TRAVELS WITH MY UNCLE
by SANDRINE FILIPPI
(Translated from French)
Sandrine is Caryll Waterpark's niece
A few thousand years BC, travelling to the East was a must. That is where Dyonisios, Alexander the Great, made their debut as god and conqueror. They discovered the East, dreaming of a new empire that was never to be achieved.
Today, reversing appearances, Pakistan doesn't enjoy the favour of the press. All those guttural and insolent consonants which challenge you, this mass of haughty mountains that from a height of seven and eight thousand meters of petrified rock and snow, defend the access to the endless Indian plain, are threatening. The land of the Pure, just fifty years old, has a long romantic history of bloodshed and invasions, gunpowder and smuggling. So out of tune with our own frenetic way of life. Army - Islam - Machismo, an infernal trio, politically incorrect, nothing to sell but dreams and rebels, five thousand years of buried civilisation, a hundred and fifty million inhabitants, no beaches, no alcohol, no tourists and veiled women; all this excites one's curiosity, in the days of the Internet and virtual desire.
1997:
A splendid troop of English aviators is invited by the Pakistani Air Force to celebrate the jubilee of the birth and independence of Pakistan. Led by Air Marshall Ian Macfadyen, the squadron brings together a group of flying enthusiasts, alternatively farmers, businessmen, airforce officers, eminent doctors of science and medicine, African settlers, seekers of adventure, unusual places and aerial exploits. To link the English coast with the Himalayan peaks in a propeller aeroplane at the dawn of the year 2000: such a plan which seems incongruous or even suspect in its temerity to a Frenchman, could only stir up the adventurous passion of an Englishman.
August 1997:
Orders for the mission follow one another, something unusual for Paris in the summer. "Everyone must wear flying suits. We are not a bunch of weekend flyers". Impatience increases. Seen from Paris the expedition looks like a secret meeting of initiates. We are preceding the Queen's visit to India and Pakistan. Our itinerary avoids Iran, brushes past Afghanistan, crosses Baluchistan to the North West Frontier, where three wars followed one another since the end of the Raj, to reach the Kashmir territory disputed by India. A real exotic melange between China, Afghanistan and Taliban. On the program, nostalgia and adventure, bagpipes and dried fruit, splendour of the Raj, bare feet, purdah and Free Kashmir, polo matches and gun fire, filth, dust and gardenia, thirty marvellous crazy Englishmen and fifteen planes off to the roof of the world in Pakistan.
27th September 0900 hrs.
Already the cabin of the big Air France Boeing to Dubai is filled with a diverting mixture of ethnic groups and languages, brown skins and sequins, Ethiopian profiles, Arab jewels and sallow-faced French.
27th September 2300 hrs.
Arriving without a visa, I only escape from the just retribution of impressive black-veiled women customs officers - thanks to the gift of the gab of Dr Gilbert Greenall who has come to meet the little Frenchwoman. Eagle-eyed, nutcracker chin, he is a philosopher, gentleman farmer, doctor, Foreign Office diplomat and an experienced pilot. He has the devastating cheerfulness of a hilarious Dalton, the missionary's deep-felt kindness, the conquering and intrepid spirit of a Livingstone. All my fears disappear. The pilots who have already crossed Europe and the desert via Corsica, Corfu, Cyprus, Jordan and Bahrain have a laugh and a drink in the Sheraton. One of them, a peer of the Realm, has built his Glassair which looks like a dragonfly with his own hands. Robin is huge, a great walker, is here with a ravishing redhead, a very ladylike promising actress, Melissa.
Tuesday, 24th - Dubai.
Departure for Muscat. The Dubai night is hot, sticky, damp and exciting. Before dawn, the Squadron members are leaving for their planes at the airport. Cessnas, Bonanzas, Citation, Pilatus, Air Commanders. Wearing my flying suit I am amazed to discover a dozen smart machines, propellers already humming. Besides the two jets carrying senior members, like Winston Churchill's grandson, ex M.P. Air Marshall Ian Macfadyen and Lord Waterpark, a co-founder of the Squadron, the other aeroplanes are robust two-seaters with a pair of frail looking wings and one or two propellers which make them look like debonair Mickey Mice. The cockpit bustles with maps and flight manuals, Scottish mineral water and bottles of oxygen. My pilot doesn't frown at my two bags packed for 10 days at temperatures ranging from 30º to 0º. I must deserve my reputation as a Frenchwoman.
First stop - Muscat, 1130 hrs.
The merry band of aviators, male and female, looks out of place in this glum, masculine airport, crushed under a crucifying sun.
By a small door, a row of shoes and slippers show the entrance to the Mosque. The girls go to the loo. We swallow sandwiches. Everyone fills up his plane. Again, take-off. Adventure is on the move, the desert stretches shades of beige and grey. Suddenly the sea of Oman bursts like a burning fire through the cockpit windows. Europe is far. Relief.
We avoid flying over Iran. After crossing the Straits of Ormuz, the first sight of Pakistan is austere as seen from the air. The Baluchistan coast has a chalk-like profile, burnt out, washed with salted water and with a moonscape aspect. The aeroplane purrs along, the propeller spinning in tune and time stretches away. Dubai to Quetta, capital of Baluchistan, an 8 hour flight on my first day.
Sometimes, weary of the glaring sand, you relax your eyes by scanning topographical aerial maps marked with "unidentified valleys, villages, uncertain borders, tribal areas". We scrutinise these desert lands for the imprint of history knowing that excavations have discovered traces of six thousand-year-old civilisations.
Landing in Quetta, capital of Baluchistan, is a dream. Exhausted airmen suddenly tread on a dense and delightful carpet of grass, breathe the fresh mountain air (1700 m) after hours of avid flying. A sumptuous tea party is served under blue dais after short welcoming speeches have been exchanged between officers of the British and Pakistani air forces. After saluting the pilots' achievements, memories of the Raj give rise to a feeling of intense emotion. The wives of the Pakistani officers are gentle and smiling in their rustling saris. One of them surprised that I could have stopped her and served tea to her says kindly "I accept it as a gesture of love".
In Quetta the superb Serena Hotel is a delightful halt. Hangings of fabric protect the swimming pool from indiscreet onlookers - Balouchi embroidery, earthen arches, the hotel is silent, colours are dark and harmonious. We cross the town by bus; windows are also veiled, we are pariahs fleetingly isolated by modern crystal. They look at us with intense, feverish eyes. Enormous buses swing through the streets with infernal speed, decorated like festive elephants. Bunches of human limbs and myriads of dazzling smiles escape from their openings. At the carpet factory we visit, the children laugh but young girls look dispirited qualms of conscience give way to frenetic shopping in the souks.
Embroidered shawls, iridescent dresses of little Mogul princesses. Pakistani clients sit along counters where salesmen are showing them wedding dresses covered in petal-hued embroidery.
Visiting Quetta Staff College, a military Academy rebuilt after the 1935 earthquake, demonstrates, along with an aesthetically impressive English colonial architecture, the British passion for hunting (trophies of wild boar and buffalo) and the scrupulous attachment of the Pakistanis to this colonial past - all part of a common historical heritage. All through our travels, family memories, those of a father who was a colonel of the Lancers, like General Cavendish, of an uncle, Viceroy of India, like Lord Curzon, some of Winston Churchill's words. these are remembered with respect and emotion by their descendants now come here simply as visitors.
The presence of history as a dimension to the journey will be highlighted when we take the early 20th century train from Peshawar to the mythical Khyber Pass. Building the railway was a great strategic plan of the Raj, conceived at the end of the 19th century to open the road to Central Asia. The line was finally opened in 1926.
After leaving Peshawar amidst great jets of steam, the glowing locomotive starts off accompanied by cheering and some stone throwing by Afghan refugee children squatting along the railroad. The train goes slowly up barren passes towards the famous Khyber Rifles fort. After thundering through about twenty tunnels, swirling clouds of dust and two cups of tea, we reach our destination. Helmeted soldiers have their guns positioned towards this vast mountain saddle, a gigantic empty space where a narrow road winds through a kind of silent tartar desert, only inhabited by memories of past invasions. On a wall of the fort, in English and Arabic, this verse of Jalandhery the Pakistani poet "Here no grass grows, neither the flowers bloom, but even the sky bows down to kiss this highland plume." I am struck by the brutality, present in the heart of these warrior and nomadic people, wrought by the austerity and harshness of the landscape and its contrast with the sentiments of their poets.
At the Peshawar Museum, stone or wooden frescoes show the avatar of Buddha's life. One is often reminded of Alexander's invasion by the sight of a statue of Greek profile and draped robes. The striking statue of the "fasting Buddha", his prominent onyx ribs and cheekbones remind us of human wisdom's universal order: rites of passage towards the sacred are alike.
For many of us. the best part of our journey will remain the Peshawar - Chitral flight. Pakistan Air Force Navigators come with us to stop anyone getting lost over Afghan territory. The graceful gliding of the aeroplanes in the azure skies, brushing past abrupt mountain escarpments to suddenly slip into the green folds of the valleys is indescribable and can only be perceived from another aeroplane. Only radio wavelengths are linking these lives, when they are cut off from the ground, free of their daily earthbound state, entrusted for a time to the propellers' whirring and the engine's throbbing.
Breathing in a few gulps of oxygen in turn, pilot and co-pilot concentrate on the flight and are absorbed in the contemplation of the pure splendour of the ground. Suddenly the plane swerves, flies over on its right wing, my stomach stiffens, the pi lot goes pale, straightens up the plane: "slipstream" is his sober comment. The turbulence from the aeroplane ahead of us leaves invisible traces for our light craft. "Nothing to write home about" according to our veteran pilot, 81 years old and thousands of flying hours. Professor John Houlder is an ace who on one occasion causes alarm at a Pakistan airport by asking for an emergency landing for "security reasons", disturbing scheduled flights.
I am full of admiration for complete solidarity of the pilots and the prodigious organisation of the expedition. Sometimes the need to fly in formation, required by the Pakistani airforce, gives rise to some snafus at take-off and a few pointed remarks. But nothing disturbs the orderly and impeccable behaviour of either the Squadron or the elegant Pakistani hospitality.
At Chitral (7200 ft) we are welcomed by the headmaster of the school and his pupils, and Prince Siraj Ul-Mulk who is inaugurating his hotel, Hindukush Heights, for the arrival of the Air Squadron. After a short speech, Siraj Ul-Mulk unveils a marble plaque built into the hotel wall, looking over the whole valley. The pilots are proud and happy to read the name of each plane and its passengers. Siraz and his family have built a marvellous hotel with sculpted camphor-wood balconies curving above a dream valley. Along the riverbed of the Sudus each field of wheat, rice or sunflower is set in a colourful mosaic of emerald, tourmaline and absinthe. The mountains are enormous, massive, and the air so pure and light it seems to tinkle like a sonata. We rush like a flight of cuckoos at a huge lunch of lamb curry, rice and spinach, apricot and apple compote, happy to chat with our hostesses, Begun Sultan Naim, Begum Wastuz and her ravishing daughter-in-law Begum Gozhala. Princesses Megnaz and Zainah's beautiful turquoise eyes and their gentle, fluid silhouettes thrill the pilots.
In Chitral, and later in Skardu, we attend several polo matches. The Pakistani guards open the competition, in red and green tartan kilts, solemnly parading to bagpipes under the gigantic summits of the Karakoram.
The players throw themselves at the ball with high voltage enthusiasm, run down the field at top speed. Mallets clash. The English, good riders, follow the dishevelled rhythm as connoisseurs, with the same passion as the public. Wearing white felt hats they punctuate each goal with loud cries and nibble dried apricots.
Monday, 29th September 1997
After a restful night we all leave for long walks or jeep rides. Some forget the memorable flight and climb the mountain to the Summer Palace. I choose to go by jeep to admire the costumes of the Kalash tribe, descended from ancestors that predate even Alexander the Great, who escaped from the pressure of Islam to these hidden valleys.
A few bumpy hours later, we reach a narrow valley, grooved with streams and mud huts along terrace cultivation, between walnut trees and poplars. Little girls with fair plaits and almond eyes, wearing black felt dresses embroidered with shells, look down at the endless clicking cameras their dancing has unleashed. I am delighted when, as our vehicles cross, a Pakistani family take shots of us.
After a week's travelling, national characteristics appear. The British are disciplined, gallant, chauvinistic, daring, organised, cheerful, competitive, teasing, good sportsmen, "jolly good fellows" indeed. Mickey uses every stratagem and guile to procure a glass of whisky; Christopher rattles away like a machinegun, knows "Henry V" by heart and is a born strategist, James obstinately polishes his aeroplane whilst quizzically observing everybody. The Pakistani are Muslim, prudish, reserved, ingenious, friendly, sober, very efficient. Accustomed as I am to French irreverent individualism and self-flagellation, I feel as naive as Alice in Wonderland between two cultures. When a series of detonations goes off one evening on the lakeside in Skardu, in the icy Kashmir night, for a moment I mistake the lobbing of shells between the Indians and Pakistanis armies for fireworks, such is the serenity of this imposing mountainous solitude.
When on the road you come across a man carrying a six-meter telephone post on his back or an old woman bent under a huge bundle of branches, the prodigies of tenacity and accumulated efforts to make fields green in these shale rocks are obvious. Surrounded by children carrying a baby in a wheelbarrow in the middle of a village, I am given a few walnuts by one of them. I only have a few apricots to give him but we are both delighted by this silent exchange and when a Peshawar daily reports that an irritated husband has cut off his wife's nose with a kitchen knife I remember having heard of similarly spicy Belgian stories. "Comparing customs is difficult", stated Candide wisely. Nevertheless, we shall all get home safe and sound from Pakistan, wondering at our amazing last flight over the Karakoram, to Tirich Mir and the famous K2, the second highest summit in the world, 8711 meters. These wild wastes of petrified snow, where enormous grey and white glaciers flow into the vertical explosion of mountain masses, leaves us dumbfounded, so does the competence of our guide, Pakistani 'Top Gun' Asim Suleiman.
This last vision was intense, too short, but its icy aura will remain engraved in the all our memories.
The Squadron decides to make several gifts to the Chitral school and to organise the Pakistani pilots' visit to Great Britain for an exchange of flying instruction courses.
After this dazzling adventure that seems to me to have the old-fashioned charm not unlike that of the fifties, as a sign of mourning or celebration, I have my ears pierced in the gold souk in Dubai. Cost: 33 dollars.
