The road, by now a dirt track, took us through
Barikot north along the Pakistan border.
At the time the locals
joked about the concrete bridges built by the Russians, whose influence was very
evident even then. They are made to take fifty tons and our lorries weigh no
more than fifteen they complained before laughing and telling us it was funny
but Russian tanks weighed exactly fifty tons. They thought this to be fine joke,
and showed absolutely no resentment at all. A far cry from the dour mullahs we
see on the television these days.
Then a left turn up the Bashgul valley and an ever narrower and more precipitous track led through Kamdesh to the road head at Barg-e Matal. Here we left the lorry and hired donkeys with their drivers to take us along up the Bashgul (or Bashgal) river, then left again into the Skurigal valley to a village called Pacygram. From here we went to their high pasture known as Gotugalsee, an idyllic river flat where we set up what the tradition required us to call our “base camp”, a grand title for a heap of cardboard boxes around a wood fire and an odd assortment of old tents borrowed from the climbing club. Home sweet home for the next six weeks.
