I awoke to bright sunshine and a lovely view of the river and snow-capped mountains beyond. Our rooms were in a row of little chalet-type buildings and my son was already sitting outside, drinking tea. I plugged in my travel water-heater and joined him. Purple Irises and beautiful roses bordered the garden on the river bank. What a change from yesterday. At breakfast we were joined by the Guide and the driver, there was no-one else in the Hotel at all.
When later we went into the town, there were no tourists there either. Our first visit was to the Police Station to obtain our forms giving permission to visit the Kalash Valleys for the Festival. There was much filling in of passport and Visa numbers, dates of birth etc, all supervised by at least four men who took it in turn to hand the various papers to one another, and back again. We could see from the printed tables taped to the walls that there were very few tourists this year, none the previous year. I think we were nos. 34 and 35. A single Japanese lady was number 36. The shops are just open booths, which are closed at night with shutters. We found one selling post-cards and were invited in for a cup of tea. The men wanted to know who we were, how many children I had, whether my son was married (divorced), how many children my daughter had. These were the questions we were asked constantly. This country works on a intricate family network, for with an average of ten children each, they are bound to be all related to one another. In the afternoon we packed up for our journey to the Kalash valleys. If you were a crow flying in a straight line, you would soon be there, but the route is so torturous twisting up and down the river valleys between the mountains, that three miles becomes twelve and takes two hours to accomplish. How happy I was when we approached the village and I saw my first Kalash woman, working in the fields wearing her beaded head-dress. The Chief had built a new Guest House since my son's visit two years ago. Two sturdy single-story wood and stone buildings, with a series of bed-rooms, each with a concrete-floor bathroom, stood either side of a green lawn with a stream running through it. My son's room had a view of the river to one side, I had a better view through my bathroom window of the Kalash women who were washing their dresses in the shallow stream, ready for the Festival tomorrow. They squatted down and pummelled and beat the cloth with wooden bats, occasionally dabbing on a bit of yellow block soap. Little children tried to copy their mother's, sometimes sitting in the stream. They were all wearing the tribal dress, and the under-head-dresses, the beaded Shu-Shut. Later, the Chief's son took us on a tour of the village. A privilege given to few, but by now, on this his third visit, my son was considered an honorary brother of the tribe. Tomorrow. It is my Birthday and the start of the Festival Angela Thompson UK [EMAIL PROTECTED] To unsubscribe send email to [EMAIL PROTECTED] containing the line: unsubscribe lace-chat [EMAIL PROTECTED]
