Again Good Bye

July 06

After the Shandur festival I remain in Chitral for another 2 days. The hours are filled with meetings, indeed, not completely as stressful as one would expect them in Europe. After a long time in which had arisen little, now the events rush things. I am happy to have learnt to be able to wait, be patient. A pharmaceutical company comes up with an offer. They want to send some medicine to us in the valley and equip the Dispensary. In addition, a representative of this company suggests organising a free medical camp. Doctors would come directly to the valley, examine all patients, distribute free medicine - and all that at a price of lunch for the doctors. What an offer. I see it a little unfair concerning the Kalash that these representatives – they do not work the first day here - ask only me. I understand their motives well, one must impress an Angrez with even more auxiliary readiness - maybe they even see me as a role model, but they could have offered these things for a long time - to a Kalash.
Well, could and would are not so much present in my vocabulary, so let's talk about facts. With the help of a very much engaged female politician we can also persuade the DHO (District Health Officer) and the head of department in the hospital of Chitral to co-operate on one of our projects. We want to send some girls to the midwife's education. Because there is no adequate training facility (either 3 days of short training or 1 year down in Karachi) we ask whether we can work directly with the gyneacologists and may just send these young women straight to the hospital.
In the Baishali (menstruation/birth house) there are no qualified midwives or doctors. A few TBAs are there (3 days of training) and some older women with a lot of experience. Nevertheless, they do not know the new state of the medicine, new devices, knowledge about hygiene, food or family planning. I would love to see a symbiosis from old women and the girls; first ones bring practise, the latter new knowledge. Conversations with the old people have proved that they are very much for it, they would want to get the training themselves, but just cannot read Urdu what will be a condition in this training. Now also from the CBS School I hear reactions. Some time ago I have adumbrated that there was a little money to finally construct the water supply for the toilets that were built 5 years ago but still have no water and are therefore useless. The pipes are there, for the work nothing will be paid, it is a Community school, and there are enough fathers who can dig one day for their children. We will pay the cement for the tank and a mason; the rest should be finished by the community. Long time I had heard nothing, already believed that they will rather wait for more potential financiers, to get the work paid. But now the chairperson comes up to me and inquires. The fathers would work. I ask for a statement of cost. Time will tell what comes.
Several times we make our way for Chitral; I must also shift my flight so I have a few more days more in my beloved valleys. Some patients join us, an old woman with pain in the legs, a child with diarrhoea, and another lady. Stomach problems seem to be rife and in spite of my water cleaned with Micropur I do not escape the virus. In the beginning I think of a small indigestion which appears once in a while. Quickly I am disabused. My stomach holds nothing at all anymore. I try it with rusk, bananas and coke, then reach out for charcoal tablets, Bioflorin and later Immodium. Occasionally I drink Isostar - thanks to the noble donator who had left it for me in Bhutan! not to dehydrate completely and to have some minerals in the body
As I must admit that it is probably not only a small disgruntlement, I reluctantly take antibiotics which are available here everywhere very simply in chemists shops. However, mine are still from Austria. But - here they do not work. I had already not eaten for 4 days, am weak and feeling dizzy. At the second night high fever joins me in my lonely sleep.
I am steaming alternately with cold showers, however, in the morning it has disappeared again. All villagers go past, enquire about my condition, chat a little, play music to me, bring food – which makes me run to the toilet just on sight: Meat in a lot of oil, vegetables in a lot of oil, nuts, beans. I am surprised at the absolutely missing knowledge about food and homespun remedies.
„You are ill because you have gone so far away (Shandur), you should stay here!" explain some of them. A woman brings curd with some herbs which should help supposedly. Far she has marched to get this for me. „Because you have also helped me!“ She came one week ago with her hand completely burnt by boiling oil - 5 days after the accident because I was at the Shandur festival.
She had smeared a paste from fresh walnuts and honey on the open wound and did not want to see the doctor though persistent pains. She feared that he would wash off her paste under heavy pains. I also had to do this, indeed, but with camomile tea and a wad of cotton. Some “Bach rescue cream” (flower mixture, excellent for everything), and after 2 days she was fine again.
Unfortunately, her yoghurt also does not help, not even tablets remain long enough in my stomach to resolve.
In the afternoon come Muhib, an efficient friend if it is about organising and Wahab, meanwhile also a friend and representative of this pharmaceutical company. They want to discuss the program of the camp and the drug delivery. I will not be in Pakistan at this time, Shah Hussain will take over the organisation in the valley. The first conversation with the well-chosen girls for the midwives training should also take place.
It is getting serious. We had organised meetings and had asked the young ladies to think about it, to find out whether they had time and necessary education and the permission of the parents - one needs that here until one is married - or of the husband. Now stand, a little bit shy and, nevertheless, curiously, 4 expectantly giggling ladies on the porch listening to the project program once again.
Muhib would be responsible for their accommodation during the training. Wahab wants to get me a drip from the city for my bad stomach and leaves with his motorcycle, only to come back after half an hour - motorcycle broken … They must rent a jeep, put the motorcycle on the back seat and take me to hospital.
After the strenuous conversations I am quite weak, feeling dizzy, I am tired. The jeep brings us to Ayun where the bike should be repaired. Muhib and I search a transport facility to the city. One takes us to the bridge, there we crouch. I do not see a lot around me, am exhausted by 3 steps and only want to sleep. Finally, after half an hour comes a suitable car, we get in and are driven directly to the hospital.
Now for the first time I am as a patient here. The night doctor on duty knows me only briefly from my visits with other patients, he is not the one with good references to which I bring my patients, but he is there. He prescribes abounding drugs, which Wahab buys for me. In the meantime, I am led in a room - at least 24 beds and almost 70 people are already there - and thus it also smells.
Where in western hospitals this stale sterile smell drowns all other, here it is missing. The walls, probably once white, are covered with splashes of any colour whose origin I don’t want to know at all. The sheets likewise fit to this design. I try to get comfortable and spread my scarf on the terrible pillow. In spite of 3 years in Asia I cannot yet lie down with the head directly in the dirt - and would not want to be able to.
The drip is hung up, I give a clean needle to the sister - needles must be also bought yourself, as all the other drugs. She waves about with it in the room and briefly disappears what makes me force her to use a new one. Then she pushes the small butterfly to its place, the Venflon is done, other drips - antibiotics, what a question - are added. 3 hours I have to stay.
Wahab wants to accommodate me afterwards with his family - not in the hospital, for what I am really grateful. Muhib brings coke and bananas, a bowl of rice with a lot of oil and fresh Naan. I spear the rice, the rest I dispatch in shortest time. After I am ready they arrange a taxi, we drive to Wahab’s house.
After a light dinner - I am really hungry - I lie down to bed, fall asleep fast. After one hour - thus approx. at midnight - I am woken up, a little confused. Wahab tells that his uncle has just died and he is apologizing for inconvenience, but we have to go to another house because here soon the funereal company would arrive. The tradition wants that dead people are immediately buried the same day.
I get up, telling him he should not feel sorry for me but his relatives. We are transported in a car which stands suddenly in front of the house, the driver races through dark Chitral as Beelzebub himself would chase him. After 5 minutes we are at the brother’s house which is deserted, because the brother studies in the south.
I lie down again, and this time sleep delightfully up to the morning, awake starving. I am happy to be in good health again, understand once again that I had taken my health as granted and enjoy every bite which stays longer in my stomach than 2 minutes.
As I am already in Chitral I try to push the organisation of the projects a little forward – means I speak again with the responsible persons, simply hear whether everything is still OK – which is not always the case. Changes with lodging of the girls and time of the training are necessary.
At home mummy every day boils rice without oil now - a frightfully tasteless affair, but my stomach thanks with almost flawless function. I do not want to overstrain it immediately. Green tea without sugar is always there, and now the yoghurt is also helpful to built up the intestinal flora a little.
The last days are relaxed, friends come over to say good bye, Imtiaz also comes once more to the valley, brings fruits from his garden. I will meet him on the last day in Chitral, before the planned departure to Peshawar where I will get on the plane.
During the last months I was sometimes preparing tea and entertaining guests, slowly indeed I change from the guest to a real family member with duties. If it had never been possible earlier to cook tea or to help in the household more than only playfully and exceptionally, now this works quite admirably. My Kalash mummy has no more shyness to ask me for help, she sends me to fetch water, milk the nanny goats, cook tea and finally I am introduced to the high art of making bread. I started with turning the round flat dough-cakes, then make them myself. So agile and easy it looks if mum does this. Make dough of flour and water, mix it till smoothly liquid, take a handful out and smear it in circular movements onto the hot plate, until the dough is thin and round of form.
This cannot be so difficult. Sarnama, a neighbour has mixed the first dough for me, so that I can get a feeling for the right consistency. The first problems are my hands. I am left-handed, my right hand, with which I have to make the bread is clumsy. Hobnailed I scoop a serving of dough from the low bowl and try to take it as fast as possible in the direction of the onza (hot plate).
A gust of wind blows smoke and tears in my eyes, the dough drips on both sides from the hand, I leave traces on the hot plate, must laugh. The dough rest that remains is good enough for a minibread. I spread it, almost burn my fingers with the last prank movement about the thin dough - the fingers are not even one millimetre above the hot plate under that the fire blazes. Simply make bread?
The 2nd attempt lands to the large part on my dress and my arms, the onza looks like a battlefield. Mummy sits besides and grins. "You are doing well…", she mutters.
On we go.. Hands wiped off, get new dough, swing it above the plate record, squeeze from the hands, spread it - take care of the fingers! – Really nice is none of the results, but the taste is ok.
From day to day it is improving, getting routine. It is a proud day for mummy as guests eat my bread for the first time (before we had eaten it ourselves). For the Kalash this is an important process of integration for my person. Making bread, speaking the language, knowing and obeying the cultural rules – even if just out of respect - signifies a lot here.
The worse it gets to leave the valley, although I have already got the return flight ticket confirmed. At night we dance, I record some of my favourite songs with the Skype microphone in fairly bad quality – but enough for memories. In the morning I hear Jamil playing the first tones from ,Acchi gos a no' to wake me up. I have already packed, many things remain in the valley, I will take only the most necessary.
Mummy is not there, I will meet her in Chitral - she comes from a relaxing night at the hot springs. Shah and dad likewise. Leaving for Chitral is not so bad, nevertheless, a few crocodile tears roll down my cheeks when the jeep slowly ploughs out of the valley. I smile internally at myself. I know the theatre, in the end, already from the last farewell in October.
My flight is booked from Peshawar via Doha to Munich. This means I do not have to go to Lahore or even Karachi. Indeed, I am sorry not to see Javed's family, but up to the last day many things have to be done here.
I have to spend the last day in Chitral again, the last little things must still be regulated, the indigenous bone doctor gets bandages for his patients, cheques for the payment of the projects during my absence are issued, I inform my bank, so that there won’t be any troubles. Some cheques were already turned down because I had twisted my name parts or the last ,a' in Isabella looked with a lot of imagination like ,e'
The departure is first delayed and then, as usual suddenly stressful. Sikander, Tehsil Nasim Mastuj and team captain of the victorious Chitrali team at the Shandur Polo and his son Ali, likewise polo player and almost pilot, offer me a lift to Peshawar in the last second. It is good to go with nice people to chase away my homesickness a little bit, however, while driving past the entrance to the valley I am anything but enterprising or ready for departure. Lost in thought I stare in the valley until even the last tree disappears behind the bend. In the background I hear Jamil playing my favourite song, believe in a hallucination and notice that really my favourite song is playing from the tape record – coincident? I smile at myself again even for the hokey chances which didn’t do anything to me before, however, at least not so strong emotions, but there is nothing to do against the tears which run again. I try to talk or to sing to deflect myself a little. It helps better than the last time, but really well …?
Sikander even offers to host me, until my flight would leave in 3 days.
We talk long, he also belongs to the new, young and motivated political team of the area around Chitral. His explanations and motives seem to have authentically humanitarian background, are not the usual empty phrases from the campaign pledges. I wish him a lot of luck.
Another friend makes easier the Odyssey to the flight ticket for me, he had booked it when I was still in Chitral.
After the advent of mobile phones in Chitral it seemed easy to do so. It seemed. The mobile phones in Chitral … this is also an Odyssey. 3 boosters were put up in the past months, gushily proud they sold twice as many connections as intended - and brought thus the net to crash. Crash is maybe too coarse - one can think about a connection between midnight and 3am, otherwise rather by chance or not at all.
Now they consider expanding the network to the valleys.

On the 31st of July the airplane takes off early in the morning, the imp on my shoulder still wants to persuade me to exchange the ticket and, nevertheless, fly home to Chitral. During the 2-hours waiting period because of delay I am sometimes about to turn and run out.
But 2 months in Europe will be acceptable, seeing family and friends see again, fix my knee, hold speeches, arrange some things for further stay in Pakistan…

Shandur - highest polo festival

july 06

2 days before begin of the Shandur festivals we start in the direction of Buni. Imtiaz tells stories from the area, on the cassette recorder run, as usual, my beloved Khowar songs which roar in more and more rotten quality from the loudspeakers, because of the bad admission quality, the broken tape or the never really functioning cassette player. With tootling and Chitrali romances in the background I enjoy the look in the nice scenery. "Over here, do you see 2 stones on the hill? They were earlier in the water and Baba Siar and his girl friend met there. It was love in which the both had not touched, had not want to. Still they sat daily on these stones and spoke with each other or were just watching each other. He wrote stone-softening songs and poems for her, everybody knew Baba Siar had fallen in love. Her husband, a gentleman, even offered to let separate to free the girl for him, however, Baba Siar just meant, this kind of love is not intended for a marriage. Once she was with friends on the way as they passed Baba Siars house. The friends came along jocularly about the man and teased him. “Why do you not invite us, it is mealtime?” Thus he asked them in the house, his lover likewise. However, completely against the tradition he moved forward to them only salad. On the question whether the money has then gone out because there was no meat, he meant: “you ladies can eat everything in my house, however, my darling should not make her tender fingers dirty in Curries, my heart would hurt if I would have to see.
It happened another spot that both traversed a narrow bridge at the same time, Baba Siar knew he would have to touch her to pass by. He did in no way want to destroy the mystic love, neither to show her his back when turning. So in the last second he jumped in the river and traversed it swimming. This legend is told everywhere, full of metaphors and symbols. All these legends tell about true love, just as all songs turn on this subject.
To Buni the road is very well - for Pakistani rates, and there we remain first. Darkness had caught us up already one hour ago, we search a friend who is untraceable, nevertheless, and spend the night in the "Mimm", the only hotel of the city. In the hotel room even the shower works, real water trickles chilly down on me. In a flash of inappropriate optimism I turn even the wash basin tape.
I could have saved this, however, some reflexes cannot retrain so fast. In the evening in the garden we enjoy the view of the snow capped Buni Zoom and at breakfast a French married in Hyderabad tells to us how the world could be better and how badly it stands about education and how frustrated he is sometimes in his job. At Shandur we would meet again.
The journey is hot up and rough interrupted by a few short stops to shop fresh apricots and their cores, the latter to prevent stomach problems caused by the first, perhaps, in immoderate consumption. The scenery reminds and the scanty Hunzatal which shows juicy green or plantations only at irrigated areas. In Solaspur Imtiaz hooks up with a friend, we are invited for lunch and tea, in a chill garden, green with shade from high trees, a small irrigation canal runs through the property which contains 3 guest-rooms. The real house is to be foreseen behind a clay brick wall, there the women cook our food which is served by the landlord. Now it goes up precipitously, the engine gets hot and hotter, I remember the jeeps with which we always to Biriu, they stop 3-4x to cool the cart.
“No, no”, means Imtiaz which had taken over the Landcruiser of his father, “everything OK”'. Near the last brook we both are persuaded that we should at least have a look - we pour 4 litres in, then only the first drops run over. What we both do not know: Dad had forgotten the heat insulation around the engine which is intended, actually, for the winter to let the engine warm up faster. No idea if there is something like that in Austria.
Shandur Lake appears, as usual, unexpectedly behind small hills, high on top directly at the pass. The melancholic peace I felt last year, watching a few lonesome yak herders tending and their cattle across the pastures, gazed by a bored soldier with Austrian federal army jacket is forgotten.
Although the party should begin only the next day there stand quite a number of tents in the north slope, tent restaurants, residential tents, toilet tents, command tents, administration tents. One could almost think to be at a European music festival, if there was not this extreme difference right at the beginning: Free entry for everyone.
We refuse all invitations to stay at the official tents - Imtiaz was appointed recently the Union Council Nazim Ashghairet and walks around with roguish smile if he is reminded of it. He is not so much joining the Pakistani whirl around politicians, but thinking and working for his people instead.
So we struggle with a trekking tent brand Pakistan in which’s production some delicacies have probably escaped. Till it is erected it takes a while, exactly the while I need to see that there are really some construction mistakes and we improvise.
Only when it was built up I note the great tent pockets with opening outwardly to reach directly inside the tent - indeed, these openings are only in the inner tent and not reachable anymore as soon as the outer tent is fixed. Pakistan Sindabad (forever/long lives Pakistan)
In the first evening food is brought to the tent - chicken, potato, rice, fresh Naan.
Music in the background, somewhere between the small hills a small group has gathered with drums, singing and dancing. In the sky Venus appears as a herald for other stars, the moon slowly pushes about the high ridges, beside the generator roars in the night. Pakistan.
For it we have light near our tent, here in the administrative sector stand even some toilet houses of concrete with water. In the VIP tents which we had rejected fortunately, important men lie tiredly on their specially brought beds, or on hundreds of carpets which pile up together with soft upholsterers.
After dinner we stroll to the music tent where already some people have met. Brightly printed gigantic panels made up between bamboo poles surround the music zone, as a white woman I of course again get an honorary place assigned in an armchair. Sometimes it is pleasant, however, sometimes it would be simply nice to stand in the middle of the crowd and to feel this feeling, the atmosphere that spreads out if these people meet and so casually start to play, one after the other changes from the impersonal crowd to a sole individual to dance, another is asked to sing likewise.
A small boy dances heavenly, the proud, but quiet expression in the face which is not often given to much older men. A kind of relaxed tension in the body, my look is tied up. Only as a background I perceive the frame drums, flutes, dole and Tablas, the musician with the weird look whose sparkle one can call for brilliantly or crazy.
Disturbing this time to see many people who slip bank notes to the small dancer as it is a tradition, he will throw them later to the musicians. Thanks to his talent it is raining notes, everybody wants to give something and keeps cutting his paces. Even 500 and 1000 notes are raining above his head - this is Shandur, a phrase justifying all divergences of the normality. Till late night lasts the evening, I sleep warmly muffled in the sleeping-bag, only my head rises from the tent to look at the stars. Clear and endless in number, even the Milky Way is clearly visible.

At 7 o'clock in the morning the first untiring hands already tabor a snare drum, I look around sleepy and see a small group directly in front of the tent, draped picturesquely on a small hill. Azure sky and white mountains as surpassing background. The first Polo match begins at 10 o'clock, we slowly walk to the bleachers where a place is assigned to us on top – close to the source, the hands of uniformed non-commissioned officers who amongst other things distribute some glasses of water – or send somebody to bring it, according to rank. Their bright khaki uniforms are held by a coloured belt, a felt cap with feathers and the Markhor to Capricorn or an Aries for the Chitral scouts or Gilgit completes the dress.
Others, Securities, stand in black uniform with shouldered guns mostly exactly in the line of vision. Geographically at the Shandur pass Gilgit and Chitral districts border on each other, they also organise this party together, although the festival place lies strictly speaking on Chitral’s administrative area.
The polo matches are also carried out by each a team from one and the other side.
The first match of this day wins superior Gilgit with 8:1, the second one is delayed because of an accident, a horse got hurt. Freestyle - the Polo which is played here knows no horse exchange after 7 minutes. If a horse or player is injured, he and the counter part of the opponents retire, the game is to be continued with decreased number of participants.
There is even a foul rule. After scoring a goal a player takes up the ball, gallops with it near to the centre line, throws and tries to hit the ball in the air far in the opposing field. If he crosses the line without having hit, the opponents get the ball. One half takes 25 min, then 15 minutes of break which is filled here by folk dances, music, rope drawing, parachutists and hang-gliders. Then another 25 minutes.
The horses play 50 minutes, at this height a substantial achievement for which they are brought from 3 to 4 weeks before the festival for acclimatising. The next day only we find out that the injured horse of the 2nd game has perished on the way to Mastuj. A high loss for a common elementary teacher. Almost absurdly in the charming scenery, behind the polo ground the lake glitters along with the snowy mountains in the sunrays, The sky appears beaming blue. At noon we search a food tent, which is not so easy in the huddle of tent shops, tarpaulin shops and shops without any screening upwards. To be recognised only because of the temporary clay stoves in the front in which a few thin iron parts were built in with mortar to carry the pots. These are the only places where a little shade is to be found up here above the tree line.
Horses stand in hatching heat, just as a few sheep pegged in front of tents or nanny goats whose name is easy to guess – “lunch” or “dinner” I suppose. In the evening after delightful food the music begins again, people meet. Imtiaz prophesies to me, I would have to dance. With so many unknown people I don’t feel like dancing.
I joke: " Only if they play ‘Acchi gos a no’!" I count again on drums and flutes instead of singers and am disabused. " Mansoor! " Imtiaz seems not amazed by the sudden appearance of my favourite singer. He begins, sings only a single song - Acchi gos a no. Inside myself everything dances already long before I really get up.
Without my Kalash dress I feel a little peculiar anyway, in the circle surrounded from hundreds of people everyone clapping joyfully in time. I close my eyes, imagining to be at home. Thus I do not see that the singer has got up, happy about this Angrezi who joins dancing and knows the lyrics. The moments, the feeling to dance to this song, simply gathered people around me who just enjoy the music, the starry sky above and the singer, singing directly in front of me – it is almost indescribable – come and have a look at it yourself!
The next day brings again a lot of sun, Polo, music and long chatting with friends. Sitting at the lake site and enjoying Pakistan’s unspoken joys. Shandur.
Our group consists of 4 nationalities with 7 languages. Everyone should talk English, otherwise 50 rupees fine. There is no German that haunts me, but I can hardly stop Kalashamun. A few people from Mumuret and Biriu have come, with some tourists, we walk to the other shore of the lake where they have whipped their tent. Astonishingly few cars are around, The ‘I drive myself’-mentality is not spread in Pakistan. Where at European music festivals the parking bay is just a little smaller than the festival area, here for 35,000 spectators a few jeeps and vans stand around. I hear that CAMET brought 45 people here and ask Gael. " In our car these were maybe only 44.” is his answer.
For it the toilets are as flooded after a short time as Dixi looes, the hot water in the morning is again astonishing. In the evening the Muezzin calls for prayers on dusty ground, primly marked with white stones, loudspeakers are absent in the absence of electricity, the call fades out in the wide plain. The temporary mosque builders do not seem to agree on Mecca’s direction, higgledy-piggledy they point all over. This shows once again that the central issue is faith, not in knowledge. Therefore, the prayers are not different.
This evening there is no music, at least not for me. The conservative Mullahs have come and peer with eagle eyes whether at this festival of forbidden things there is nothing that is a little bit more forbidden than others. Friendly but emphatically a young man tells me it would be better for me to go and listen from my tent – and he was right as I come to know later. I regret that I was so rude to him, like I always am when addressed by unknown people. At least I got a brief opportunity to apologise for my uncouthness which is kind of self protection for me.
So I go to the safe tent, the head this time for safety's sake under the tarpaulin, listening to the distant sounds till dreams carry me to another world.
The morning begins early, nevertheless, the arrival of the president himself is announced. Annually a vast amount of Securities and safety measures have to be taken, not to talk of many helicopters, that bring VIPs here and cover the anyhow not colourful garments of the spectators on the hills in a brown cloud of dust. First we wait, everyone must be seated at 8.30 on his or her places, in the VIP area only those are permitted which could get a registration the day before in the jungle of the officials which is even up here. One was assured for me, I have never got them, for it, nevertheless, I sit there. Pakistan. The scouts and Securities are even pickier dressed up, a pink Batch adorns the white cap below the Markhor badge.
The importance of the day is reflected in their faces. Horses and polo players are ready - 2 hours they wait, as well as the spectators unprotected below 52 degrees hot mountain sun. The helicopters arrive, the annotator announces Mrs. Pervez Musharaff's and the minister for tourism as main company, no word of the General. The polo match is opened, the people voice their disappointment under their breath beards and then watch the game.
Another helicopter appears, rams almost the last hang glider who desperately manages a crash landing - from the window waves the boss. So, nevertheless, he came. How brilliant his diversion is, admire the Pakis. Nobody would expect him after the opening of the match. In T-shirt, trousers and solar glasses he sits down quietly to his place and is interested in the Polo. The main match during the last day is contested by Gilgit 1 and Chitral 1, for the latter team captain Sikander plays. In the break Musharaff reads out his plans for Chitral and Gilgit. There will be a tarred road to the Shandurpass, helicopter service will be promoted for everyone, a utility store for every Union Council and some million rupees for the local government authorities. In addition, he agrees to grant a sufficient sum for a new horse to the owner of the perished horse from his own pocket. He hands over the cups, the prize money and dances afterwards personally to Dole and flute sound – “that is the man we need” one can hear…
During the visit the crowd from the opposite hill suddenly panics, tears in two the stop ropes and presses for the field. The Securities try to gain control of the attack, however fail because of the majority. Via loudspeaker we find out that in the subtending hill - maybe 150 m away a small earthquake took place which was perceptible nowhere else. The crowd believes and is calmed. The match is too gripping to think a lot about it. After 50 thrilling minutes: deuce - 7:7. The annotator explains over and over again not to know what would happen now - there has never been something like that.
The team captains decide for 10 more minutes, but nothing happens. The horses have been playing for 60 minutes already at the highest polo ground of the world. For riders as animal unusual, extreme load. The horses sweat, the riders too, but no one wants to give up. Once more 10 minutes are suspended after a discussion whether a coin should be thrown and the competition thus by game of chance be finished.
The players are proud, bring out the best of their horses. After few seconds Chitral scores, after 6 minutes the result is clear. Another point for Chitral, 9:7. Chitral wins this exciting 70-minute match, the joy is big when the team takes over the cup from the president. " The horses were fresh after the game. they have never shown this stamina before. None of them, they were great!” means Sikander later. We do not want to miss the music evening in the winner's tent, we remain another night at the pass. Slowly it becomes quiet, the chaos with the general tent dismantling becomes less, the people, cars and the shouting perceptibly decrease, to in the evening the rest - which is disturbed only by the music in the ten. Here in the small circle I can also dance, finally, again.
The night is comfortable, the deep-blue lake slumbers mystically behind the small unevennesses in the area, one can clearly feel the fascination emanating from it, originating countless legends. The stars are reflected like a luminous carpet on the smooth surface.
The new day brings us after a comfortable cleaning out, tent dismantling and chatting with friends into direction Chitral.
The first stop in Laspur shows us how fast the life sometimes intervenes in well made-up plans. It does not concern us directly, the host tells: " When my brother died the last week suddenly of a cardiac infarction, relatives came to express their condolences from Lahore.
The man sat in the garden - exactly here where you sit now and where also my brother had sat before - I briefly had to go in my room and when I came back he was also dead - cardiac infarction. ' The peaceful garden, green with trees, flowers, a wall around to keep away unpleasant observers now shines in another beauty, a chill, removed one. After the tea we leave the uncanny garden and drive in direction northwest, the direction of home.
The street itself is not bad, a little asphalt surrounds gigantic blow holes, the usual one.
In Imtiaz’ new Landcruiser it’s still much more fun and he is glad not to have to go himself all the way, at least he makes feel like. I appreciate the proof of trust of a Pakistani man to let his car be driven by a woman, have people stare at himself in every place stupidly - what man this must be who cannot go himself and have a woman driving ... – and keeps smiling comfortably. His world is in order to step outta line, glad to make me happy. Then in Buni follows the hardening. A house entrance, on the left and on the right, 1 mm beside the folded mirror mucky walls threaten - for 500 m, a tyre briefly at the water channel border. Another on root wood and stones, a fork in a similarly narrow house line above the brook without bridge in the middle on that crossroad, a gradient of 20%. The car ploughs well everywhere around, up, in, down until we finally arrive at the threshold of our host. The watchman asks us in, he expresses Imtiaz his admiration, he himself never drove to here. Imtiaz states only: “I have not been driving.”
Mr. Host, a friendly, educated man in his mid-forties raises his eyebrows, looks at me still several times from the side and is quiet from now on on this subject. He allows to bring apricots, tea and water. Later rice, chicken, a curry, vegetables and the Buni speciality (pancakes with fresh sheep's milk cheese filling and butter sauce topping) - deliciously.
With filled satchels we come along in the dusk in the direction of home. At least, we leave the heat of the level - during this day already more than 2,000 metres height behind or above us - does not hit us badly any more …

Shandur Polo Festival pics