Finally back in Birir

Jan 09

Finally again I am going up to Chitral. All obstacles have been cleared so far which had prevented me from visiting my Kalash family. Well, at least all that I can influence. I have money, a visa and time even if only 6 days. In God’s hands lies the weather, which should allow the airplane to take off towards North. The ticket became substantially more expensive in the last years, for foreigners a flight from Islamabad is now already 6610 Rupees (approx. 60EUR), for locals 3300.
Anyway, with my new work and especially the salary gained it’s now affordable. Thus ticket is booked, taxi ordered – sometimes I need to spoil myself, especially if I need to leave home at 5 am and a taxi is difficult to be hunted down at that time) and I had bought some gifts the previous evening. I wanted the great, warm, cosy, comfortable fleece cloth which I had bought for myself some 2 years back in Peshawar, because during the Chitrali winters it would be a great asset. Some friends had told me to go to Rawalpindi for my quest, from there I was continuously sent to the next street and then in the end surely back to Islamabad. I have nowhere found it, unfortunately, but I bought some pure woolen cloth, also very warm. A few more beads and bells – for the usual Kalash necklaces and head-dress, and the evening was spent.

Wednesday, 7th January, 2009 early in the morning the flight takes off at Islamabad International Airport, the weather is splendid, my mood even better.

The flight is incredible one more, I land in a Chitral with green meadows surrounded by snow-capped mountains under an azure blue sky. The rich colour and power of nature is amazing. When I get out, tears roll down my cheeks (good that my thick winter scarf covers my face, finally, back home!!!!!

Now, eventually, after one and a half year I should see my Kalash family again. My good friend Imtiaz wants to pick me up at the airport, unfortunately, a heavy influenza has rendered him unmoveable. There is luckily one single taxi at the airport which takes me to my usual hotel TOURIST LODGE where I am welcomed joyfully.

I put up my things there and have a tea, at 8am in the morning no one is awake to get things done, so let’s wait and see.

As the office gates slowly open I make my pilgrimage with a little bit uncomfortable feeling to the Tourist Registration, thinking of the surprises which they have in store for me again. Actually, there should be no problems with my new passport and visas, but one never knows-
Pakistan, the country of unlimited possibilities...

Everything works out astonishingly well, I get the number 1 - and am therefore the first tourist in Chitral in 2009. If this is not a sign...

Afterwards again for tea at the lodge and a little bit later to the jeep stand where I hope to find some hopping transport to Birir (with the street quality none can be talking of DRIVING) a nice person promises to call at the Lodge, as soon as the car, which is just somewhere in the big-city jungle of Chitral, is ready for departure.

Then after some more cups of tea I make my way up there again, it is already 2 pm and the nice man from before could be by chance also just for tea when the awaited vehicle turns up.
By divine intervention I meet one of my dear Kalash, Sher Alam who was a prior headmaster at the school where I taught and untiringly has assisted in the construction of the school in Bio. He knows how to find of course exactly where is what I search and after 10 min I sit in the jeep to Birir.

It’s still a 2 hrs ride, but this time they pass quickly. At every corner memories come up from the time I had lived here. I drove here so many times to and fro that almost every stone dugs up some images from the past years. The sun still covers the mountaintops in golden gleam, in the background Tirich Mir sits enthroned at the end of Chitral valley as we slowly travel the 25 km south.

When we then, finally, turn westwards into Birir valley, this feeling of internal rest which I already had at my very first visit arises again in spite of violent jolts from the road. The time seems to stand still, to become unimportant, although obviously a lot has changed even this year. A new small hydroelectric power plant is built, the street on the other shore is quite finished up to the last bridge and some new houses have sprung up among them also the one of my Kalash uncle. Work is constantly going on, slowly and with the pace of nature though.
My doubts whether my Kalash family is not there (burial, wedding) are blown away, I am glad that I have not said that I will come. My Kalash Mum would have been too sad, if now once again it had not worked out.

The sun touches the mountain tops, ready to hide behind them just when I exit the pick-up at the bridge of Guru. Across the riverside the village, built partly on stilts rises majestically. As fragile as it looks, it has survived more earthquakes than much “stronger” built houses in the capitol. The bridge is still a meeting place, and before I can drag my bag from the bridge my Kalash father already hugs me dearly. "May chu, may chu ita ais" (my daughter, my daughter has come). He forgets his aching foot and has tears in his eyes. I am not sure whether they are somehow also related to the familiar smell around him, that my nose deciphers as wine, but the joy is surely real.
The rest of the small meeting likewise greets me, but this can’t stop me for long, I am off to my old home. At the middle of the bridge my Kalash mum runs towards me with stretched out arms, she had one of her feelings and stood in the cold winter weather on the balcony, from where she had observed my arrival. No, observe seems not the right word, as she started running to meet me the moment she saw my red hair.

5 mins after I have arrived at house, half the village is already gathered to greet me and to express their relieve that nothing bad had happened to me, nevertheless, I am repeatedly asked if I had forgotten them, because I didn’t appear for a long time. How could I?

The first evening flies by, with countless stories told and of course answering 100 times the same question: Why have you not come sooo long? What I should answer... It was not my intention not to come, by no means. No time no money, sometimes no visa, sometimes no holidays, sometimes no permission because of safety regulations, sometimes because of called off flights, sometimes because I had lost my passport ... well, it doesn’t make a difference now, everything is fine, so why bother about the past. My little Kalash brother Saed Ali Shah, whom I see now for the first time, is here. Well, not really for the first time, the last time I was in the valleys he was a very distinct curve in mama’s belly. After many telephone calls during which he loudly shouted ‘Bella Baba’ (isaBella + sister) now we meet face to face. He is a bit shy in the beginning, but comes to pull my hair. Yes, the little fellow has already been walking for a while, exactly since he was 10 months old and now nothing is save. He wants to know everything, attack everything, eat everything and, of course, always only the biggest and most dangerous part. He knows certainly what he wants and how he gets it, turns every item up and down, left and right 10 times to make sure he has seen all sides and angles. A bright, cheerful fellow. Unfortunately, this is sometimes interrupted by his chronic Pneumonia, the doctors prescribe Cefixime and say: „When he turns 2 or 3 years old, it will vanish itself.“
Daily Aya has to give him drops daily, and if the medicine finishes without a new one being bought, he has high fever immediately. I decide to talk to some doctors down in Islamabad and maybe take him down for proper checks. 2 years daily medicine can’t be an answer.

Every few minutes the door opens and visitors come, bring me walnut necklaces and bunches of dried grapes. Late in the evening the screeches again, and someone comes in, without a hello straight to the phone. (yes, the Wireless I have brought 2 years ago still works), speaks for quite a while and disappears as quietly as he came. Aya looks at him with a sigh, „Your Dada (father) allows it, what I should say. They are from the government, doing forest protection, at least that’s what they say. Actually, they just drink our wine and collect diligently from the smugglers. What protection is that?”
Again a while later there comes a civil policeman and checks on me, if I am all right. Yeah of course, as long as I didn’t see him I was pretty fine. The bush drums work apparently well. I say everything is ok, I need no guard. He remains a little bit, drinks a little bit and disappears again. That’s what I thought. He slept in the adjoining room because he had come by foot from Ayun and had to walk back again (2-3 hours) and now was already too late and too cold. Well, the next morning then...
Just before bed I shower myself with Anti-Flea powder, I have learnt my lesson. Then I wrap myself in my sleeping-bag and the cover which I had bought at that time. It has lost nothing of its warmth and looks well kept.

The next day I primarily spend with, Arif Ali Shah’s (brother) new computer which I have gotten him with Imtiaz’s help. There is a peculiar Error message after the start, then nothing at all. Arif Ali Shah, who is not so competent yet, believes that he has deleted Windows. Really a few important system files are missing. I do the whole setup anew (Imtiaz had prewarned me that such a job would possibly be waiting for me, so I have taken my software along) Soon – in Kalash terms – as we frequently have to send someone down to switch on the small hydro for us, otherwise there wouldn’t be electricity. I even install anti-virus software. The first test – to play a Pakistani music CD - fails pitifully and brings immediately the explanation to the mysteriously disappeared Windows file. A virus. NOD (virus program) proves straight away its money’s worth and we escape the danger. The black burnt CDs are always a problem, somebody copies them 1000-fold on his PC on which most probably (we are in Pakistan) some virus has nested and contributes thus to the very wide-spread distribution.

Now my dear brother can sleep again safely. Aya tells me smiling that my brother had spent sleepless nights because the gift of the Angrez sister (me) had been made useless after a week only.

In the afternoon I walk a little bit through the valley, visit a few friends who can’t walk that well, but I soon hurry home again to continue my chat with Aya. In the evening I ask the Bio teacher over to investigate about the school and ask him to accompany me on my visit to the school tomorrow. Till March are winter holidays, but at least I can see the register and the building, as I had already heard that some sheets of the corrugated roof are broken, now I want to see the damage myself and learn about the cause.

The late evening belongs to Aya and me again, few late visitors come sporadically, the large part was there already in the eve. Grandma is spinning wool for a special gift to her second daughter. We chat comfortably about everything that has happened, the fire blazes in the stove, the little one sometimes wakes to suck some milk, my sister Masran has fallen asleep already. She has grown quite a bit, no more child, rather young lady. The bangles that I brought for her are on the small side, but out of happiness she squeezes them over her hands with pride and soap. She looks more than satisfied when they finally dangle from her arms.

Before I go to bed I allow myself one more cigarette on my favourite place, on the "balcony" in front of my room. The sky is clear, the stars seem near enough to touch if I would stretch out my hand a bit. What comparison to Islamabad where one can maybe spot Venus and with a lot of luck, a few corners of the Big Dipper. The valley lies quietly under the black cover of the night, the tiny rivulet that had been quite a stream in summer cheerfully gargles eastwards. Now and then one sees a flashlight cutting through the night. Good to know that some still sit together somewhere, play cards or discuss the plans for the next summer, even if not at the old hotel, where I had myself spent many an evening with cards and karambol, because that one has been turned into a Madrassa. Not only one has sprung up like a mushroom here in the valley, fast, efficiently and with visible financial background.

On the way up to the school I see a few more. Arif Ali Shah and Allah Uddin, the teacher I pay, accompany me. Actually, we wanted to leave around half past 9, when the sun starts peering over the mountains. Unfortunately, a thick, fat cloud cover hinders every sunray from getting through. With my Fleece garment below the Kalash dress I am pretty warm. Up at Bio we get straight away kidnapped to the best guestroom of the village to drink tea, but I can free myself, if only temporarily. I want to see the school first. A stupid European habit, first work, then pleasure. How I hated my mum telling me that when I was about to go out to play. My homework wouldn’t run away. I was sure of it.
Well, the school stands as nice as on the first day, one does not see the broken tin at first sight. Of course it has already gotten about that Azabella Baba is there, and most villagers soon gather at the school. Nevertheless, I should please replace the spoilt tin.
To the question why it has come that far (I think of natural disaster, bad quality, snow) I get a clear reply: „The nanny goats have broken it.“
Oh yes, right, and who lets the goats on the roof?
Nobody, they go completely by themselves.
The problem is the adjacent house from whose roof they can quite easily climb over - they are goats. About 2 m in width is the access. I call a meeting with the villagers. I don’t want to repair the roof every other year.
We decide that the owner of the goats, who is also the owner of the house, puts up a barricade of wood. If this is finished, Allah Uddin is going to tell me. Then I will send the money for the tin – once and last.
Everyone agrees, let’s see if it works out.

Then there is of course still tea and walnut bread, some dehydrated grapes and wine for the teacher. I still very well remember the reaction of my stomach to the sour alcohol and spare myself the action.

On the way back I speak with a young ambitious Kalash woman who has done her matrics and continues now studying at home and going for the exams to town only, as it is cheaper. She is the first one of the village with such high education. Her wish is to become a teacher. The school needs urgently help, meanwhile there are already 75 students without calculating the newly enrolled ones for the next school year. I chat a little bit with her and get a quite good impression, she can teach at least the little ones for a small initial salary. I will think it over again, but it seems good solution and the best one at hand. Then they can also launch a 5-th grade and get, maybe finally, a school keeper’s post awarded by government.

A little further down I talk to one of the midwives whom we had trained in the Chitral hospital. It goes ahead only slowly and I encourage her a little.

Actually, I had the plan to leave on Saturday early in the morning directly to the airport - a good friend has the ticket booked for - but it starts snowing. Wonderful, but quite dangerous for my plan. On Monday I must work again. I hope for a good street in the morning. If I become snowbound in the valley the phone will also not work, the signals in bad weather have always been trouble... then I can’t even hope to get my ticket organized. As if he had anticipated, Imtiaz appears out of the blue, or rather white. Actually, he would have wanted to come earlier, but his clutch had taken a leave. Thus he was able to only get started in the late afternoon. I had come to take me to the airport in the morning.

When snowfall becomes heavier, we decide on short notice to drive off immediately. The road is still good, it won’t get better. With a heavy heart I say goodbye again to my Kalash family that does not want to let me go at all, I roll up my sleeping-bag, pack an immense amount of nuts and dry fruits into my bag and off we go to Chitral.

The nightly journey is amusing, even if chronologically long. I chat with Imtiaz and by about 23 o'clock we reach the tourist Lodge where he drops me, not without arranging wood to heat my room because he knows I hate the kerosene heaters.

I soon sleep and hope for a good flight weather for Saturday. Unfortunately, my wish is not really granted, the flight gets canceled and the weather forecast is shattering - 1 week of snowfall. We speculate about the tunnel which should get finished during the next few days supposedly - at least on foot I should be able to cross it very soon, I can always take a car on the other side. In the morning I march over to the library, dig by some dusty English books and finally find a Sidney Sheldon collection and issue one of them. With this I climb the roof of the Tourist Lodge and read in beaming sunshine, well protected from the snow capped Tirich Mir. Where is the bad weather? Very well! I have hope for Sunday. To get hold of a flight ticket is easier said than done. For a long time all streets have been blocked, even the alternative route for locals via Afghanistan was closed because of political problems, there are no helicopter flights for the same reason. Flights are called off frequently, everyone is stuck, hundreds want or have to go South.
Good that there are always friends around, without which one wont get anywhere in this country. Not even to the ticket counter. Actually, all flights are fully booked till mid-January.

In the afternoon when the sun crawls to sleep behind the ridges, I change to the dining room where a fire crackles cosily and continue my reading. I am interrupted only by an excellent message, my ticket angel stops by and says, “If there are two flights tomorrow Sunday, you will be on the second!” Brilliant!

The weather holds against every pessimistic forecast and at 8 o'clock I hear the ATR roaring over my head, the first one is done. Shortly before 10 I get a call – “Come to the airport, the second flight has been announced!”

It is a little bit fresh outdoors, but with my just regained down jacket the cold can’t harm me. The manager of the Tourist Lodge has kept for me over a year after I had forgotten it last time.

The weather seems to joyfully play with all meteorologists, the sun shines from the cloudless blue sky and lets the snow-capped mountaintops glitter like diamonds. Postcard weather.
It gets even better. It is so clear that I can spot even Nanga Parbat far at the horizon, at least I talk myself into this. But there is no other high mountain in the direction of northwest, even if that would be about 150 km distant on the Karakoram Highway. Never had I such a clear view before.

Now with this nice farewell gift of Chitral I can again gather my thoughts around tomorrow's work.