No room for
improvisation in the Hindu Kush
The
next day I came back up to Camp 1 and we decided
to try Point 5797, just along the ridge from our previous summit. The
outing started with the usual trudge across the “mine fields” and we
soon arrived up on the glacier. This time we bivied on the right hand side
and, lacking the usual supply of rocks to enclose the shelter, decided to
build an igloo. This was also to justify the purchase (at the time
considered rather extravagant) and lugging about of a “snow saw”. This
device, with its one inch triangular teeth, was of absolutely no us for
anything else and had given rise to a certain amount of ribbing. It now
proved highly efficient for its designed purpose, cutting blocks of
compacted snow, far more so than our own competence in igloo construction.
The coffin like enclosure had no roof, but I suppose it was just as good a
windbreak as its stone counterparts.
In
the morning we set off up the buttress behind the igloo, hours later we
had made little progress, partly because of the difficulty and partly the
weight of our sacks. It became evident we would never reach the summit
with the amount of food we had. We decided to go back to base camp to
bring up more food and have a bit of a rest, improvisation was not
sensible in this part of the world.
When,
a few days later, we returned to Camp 1 from base camp, Mags told us that
Rich and Ian were having a go at Point 5797, so, well loaded with food,
either to back them up or for our own use, we set off up to our igloo.
That evening we saw their green flare from high up and decided to look
elsewhere.
Next
morning we climbed up amongst the snow penitents, as the spikes are
called, which were particularly tall and numerous on this side of the
valley, all pointing towards the sun, like sunflowers. We continued up the
buttress again then traversed to a gully. Once at the col we had splendid
views of the surrounding mountains, Shah i Kabud in particular, climbed
later on by Ian and Rich by the “South East Buttress”.
In search of the Scots
Dave
and I were intrigued by the evidence of another party of climbers in the
region. We had heard of the presence of a Scottish expedition operating
from the other side of the range and found signs that they had been on the
col, although there was nobody actually in sight. We considered the idea
of crossing over the main ridge to try and find them. It would be
interesting to know exactly what they had done and plan our climbing in
consequence.
The
way down the other side looked inviting, and our explorer’s instinct got
the better of our better judgment, given the amount food we had. As I
mentioned before, this is where the peanuts saved the day. The rather
unpalatable nature of this fare, coupled with the (over) generous
allocation in the rations, had lead to a certain accumulation in the
bottom of our rucksacks. The ration packs, of Dave’s conception, also
boasted a liberal quantity of instant porridge (most of his youth was
spent in Glasgow, whence his accent, though, in truth, he is of Welsh
extraction).
Peanuts
and porridge
So,
confident in the calorific value of peanuts and porridge, we dropped down
the snow-ice slope to the Toghw glacier and headed towards what we thought
must be the Munjan Valley. This is a tributary of the Kokcha which is
itself a North East continuation of the Panschir Valley, familiar to all
who turn on the telly these days, but which has probably been visited by
few. At that time, and perhaps still today, there was no road access, and,
given the length of the way round by Faizabad in the far North of
Afghanistan, it was little frequented by tourists even in those more
peaceful times.
We
carried on down the easy dry glacier and after a couple of hours reached a
grassy spot to camp. Next morning we left the tent and all our climbing
gear and continued down. We kept an eye out for signs of climbers, but
apart from a Mars bar wrapper in what looked like a camp site near a lake,
found none, they had certainly already left.
The
valley was long, austere and beautiful. Here and there, moraines from side
valleys blocked it forming mirror-smooth turquoise lakes of glacier water.
In for a penny, in for a pound, we decided to carry on down to the Munjan
itself, telling ourselves that we could certainly find some food or other
to buy.
A
chance encounter
We
met two Afghan hunters with their ancient matchlock rifles. About six feet
long, inlaid with ivory or bone decorations, they were fitted with a
wooden v-shaped stand on the muzzle which must have been necessary to have
any chance of hitting anything with such heavy devices, they have
certainly been replaced by Kalashnicovs these days. Unfortunately, like
most of the people we met in Nuristan, there is little chance that these
two are still alive. Quite apart from the life expectancy in the area,
forty to fifty years on average, this region has been right in the middle
of the fighting for twenty years.
We
asked them the best way down to the village and they indicated a faint
path that climbed high up the valley side to avoid a jumble of rocks near
a lake that filled it there. We thanked them and sat watching as they
headed off, walking easily and rapidly until in no time at all they were
out of sight. We chose a route which seemed easier, following the lake and
reflected on how pathetically incapable we, the members of an
“official” climbing expedition, were compared to these ordinary
country people, undernourished since birth on bread and tea, taking a walk
barefoot and with no apparent signs of fatigue.
Shah-i-Pari
Eventually
the patch-work (for once the metaphor is really merited) fields of the
village in the main valley came into site. The photos speak for
themselves; it was unreal, calm, extraordinarily beautiful and terribly
poor. I have lost (or probably lent) some of the best slides, but at last
I had got over my rather strange idea of using black and white film. Those
included here give an idea of this huge v-shaped valley with its quiet
slow moving river, very different from the tumultuous Bashgul. The houses
too were different, low and built of dry stone, no sign of woodcarving,
clearly we were no longer in Nuristan.
We
tried to communicate with the men in the village, some of whom looked very
old, though they were probably only in their sixties. The notion of age is
different here, the Afghans could never believe us when we told them we
were in our twenties, they thought sixteen or seventeen at most. At twenty
they were mature hardened men, with burnt skin and calm steady eyes that
gave the impression of having already seen many hard sights, and coped
with them.
Even
though the harvest was in full swing, the corn being trodden on circular
earth threshing floors by oxen while the women cut the corn with
tiny sickles, we were unable, as we should have known, to buy much in the
way of transportable food. We were a little ashamed to ask people who
clearly had very little to spare, but hunger and egoism got the better of
scruples and we bought some eggs, a tiny chicken, little bigger than a
pigeon when plucked, and some of the flat unleavened bread. We said
goodbye and headed back up the valley.
That
evening we could only find green wood and couldn’t get much of a fire
going, we had left our stove with the tent up by the glacier, and we had
to make do with a cold dinner. Next morning we returned to the village to
buy more food and get some dry wood. After “shopping” we talked, or
tried to, with some children on the river bank, skimmed a few stones on
the limpid water, then headed back up over to our side of the hills.
I
often wonder what the villagers must have thought of us turning up like
that from a valley that I doubt they themselves ever used to cross the
range, then disappearing again just as quickly. Perhaps they thought it
just as normal as if we had stopped in a Sussex village for a pint of beer
then left again on the next bus. Were they revolted by our futile
preoccupation with mountain tops while they had every difficulty in
surviving and providing for their families? They didn’t show it if they
were. They remained friendly, inscrutable and dignified throughout our
brief visit to the village they referred to as Shah-i-Pari. Does it still
exist? I would be interested to know.
We
plodded up the valley and bivied near a lake, where there was still a
supply of brushwood. Dave plucked, cleaned and boiled the chicken that was
so skinny it fitted in a climbing billy. A little dried milk was added for
flavour, but even our hunger didn’t make it very appetizing.
The
next evening saw us well up the valley that seemed much harder going up
than coming down (surprising!). That night in the tent we could find
little else to talk about except food, our admittedly self-imposed fast
was beginning to tell. Even the peanuts we had left at the tent tasted
good!
An
unpleasant surprise
Next
day, walking up the easy angled dry glacier, “dry” in the technical
sense of “without snow cover”, but as anyone familiar with mountains
knows, covered in all sizes of melt water rivers, swallow holes and so on,
we stopped to drink from one of the streams. A few minutes later we were
somewhat put out to come across a dead body just above where we had just
drunk. This sight impressed us considerably, me perhaps more than Dave, in
my famished state of mind I took this to be a bad omen, and even protested
that we shouldn’t take photos. One was taken all the same and proved
most effective in waking up somnolent audiences in slide shows given after
our trip, I did have a copy, but it too has disappeared.
The
body was of an Afghan, his hair and skin had been well preserved by the
cold; the later was stretched like yellow parchment over his bones. He was
on his back and his body was bent over a pillar of ice two or three feet
high, which the shade from his body had prevented from melting and which
made him look as if he had been the victim of some macabre sacrifice. His
clothes were traditional, and beside him, on the ice, lay his matchlock
rifle, just the same as those of the hunters. Curiously, the barrel was
bent in two, what could have done that? Nearby there were a number of long
wooden poles, about four or five inches thick and ten to fifteen feet
long.
We
thought he must have died many years ago, perhaps in some long forgotten
war, or trying to cross the difficult col, his body would have been moved
to where it was now by the movement of the glacier. This would have
involved a good many years as even here the glaciers move very slowly. But
what else could explain why he had been left here all this time, why had
no one at least recovered his rifle, which must have a certain value, if
he hadn’t died alone? It was a mystery that later on lead to vague
recollections of someone long since missing from a Bashgul village when we
enquired at the villages on the walk out, but nothing very clear.
Whatever
the explanation was, this find did little to improve our morale, but the
main ridge was not far, we crossed back by the same route and were
relieved to reach the igloo bivouac. It is amazing how quickly one adapts
to relative levels of comfort, this now seemed like a familiar paradise,
despite the newly opened crevasses nearby. That evening we sent off a
green flare, the first for a week. I don’t remember if it was seen. The
next day we were back in base camp, telling our story and listening to the
quite justified but, in the circumstances, very mild rebukes. We had been
away for eight days.
NB.
The attached copy of the expedition report provides what is certainly a
more accurate account, written at the time by Dave on our return to
Britain. Comparing them, my version, written many years after, seems to
see things in a rosier light, which must prove something I suppose. |
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