– CHAPTER NINETEEN –
We started on the first stage of our homeward journey soon after seven o’clock the next day, with three Shimshalis carrying our loads. Dildorbik, Abdulla, Spender and I rode ponies. They took us at a fine pace up the steep hillside. In this way, we avoided the gorge above Chikar and reached the upper valley. The country here reminded me of the approach to so many Tibetan passes, except for the great Dolomite spires which stood like watch towers above the gently undulating ground. Two hours’ riding brought us to the junction of three flat valleys. We halted here and lit a fire of yak dung and waited an hour for the porters to arrive. The views in every direction across this plain were magnificent. The limestone peaks to the south-west rose sheer out of flat glacier beds and looked twice their height. In contrast to these, the Jökul peaks, to the north, showed their gently rounded ice-caps. When the porters arrived, Spender did a station and Angtharkay cooked some meat pies over the smoky yak-dung fire. We rode on to a village called Shuwert, Abdulla leading some breakneck gallops over uncertain country. His clothes, especially his boots, had the real Cossack look about them, and his reckless speed and wild cries would have been rewarded with volleys of applause at the Cossack display at Olympia.
Shuwert was quite a large place of about four dozen houses. At this time it was quite deserted. A surprisingly large glacier, rising in the country behind the Jökul peaks, fed the main stream of the valley up which we had come. The Shimshal pass itself lay to the left of this on a mass of ancient moraine material. It formed such a gentle and indefinite curve, that as I rode up to it I found it hard to believe that it really was the pass that was such an important link in the main Asiatic watershed, which we had explored through eighty miles of rugged intricacy. Our companions were fully aware of the significance of the pass, and kept repeating what we already knew, that the water on one side flowed into India, while that on the other side made its way into Turkestan, later to be lost in the deserts of Central Asia.
I sat for a long time on the crest of the pass, caught up in the magic of the view. Away to the south-east many of the peaks with which we had been so familiar during the past month, and to which we had given such strange names as ‘Flat-Iron’, ‘Father Christmas’ and ‘The Fangs’, rose up as if to give a last friendly salute before receding into the past with other expedition memories. My contentment was shadowed with regret.
Below the pass on the other side was a great blue lake, a square mile or more in area. Beside this was an extensive plain known as Maidan Abdulla Khan. Across this I was made to race against Abdulla and Dildorbik. But for the fact that Abdulla’s hat blew off half-way across I would have come in a very bad last, though they had given me the biggest and strongest mount. Soon we came upon large herds of yak and sheep, and heard the melodious calls of shepherd children. Then a steep descent took us suddenly out of this charming world into the steep-sided barren valley of Shuijerab. Our friend the Lambadar came across the bridge to meet me, accompanied by an enormous retinue of villagers. They brought with them apples and apricots, from Shimshal, and a vast bowl of curdled milk on which I fed while exchanging compliments and platitudes. This went on for some hours, until a combination of food and the hot afternoon made me commit the social error of dozing. The situation was relieved by the arrival of Spender, who had put in a terrific day’s work winding up the survey and fixing the geographical position of the Shimshal pass.
At sunset, we made a conducted tour of the village, which was then a busy hive of activity, in which the women and children played the chief parts. The women greeted us in their usual manner by waving their hands round above their heads. The huge pens were filled to overflowing with sheep and goats. We watched some infants supervising with extraordinary skill the herding of the enormous flocks. There were innumerable lambs, each of which had to be placed by its mother. The children worked until long after nightfall, settling the disputes and attending the bleating complaints of the sheep.
The following morning we made a late start, owing to the lengthy business of giving presents to our hosts. Also the Lambadar made strong efforts to dissuade us from leaving. The reasons given were various and disconnected, and most of them we could not understand. His excessive hospitality led him to refuse to provide us with men to carry our loads in order to induce us to stop another day. However, when we demonstrated that we were quite capable of carrying all our kit ourselves, he yielded, and men were forthcoming, and refused to allow us even to carry light rucksacks. We made fruitless efforts to photograph some of the rather picturesque women of the village. As in other parts of Central Asia, they were terrified of the camera, and could not be induced, even by their men-folk, to submit to the ordeal. But they, in company with the whole village, turned out to see us off. I was particularly sorry to say good-bye to our old friend Dildorbik, who was a most delightful character.
The Sherpas got on extraordinarily well with these people. They shared the same boyish sense of humour and love of the ridiculous. After a very short acquaintance they were playing the fool with one another, as if they had been friends all their lives. On the march below Shuijerab, they were continually putting stones in each other’s loads, having weight-lifting matches and splashing one another with water as they crossed the streams, quite regardless of how long they had been marching, or how much they had to carry.
The going was easy at first, as we kept to the floor of the valley. But soon the river began to cut its way through limestone and conglomerates and disappeared far below, while we continued along the hillside, keeping on top of one of the ancient river terraces. These terraces were more imposing than anything we had seen on the northern side of the watershed, and formed country of which it is difficult to give an adequate description. Evening brought us to the edge of the most fantastic ravine carved out of these alluvial deposits by a side stream. Angtharkay remarked, with some truth, that had we encountered it in unexplored country it would have presented an unsurmountable obstacle. As it was, a stairway had been engineered through it with astonishing skill, and it was an easy matter to descend the 1,500 feet into this fearsome gorge. When this path was first constructed I do not know; it may have been perhaps two hundred years ago. The pioneers of the route must have had remarkable determination, for anything less promising than the way they had chosen would be hard to imagine. Half-way down we passed through a wooden doorway without a door, which was built into the cliff. It appeared to serve no purpose but to add to the eeriness of the ravine. I am inclined to believe, however, that it was an artistic expression on the part of the path-builder. We camped at the bottom of the chasm and built a huge bonfire, that lit up the extravagant pinnacles and gullies which towered 1,000 feet above our heads. Below, the stream thundered through a bottle-neck so narrow that it must almost be possible to touch both sides at once. It then plunged in a waterfall to the main river below.
On September 11th, we were faced with a long day’s work, which included the crossing of two high passes. Although we were now only about five miles from Shimshal, the gorge below us was so bad that not even the ingenuity of the natives, with hundreds of years at their disposal, had been able to construct a way through while the river was at its summer level. In mid-winter it is possible to get through the gorge by walking along the river bed itself, but now we were forced to take a circuitous route over the Shach Mirr and Zard-i-Gar passes and into the Shipodin nullah, which joins the main valley below the gorge. We started the day with a long climb out of the ravine. This took us back on to the river terrace, and level going for a short way, until we had to plunge down into the next side nullah. From here a steady climb of about 3,000 feet took us to the first pass, from which we looked across another ravine to the second, 1,000 feet higher. We found it most interesting to see how the natives dealt with this terrific country. We had so often been faced in the last few months with the problem of making our own route over this type of ground. The day was cloudy, which prevented us from seeing the wonderful view of the great peaks of this part of the Karakoram, which these passes must command. However, I thoroughly enjoyed the journey through the gorges, without the worry of finding a way. But by the time we had climbed 2,500 feet to the next pass, we had done quite enough uphill work for one day, and were glad to run swiftly down a steep scree-slope into the broad, open Shipodin valley. We camped here at five o’clock in a threatening snowstorm, which deposited most of its venom on the crags above us. The morning of the 12th was brilliantly fine. The great peaks across the Shimshal valley, including the Kanjuts and Dasto Ghil, which stood over 25,000 feet high, were ethereal in the early morning light. Before we were up, a large troop of men, horses and yaks was seen coming down the valley towards us. To our great astonishment, the new arrivals turned out to be our friends from Shuijerab, including the Lambadar himself and Abdulla. They had left the village on the previous morning, and must have travelled at a tremendous speed in order to overtake us. We could not understand the reason for their journey, but we imagined that it was connected with us. They had probably discussed the situation after we had left, and come to the conclusion that we must be kept under friendly arrest, until word had been received from the Mir of Hunza, to whom news of our arrival had been sent as soon as they had heard of us in Shuijerab. The messenger who took this news was still under the impression that we were a party of Chinese. We all went down together through a steep gorge to the main valley. The Lambadar hurried along with Spender and me, and became very fussed when by some scree-running, I got a long way ahead.
When we reached the main valley, we saw Shimshal a mile or so farther downstream, on the other side of the river. It was a gladdening sight, after the bleakness of the conglomerate gorges, to see the village climbing the hillside in terrace upon terrace of green and gold. The river was spanned by a rope bridge, grouped at both ends of which a large gathering was awaiting our arrival. Before we reached the bridge we were met by our old friend Mohi Bacha, bringing with him a great quantity of apricots and some excellent cakes. He seemed delighted to see us again, and insisted that we should sit down and eat his food there and then, before facing the perils of the rope bridge.
This type of rope bridge consists of several strands of yak hide wound together into a single cable and slung across the river on two tree-trunks, which are built into great piles of boulders. A horse-shoe shaped wooden runner is placed over the rope. The two ends of the runner are tied together and pulled across the river with a load, human or otherwise, attached to it. I have crossed these bridges in Tibet without using the runner, but the friction caused by the contact of one’s legs on the rope, throws a far greater strain on the arms than that produced by climbing a rope hand over hand without using one’s feet. There is considerable danger therefore of dropping into the river from sheer exhaustion. Tied to the runner, however, it is not difficult for an active man to pull himself across with his hands. The rope bridge at Shimshal was about 200 feet long. While our loads were being hauled across, the yaks and horses of the Lambadar’s party were driven into the river and made to swim to the other side. They were carried several hundred yards downstream by the force of the current before they could reach the opposite bank. Before we were allowed to try our skill on the rope bridge several exhibition crossings were made by the natives. The cable was very knotted, which, in spite of assistance from the other side, added greatly to the work of pulling oneself across. The Sherpas put up a bad show, which caused a good deal of merriment among the Shimshalis. The best thing about these rope bridges from the Sherpas’ point of view is that they offer a splendid opportunity of playing a joke on the man who is making the crossing. He is, of course, quite helpless, and a few well-aimed stones thrown into the water below will soak him to the skin. This pastime, it seemed, had never occurred to the Shimshalis, but they were so delighted with it that I fear it is now an established custom that may cause embarrassment to future travellers.
We were greeted on the farther side of the river by what must have been nearly the entire male and infant population of Shimshal. When I had been unstrapped from the bridge. I was immediately taken in charge by an elderly man, who could speak Hindustani fast and fluently. He was evidently an ex-servant of Europeans and had fallen on bad times. We learnt afterwards that he had been banished to Shimshal for some crime or series of crimes. It appeared that he relied for his living upon the charity of the natives. From the moment I landed, he started talking and continued without a pause for the next two hours. He talked so fast that we could understand little of what he said. Fortunately he did not attempt to ask any questions, and we were able to survive the verbal torrent without hurting his feelings. When we reached the village, he conducted us to a grand house which had been appointed for our use, and showed us our apartments with a flourish, while the Lambadar, our true host, stood somewhat mournfully in the background. It was a magnificent place, richly ornamented with carpets and brass. At first we thought we were being shown over a temple, but this notion was expelled when our garrulous friend showed us an alcove where we were to take our baths. We did not disillusion him by mentioning that we had been many months without a bath and did not propose to have one now. A number of ancient matchlock muskets, swords and stringed instruments decorated the walls. The Sherpas at once made themselves at home, strumming on the guitars and playing soldiers with the muskets. It caused them endless amusement to drill each other and march about as if on sentry-go. I suppose that they had seen this going on in Darjeeling, and regarded it as one of the more entertaining of the pointless activities of the British Raj!
As many people as possible squeezed into the place and squatted round, watching us gorge ourselves immoderately with all the good things that were brought. Apples, apricots, apricot kernels, cake and fried potatoes. Our arrival must have been a considerable hindrance to the work of the village. At length we were left in peace, and spent a happy afternoon lounging and over-eating under the novelty of a roof.
In the evening we were taken by the Lambadar and the ex-butler for a tour of the village and its orchards and fields. The world was very lovely, with the gold of the ripe corn and the early autumn colours of the thorn trees framing the deep green of the apple and apricot orchards and the slender Lombardy poplars. The air was filled with the peace and mellow beauty which autumn brings to these high mountain valleys. The people were busy with their various harvest jobs, reaping, threshing and stacking. We were surprised to see the dashing Abdulla engaged on one of these domestic tasks. He was solemnly driving a line of yaks slowly round and round on a bed of corn, a primitive method of threshing. Abdulla as the industrious husbandman, was hard to reconcile with our last memory of him galloping madly down the valley. We were introduced to Abdulla’s ancient father, and we spent a long time chatting to other cronies of the village. There we found the ex-butler most useful, for he was able to translate the old men’s stories of former times, and their answers to our questions about their country. The Lambadar pressed us to further overindulgence in his orchards.
In all our dealings with the Shimshalis, we met with kindness, courtesy and good humour. In this we were agreeably surprised, as we had not been led to expect these qualities. The community of Shimshal is remarkable for its isolation and independence of support from the outside world. Very few of the Shimshalis go out of their valley. From any direction their country is difficult of access, but they have sufficient arable land and grazing to support a much larger population than exists at the present day. They grow barley, wheat and peas, the flour of which, with cheese, butter and curd is their staple food. They have no tea, sugar or tobacco, and they do not grow many vegetables. They are a strong and healthy race; far superior in this respect to the people of Askole. We were surprised to find a complete absence of goitre among them. They weave all that is necessary to clothe themselves. They pay tribute and taxes in kind to the Mir of Hunza, who exercises jurisdiction over them. The control of the Mir, however, is somewhat laxly enforced. Of the founding of Shimshal, Colonel Schomberg writes in his interesting book Unknown Karakoram:
‘Eleven generations ago (perhaps three hundred years) a certain Mamu Singh, a Yeshkun or peasant of the Shinaka race from the valley of Chaprot in the Gilgit district, came with his wife and settled in this valley. His wife always disliked her husband, but she loathed him when he brought her from the comparative comfort of Chaprot to live in this cold and isolated place. She never called him anything else but Shum, which means dog in the Shina tongue – for the subservience of Eastern women is largely a Western fiction – and the village was called Shimshal. When I asked what Shal meant the elders said briefly ‘God knows’. In our maps the place is called Shingshal, and the people never refer to their village or themselves except as Shimshal or Shimshalis – so I suppose that, not for the first time, the Western traveller has been too ingenious and too learned. I have often asked them about this point, and never once have I found them agree with the pronunciation of the European pundits and map-mongers. Shum had one son called Shir, who in turn had three sons, Bakhti, Wali and Boki. Both Shir and his sons married Wakhi women from Gulmit, Ghulkin, and the neighbouring villages in the Guhyal district of Hunza. The men were positive that there was no Balti and no Hunza strain in them, but I am quite certain that they are wrong, and that there is a very large admixture of Balti blood.’
They are a happy community leading an ideal existence in magnificent surroundings. The country is sufficiently difficult, and conditions sufficiently severe, to foster in the people that hardihood without which it seems to me impossible for mankind to be content.