by Eric Newby
‘I would like cold salmon, cold game pie, two bottles of Alsatian wine, a long French loaf and some fresh butter.’
‘We’ve got cold meat loaf, cold Irish stew, if you can face it, and one of those dreadful jam puddings – the sort with no jam in it – and, if you’re still hungry, some of these apples that have gone to sleep.’ I pointed to the windfalls around us.
We had almost reached the bottom of the last provision box. In one of the compartments there was a sheet of official injunctions intended for the troops. They were printed on leprous yellow paper.
‘THIS IS GOOD FOOD,’ it said. ‘DON’T SPOIL IT,’ and across the bottom in very bold type, ‘DON’T FEED FLIES.’
‘If we’d only dropped some of this pudding on Cassino instead of all those bombs, the Germans would have surrendered,’ said Hugh with his mouth full of dough.
I was glad to see that his interest in food was growing.
As the afternoon advanced the woods were filled with an autumnal light. There were masses of hollyhocks from which rose the humming of countless bees. There were grapes too, as yet unripe, growing on trellises sheltered by the walls of the few houses. For some reason the appalling yellow fly had suddenly vanished. With the re-introduction of wine-making the place would have been a paradise. For us this short hour was one of the most idyllic of the whole journey.
But it soon came to an end and the track began to wind up the mountain-side, higher and higher, and we were once again in the wilderness, struggling across places where the track had been washed away bodily by the storms of the last few days, where what had originally been soft mud had dried out with a jagged rocklike surface. After rounding seventeen bluffs, a journey of perhaps five miles that took several hours, we came to Gadval, the Mullah’s village. Like all the other villages we had passed, it was dramatically sited on a cliff and, as at Pushal, the necessary houses were situated over the streams that ran down through it.
The Mullah’s house was directly above the river with a grassy platform in front of it on which we camped.
In the river below a man was fishing, stripped to the waist. He had a weighted net which he cast into the pools, while a boy with a long pole stood by to clear it if it stuck on the rocks.
‘I didn’t think the Nuristanis ate fish,’ said Hugh.
‘The Kafirs, no; the Nuristanis, yes,’ said the Mullah.
‘It’s a strange thing,’ Hugh said. ‘There are no trout on this side of the Hindu Kush, nowhere south of the main range. Yet all the rivers towards the Oxus have huge trout in them.’
For dinner he made a terribly rich soup from half a dozen different Swiss packets, all of which had burst. By now everything we possessed was squashed flat. Unwisely he insisted on administering it to Abdul Ghiyas who, unlike the rest of us, had not benefited by the departure from Pushal. After eating it Abdul Ghiyas complained that his head was going round. So was mine.
Hugh was upset. ‘I can’t find anything wrong with it.’
As soon as he had finished his helping, which was very large as no one else wanted any, he tucked into a big bowl of mast provided by the Mullah’s household; I groped for Alka Seltzer (one of the few treats we possessed now that we were out of tobacco).
It was dark now. As I scrabbled amongst my possessions for the Alka Seltzer, watched by an audience of grave, elderly gentlemen, Hugh continued to pester me about food.
‘What would you like to eat now.’
‘Nothing. Go away!’
‘All right! I won’t ask you again. Personally,’ he said, ‘I’m starving.’
Much later some hot fish arrived. The name sounded like mahseer or it might have been machhli, the Indian word for fish, but, as it was decapitated, there was no means of telling what it was. It was delicious but I was not equal to it. I toyed with it in a half-hearted way by torchlight until it grew cold and unappetizing.
As we continued downhill the next day the people began to dress differently. They no longer wore the strange uniform of the higher valleys; instead they wore white turbans and thin shalvār trousers, and they had a more civilized air.
By contrast the road became more difficult. Frequently it was blocked by huge boulders and there were places where, when the cliff was sheer to the river, instead of climbing over the top it continued round the edge supported precariously on flimsy wooden galleries.
At such places the horses had to cross and re-cross the river, moving from one island of sand or shingle to another or down the opposite bank where dwarf willows grew. With them went Abdul Ghiyas, Badar Khan and the Mullah (after we had spent the night in his garden he had insisted on accompanying us still farther). Shir Muhammad took no notice of his horse, he continued to follow us down the right bank and left her to follow the others as best she could.
Five hours downstream we came to the junction of the Linar, the valley that leads to the Arayu Pass, the route by which the butter runners make the journey into Panjshir. Half-way across, waist deep in the strong current, with our feet slithering on the round slippery stones, we were overhauled by an oldish man carrying a wooden cage in which there was a fighting cock partridge. Having crossed over himself and put down the cage, he came back to help us over as if we were elderly ladies. He was on his way to match his bird in a fight and showed us the curved spurs it wore. They were like razors.
We had to wait a long time for the horses. They had been forced to climb over a bluff two thousand feet high. When at last they came slithering across the river we saw that Abdul Ghiyas was covered in dust and dirt. He was past speech.
‘His horse fell over a cliff,’ said Badar Khan, ‘and he was on it.’
Abdul Ghiyas at this moment seemed on the point of death. Forced to walk because of the difficult ground he had become a shambling wreck, roasting in his windproof suit. Shir Muhammad was an extraordinary sight too with his cotton trousers looped up to show his bandy legs and feet encased in unlaced climbing boots several sizes too large for him. (I had bequeathed him mine, having decided to finish the journey in gym shoes.)
We descended a steep combe where the undergrowth was shoulder high and entered a childhood paradise, a dim and mysterious place where the track, which wound along the top of a high wall, was completely roofed in by trees and so overgrown with vegetation that we could only feel it underfoot but not see it. With the sun filtering down and everything green and cool it was like being under water.
Then all of a sudden we came out into the sunlight on to a high hill above a village that nestled between humps of lichencovered rock. Far below, the river, now wide and slow-moving, wound between green fields until it entered a lake hemmed in on three sides by mountains. This was Lake Mundul. With the curious rocks in the foreground, the winding river and the mountains hemming it in, it was like a landscape drawing by Leonardo.
Eager to reach the water’s edge we raced down the track towards it.
Once by the river, here a hundred yards wide, we crossed a dyke into a field of short, cropped grass that was full of buttercups. It was like the shores of an estuary where it meets the sea. There was a beach and at the mouth of the river there were sandbanks. Far out in the lake itself where it was shallow two solitary willows grew, and closer in to the shore there were beds of reeds with backwaters winding through them. A cool breeze was blowing down the valley bowing the reeds and ruffling the water.
For the two of us it was a moment of sheer delight that was certain to be ruined as soon as the dozen hangers-on from the village caught up with us. On the far bank Badar Khan and the Mullah were moving downstream with the horses, Abdul Ghiyas having been unequal to the crossing, Shir Muhammad disinclined to make it.
‘Unless that Mullah knows a ford, they’ll have to go back,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t think there’s a way across.’
Horror of horrors, before we could stop him and without a word of warning the Mullah mounted Shir Muhammad’s horse and with Abdul Ghiyas’s on a leading rein plunged them both into the river and began to swi
m them across.
So far, whenever the horses had forded a river, they had always had all four feet on the bottom and elaborate precautions were always taken to ensure that only the lower halves of the loads would get wet.
Now we watched in silent agony as everything we possessed, with the exception of what was loaded on Badar Khan’s beast, cameras, films, notebooks, clothing, to say nothing of the flour and the Irish stew sank beneath the water.
At first Hugh was paralysed; then he started bellowing at the Mullah to go back, but it was too late, he was already halfway across. Hugh now turned his attention to Badar Khan, but that prudent man had no intention of crossing a river of unknown depth.
When the Mullah emerged from the river, proud of what he had done and smiling, I thought Hugh was going to strangle him. ‘Go away,’ he croaked in fury. ‘You’re a disgrace. You, a Mullah.’ It seemed dreadful after he had entertained us so hospitably, but it was difficult not to be angry. Only my inadequate command of the language prevented me from joining in. ‘And you too,’ he shouted at the twelve villagers, one of whom it turned out was the headman of Mundul, the village we had just come from. ‘Go away!’
To escape from them in our moment of agony, we hastened through a swamp up to our knees in water and took refuge on a little promontory that stuck out into the lake. Soon we were joined by Abdul Ghiyas and the horses and here we made our camp. Shir Muhammad did not appear. If he had been where he should have been, on the other side of the river with his horse, at least part of the disaster would have been avoided. He lurked somewhere out of sight among the oaks that grew down to the water’s edge, waiting for the storm to blow over.
We were not left in peace for long. Soon the headman detached himself from the little group of villagers who surrounded the Mullah like rugger players shielding one of the team whilst he changed his trousers, and came splashing through the shallows towards us.
‘Go away!’
‘We are coming!’
‘Go away! What can you do? The Mullah has ruined a camera costing twenty thousand Afghanis not to speak of everything else we possess.’
‘We are countrymen,’ answered the headman sturdily, ‘and we shall go where we wish.’
‘You are not Muhammadans!’ This from Abdul Ghiyas who had found the Mullahs in the Ramgul excessively devout, even to his taste.
Before his voice finally gave out Hugh resorted to his favourite weapon. ‘If you don’t leave us alone, I shall speak to General Ubaidullah Khan at Kabul and you will be punished.’
In spite of this threat they all moved up the hillside and descended on us from the rear, where they squatted down a few yards away and grumbled among themselves – all except the wretched Mullah, who was far away at the edge of the dyke, alone in his agony.
This disaster had the curious effect of putting everyone in excellent spirits, so that when Shir Muhammad quietly slipped into the camp as though nothing had happened, he failed to get the rocket he deserved.
Everything was soaked, except one camera, which by extraordinary good fortune had been transferred to Badar Khan’s horse at the last moment. It seemed unlikely that any of the film would survive. All the cartons were full of water and we spent a long time emptying them.
‘What about Badar Khan,’ I said, after we had emptied the final carton and hung our bedding up to dry.
‘Let him wait a bit, and the Mullah. We shall have to make peace with the Mullah eventually, but he deserves to suffer.’
After forgiving the Mullah we undressed and crossed the river on foot. It was up to our necks but the bottom was firm sand and we brought all the gear over in two journeys assisted by two men of the Kulam Katirs, who had come over the mountains by a remote route with a consignment of butter.
All this time Badar Khan sat on the bank, watching our efforts and doing nothing to help. He rode across without even getting his feet wet.
While we were returning to the camp the weather began to change; the wind dropped; black clouds formed over the lake and from high in the mountains came a premonitory rumble. In the woods the pigeons rose in alarm; rooks circled above the trees cawing sadly. Suddenly there were hordes of flies and large fish began to rise in the lake. For the first time since leaving the mountain we erected the tent. The villagers left for home at a steady trot.
After the storm had passed there was furious insect activity. The camp site was like some kind of by-pass; not to be deflected from a predetermined destination hordes of ants tramped remorselessly over us.
Towards evening the weather cleared and we set off to explore the lake towards the south with the headman, who had returned and with whom we also made our peace – poor fellow, he had done nothing wrong.
The part of the lake on which we were camped was about three-quarters of a mile long, then it turned sharply in an S bend and opened out into a stretch of water more than a mile in length and four hundred yards broad. At the far end towards the south there were more mountains at right angles to the valley.
‘Last year because the King (Zaher Shah) wished to come here for fishing and hunting he sent his Mīr-i-Shīkari, his head gamekeeper, to see if it were possible for a party of people to get here. The Mīr-i-Shīkari came with horses by the Kotal Arayu out of Parian but he found the way too difficult for a King.’
‘That’s the way we’re going out, over the Arayu,’ Hugh said. ‘But why doesn’t he come from the south?’
‘Because it is very difficult with horses. From here to the Lower Alingar at Nangarāj is three days through the country of the Pashaie people.’
‘Is it possible to do it in winter?’
The headman slipped his shirt off his shoulders to show a scar a foot long which extended from shoulder to elbow.
‘This happened last year in deep winter when there was much snow. It was a black bear that did it; as big as a Nuristani cow. I went down by the Alingar. I was many days on the road to the hospital at Kabul.’
Just before it grew dark two cormorants came flying up the lake and landed on one of the sandbanks. To us it seemed a remarkable place to find them.
‘I think I shall write a piece for the Royal Central Asian Journal about Lake Mundul and seeing cormorants,’ Hugh said when we were wedged uncomfortably in our tent. ‘Very few Europeans have ever been here.’
‘If you do that somebody is bound to write a chilly letter saying that it’s a very well-known lake and that it isn’t at all remarkable to find cormorants on it.’5
In the night as a result of the storm, the river rose three feet. After an unsuccessful attempt to catch fish with an ugly artificial French fish, which I eventually lost, I spent the rest of the morning on one of the sandbanks. It was the sort of place you see from a train or from a ship and can never visit. In the afternoon I visited a valley that led to the west, a deep gorge between high cliffs, full of boulders. Half a mile up there was a bridge over a torrent leading to some small fields at the foot of one of the cliffs. Hidden away behind the Indian corn there was a tiny hovel, with the exception of the aylaq in the high valley the loneliest house I had seen.
The place seemed deserted. Apart from the humming of insects, there was absolute silence. Inside the house there was no one but the tools belonging to the occupants were leaning against the cliff, a wooden hand plough, a long-handled spade and several hoes. Whoever they were had been threshing; there was chaff everywhere and there were flails lying about, long poles with flexible whips on them. All the time I had the uncanny feeling of being watched.
The next day, the twenty-ninth of July and the twentieth of our journey, we left for the Arayu.
* * *
1. The following pages are lifted almost in their entirety from this chronicle to be found in Elliott and Dowson’s History of India, Vol. III, London, 1871.
2. Colonel Gardner’s castello was said to be near Parwan. See Chapter VII
3. The tens of thousands employed in the actual campaign against the Kafirs are almost certainly an Orien
tal hyperbole and must be taken with a large pinch of salt.
4. Probably by the Darra Hazara.
5. Hugh did write his piece and by an uncanny coincidence this is exactly what did happen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Beyond the Arayu
Before leaving Lake Mundul an argument developed over the route, Hugh maintaining that we should go by the valley as far as Mundul village, Abdul Ghiyas favouring the mountainside.
Eventually the mountain was decided on and we found ourselves stuck high above the valley unable to go backwards or forwards. In this way the journey to Mundul village took three hours instead of thirty minutes. The horses had to be unloaded three times and Shir Muhammad’s kicked me in the stomach. Before this happened I had never realized that horses kick sideways. Temporarily I began to wonder why I had become an explorer.
Once again, with pain and difficulty, we crossed the Linar, the river where we had met the man with the bird cage, and turned westward up the gorge for the Arayu and home. We soon found out that the gorge was impassable.
‘You know what this means,’ Hugh said. ‘Over the top!’
We climbed two thousand feet straight up the mountain until the river looked like a narrow ribbon below; through a dry uncultivated wilderness, where the only trees were the holly oaks and the earth was nothing but pulverized rock.
All day the track switchbacked up and down; at one moment a hundred feet above the river, the next a thousand, so that our progress resembled a temperature chart in a funny drawing.
In the middle of the day, when the sun was intolerable, we reached an oasis, a place called Warna, where there were two or three houses and, best of all, a waterfall and a patch of grass. In Warna no one bothered to collect the mulberries when they fell and the air was heady with the smell of them as they lay fermenting under the trees in drifts six inches deep.
