morning around 12am – due to the high mountains around the valley. Tikka who is one of the few who is not afraid to get bored here in winter gets up early each morning to bring holly oak branches for the goats who roam the hotel premises in winter. A very cheeky one jumps over the veranda each day to get some special delicacies – or my breakfast.
Sure I want to go to Birir one day, but I feel at home here. In the peaceful atmosphere amongst local people only even Bumburet is a place to stay. For the first time I feel this kind of satisfaction which I always had in Biriu, a satisfaction which lets me stay, feel harmony in myself and around me.
Joseph, the guy from New Zealand had left few days after my departure in September, so there was no foreign soul in the valley.
After a while Sher Alam and Bob came over from Biriu. Bob is the Australian travel-teacher who had come few days before I had left Biriu to teach there. I had requested him to have a look at the construction site of the school in Bio. He had done a lot for the school, even collecting some more money to finish it in a surprisingly beautiful shape (up to now I have only seen pictures as I am still stuck in Bumburet and it looks fantastic). Sher Alam still loves to narrate the story what had happened when the villagers refused to bring wood. “Bob and I went there and Bob asked me to translate for him. He said ‘if you don’t like the school and keep your promises, ok, it is your choice, but then we want the money back which we gave in an agreement to build the school together. I don’t mind, I will go to Chitral and eat chicken everyday with this money. I love chicken!’ and then the villagers brought wood the next day. He was great!”
I am full of appreciation for Bob’s help in that case – and also in another one: he left me some very useful local flea powder. He had discovered it after he had almost left the valley because of these nasty little animals. And it really works. It’s not as harmful as the spray I used which had killed rather me than the flea due to its toxic gases. But very effective in keeping away the blood suckers. Thanx Bob!!
And Thanx to Sher Alam who had spent a lot of time making sure the progress at the school didn’t stop and who is always a good friend, helps with explanations, a warm heart and everything in his might to make the days better.
The days passed by with out names or dates. Almost daily there were events of Chawmos festival – the most important festival in Kalash religion. Balumain, one of the main gods who turned his back on the valleys in early times as he lost a competition against Mahadeo had promised to come back once a year – for Chawmos. Almost every night people gather to sing, dance and eat delicious food stored for this very month. Dried fruits like grapes, mulberries, apples and vegetables, walnut bread and wine. I can’t describe all the ceremonies in details as this would fill a whole book and proofed information is hard to find as there is no written book of Kalash traditions and everyone makes up his own stories and explanations.
Kutramo is one of the rites. Small animals are formed from wheat dough – plump and clumsy – and dried in the fire to be lined up on a shelf in the living room to represent the wish of multiplied flocks and prey. some big Ibex are brought to the Jestak’Han (Dancing hall), where a purified boy tries to hit it with a given number of stones. If he succeeds to hit them all, it means the gods will give them easy food the next year.
The animal painting in the Jestak’Han are renewed as every year, clumsy and plump because no human should even try to imitate the perfect creating which only god is able to perform. So they stick to simple symbols.
Baskets are woven with willow branches, holy pure bread is baked, gods are called to eat and dance with them and give them a prosperous future. It’s not a mere coincidence that this festival happens in December, a month when nature is at sleep, gathering power to recreate everything in spring time. Kalash believe that it’s time to trust in the gods that they will bring an abundance of food, animals and else. It is time to divide all their food, not being greedy or miserly. Share what ever they have and receive what ever the others share. Countless goats are sacrificed for renewal of their religious community, for the gods and on special places for the women who are not allowed to eat meat from sacrifices at the altars at Indre’in.
And in between songs and dancing at every (un)thinkable time like 4 o’clock in the morning.
Step by step I became familiar with the peoples faces here, my memory of names was always bad, but day by day I found new friends, people to talk in English, some teachers to improve my Kalashamun like Imran and Faizi, Dali, Akram and Talim Khan and some victims to practise my still miserable pronunciation.
The lessons usually started with the utmost of motivation and concentration and ended in laughter and nonsense. A great mix to learn.
But back to the festival! For 3 days the Kalash stay among themselves every year, the purest and most important days. One is not allowed to touch Muslim people or enter their houses. So I grabbed my sleeping bag and Bob’s flea powder and went of to Sher Alam’s house on the other side of the river because the Ishpata Inn Hotel was not purified. No sun at all during the day, but anyway a nice time among the family. The houses were cleaned from bottom to top, purified with juniper smoke, swept and washed. All clothes have to be cleaned carefully and after finishing all the cleaning procedures on the evening of the first day everyone had to take a full bath. A rare occasion in Kalash winters. A new Piran (the black cloth), washed beads and Shushut (headdress) finalized the ceremony. Now we were ready for the purification act.
Every male foreigner who wants to join these 3 days has to scarify a goat, every woman has to undergo a purification with bread and fire. 2 Swiss guys – Marco and Gael - who stayed for some days joined the holy celebrations. Gulsambar, their favourite goat, was killed in order to make them full members. I haven’t seen what had happened their as women were not allowed and Gael was not allowed to film. But the stories told of countless sacrifices, sacred songs and dance.
At around midnight all the women went to another holy place through ice and crunching snow where some guys awaited us with water, bread and juniper branches. I had to stand with wide outstretched washes hands and arms in the cold, but the ceremony was too interesting to feel temperature.
Every lady got 3 round breads to hold, made by men. We were not allowed to touch anything, not even our own clothes. The young girls with serious expressions of importance on their faces tried their best not to fail. Then one by one stepped forward and a purified man swung a burning juniper branch 3 times over her head before throwing it and grasping the next one. After that we were pure and got another bread to eat. From now on we could touch everything except Moslems. This would need another purification. The warm crispy bread filled with crushed nuts and cheese tasted delicious in the cold winter night.
Dancing resumed again round bonfires, women and men chanted in a kind of competition – men from one roof top, women from another. Then they mingled. Once only few men were there as the rest was at the Indre’in, a sacred place to pray and sacrifice. Ladies of all villages gathered dancing and singing throughout the night until the arrival of the men in the early morning. A hard task and sometimes especially in the early morning hours it seemed the singing and clapping would cease. But one of the ‘caretakers’, mostly Imran, would jump in and do his best to motivate the rest. He was always to find somewhere in the middle of happenings, shouting, singing, clapping, laughing, dancing and translating if my Kalashamun was again not enough, which occurred many times. Thanx Imran I could sometimes even understand their songs or what ever matter they brought towards me.
Also scarifying resumed. I had never seen so much blood and so many dead goats. Talim Khan killed some 10 in one night not being the only to do so. In one of them we found a small foetus, not even the size of my hand but already very much goat-like. The kids examined every part curiously and gave it to the dogs. The tie between festivities I spent in Sher Alam’s house with his wife and sister, playing with the kids and singing lullabies or visiting neighbours and friends...
On December 22nd the last big festival took place, followed only by some small ones after few days. Everyone was allowed, Muslim, Kalash and foreigners. A beautiful event with masquerade like on a carnival. Some men dressed up as women and vice versa until their identity was discovered, then they changed again. A tiger, a bear and some kind of demons twirled on the dance ground.
It was also the day of “running away”. Lovers “run away” with each other stating that they will be together from now on in the groom’s house. That’s marriage here. No documents, no arrangements – hearts find each other. „Baba, whom did you choose?“ Somehow they seemed to believe I want to stay. They were right, I want to stay, but I only love the place and the people, not any particular boy. Time and again a girl approached me suggesting: “Look at this guy, he is nice. Or that one? He has a good character and his mother would love to see you in their house. And think of the bigger gene-pool…”
Some boys in love came on their own to ask straight away, but I had to deny smilingly.
Days ago I had been joking with Sher Alam. I had told them that I love the Valleys and the Kalash and with a twinkle I had added that the “run away day” had not yet come… Somehow these jokes spread as rumours leaving the twinkle aside.
So I went to the dancing places again – unmarried. Clear blue sky, white mountains on the horizon, uncountable cups of hot tea and walnut bread in the warm houses – the people here know how to celebrate.
Then we had one day to prepare. We means Gael, Marco and me. One day was left for Christmas and we wanted to show the villagers that we were also able to celebrate. We were making presents, I went to Chitral to buy oranges, apples, spices, salad, potatoes, tomatoes and other useful things for gifts, hot wine, (gluehwine), BBQ and X mas cookies. On 24th we were busy baking apple-cinnamon cookies, frying French fries, roasting meat and making decoration for the tree.
We didn’t need to invite anyone from the village, the news spread very fast and every now and then a bunch of people came to see how arrangements for the “angrez Chawmos” were going on. We chose 2 sheep for the BBQ but in an instant of unawareness the best parts were cut in little pieces again as it is tradition here. Anyway, the 2nd lamb was watched carefully and Gael himself had an eye on the slaughter.
A group of kids helped me making the small biscuits – a mixture of Austrian and Kalash tradition as it was not possible to get all original ingredients in Chitral. Small round pieces of dough filled with apple cinnamon nuts and sugar and one big apple pie. All around were helpful hands to decorate and join. It wouldn’t be possible for the 3 of us to supply the whole village.
The kids loved to decorate a big branch of local holm-oak which served as Christmas tree with straw stars, pine cones, apple peels, dried orange slices and bad quality candles. Taj spread dozens of Chips packs under the tree, to my surprise no one tried to touch them. Maybe they thought things under the tree were pure… But I can see their eyes attracted to the little bags while strolling around. Unaware of the waiting danger Gael picked one. Like a sudden earthquake the kids stormed the tree almost bringing it to fall and left a bewildered Gael who was at least able to save 2 bags.
Right in time at sunset the hot wine pot found it’s place in the fire and Imtiaz arrived from Drosh as one of the invited guests. (Hot wine is drunken in my country with oranges, cinnamon and sugar at Christmas time)
The French fries were ready and Dali tried to distribute them. Again the kids came like a storm and he had to flee. As I just came out of a room I saw him standing on a chair or better: I saw a bowl of fries held high up by two outstretched arms. The rest of Dali and the table was hidden behind a loud shouting army of kids crying for more.
The roasted lamb was delicious, with hot wine even better. The first time that I enjoyed wine here, because cold and pure it tastes like vinegar if one is used to real wine (sorry, but true) The Kalash noticed too late, that hot wine was stronger than their usual cold one – a funny festival.
After the biggest chaos was gone we lightened the candles and shouted “Silent night” in the screaming crowd. Gael disappeared behind a big piece of cotton wool, a even bigger thick coat and a red woollen stocking cap.
With a basket and a stick Father Christmas came to the Kalash people. Sparkling children’s eyes around the fire like all around the world at Christmas time, in the middle Santa Claus who handed out the gifts. Marco had made some gorgeous little wooden animals and dolls and Gael had created stunning candles and books.
Everyone was excited. “Wow Baba, tey Chawmos bo prusht!” (your Chawmos/Xmas is great).
We were happy that our traditions pleased them, I wasn’t sure what they would do, but it was one of the best Christmas which I ever had – except the ones when I still though the “Christ child” is real. (In my country it’s not Santa Claus who brings presents on 25th, but an angel like child – symbol for Jesus – will bring them on the evening of December 24th)
The next day brought a delicious breakfast with the Christmas cake brought by Imtiaz and dance and songs again as it was the last day of Chawmos. Another day later the Swiss guys left for Rumbur from where they wanted to go on to Chitral so we celebrated the last evening with French fries and music in Ishpata Inn.
I delayed my departure for Biriu several times – and finally wanted to leave on January 1st. As we made up plans to leave this next day suddenly Marco appeared on my threshold to invite me for New Year celebration at the Kalash guesthouse where we had had the Christmas party before. I didn’t expect to join any festivity that day as Sylvester parties are not common here, but I love surprises, so we went – and I postponed my departure once more.
Anyway I love the life here with open doors in every house, friends who come in the morning, afternoon or evening to chat, cook, dance and sing. And I can close the door if I need silence for a while - but it wont last long as usually everyone just steps in when he or she is around.
Everyday somebody brings breakfast or invites me for lunch or dinner, brings wood or fruits and the newest rumours and stories. Rumours are made up fast and I had to face some of them, but as I don’t mind about what people think and don’t reply they vanish as fast as they came up. Specially at the “run away time” and the days before everyone tried to find some hints in my behaviour about the ‘chosen one’. “Oh, she was talking a lot with this guy. See, she stayed at this or that place. Look – she gave food to this or that guy! Or maybe she likes the Swiss guy – they greeted each other with 3 kisses on the cheeks (as it is tradition in Switzerland)...”
Never mind, people have a lot of time to talk and invent stories. As long as they don’t harm anyone I don’t mind.
I keep talking, visiting and inviting people as it pleases me, a bit more with some, a bit less with others.
On 1st of January it started snowing continuously for 2 days – the valley is now snow covered which makes it even more beautiful. I love walking in the crunching snow for hours, watching the goats wandering in waist deep snow and cleaning roof tops. One of the little exercises I am allowed to do. Out of politeness, not restriction. Usually if want to cut wood or carry pots of water from the kitchen downstairs to my bathroom (water is frozen there) some helping hands offer to take over.
The traditional roof made of stones and mud need to be cleaned from the snow as it would melt and drip in the rooms.
My hands are covered with little scars, roughened by cold, heat and dirt. The simple life leaves traces – but I love these traces because I love the life which causes them.
there are pics on yahoo - they are too much for this blog... if you are asked for a password: acchigom
Lahore u Sweer picsKalash winter pics
