Great time in Mastuj

Aug-Sept07

In Peshawar the hot air strucks me, I spend only a day at Ali’s place in Peshawar and then we both to Chitral and Mastuj. I haven't heard from my future boss for a while and I have to get my luggage, which I had left up there at my last departure, before I start working in Islamabad.
Col. Khushwaqt, whose wife had died shortly and whom I wanted to meet for condolence, had invited me to Mastuj and for the beginning of the Biogas plant construction it is surely good to have an eye on it. After 2 more days in Chitral at Sikander’s house in the company of Rudaba, who cannot get enough of the stories from Europe we start for Mastuj with a marriage ceremony of a dozen cars. Music is on full volume, we stop 100 times for sweets, fruit, cake, juice and biscuits on the way which are offered by friends of bride and groom. Indeed, I have already driven past Mastuj 2 times - on the way to the Shandur pass, but the journey is always an experience. After 2h on a fairly good street this ends suddenly at Buni, further on leads a gravel road, partly dangerously under the overhanging cliff and damaged by the latest landslides and glacier breaks this winter. Sometimes the road shows fissures rising high up in the rocks.
The bride and groom have an unusual history. They have already been married for 2 years, the woman remained with the soon born child in the parental home, because the house of the bridegroom was under construction. He brings mummy and son now home, it is like a 2nd marriage. 30min past Mastuj we reach.. In the wedding society are some known and many unknown faces. The women are in the house, which is covered with big cloth draping and thus protected from mens’ view, while the male community is enjoying the musical program in the garden. The bride sits as usual like frozen on a sofa, everybody comes by for a photo and disappears again to chat with old friends.
Then in the afternoon I finally see the Fort, which stands a little outside from Mastuj behind the old walls. The father of Col Khushwaqt and former king of Chitral had built it. The better part of the old buildings has vanished. Stables, servant’s quarters, prison and the main house have fallen victim to earthquake and new constructions. Nonetheless, the new main house stands proudly in the extensive garden, a big meadow spreads out in front of the veranda, spiked with various fruit trees. The highlight is obviously a big wooden bed under a magnificent walnut tree on which I spend cozy evenings with chatting or just staring at the sky. Cows, chicken, dogs and a horse romp about in peaceful harmony, graze here a little, peck there a bit and are glad for their part in the peaceful atmosphere. Khushwaqts faith in the universal love and peace is to be felt here in practice. Behind the house is the kitchen which with the fort walls is the only original remainder still in use. A walk on top of the fort walls shows the kitchen’s half collapsed ceiling, plans for a new building are about to be put in action.
Here I also meet Saida again. Since the wife of Khushwaqt had died shortly before Ali’s arrival in Austria, she is now running the fort.
For 2 months she also hasn’t seen her daughter Rudaba, who attends school in Chitral and took some days off to come for the marriage.
The Colonel is glad about my return, the biogas project is discussed, tomorrow we want to start.
In the evening we join the marriage again, now even women may watch - from sure distance in the darkness of the night - the ishtok (music and dance) - clapping, however, is inappropriate for the ladies, hence, I simply snap a little with the fingers and dream about the time with the Kalash where everyone dances, sings and claps. The next day a few workers are rounded up and the pit for the biogas plant is dug. There is not much to do for Ali and me, except to check from time to time if the workers are there and whether the pit is deep and wide enough. 3 meters are not necessarily 3 meters in everyone’s eyes…
I spend the rest of the time with walks around the fort. The inherent land is extensive. There are springs, a former fish pond that’s dam had broken – thus freeing the fishes to their utter fear, a polo ground, forests, fields, pastures, orchards and a somewhat stony area with a special legend. A stone shows human imprints and the people tell that once upon a time, as the stones were still soft, there was a bridegroom who wanted to bring home his young wife but disaster struck and one of those stones fell on them. The newly-wed husband tried to fight the stone, hence, many impressions also come in the stone of his hand, the foot, his stick and even his bottom. However, he didn’t make it and the stone crushed his bride.
During an especially sunny day the sheep are clipped and Saida complains about the unwieldy work of clipping - 62 sheep, 2 hand scissors. On TV she has seen an electric clipper and now wants to have this.
After a while I doze in my hammock which I had put up between 2 trees. One naked sheep grazes already quite peacefully beside me when a second one comes bleaching. It stops on safe distance and the other sheep bleats back. Face to face they watch each other suspiciously; “Is that naked thing without wool really you?", it seems to say. Another bleat: "Yes, and you don’t look much better, you should see yourself in the mirror." Eventually they snuffle and decide: the outer appearance doesn’t count. A small calf stands there quietly and full of pleasure as a Myna (bird) pecks ticks and other vermin from its ears and eyes. Almost trustingly it runs after the bird as it leaves, as it would want to say: "you have forgotten something … here it still itches …" Most of the nights I sleep outside on the wooden bed under the walnut-tree, moon and stars blink down, a chill breeze blows and lets me seek refuge under warm blankets - not like in musty Peshawar or Islamabad.
We had brought chocolate for Sikander from Austria and had unfortunately forgotten them in Peshawar in the fridge, maybe my brain had also melted in the heat. It was sent - instead of to Chitral directly from the airport to the fridge – in the heat of the day up to Mastuj on a 5 hrs drive by some well meaning soul. The shape of the pretty chocolates, nougat seafood, to After-Eight and other lusciousness has melted up to unrecognizability, we begin a rescue attempt and pack everything into the freezer. The taste is still good, but the shape …
After 2 weeks in this oasis of the peace I must leave for Islamabad eventually to start working there.

Mastuj Pics