Chawmos again

Dec-jan06

Just on time I reach Chitral and Biriu on 16th December. The Chawmosfestival starts this evening. Unfortunately, I had missed the day before, my uncle celebrated his house warming party. He has established a gigantic house in Sandik with 3 rooms, one for the family to live and 2 guest-rooms which would be used according to demand. Due to bad weather all flights had been canceled, so I missed it. But every day is right to come home. With big hello I am received and immediately integrated into the Chawmos preparations. The Janja night is about to begin. At night from all villages the inhabitants will proceed to the next village, join each other and finally come to Guru this time. We are therefore the lucky ones to await the approaching procession and observe the spectacle from the rooftops. Like a snake of fire the people get closer. All villages to the south and to the east of guru meet with us, the west situated villages move up valley to meet there. All together there are 3 meeting places for the Janja night in this valley; however, the processions don’t take place in the same night.
Slowly people gather, the flames extinguish we all meet in the Rikhin, the dancing hall. A long night awaits us, a lot of water and wine has seeped down thirsty throats in the evening for warming up. A few boys take on the drums, and hit the first beats. The women know immediately what they have to do - there are only 3 different dances, they differ primarily in the step speed. Both slower ones are mostly danced in long chains, holding each other at waist and shoulder and cross step sideward, trying not to cut the chain of people. However, this happens much too often. In the beginning feelings of guilt overcome me every time. They dance for hundred years and if there is someone to distract them, it is me... or so I think. But the longer I take part and the more often I change my position within the row the more I understand the real reason of the discrepancies. And usually it’s the wine that makes them step out of order… The quickest dance is usually danced in groups of 3. More or less quick turns alternate in each direction, interrupted with a fast dash forwards, head tucked down and stop for another turn. Not that difficult, if it wasn’t for the men who form likewise similar rows and push as many as possibly women's rows, followed by loud "Hahahahaha, a dussi hahaha!" (like: gotcha, hahaha). After few dances a wild mess turns out which the old people try to calm down every now and then. With both slower dances the women sing a kind of meditative song while the elders repeat old story-songs or invent new ones for special achievements in the last year.
Exhausted but happily I fall to bed after a long night, snuggle up in the warm soft blanket which I have bought in Chitral because my knee had started hurting at night due to the creeping cold and soon fall asleep. It is almost noon when I getup, finally, to creep from the warm, snug bed. The usual beans - three times daily, are already ready, the effect on bowel and environment I have discussed deeply last year already - to re-read there in case of need, otherwise - simply forget it…
So beans for breakfast, this time it coincides with lunch, however, this changes nothing in the menu. The beans remain beans. The weather is nice, I look for grandma to plait the ceremonial ribbons as it was routine before my visit to Peshawar. However, she is already in Bumburet with her second daughter whose first son has his inaugural ceremony to the Kalash community in this Chawmos, butt sambiek - (wearing trousers - the first official time to wear trousers for boys and for girls it’s called kupas sambiek and describes the first wearing of the headdress. I spent the last year in Bumburet during the festival with Sher Alam whose son had celebrated butt sambiek and his niece kupas. All year round women make chumanis, weaved or plaited ornamental ribbons which are also used as a belt for the baggy Shalwar-trousers.
Many hours I had spent with grandma on the porch helping her to make those chumanis. I loved the days in the sunshine. Grandma used to tell old stories or hum one of those meditative melodies with which I forget everything around myself. It reminded me of my grandma in Austria who was teacher for knitting and alike and when she was still alive I also sometimes sat with her to crochet or weave, listening to stories of her childhood in long gone days.
The next day this initiation ritual is also celebrated in Biriu, this time it is a "cousin" of me, I am therefore a relative who is honored, I get chumanis and, as all the others in of same relation a glittering coat. Years ago this special dress was distributed more meagerly, because made with difficulty. Nowadays one purchases a golden glitter cloth from Bazaar, tailors a few arms to it and the cape is ready. The related children get scarves and small capes. It is quite expensive to give such a party. Dry grapes, nuts, mulberries, Sijin berries, cheese and other lusciousness are handed round galore. Chawmos is not the party of stinginess, but of abundance, faith and trust in a fertile new year in a time which reminds rather of privation - winter, cold, darkness … All this is substituted with warmth, sociality, trust in God and the new beginning in the soon to come new year. In the evening the children are carried to the dance hall, they dance first, and then bit by bit the old people begin. Late at night they start singing and finally the long-desired Ajhona Baya/baba (guest's brother / sister) song comes up. The version here is more traditional in my opinion than in Bumburet, maybe it seems to me only such as it sounds more logical.
A group of women dances in the circle around a single man in their middle and vice versa, the "guest's sister". Now the new stanzas which oscillate like a dialog between both groups are invented alternately to the same refrain. Ever later and after a few more sips of wine, the new stanzas get funnier laughed at by audience and dancers under wild cheers, then the other group sticks their heads together, whisper, laugh and one starts, joined then by the others singing the new versified text. Especially good stanzas are often repeated year after year and are sung at the beginning if minds are not laxly enough to invent new ones. Last year when I spent Chawmos in Bumburet one of these stanzas in Biriu was dedicated to me. During the last days the children sung them again from the rooftops among other more known ones. This night becomes one of the shortest, because at 5 o'clock in the morning it goes off again. The day before ArifAliShah had already prepared a Janja-torch for me; I take it somnolent and creep uphill to the meeting place in Guru. Mummy also comes along, she advises me to put on the old Piran, not the new one which was sewed during the last weeks by Baras Khans wife for me. It’s beautiful and shines all in yellow and orange but has to stay put in my room, still unused. This time it is us to walk to the next village with the long wooden torches - very healthy. In a big fire we light the resinous pine wood, and stalk forward in an endless-appearing fire chain on the icy paths and the slippery slopes – a good way to wake up fast.
The teenagers run for and back, their steps obviously impaired from a certain red liquid. I thank God Almighty once more for the fact that my stomach has never been able to cope with this wine otherwise I would fall down the slopes or ignite my dress or so I believe, but although others are not that “dry” and danger is at hand nothing bad happens. Parts of the torches drop constantly on the path and between houses, everybody whirls his torch in every direction, in between or under it people push to the front and, now and then a scarf starts to burn, but nobody appears to take it serious. On and on goes the procession, over fences, rocks, waste dumps, ice and snow. On some rooftops stand women who ask the torchbearers to dance on their fields, then jerks erupt and the - more or less – single file resolves, the drums are beaten and for some minutes we dance for the fertility of the respective field. The way that lasts in daylight and without rain approx. 20 minutes becomes a 2hrs trek of dancing lights. As we approach the dance hall in Asper it already dawns. But instead extinguishing the torches like 2 days ago in Guru, they are to my astonishment taken inside the hall where dances commence, 3 women turn together even more wildly which high raised torches, the sparks fly, the children jump about with small torches.
God Almighty must have sent 1000 guardian angels, never a burning piece of wood falls in a Kupas where it could ignite unhindered all hair of the affected persons, never on someone’s face or garments although obviously nobody pays attention. Sometimes I can hardly oppress a shriek when I see a spark flying close to a face or cloth, but no one would even look up. God Almighty must probably be very contented.
When all torches have burnt down finally we make our way back home where we have breakfast, rest a little and in the afternoon again march, this time further up to Gri that lies in the northern slope shortly ahead of the village where the new school is. A few hundred meters of altitude difference let us sweat on the icy day. Reaching there we feel the cold wind which blows around all corners and storms unhindered about the open air dance floor that is situated on a small rock spur. The air is clear, the valley - well visible from here – covered with a white soft-looking snowy cover, lies peaceful, like a sleeping beauty. Well, this appearance can of course only be kept if one doesn’t come near the houses from which music and laughter penetrate the air. We visit some relatives up here and slurp very sweet hot milk teas to warm up. Here in Biriu the Kalash community does not separate from the outside world like they do in Bumburet for the last 3 days of Chawmos. Muslims and Kalash act their daily routine, visit each other and chat.
As dusk settles we head back home. Small set-tos have started, like almost every day on the dance floor when drunken youngsters try to find their position in the system. A blue eye or sprained foot won’t be long discussed; it’s part of the game…
We all are exhausted, the last 2 days we had hardly slept. But peace wont come, friends pass by for a round of cards and night becomes day again.
The next morning should be the last Chawmos day. Early in the morning I hear the child crowds which come - like at Halloween - to the houses and ask for beans (not sweets, and there wont be a treat) - daru tatu. In the evening the accumulated beans are cooked at the dance hall and next morning they should be distributed again.
Again we march to Asper for the last dance and back home to Guru, where the beans are put to be boiled. The cooking doesn’t need much attention as they are only boiled in simple water, so we have time to dance and sing. Ajhona Baya comes up again and loud laughter is soon to be heard. However, it finds a sudden end when a messenger comes who informs us that a woman from Beshal has died. Music is therefore banned; the beans simmer under the no more watchful eyes of some girls. Relatives prepare themselves to go to Beshal, because the woman was Moslems and will be traditionally buried the same day. The circle of the life …
The next day the deceased woman’s daughter, who lives in Peshawar, calls out of the blue asking about her mother’s health. The family decides to say nothing about the death of her mother until the father and a brother can go to Peshawar personally after 2 days to deliver the sad news. The daughter senses something fishy and talks lauder, demanding to speak to her mother. “I want to talk to her, bring her to the phone. You would not even tell me if she was sick or dead.”
Her brother, who was on the phone, is deeply depressed. The red-haired guy who is usually seen and heard riding his donkey up and down the valley with dangling feet and singing loudly doesn’t know how to comfort his sister. His eyes, usually filled with joy and spirit are dull, afraid. He wants to spare her on the phone but feels that a daughter cannot be deceived so easily about the health of her mother.

In Bumburet the party lasts even 2 days longer, therefore some Birilas take a jeep to experience the last day in Bumburet. Dada, some grandfather, uncles and me squeeze on a jeep and rumble across ice and snow to Bumburet, where we stay at Bhutto’s place, whose brother is married to my mum’s sister. Grandma is also there; almost the whole family is gathered. The evening went by comfortably, no Chawmos dance; however, many stories are exchanged. A small baby in the house has earache and its mother doesn’t know what to do. My gathering of books and knowledge about home made remedies were not in vein, I remember coming across the healing effect of onions. One should put fresh cut onions on ears for relief. A little clumsy we attach the onion and fix it under a bonnet and are recompensed. In the morning the pain is gone. Grandma is deeply impressed by the onion; she has gazed critically at the syrup before and now this method. But after the success she brings out an onion for every ache … Now the day can be dedicated entirely to the Chawmosfestivities. The spectators come in large numbers, most of them the not so much welcomed domestic tourists from the south, of whom a great number wobble about dazedly from the unusual effect of wine and stare and harass women.
Nevertheless we rush to the biggest gathering of dancers and join.
When I sit in the jeep to Chitral sit my ears still hum from the deep drum beat of the Kalashsongs. It is the last Chawmos day here in Bumburet and will finish soon. Imtiaz has asked me to come for an ishtok in Chitral and I have the opportunity to buy a few things for the upcoming Christmas. Above all, oranges and cinnamon are asked. Last year’s hot wine had found a fan club and I was asked to prepare it again.
The next day I am again back with just these things and some kg apples for the apple cinnamon biscuits. Actually I had already brought the apples, but while we had been dancing and thinking of nothing bad, the children had gone found the store room and the apples vanished miraculously. In the evening nothing more left... Indeed, at Bhutto’s place the diet is not as monotonous as elsewhere in the valleys, but for kids’ sake as they are still growing and need plenty of vitamins…
Bhutto’s house is a real Family-Guesthouse, 3 rooms for guests, always balanced, clean and hygienically prepared food, toilets in the rooms, stoves in winter, fresh laundry at least 2x per week... In Biriu they still need to learn that… I had recently washed the bed sheets of guests when I fell over them and couldn’t distinguish pattern from stains. "I have washed them just last month!" my mum commented irritated I have tried to explain that at least after a guest has departed or, should one stay for longer, they should be washed once a week. Time will tell...
But I am now in Bumburet. On the 24th December we start baking apple pies early in the morning. It takes a while to properly cut 5 kg of apples by hand with not really sharp knives. This time there are not many guests, 2 European tourists with whom I wanted to share the preparations and then celebrate of course, had cried off without further ado, hence, I am the only one familiar with "Christmas customs". 3 Japanese are there though and help diligently, especially - oh sorry, I forgot her name and if I would know I would surely not be able to spell it – well, that lady snips untiringly at the apples.
2 days ago we had cooked something like a pudding on her wish - with Pakistani pudding powder and Pakistani instructions which didn’t really work out in the beginning. Prepared according to the instructions it became a more or less liquid sauce, but after some creative alternations a sweet, steady, real pudding was ready to be eaten. Some assistants have also taken over the mulled claret (Gluehwein) cooking, they had well paid attention last year, I only have to taste... It became a cozy family-Christmas. Iran, a dear friend comes by in the evening and brings me a present. I unwrap it and hardly trust my eyes: A readymade Piran was lying in my hands, adorned with bead-laces. 2 years ago she had given me a bracelet of beads, an especially delicate one which I still wear. Once she had visited our house in Biriu and had seen it still on my wrist, deeply moved. But this gift now, I can hardly believe it. I have never seen a more beautiful Piran than this, and certainly also none which’s completion contains so much laborious skillful work. She had worked on it the whole. Not for me, but for herself, but when she saw, how much I liked this bead’s design, she changed her mind now I have the honor of wearing it. This kind of altruism is a quality which only few persons and people show. I didn’t have time this year to prepare gifts, alone it’s quite difficult, but I thrust 3 the steaming apple pies in her bag and hope to find an opportunity to show her my gratitude.

Chawmos Pics