Homesick - a loveletter to the valleys

mid march - 2. april 06

Ishpata

I am already 2 countries further, but my mind is still caught in the valleys. I am homesick, I have thought this word does not exist in my vocabulary; I always look forward, interested in what might come. I often remember the people in Austria, but it doesn’t hurt. Now I just want back.
The last few days were wonderful. Wonderful and sad. Spring has started, the trees were blossoming in white pink and yellow, small flowers with beautiful smell in all colors proof the defeat of winter.
The newborn kids and sheep are jumping around in exuberance on fresh green meadows; the fields were being cleaned from stones for the next crop season. Spring was in the air, new life, new chances...
I was unwillingly concerned.
For a last time I was walking the valley to say „Gheri pashik“ (See you again) with tears in my eyes. “mo pari!” they told me – don’t go... And they were singing my favorite song more often than they did before. For a long time I didn’t know the meaning, I just loved the melody. Now I know the meaning. „Achi gos a no?“ – Will you come back or not?

jan/feb 06
Countless times they sang this song because they knew I liked it, but this time there was an asking undertone, a serious one.
On the last evening we were singing and dancing together again. Some of them were inventing a new song and Jamil sang it. A song of an angrezi who will go, who should not go but will hopefully come back soon with the best wishes of the village. Traditionally only or maximum two people are dancing, but this time all of them got up and joined. Tears were rolling down my cheeks – but fortunately it was dark because of less electricity so no one could see.
I think I have already once before mentioned, that crying is not really one of my daily sports, it’s rather rare. Except one occasion I can’t even remember the last time. I don’t like to waste my time and energy instead of trying to find a way out or accepting a situation.
But at that time I couldn’t help. My heart was really upside down. This valley and these people there have changed something inside myself.
It was terrible to pack my bags. Friends came to say goodbye – no, not goodbye – they said „see you again!“ which is much more positive. They brought walnuts and handmade chumanis (no idea how to write that, but it’s beautifully woven woolen ribbons. My luggage mainly consists of walnuts – I will try to make my beloved walnut bread in Bhutan.
I couldn’t see the half packed bags, always looking for a reason to delay the process.
Then it was time to go. I half an hour the jeep would leave. I had to change my clothes into Shalwar Kameez, the Pakistani dress. My hands were shaking while I tried to open my curis (braids) Azurma, a dear friend lend a helping hand.
Half the village was gathered around the jeep, my “aya” (mother) came from the Baishali (women’s house). Hesitating she stretched out her hand because it is not allowed to touch Baishali women, but just for a second. Then she hugged me sobbing. I have never liked „goodbye scenes“, have always been a step ahead in my mind – what beautiful things will happen next? Especially when I knew I would come back. I know I will come back – I have to, can’t leave and live without knowing to come back – though it was heart breaking.
Hearing everyone wishing me the best I felt like not inside my body, just if I would hear it from far away.
On the way down the river, out of the valley a new wave took over. Now it was somehow real: “I am gone” was my only thought, interrupted just by some tears jumping off my cheeks on the bumpy road. Last glimpses of the village which was my home and will be in my heart.


One more night in Chitral, because the flight left early in the next morning. I was praying for bad weather. Shah, Sher Alam and Taj were accompanying me, we visited some friends at the hospital – I gave them my last money (I had the wrong assumption to be able to withdraw cash in a few hours in Peshawar) to pay for medicine.
And I had to visit the police office for a last time to announce my departure on the last evening. I was surprised to learn that my new friend (the last one was really ok) left me immediately after my signature. What a feeling – you just know it if you know the difference. Arms wide outstretched I ran across the pitch dark sports yard shouting “azat sindagi” – free life. The guys behind me were just smiling, but I felt great – for a second I didn’t even think about my departure.
The next morning the weather was apparently fine – I would have rather spent another hour in bed and then go back to the valleys because of a cancelled flight, but I had to get up early – too early and get a car for the airport.
There my friends said goodbye for a last time. The airplane I was still hoping for a turn back due to bad weather over Lowari (the road pass which was closed) – the Fokker slowly spiraled up roaring loudly – my heart jumped – turning back? No, it just took a little longer to gain height that day. I knew very well that I had to go south to catch my plane to Bhutan, though it was somehow terrible final after crossing Lowari Top.
Zarin, a Kalash studying in Peshawar picked me from the airport. Imtiaz, another good friend was also there – his flight to Chitral was cancelled. I had gotten the last chance to leave Chitral, after that many planes were cancelled. These two men allowed me to slowly slip into another world, speaking Kalash and Khowar which I don’t really understand, but it feels like home. So I slipped in this other world, the loud, stinky hectic Peshawar – which I liked very much – but this time it couldn’t make me happy.
Zarin and Imtiaz did their very best, drinking tea, taking me to the riverside where we had delicious fish, dragging me to an international club where I could drink red wine and listen to western music. These were seconds of distraction, fancy boats decorated with 1000s of plastic flowers, overloaded with modern women with dupata (scarf) and layers of make up, loud music from the loudspeakers and I was thinking of the small river coming down Biriu valley, children playing in the water, women sitting on the benches washing clothes and plaiting braids.
And I heard all these western songs in the Club with dubbing bass sound, saw the few westerners (mainly NGO workers) and I was thinking of Jamil, Baras Khan with Sitar and flute, drums and singers and the village dancing in an anguti…

On a Daewoo bus I went to Lahore. At the terminal there were still the old burnt busses from the violent demonstration against the Prophet Mohammed – PBUH – cartoons.
Javed welcomed me in Lahore and brought me to his family. On the way we picked the plane ticket. – can I change it against one going to Chitral?
I tried to repair my Laptop, he refused to work at all after leaving the valleys. I had to learn that it was not reparable – gone. So I had to buy a new one in Nepal. There would be better places for this mission, but it was the only possibility as Bhutan is even worse. Sometimes life has its own rules – let’s see for what reason. I believe that there is always a reason even if you can’t see it at the moment.
In Lahore was strawberry milkshake season again. I came in strawberry season and I leave in strawberry season – a good omen, at least I tell myself.
Javed’s pregnant wife is fine. She longing for the end but it will take some 1 ½ months more. When i come back i wont see the baby as it will be in Karachi with Javed’s sister. She can’t get babies so Salma is „helping“ her in this regard.
She was complaining because I had been speaking much more Urdu before. It’s hard for me. Now first the Kalash words come to my mind, then again I get stuck in memories and forget at all to translate it into Urdu.
The time in Kathmandu/Nepal was short. Most of the time I spent on searching a Laptop which is not easy on a public holyday…
And for the first time I enjoyed the hotel swimming pool at Shangri La where I always stay. A sensational feeling to “swim”. A hot bath afterwards, a garden with blossoming flowers, a luxurious room – what could I want more? ... well, a bucket of cold water, my very own Kalash room, my family... just to name a few things...
Arriving in Bhutan after one hour of sleep (I had to fix my new laptop and download a many a things, installing programs etc) and a rush to the airport I was feeling like I had a hole in my heart.
The house is great, many rooms, all kinds of amenities, varieties of fresh vegetables and food, work that is waiting to be done, a caring boyfriend who is happy that I am back, cooking great food, playing guitar – I was shocked when I saw the house. How many people could be helped with that money? How many people could eat with what we prepare for a simple dinner invitation? How many people could be brought to hospital?
And where are Jamil and Baras? This guitar here is terrible…

But one song has been in my mind from the very moment I left the valleys. It is an Austrian song…

“Irgendwann bleib I dann dort, lass alles liegn und stehn, geh von daham fuer immer fort. Darauf gib i dir mein Wort, wievue Jahr a noch vergehn – irgendwann bleib i dann dort...“

I try to translate:
„And once I will stay there, will leave everything behind; will leave my old home forever. That’s a promise, how many years ever will go by – once I will stay there!”

sorry - no pics as my camera is damaged... the pics are in my heart, but i know that wont help YOU...