Back home in Birir

NOvember

On Sunday Imtiaz takes me home to Biriu, where I finally see my Kalash family and friends again.
A special gadget lies on my lap – a wireless loop telephone. A few weeks ago this system was introduced in Chitral. A booster was erected near Ayun, a village near the entrance of Biriu valley. I am skeptically watching the signal indication. It’s not really clear, sometimes it cuts off but to our all amazement it works in Guru, the small hamlet where I live though we only use the small antenna.
For a while I forget about it when I meet the people who are welcoming me at the entrance of the village. Greetings here and there – a handshake for men and the traditional three kisses on checks, hands and braids for the women.
„Where have u been so long? We have been waiting for you. Someone has seen you in Chitral and you have been “down valley” (meaning Peshawar and everything that is further south) for a long time! Why do you let us wait so long?”
On the way to our house someone tells me, that my room is occupied. “Birbo-La” is there. Birbo in Kalasha means “walnut”. I raise an eyebrow and ask why walnuts should be stored in that room. “No, no Baba, that’s a guy from Italy!”
Well, no problem. I put my luggage, take my toothbrush and the flea powder and shift to the main house.
Then big excitement rages the sleepy village: the phone is working. Dada proudly stands on the veranda, shouting in the handset. “Telephone in Biriu, yes, the first one, yes in my house…”
Tomorrow we will get our own with big antenna to receive a better signal. Some say even internet should work with this gadget. I will believe only when I see it.
Times and again I have to tell about Austria, my family, mother, father, brother, sister, aunties, uncles and so on.
At dawn mysterious “Birbo-La” arrives. “Nice to meet you, my name is Pierre-Paolo from Italy. You must be Asabella.”
Western names are not that easy to pronounce for Eastern throats. Dada still calls him “parabol”.
I spend 2 days in Biriu to get updated with all that had happened, also concerning the progress of projects during my absence. Some good news: two birth attendants were trained and have started work; we only have to arrange some tools and medicine for them to be properly equipped.
In the CBS school there is running water now – thanks also to Joseph who had donated that money. As a side effect the whole villagers come now to school to fetch spring water as the well is further down.
The medical camp has not yet taken place – one of the responsible persons’ father died, so it had to be delayed. Also the medicine supply for the dispensary has not yet commenced due to whatever reason.
My next question is about the school in Bio, the first project. The teacher which I pay with the help of donations from Austria has started work with the new school year in September. But there are some troubles up there.
All the announcements and promises made by the EDO had failed. No up gradation to primary level, no further government teacher, no choekidar (watchman).
The inner floor is still not concreted. The cement turned to stone and the arranged sand disappeared somehow.
So there would be enough to do in Chitral the following day.

On a day when other people are celebrating Halloween at night long parties I have my own Halloween Horror. Disguised in Shalwar Kameez I go to the Edo office on 31st of October to tell him about the “confusion” that must have happened there. A little bit funny, a little bit scary but finally I come to know that we would have to use another path to get these things done.

Another task is meeting Pharma representants and doctors to eventually arrange the Free Medical Camp for Biriu. Then on we go to the PTCL franchise where I get my Wireless Loop Phone. Antennas and internet cables are sold out, but Imtiaz even saves me from this set back. He arranges them from Drosh.

I spend quite a time with some guys to set up the antenna properly, people pop in and declare themselves as specialists without having ever seen a wireless and shout advices, snatch the cables and stretch the whole process to a day filling adventure. My patience is surprisingly long-lasting.
From the first second there is a run at my room for this phone. Everyone calls his friends, produces crinkly papers from the bottom of his pocket with faded numbers scribbled on them. It’s like Christmas and Birthday in one time. With shining eyes and glowing ears they are yelling as if the guy on the other end of the line was deaf. It seems like a game whose friend picks from the farest place. “My friend is from Chitral!” “Mine picked from Lahore!” „Mine answered from Karachi and even from inside the house!”…
I can hardly oppress a continuous smile. They don’t get tired and I have to be around to help out with technical problems. What is a dialing tone, what an engaged signal, what an area code and why the hell is my friend’s phone switched off if I want to call him?
Some things are easy to fix, others not…
Soon the battery is empty and I have to face that the electricity power at night is not strong enough to charge it. But – Pakistan – recently I came to know that on request and for payment one could get electricity during daytime in winter seasons. The lines are just switched off to prevent accidents to happen. So if we use full power in one line during the day instead of three at night the battery is loading.
Now it is a slalom race between obstacles like signal and battery. Sometimes it is just not working.
Internet is not yet activated, but there are many other reasons to go to Chitral anyway.
I need to arrange the salary for the teacher who has been working daily for three months without payment. Somehow no one had given him the cheque.
Happily he receives my thanks and the salary – and is asked for a donation to the new restaurant in Biriu the very next day. News is spread fast here.
Restaurant is maybe not the word that makes one expect what is reality. Partly finished, partly under construction. A stove at the entry and 1 or 2 rooms for people to sit on straw mats on the floor make up the premises. Walls in bright green complete the decoration. Oh, sorry, I forgot the saucer that is used as an ashtray.

Since Pier-Paolo left I have put some furniture in my room. He had left a desk which made me get another one because they are useful but small. And the phone needs almost one itself. From CBS School my brother brings it along with 2 more chairs. Why did I not have this idea before? Sometimes the most obvious things pass my eyes and brain unhindered.
I had cleaned the empty cupboards which are inbuilt in the walls and put my clothes and other stuff inside. That’s much more comfortable than always bending down, opening the big bags, trying to find something in the unavoidable mess and closing it again against the dust.
Some herb and tea packets, medicine and other useful stuff from Austria nicely lines up there now. “Are you opening a shop?”
It is not really common to use a cupboard here. Things are wrapped in plastic bags and put up on a rusty nail askewly jutting out a beam.
I don’t want to extinguish this useful tradition and hammer in a few nails for my jackets.
Because of a few books on the ledge and the Gordian knot of phone-, laptop-, and battery charger cables my room is soon called the “library-office”.

The dry valley and heated rooms soon change my smooth throat into rough sand paper. I start coughing and plough through my books of household remedies brought from Austria. Soon I find the recipe for onion syrup.
Under suspicious looks from Kalash women I start cutting onions, covering them with sugar and after a while boiling this mixture in a little water.
Then I squeeze it through a thin linen cloth and have a great syrup that relieves my pain within a day.

On the 2nd of November I am just about to take some tourists to their jeep as I hear people screaming “Fire, fire, a stable is burning!”
In front of our eyes on the other side of the river on a ridge I see flames rising in the sky. I don’t realize that the fire has just been spotted. People come running from everywhere in wild panic. “Take buckets along!” I shout, but my suggestion fades unheard.
I also start running and see myself confronted with a big pell-mell. Everyone is running to the small water channel barking and wielding with empty bins and pots to get them filled up and run up to the stable to sparkle the few drops in the lambent flames.
With no system they try to fight the fire that has already taken over the whole building. I try to put up the idea of a human chain, where buckets could be handed over much faster and the mess at the tiny water channel could be reduced, but people are in panic and don’t listen.
There are plenty of wooden buildings, but astoundingly few fires brake out. Not many people can recall a fire so they lack the knowledge of strategies to extinguishing it in a proper way.
My heart is crying while watching the big mess, there would be so many things to tell them. At least I can win a few teachers to go down and wet the roofs of the houses below and clean them from dry straw that was put up on the even soil-wood roofs. They need to be protected from falling parts from the burning stable right above.
Angry looks hit me. “The fire is above, what are you doing down there?”
But the teachers understand and find some students to help us. Only when the first burning logs tumble down and the fire dies out on the wet ground others also understand and come down to help.
Suddenly I hear another call. “Baba, come here!” A man fell down while putting out fire; his foot is injured, maybe some bones broken. No driver is willing to leave for the hospital now and even the patient didn’t want to be a reason for another person to stay away.
I run back to the house, get some painkillers and some cloth to soak it with cold water and wrap it to reduce the swelling. Still I don’t like giving medicine, but I have by now seen a hundred times that not a single doctor is asking or checking allergic reactions and it is a kind of emergency. The indigenous bone doctor has still not arrived and I call him again. He is himself up on the roof to help. He is an able man. His diagnose is that there is nothing broken, but squeezed. After the swelling has gone down he would bandage it – and off he goes back up to fetch water.

The stable is gone, but the houses around are safe. Lull is another savior. Not a single blow of wind threatens the carbonized logs to flare up again.
Sher Alam, one of the teachers stays the whole night to watch possibly dangerous areas. Till 1 o’clock I stay with him, on the roof there are still many a guys who had sacrificed a goat. God had saved them from death, no person, no animal had fallen pray to the flames – except the slaughtered billy goat.
They ask us again and again to join them or to sit in a house to drink tea. They don’t really realize that a slight blow of wind can start the fuss again.
Again and again pieces fall down, but Sher Alam is always there.

I have to go to Chitral again in the early morning, hand out the special application for the up gradation of the school, get the tools for the birth attendants, fix the date for the Free Medical Camp on 19th of November, check possibilities for more batteries for our ailing phone and spend a nice evening playing cards and eating with friends – a day was not enough for all the work.

On 10th of November I hear the story of a man who had fallen from a donkey in upper Biriu. He was brought to hospital this morning, his condition is serious. I prepare myself to go there and ask people about the financial situation of his family. Some of the donations could be used for hospital costs etc.
My preparations are in vain. The phone is ringing in my room. The man died. Only later I will come to know that his back bone and the spinal chord were injured, he was paralyzed. Some ribs were broken and stuck in his lungs. No chance for recovery here.
The body is brought from Chitral at night, people gather at his village to start the traditional dances and prayers.
I myself only walk up half an hour to Gasguru the next morning. The man was father of 3 sons, all between 6 and 12 years. The younger ones seem to handle the situation better, but the eldest suffers in silence. I watch him standing alone in this crowd of 150 people, staring at the body, silent tears on his cheeks. I feel so much sorry for him. No one seems to bother about consoling. Everyone says: “It’s very difficult for them now" but no one takes him in his arms. People here seem so warm with their friends, holding hands, etc... But this boy is so much lonely. I take him aside sitting down with him to let him cry a little on my shoulder and he seems so grateful. I wonder why people don't do this here. His mother is not able, she is crying herself. She must have really loved her husband as what I understand from her words that she tells the dead body. She can’t even walk herself for all 3 days, no way to console her sons. Other people have to work to feed the guests, of course. but there should be some one to take care of these children in this probably most difficult days of there so young lives.
One teacher, the one who stayed the night at the burnt down stable, is also sitting with him for a long time. His neighbor also died, leaving a little son behind who now calls him father as he took over this part for the boy.
When I ask him, why people don't do this - maybe there is another way to express it in this culture which I don't know - he just says: "They don't know. If everyone would know and do everything for the betterment of others, it would be paradise - but it’s just the world..."
Dances continue for 3 full days and nights, relatives are arriving early on the second day, representatives of all valleys later in the evening. Food has to be served in a traditional sequence. Beans and walnuts on the first evening, cheese, meet and wine on the second day and meat and ishponjak (soup with flour and butter) on the third day in the morning after the burial. 18 goats where slaughtered this time, each goat worth much more than a monthly salary.
The day this man died it promptly started raining cats and dogs after 6 weeks. The path up to the village is a mere mud field, the arriving guests are soon covered in wet dirt.
One man of every newly arriving party will stand in front of the string bed, on which the body is laid out in the community hall and narrate the live story of the deceased and his ancestors. All his achievements were listed, his work, his family. Every store he had built, every goat he had tended.
One part which was narrated again and again was about his father who had been a kind of shaman and was called to an influential man in Afghanistan whose daughter had been stung by a scorpion. He sucked the poison out of the almost died body, saved her life but his own body started swelling dangerously.
After the community is too numerous to find space in the dancing hall, the body is carried outside.


My eyes search for the young boy again and again. Sometimes I see him listening to a crowd of people. Does he try to hear if they are making jokes?
People from 3 valleys meet each other after a long time, the youngsters try to get in contact with each other, and wine does its work.
Then the boy walks away with a sad look or even sometimes shouts at disrespectful guests.