We were sad to leave the village and move to Brum in Bumburet Valley (featured on the web-site). Here the morning dance took place on a grassy mound, watched by many male Pakistani tourists, eager to see women with unveiled faces. The Kalash women have quite distinctive features. Did I tell you that they are reputed to be descended from the Greek soldiers of Alexander the Great? Several Muslim girls watched from a nearby flat roof. The adjustment of their veils appeared to be a necessary pastime. The Muslim faith is making converts in the villages, which could in time lose their precious identity. The afternoon dance, which took place in another pillared open hall, was similar to the first village. The same waving of branches, the same dust and pandemonium. It was time to return to our new Guest-house.
By now we had become used to having power cuts at various times during the day or night. There was just not enough electricity to go round. Very awkward when you are about to eat supper out on the balcony. There were no eating rooms as such, in the first village we always ate at a table outside. So a fork in one hand, a torch in the other. The following morning I washed my red Shalwar Kameze in cold water, as there was no hot available. Yes, you have guessed right, this time the red dye poured out. We had rigged up a line on the balcony and it was barely dry before we were told to pack up as we were returning to Chitral after the third village. The road to this village was very narrow, rough and rocky, following a skittish torrent up the winding Berir valley. Finally the Jeep could go no further and we had to get out and walk. The trouble was that our Guide had not been here before, and did not know exactly where the village was. I could hear drumming somewhere above us. Our path led us to a stream which we crossed over a rickety log bridge, and then back again as it was the wrong way. Then they decided to follow the stream which was just deep enough to get wet feet. So Mr Bullbull the porter kindly placed rocks in the stream for me to tread. The drums became fainter, so we went back again, crossing and re-crossing the stream. No wonder we could not find the village, for it was right on the top of a steep hill hidden by trees. A beautiful place, with the dancers silhouetted against the light, I shall never forget. There were some foreign tourists, we kept meeting the same ones, German and Japanese. I was sorry to say goodbye to the final village, but as my son said, by now we were quite Kalashed Out! Back to Chitral, ready for another adventure. Angela Thompson [EMAIL PROTECTED] To unsubscribe send email to [EMAIL PROTECTED] containing the line: unsubscribe lace-chat [EMAIL PROTECTED]
