back in the valleys

June06

The dusty path is leading steep through the village, on the left hand lays the small hamlet of Guru, one house on top of the other, the soil roof of the lower one serving as veranda for the upper one. The entrance only reachable via a wooden bridge laid from the path to the roof passing the rusty end of stove pipe of the lower neighbor. I am heading for the last house – my home. In the lower as well as in the upper part 2 families are living. A steep, uneven wooden stair leads up to the veranda with wood covered sides against the wind. The floor is made of soil; two doors are leading to a room each for a joint family. Between these doors is the cooking place made of some big stones around the fire place. On top of this either the onza, a big round plate for cooking chapatti or a tripod carrying a pot is placed.
In summer time the stove stands abandoned inside the room, where people only go for sleeping. Sometimes it serves as fridge, to keep the milk at least clean and locked. A low table is standing between small seats woven with strings of goat leather. My Kalash mother is busy cooking tomatoes; the neighbor is spreading liquid dough in round shapes on the onza. Soon a smell of fresh chapatti is in the air, the ready bread is thrown in to the willow twig basket. Another door takes me to a second balcony, from where one can reach the 2 guest rooms, called anguti. In one of them my things are spreaded. The interiors are dominated by a big charpoy bed in the middle, and small table at the wall, where my belongings are stapled. Some cupboards with not-working doors are built in the wall, clothes, books, sewing machine and blankets are in various stages of being almost dropped out are visible.
Dust is whirling around everywhere, settling down as an omnipresent layer on every little thing, in every little whole. My Kalash mother usually watches me with doubting expression. She is one of the few people who think I am too sincere in cleaning.
I guess not, I rather prefer sitting on the veranda, watching the valley. Below me the path leads to the bridge, from where also the jeeps are leaving to Chitral or Ayun – if they leave. On the other side of the grey colored river some single houses were built, in some of them are shops in the lower part. If you are lucky you can find bulbs, sugar, biscuits, tea, potatoes, cigarettes, needles, yarn, sometimes eggs and lots of useless candies destroying teeth and providing the colorful plastic pieces that decorate the whole valley.
Shah calls these 3 shops “bazaar” – I will have to change my image of closely built tiny shops with tea drinking shop keepers and all kinds of goods.
Close to the river the Government Guesthouse for guests somehow related to government is placed, then the only middle school in the valley, a dispensary without medicine but therefore a well trained dispenser with at least a comforting smile for his patients. If there are no patients, some people would play card in his small room. The primary school where I was teaching last summer is out of view from our veranda.
But there is a small golden field on the right side, where 6 women are about to cut the wheat. A part of it remains uncut; it will serve freshly cut after a few days to bind the dried wheat bundles.
Shouting children climbing mulberry trees under which some more kids and women are stretching a large cloth to catch the sweet fruits falling down from the shaken tree. “A little left, shake!! – Now right, no, back – shake!!“ The better part will be eaten right away, the rest put in twig plates to dry under the sun for winter supply. Birds also like this way of conservation…
Hundreds of brown-white Mynas and pirols chasing each other over the azur blue sky, from tree to tree. One landing on the walnut tree, the other in the willow. Trees are lining the stony river benches without special order. Everybody owns a walnut tree here, an apple tree there, a pear tree over here and a mulberry tree or two up there. In their shadows children and women are relaxing, one eye always on the cow or goat which is grazing around. Most of the animals are on the summer pastures, sometimes a lonely soul climbs up there to take fresh cheese down or bring wheat or sugar up for the herders.
Once I sit near the water channel, washing my and my sister’s clothes, as my Kalash mother is at the Baishali, as a roaring donkey – yes, roaring – makes a sudden end to the peaceful atmosphere. There was a clear sound of fear, but nothing to see behind the flood protection wall. The kids, playing in the water start screaming and as they stop, a donkey, wet from top to toe appears from behind the wall – obviously the looser of the last fight. Usually a lazy animal, now it races up home to the safe stable below our angutis, shaking his head in vain for 15 minutes to get the water out of his long ears he looked quite disappointed. As filthiest donkey in the valley one should not try to get the leader’s girlfriend. If then one even can’t swim he is the village joke for people and animals. The children shout his loss across the valley, the grown ups hold their bellies laughing out, the donkey in the stable, grateful for my stroking hand which only leads to amazement amongst the people.
Before I start for the trek to Bahuk Lake I have to visit Chitral as again someone has ordered me there for the second time now. On my arrival at the DHO office I only see astonished looks. “Why did you come? Nothing is wrong!“ I am fed up and ask for a letter stating that I don’t need to come again to show „to whom it may concern“ and to my surprise I get it. I also ask for a written message in case anyone wants to see me again here and explain that I will go for trekking to the Bahuk Lake so not be available for the next 6 days. The DPO’s assistant is very helpful, apologizing for the misbehavior of his colleagues. I should see him very drunk again the next evening playing cards and dancing.
In Rukmu I also taught basic knowledge of excel and word to the “IT teacher”. To achieve this title one only needs to be able to plug the PCs together. If then typing master is also working – everything is fine. But out of the 6 PCs only 2 are working, so I open them – I am lucky all are the same model so I can compare the inside and fix some cables, CD and Floppy drives. Finally except one all are working,
I suggest a dust free room, no shaking while handling the hardware and clean hands to increase the life expectancy of these sensitive computers. “Oh, that’s Kalash style!” one of the boys explained talking about the soil floor, the holes in the walls through which dust is blown, the missing PC covers, the dirty hands hammering on the keyboard like a to-be-piano-player. “But a PC is not Kalash and should therefore not be treated like that. It is like a European stomach – you can’t fill it with your Kalash wine and hope it won’t complain!” At least the are thinking about it. Let’s see...
In Rukmu I also meet Akiko, the Japanese woman who has been living here for almost 20 years, being married to a Kalash and the only longtime present angrezi who is still in good conditions with everyone. After 2 long morning talks I am happy to know some things from her side. With western – or in her case eastern eyes some things just look different, sometimes you face unknown problems, sometimes you see a solution to betterment very fast. In 20 years she found some useful solution for daily life as symbiosis of traditional Kalash style and functional or decorative western style. Her piran consists of 2 parts, which are easy to wear but unrecognizable, her Shushut bears not only heavy beads but also large parts of the old embroideries, which makes it much lighter to wear, her grapes are properly put on wooden sticks in the garden instead of crawling on trees which makes it much easier to harvest them and she tries to make the kids share her apricots with her instead of stealing them while still green and bitter.
The only story without happy end is her love story, so now she lives in the new multipurpose hall, in her studio. It was built with the help of a friend of hers. Daily she is painting the just finished windows, cupboards, doors and walls. A library, a visual media documentation place (selected DVD info), a place for meetings and one for passing on old handicraft skills like weaving, carving, dying wool with indigo stone aso are about to be ready.
A waste of money which would be better used for the own family, her still-husband thinks. It is difficult to explain sometimes – specially if there are real family members – what donated money is, for what it is to use and for what definitely not.
A good example for the latter shows the only Kalash lady who founded an NGO. In Rukmu her house stands palace like in the middle of orchards, an unbelievable luxury, people from the other valleys come to see the technical equipment they have never heard about before. And they are proud of their jamili (clan daughter) to be successful and even allowed to talk to the president. Only some know that this money was meant for some projects for the people and that a lot of betterment could have been done with it for the whole community.

I don’t mind about rushing on, I don’t want to think about it longer. In the afternoon the Birilas come to see the new member of their clan, a baby was born so they are well hosted, goats are slaughtered and a music program is arranged. I am a bit shocked about many a teens who wander around in T-Shirts and jeans, showing trendy Indian and Western moves to the traditional sound of sitar and flute, trying to impress the even younger ones. Amongst each other they speak Urdu, forgetting their own language. How cool it is to know the language of the big big world. The really educated boys wear their traditional dress, participate in their festivals and know about the importance of values and idols – and of the bad influence of wrong idols.
I am happy that we don’t face these troubles now in Biriu – let’s see for how long…
The next morning we proceed to the mountains. I want to ascend to the legendary Bahuk Lake, stay for 1 or 2 nights and then descend cross pastures and the temporary settlement Achorga in-between Rukmu and Mumuret. I took a small tent along, presuming that the 2 of us – my uncle and me – could go alone, but only to learn that we will have to take food and therefore a porter. One of the Jeans-teens comes along. He will take a sleeping bag and food.
We are lucky, a car is jumping up the valley, so we don’t need to walk this dusty rocky... however to call it. Road maybe? No!
Anyway, after another tea in a lonely house near the start we take the first steps from Gorasondik on 2220m (7300ft) along the river in a deep gorge, passing some more lonely huts and steep up. I would not use the word “steep” now if I knew what would come, but right now it is really steep for me, compared also to Nepal and even to Bhutan. I made the mistake to believe I knew the paths of Pakistan after the treks from Biriu to Mumuret last year, but I should learn it better.
Still the landscape is lovely, green grass and colorful flowers. The huts down get smaller and smaller, the growling river is now a softly grumbling white stripe. Again, like a warning the path directly climbs the hill straight up, but before I can think about it, it leads, to keep the perfect illusion upright, to a water channel, which we follow. The water calmly floating, some trees and flowers complete the picture of a perfect path. I don’t know that it would be the best – by far the best – path for the next 4 days – and I guess it is better I don’t know.
Every water channel leads to its source, and we reach this source far too early. The thundering sound of the small mountain river should make me think, the path disappears on the rocks. On the right side we climb up, trying to find a tiny stone to put some 2 toes. I remember my few rock climbing hours and try to lift my self with the help of my hands, but this is soon declared impossible as on ever little possible place some thorny plants are happily growing, scratching my hands.
While I still long for a trail to start soon, the boys descend down to the river to cross it on what I will call a bridge – some raw log thrown on big stones. After about 2 hours from start we linger somewhere around the 2700m line (8910 ft). For some time we cross and re-cross the small river, passing a few deserted huts of the Gujur people, the last nomads here. Stones roughly piled up to form somewhat like a wall, covered with huge branches symbolizing a roof or so serve as sleeping room and kitchen. All the other things are done outside. A hump of stone nearby is the cheese farm, a fenced area for the kids not to fall down the steep hills at night. It’s an illusion to dream of grassy pastures, smoothly ascending on green hills. Though often mentioned it’s not the Switzerland of the east.
And further up, up, up till we reach the first populated huts of Gujars, who tend their goats over rocky trails back home for the night. After finally passing some small side valleys our friend’s hut appears behind a ridge on 3500m (11550ft). It’s almost 4 pm, the goats are already dozing around the hut which is in a bit better condition then the one mentioned before. A cousin in his mid twenties happily welcomes us, dressed in western clothes which don’t tear that easily while working, a red scarf wrapped around his head, a friendly, satisfied smile on his face. Not so his dog which is rather suspicious about the rare visitors, especially a female. A goat is slaughtered – no protest helped, the poor animal had to die. Fresh cheese and goat milk completed the dinner, for which all the neighbor herders also came, a funny evening. We have taken cigarettes, salt and fruits along for them and I left my playing cards after watching their joy playing in the evening. We sleep early in the only room on a bed of soft long pine branches, the last smoke clouds disappear unhindered through the door opening into the starry sky, early in the morning the sunrise, also entering the hut unhindered wake us kindly. It is 4:30 am when we take breakfast consisting of cold meat, fresh milk and cheese .The taste here up on the pastures is even more intensive, more authentic than down in the houses. Some other herders come, they tend their goats usually together to fight the lonely afternoons waiting for the goats to fill their hungry bellies. Now in the morning they lock the kids a way to easily milk the mother goats. Only a few drops, half a cup per goat they patiently, tenderly squeeze out. At 5:30 the boy heads after his goats, he wants to wait somewhere on the path. The goats slowly but steadily make their way up, pulling the few dry grass halms behind every little stone. For a long time it has not been raining this year.
Right behind the hut we climb directly uphill. On the “path” there are too many goats, it would be too dangerous for us following them. Easily a stone starts rolling down the rocks causing a smaller or bigger landslide on the loose stone plates strewn on the dry soil on steep hills. After the first 400m of altitude vertically up we stumble over huge black rocks, smoothly glittering in the sunlight. Behind another small ridge lies the lake. The water turqouisly sparkling, the snow covered mountains mirrored on the calm surface. Like an unintentionally lost diamond in the middle of deserted mountains, caught between 2 mountain passes only a tiny rivulet opens the ring of mountains around it. Legends tell that souls of dead people, fairies and other strange beings meet here and spend their time after the earthly life together. Is the death of a sudden spectator near, the water will turn to blood. We seem not to be in danger as the lake still shows his magnificent color. Forgotten are all the painful and dangerous paths to reach here. My legs are dangling in the water, we are eating walnut bread and some of the meat we were given. The power of high altitude sun warms us gently additional to the heat of our body after climbing up here to 4020m. My eyes search a place for pitching the tent at the shores, I daydream of a clear night, seeing first Venus and then step by step all the pictures here – the dippers, Orion, the northern crown, Scorpio emerging from south, later Cassiopeia and however they are named in English, I don’t know. Maybe it would be clear enough to see the Milky Way…
“Parik!”, a harsh sound awakes my. Let’s go? My ears must have suffered from the height. Why should we go? “Because we forgot the sleeping bags?” After a few minutes I have to understand that it is not a joke, but sincere truth. So we start, at 3pm first over uneven hills and stones up to pass some 200m higher. Flowers in all colors are growing between the stones, primula, forget-me-not – all reminding me of the Alps at home – the flowers I mean, not the paths. The view down to the valley is breathtaking, the way also – or better: there is NO WAY. Where to go? “Down!” the young guys’ confindent answer surprises me. Here? In front of my eyes only loose stone plates are steadily gliding straight downhill at any time, loose soil, loose stones, loose rocks. I try to put my foot a little bit ahead but finally the loose ground takes me much further than I wanted. For the first time I really don’t believe it possible to go down here with my paining knee. I dream of the highways in Bhutan’s mountains and force myself down near the rock, where at least 2 toes find sometimes space to crawl down with immense speed. Only the unchanged, clear water at the lake in afternoon makes be believe I will not end in the outstretched, welcoming arms of the valley just below me, spiked with rocks and cedar trees further down. After 2 hours we have already covered 150 meters of altitude. I start doubting the knowledge of my guide-uncle – later I came to know there is really no path, so sorry for that – and wish the day on which the idea to come here was born to hell. Somewhere I assume there must be something like a path, just not below my feet. People are coming here, it’s even mentioned in some guide books. Way down below us lie the first huts of Anishgoom, the place where my guides hope to find some blankets for the night. While crossing some ridges it’s dawning. Again steep down – what to say, steep, steeper, steepest – and then? No words. Every time I dare to risk a look at the beauty around me, my feet find no halt, sliding down. My concentration is fading like the daylight does. The pain in my knees, the approaching night and the lost night at the lake sometimes make me angry enough to refuse the helping hand lend by my desperately looking uncle. A kind of a path appears out of nowhere and disappears into nowhere at the most dangerous parts. The guys run downhill like young mountain goats – no wonder, they grew up here and spend many a time at the pastures – and their knees are working. Our joy to reach the pasture is in vain, the huts are deserted. On we go to find someone somewhere. In darkness, the anyway invisible path only alightened by our torches we reach the cedar forest, its wood used for construction. There finally we hear a dog barking, defending his goats from the approaching strangers. An old man appears with a smile on his face. "Where did you come from, late at night? Come and drink tea, we will make food. Then you can sleep." Solidarity for everyone who – why ever – reaches that remote place in the middle of nowhere. We share our meat, the old man serves fresh cheese, proudly watching his son making chapattis. He is happy that his only boy stays with him here, tending the goats, talented enough to know all the skills at his young age. A look at my altitude meter shows only a descend of 1200 meters this day, usually coverable in a much shorter time, if – well, let’s not talk about the paths anymore. It’s warm, we sit on the soft pine branches, eating like hungry wolfs. Everytihng is fine again. The stars above shine like every night, beautiful and calm. I am really tired and fall asleep soon after dinner.
Sunshine wakes us again at 5am, the son shows us the way down, on the right side of the plateau it again falls down for 500 meters and takes us across some small tributaries to the big stream in the valley to a small ferrum-soda spring. The famous ‘red water’, which is said to cure diseases. After a short break we proceed to Achorga, the allegedly beautiful summer dwelling for some 50 people. The way leads after ups and downs and some more dangerous descends to a picturesque water channel, along which we can relax our feet for a while. For some 15 minutes. Again straight down but before I can feel pity with myself again, we reach a house, where we should stay. The view from its rooftop is great, green meadows, golden carpets of wheat rolled out in front of our eyes, flanked by light green maize fields. A few wooden houses are visible, some more should be hidden behind the trees.
The uncle of our porter friend lives here with his wife, who will go back to Muuret in winter. He himself is one of the few to stay even in the harsh cold time to tend the goats. From the first minute he has been joking with us, his face in wrinkles from both age and laughter.
Behind the house is something like a water tap, so I soak my clothes I water to clean it from dust and sweat. A goat and a cow, lazily lying in the grass watch me with kind big eyes. After rubbing soap on my garments I prepare myself to flush them, but as I turn my face to the water it has become mud-brown. A dirty shovel turns around the corner, held by the hand of the culpright. A toothless smile appears on his face as he sees me and understands my intention. “Baba, I widened the water channel, great, isn’t it?“
Well, what to say? Of course. So we drink some tea and I chat with auntie. She is old enough to come here, as here is no Baishali, the menstruation house. She shows me around, pointing proudly at her apple, apricot, walnut, pear and fig trees.
She offers cold refreshing buttermilk and continues her chatting. She seems to be happy to have someone to talk to. In the evening 2 young guys, the old man’s nephews join us and finish his wine, which he himself calls too sour. He scolds the lazy gypsies with smile on his face that speaks admiringly about their chance of good education in Peshawar. He is happy to see them at least in their holidays. Die Tante laesst mich koestliche Buttermilch kosten, die nach Alm, Sommer und Ziege schmeckt, die leichte Saeure erfrischt herrlich. Nach einer Weile ist wirklich das Wasser hinterm Haus nicht mehr ganz so schlammig, ich spuele meine Kleider und haenge sie zum Trocknen ueber die Buesche.
Early in the morning we start for the last part of our trek out to the road to Rukmu. 2 hours on an old jeep able road which is not really jeep able anymore. Bridges are gone, parts of the road have fallen down in the stream, other parts are blocked by rock fall.
We are lucky, a jeep takes us out to Ayun. Muslim women, working in the fields turn their heads while we pass not to be seen by the men, children run after goats and cows to bring them back home or to show them some grass holms. Men back sacks of rice or flour and wood, bent by the heavy weight but with a smile on their face, other squat along the road, holding hands and dream from a place far away.
After 2 relaxing days at home a police man appears waving a paper. “Go Chitral!” Again? What’s wrong here? But at least he has a written, signed and even stamped piece of paper, which means someone who can write wants to see me there. What a progress. “Matter most urgent”.
At the DPO office I am forced to hear that there is a complaint about me. I was in the jungle for 2 days they were told. Jungle? He must talk about the trek. „It’s closed for tourists now, don’t you know that. I should finish your visa.“ I learn that near the Afghanistan border US troops are fighting again and therefore the area 30 kilometers near the border are now closed. I am surprised to hear this now as I had been at this very place just before I left for the trek and no one seem to be concerned or eager to tell me that I should not go. After chatting a while we agree that my Kalash father should come and sign a paper stating that he will be responsible for me. This should avoid the upcoming threat of security people around me again. I always feel strange when somebody needs to be responsible for me. Maybe I am still too western, traveling around alone most time, organizing everything myself – which alienates most people here, especially these police men who always do everything ‘just for my security’.
I try to speed up the process as a lady is waiting for me who I had taken to hospital. I brought her there in the morning, joining her for the medical check, done in a rush by a doctor who is not used to talk to people, just prescribing some medicine without any further information. His face looked up in astonishment when I kept standing in front of him, asking him questions concerning her actual constitution, reasons, presumed progress and method in case of continuing sickness. He watched me for some seconds, suddenly recognizing that I am neither Muslim nor Kalash and then politely answering my questions. His room was full of other patients, squeezed on the lonely bench, the walls still showing some stains of white wash between the dirt, a desk, some books, some yellowish old posters of lungs and skin diseases.
I took her back to the restaurant, where we always wait for the jeeps to Biriu – the Garden Restaurant. The garden is really the only thing worth to mention there. A small tent is pitched for the ladies, some charpoys are spread all over, men snoring or dozing on them. As soon as she sat down she showed me her tooth – the last one upside. “This also hurts, we should take it out. Is it possible?” I had to smile. „Why didn’t you tell me at the hospital?“ „I thought you know!“
So now again I should take her back after finishing this paper work at the DPO office.
Back in Biriu daily life continues. Many times people come who still take me as the village doctor. I take them to the dispenser, a hard working, able man who suffers of lack of medicine to do his work properly. The other way around in Mumuret, where simple shopkeepers prescribe medicine – which is available for sale everywhere – themselves for their own profit, not always for the betterment of the naïve patients help. 13 different medicaments were given to a child of 6 months with fever. A young Kalash has put himself on the mission to inform the officials in Chitral of these misuses. Let’s hope the best – and a result.
One morning an old man comes up to my place, some few leftovers of what were teeth once desperately trying not to fall out yellowish beam from his mouth, hair wildly grow from all visible holes in his body. He brambles something of cows and trees, forests and accidents, a mountain, pain in the knee and finally asks if I have medicine for his patient. I am not really sure what he is talking about and ask my father for help. He listens for a while to the laments of the old man and starts smiling. “His cow fell from a rock in the forest and hurt its leg. Can U you help?“ Without attending my studies at University I have obviously got an upgrade from village doctor to veterinarian.
The days are getting hot and hotter, we have been waiting for rain for 2 months now. Sometimes a cloud or two float across the sky driven away by the wind before being able to gather to a big fat rain cloud. “Do they come from your country baba? You said it is in direction Afghanistan?“ To explain directions and distances is kind of Mission Impossible. I had to restrict it to ‘Australia in direction of Hindustan/India’ and ‘Austria in direction of Afghanistan’ to clear at least the difference. I officially apologize to all geographers, but these 2 directions are the only one slightly known by many of the elder people here.
But these clouds, from where ever they come, never stay, let us boil in the heat. In a small lake built by kids in the river we can cool down a little – for a few minutes. My repeated pilgrimages there every day give it a kind of ritual touch.
In the long dry periods wheat is harvested. A feast for the kids who for the first time see the medieval looking threshing machine coming from one field to the next to thresh the crops. Men carry along the dried golden bundles and the magic starts.
One day the barometer drops rapidly, pitch-dark clouds cover the valley like a curtain but the people keep working in the fields till the first heavy drop splash down. Suddenly they start running, shouting after children to bring the half dried mulberries and apricots from the rooftops, driving the cattle back to safe haven in the stable.
Even after half an hour of heavy rain people return from far away fields wet from top to toe but happy about the necessary rainfall. A neighbor desperately tries to open something what must have been an umbrella long time ago. He wants to find his last donkey – the looser, who most probably loves standing under a tree enjoying not to be hunted by the others.
After 2 hours it stops raining cats and dogs, people appear again and suddenly they all run to the bridge, shouting for attention. „The flood, the flood comes, come and watch!“ So I also go, one should attend the common gatherings to get news. An immense amount of brownish water rolls down towards the bridge and floods everything. We watch the theatre from the big bridge, some run down to catch wood or just to be closer to the spectacle. I stare at the dark brown, thick water foaming around the bigger rocks, splashing up and down like melted chocolate in a big pot while being stirred. I think of mousse-au-chocolate. The choclate ghosts still haunts me sometimes. I find my self playing with an imaginary Lindt ball in my mouth, licking the soft nougat from inside.
Right after the flood the work starts. A water channel was damaged, so it is dried to clean and repair it. The kids swarm out to find stranded fish and proudly return home with 4 tiny ones. „Baba can you cook them?“ In remeberance of the last pieces of fish which resulted in undistinguishable crispy pieces of whatsoever I prepared it to the amazement of my Kalash mother in a way that allows to take out the backbone in one piece. Further amazement is heard when they see my rare use of ghee, in which usually everything swims. I often wonder why they use especially things which they have to buy like salt, ghee, sugar in huge, unhealthy amounts.

A baby cat catches my eyes. It is discovering its world cautiously but curiously, jumping down the high steps of the trunk stair leading up to our rooms, its tail stretched out to find balance. It is circling the water place, jumping away on last leg to avoid a tête-à-tête with a downhill racing donkey and watches the baby without trousers robbing towards her with big eyes. What a wonder world. But always it has to take care, be alert. Cats are not very popular and the usual communication between them and humans is the ones trying to get food, the latter trying to protect it, shouting at the cats and throwing them out. Soon mother cat knows that her 3 babies are safe in my room, can unhindered swarm out for their adventure trips and rush back if necessary.
It’s dawning and like many a evenings Serena comes along, sitting with me on the veranda and telling me about her world. She is only 8 years, talking like a grown up and seems to know very well what I understand and what not. Sher Alam’s father died a few days ago, which causes her to tell me about her brother. “When I was small, and my sister too a brother came to visit us for a few days. We have been in my grandmother’s house – the mother of my mother – and many people came to see the baby. He was lying in the arms of my auntie, with open eyes, smiling. Everytihng was ok, but suddenly he was dead. Just dead. After only maybe 12 days he left us. All the people were very sad and tried to console my mummy, but she was crying a lot. Daddy said it is ok, our brother came, he had seen his parents, his sisters, his relatives, then he went again. It is his choice.
Now again I have a brother, he is already 3 years old, you know him. In the beginning everyone was excited. They thought he will maybe also die. So the sacrificed a goat for him (Kalash tradition I think, though the family is converted). This made him strong, see how strong he is and how happy!”

Bahuk Trek etc pics