A FRONTIER TOUR

(Being Extracts from a Diary written during a journey made with H. E. Lord Rawlinson, C.-in-C. in India, through Dir, Chitral, and the Gilgit Agency in 1923.)

LIEUT.-COL. J. R. C. GANNON.

WE left Simla by rail-motor on the afternoon of the 25th July, 1923, while the monsoon was at its height, and arrived at Durgai, the railway terminus, early on the 27th. From here we motored to Malakand Fort, where we were met by Colonel Stewart, the Political Agent, who was coming to Chitral with us. We had an interesting interview with the Miangul of Swat, who came, in spite of his local war with the Nawab of Amb, to pay his respects to the Chief. He was an average-sized man of slight build, clean-cut features with bushy beard and clipped moustache ; small, cruel, but intelligent eyes ; dressed simply and completely in khaki. The opening phases of his war had not been altogether to his advantage, but he had found time to smite the Shalozai. The Chief's efforts to persuade the Miangul to make peace, which might have been arranged, were fruitless ; yet the Miangul was in an awkward predicament, for the Nawab of Dir apparently was only waiting for the end of the Chief's visit to his territory, before joining the Nawab of Amb. This would put the Miangul in the position of being attacked from two sides at once. Thus, at the beginning of the tour a difficult political situation seemed imminent.

Friday, 27th July. Left the Stewart's after tea, having seen some very interesting Buddhist relics, and went off down the Malakand in a car, Stewart with us Malakand Fort was singularly picturesque as we slipped down the hill. Built on three or four hilltops of varying height and enclosed by a rambling, twisting wall, it looks like some mediaeval stronghold, save for the Union Jack floating out from the highest tower, and a gun beside it proclaiming loudly and in black powder that the Commander-in-Chief in India is now on his way to Chitral. Down into the Swat valley to Chakdara— a wide valley encircled by hills and entirely under rice-cultivation, the river running through, and the road, enclosed on both sides by fine willows, keeping level with the river. Round a bend came a village, more maliks, more gigantic flags, and, horrible sight, quite a flock of sheep ! The gentle art of shepherding is surely not in the curriculum of a personal military secretary !

A fine lot of maliks, the senior being about eighty and quite blind. By his appearance he might have come straight out of the Bible, and it is doubtful if his forbears of 2000 years ago in this valley were dressed or behaved any differently. Life still consists in the possession of land, women and cattle, and the almost daily battle, murder and sudden death involved in keeping them. The history of their times differs but little from the Old Testament tales of the Hittites, Jebusites and Amalekites.

A short halt at Chakdara Fort on the far side of the important bridge over the Swat river, and we were off again through Dir country to Kuz Sarai. The road, which was unmetalled, ran through a plain with hills on each side : no events save a Henry Ford van full of merchandise stuck in the road at about the only sharp turn where it could completely block our passage. " Henry," needless to say, obstinately refused to start and finally had to be pushed out of the way.

Reached Sarai about 6-30 P.M. and were met by Glen and Hissam- ud-din. The latter has been here for ten days collecting transport and getting ready generally. Sarai is a fortified post under the hills on one side of the valley. The last time the Chitral reliefs passed, the local folk were paid their subsidy ; suddenly two factions started fighting over the division of the money, and twenty were killed before the matter was settled. In a land where all go armed, life is of little account and goes daily into the balance over a rupee or two, a woman, land, or even a goat. Shah Jehan, more commonly known as the " Waliarhad," came with an escort to meet and lead the Chief to Dir. A young man who dare not leave his country for fear of intrigue : he only speaks the local language, and is mostly occupied in trying to appear as a great man, in which he is not terribly successful

An early bed after dinner. Night rather hot, but the Political won't take the responsibility of our sleeping outside.

Saturday, 28th July. Up at 5 A.M. and off at 5-30 by car for six miles. Then to horse. Kept a " point " half a mile ahead of the Chief and behind us came the Dir Mounted Levies, then Waliarhad and his noble cavalcade of " household troops " clothed and mounted equally oddly ; behind them the transport. Turned right-handed at once up a long easy ascent and after a sharp turn at the top, came in full view of the valley of the Panjkora river, surrounded by bright green rice-fields and range after range of hills away in the distance.

Down to the river at Sado, another post, where breakfast and flies awaited us. Gorgeous morning, not yet too hot. The road runs up the left bank of the Panjkora, often on the edge of or over the river, which flows fast over a series of rapids. Both shores and islands covered with cut tree-trunks, stranded. They belong to a contractor in Nowshera, who buys in Kohistan and hopes to float them down. Understand he lands about fifty per cent, at Nowshera, which has in the past produced him a pretty fortune. Every now and then a log would come spinning down the centre of the river and go lurching through the rapids. After some miles we rounded a bend where a great gang of men worked like beavers pushing logs into the river. The nearer we came the more they shouted and the more feverishly they pushed. Their shouts became yells when we stopped to watch. Suddenly about twenty of them seized single mussacks and sprang into the river. Lying on the mussacks each man kept his head well out of the water and his balance by paddling with his feet. It was a fine sight seeing them all shot down a rapid, bobbing up and down like corks and cheering like blazes. It transpired that this was a put-up show for the Chief, while the earlier frantic work was displayed for the benefit of the contractor from Nowshera who had, in some mysterious way, tacked himself on to our party.

Towards 11-30 Robat came into sight, the usual fortified post on a spur above the river. The last few miles had been hot, the ponies were tiring, and we were all glad to get in. A marvellous mounted band—two sets of side-drums and three very shrill pipers- played us in. These posts are all small and as everyone has to be inside, hot humanity is at a discount. Baggage in just after two o'clock, a good effort for a first march of 24 miles up and down hills. Glen and I have not brought servants, but we have four orderlies chosen from my regiment by Hissam-ud-din, all Pathans, Khuttacks, nice clean-looking birds. The first one detailed to me was called Mehrab Gul, which being lightly translated means " Bower of Roses." The possibility of being yanked out of bed by a man with a name like- that was too much, and I have exchanged him for one with the less odoriferously sounding name of Said Ali Jan.

Sunday, 29th July. Warai. Heavenly sleep on roof of the post leaving hot humanity to sleep in the yard below. Short march ; so, thank God, slept till six, breakfast at seven, and on the road at 7-30. Dinner last night given by Stewart, who invited the Waliarhad and two or three others. Not an amusing guest. Before going to bed they sent dozens of fellows flying down the river on mussacks, holding up torches. In bed by 9-30. Short march of 11 miles, again up the Panjkora. A ripping morning and quite cool. "We were in, soon after 9-30. The same band as before turned up mysteriously and played us in with redoubled energy. The Chief has done a priceless coloured sketch of them. Good breeze. To-morrow 26 miles on to Dir, which is at about 5000 feet.

Tuesday, 31st July. Up yesterday at 4-45 A.M., the difficulty of the operation being eased by swallowing a Quetta peach. How we rough it ! On the road by 5-30 and away up the Panjkora. Country much the same at the start, but gradually the river got narrower and deeper and the road rose up from it. The trees are bigger and thicker, and include mountain oak, holly and fig. Reached Darera about 8 A.M. after a 13-mile ride. The usual post, but the roof has fallen in and there are no funds for repair. Breakfasted under a shady tree, then on across an open space for Chutiaten. After crossing a suspension bridge, one horse at a time, the country closed up, the river sank deeper and deeper into a gorge, and the road passed 300 to 400 feet above it, cut out of a hillside thick with shrubs and trees. Magnificent hills rising each side of the gorge. Local interest in the Chief's arrival got more noticeable, little groups of armed men appearing on the hill-tops. Our merry mounted pipe-band appeared from behind a rock and announced our gradual approach with heartrending screams. A sharp turn to the right and we were in full view of Chutiaten Fort, on a spur above the river on the far side—the usual square fort with a square turret at each corner, one of the Nawab's strongholds. The road turned right-handed down a steep incline to a bridge, and on the far side a crowd collected. Our band redoubled its efforts and crossed the bridge with the Chief and us close behind. A crash of drums, followed by a perfect pandemonium of squeals from pipes, burst out as we set foot on the far side, completely annihilating our poor little band, which retired in high dudgeon up the hillside. We suddenly realize that this new noise is "God save the King," so salute. Dismounting, we turn to greet our host surrounded by his ministers and maliks. He advances to shake the Chief's hand with his right glove off, and we advance with our right gloves very much on, for the Nawab of Dir, the king of this wild, hilly country, is a leper .as white as snow. The end of his nose has gone, the tips of his ears are ashen in colour, otherwise he merely looks unpleasantly unhealthy. A tallish thin man, with a sparse beard, weak watery eyes protected by sun-glasses, and dressed in a white silk frock coat, loose white pyjamas and patent leather shoes. We are led to a table under a lovely old chinar tree on the bank of the river, a most beautiful spot. We sit in a circle and partake of tea, biscuits, fruit. On the Nawab's right sits the Chief, on his left Stewart, while on Stewart's left sits Saftar Khan, prime minister and villain of the piece in the great drama of the malignant yet simple politics of Dir. Round the table sit aged and grave malihs and headmen, the Abrahams and Isaacs of the lost tribe, who sip thin tea, and otherwise relapse into dignified mummies apparently looking at nothing. It is time for conversation, and the Chief opens the ball by saying to Stewart : " Tell the Nawab Sahib what a pleasure it is to come and visit him in his country." Stewart tells this in Pushtu to Saftar Khan, who in turn relates it to the Nawab. After a moment the Nawab opens his mouth, a noise like escaping gas comes forth, followed by a rattle of quite unintelligible sounds, and ending in escaping gas again. It appears that the Nawab has no roof to his mouth. Saftar however turns to Stewart and translates in Pushtu, who in turn tells the Chief : " The Nawab is transported with joy that so great a man should deign to bring his glorious presence into his poor country."

Several more rounds of this sort of thing, including a remark from the Chief hoping that the Nawab's health is improving, and the obvious reply that since the Chief's arrival he has already become much better and feels that he will go on getting better every moment of the Chief's stay...At last we get up to ride the last five miles to Dir. It is a slow and solemn procession. The Chief firmly stops the band from leading the way—it has been rendering ear-splitting aids to conversation all through the meal—and starts off with Stewart at his heels. Then comes the Nawab on a piebald Radakhshani pony clothed in glorious apparel, closely followed by the wicked Wazir Saftar Khan and his eldest son. I and Glen and Hissam-ud-din follow. The bodyguard, a picked lot of fine-looking scallywags in front, and all the other rabble behind.

Saftar—a remarkably nasty specimen : short, with slightly bent shoulders, a bearded face with an expression like a fox or a ferret, small roving eyes that never keep still nor look you in the face— reminds me of Judas Iscariot in the picture of the Last Supper. He is also a miser. The Nawab confines his energies to trying new cures for his terrible disease, or in talk of them, while Saftar holds the power in his hands. The Nawab is nervous of both his sons trying to do him in and seize the throne. The Waliarhad is the heir, and is nervous of his younger brother and of his father. The second s₀n wants to oust Waliarhad and get the throne in his place, and Saftar plays each off against the other and keeps them all afraid. A pleasant little mediaeval romance ; and the undercurrent of the various plots and counter-plots of the different households of women must make the life of the House of Dir a pretty lively concern.

We leave the Panjkora and turn left-handed up a valley heavily cultivated with rice and maize. The Nawab is given Something to eat or chew every half mile, has a drink of water and prays for a moment at each shrine, for he is a very superstitious monarch. Rounding a bend we come at last within sight of Dir, a collection of mud and wooden huts on a bit of hill in the valley, the Nawab's palace with turrets to the right hand and enclosed on three sides with hills towering one above the other.

A gun booms out from the palace, followed by others at very irregular intervals—a salute for the Chief—black powder, of course. One wonders what the effect of a real gun would be on this gimcrack capital. Four six-inch howitzer shells would about settle the whole box of tricks. We pass the so-called town and palace, the roofs crowded with silent spectators, and on to the post which is round a bend and at the entrance to a gorge up which we must climb to the Lowari pass. We shake off the Nawab and attack lunch. Quite the worst-placed post ever constructed : overlooked in every direction by high hills close round, a most unpleasant spot to take refuge in, and as can be imagined, the site was most carefully selected by the present Nawab's father himself........At last we are left to a peaceful evening with bonfires glowing on the pickets all round, and the pipe- band wailing away outside as a compliment to the Chief through dinner.

Wednesday, 1st August. Ziarat. A quiet day at Dir yesterday. The Chief went to sketch the Nawab's citadel after breakfast. Did a little work till twelve, then rode out to join him. Had expected to see some local life, but jogged along a deserted road, meeting only one woman who, at sight of me, fled into a field and, covering her face with her hands, cowered in the crops. In the course of conversation the Chief had told the Nawab that he wished to make a picture of his house. Result : Orders issued that no one should stir abroad while the Chief was out. Found him under a tree where he was just finishing a topping sketch of Dir, and jogged home again through empty roads and fields.

In the afternoon we pay a state visit to the Nawab and at 5-30 we leave the post in procession, led by a pipe-band and ministers of state, and turn up a narrow pathway which is apparently an avenue of young fir trees. However the Chief's hungry horse seizes a branch of the first one and away comes the whole tree. The trees have all been cut for the occasion. We proceed under arches of welcome, turn through winding streets so narrow that one horse only can just pass at a time, and arrive at the palace, a large square building of mud and stones.

We are met by the Waliarhad and enter the courtyard with a bodyguard, pipe-band and bugle-band drawn up in line. On the opposite side is a local band of weird instruments assisted by an accordion. A long balcony above and all the available space below packed with the men of Dir. All the bands squeal out "God save the King" together, and we enter the palace by a narrow door and scramble up a steep staircase in a turret, and arrive in the baronial hall of the House of Dir, where the head of the house, still wheezing, meets us. We solemnly arrange ourselves round a table loaded with cakes, sweets, fruit and tea, the Nawab and the Chief at the head. It is a large high room with a balcony on one side under which an archway opens out into another room to another balcony overlooking the Dir valley. The room is decorated all over with faded gold, red, blue and green in oriental fashion. I am told that this is the greatest gathering of notables known for years. It is, in fact, the old feudal chief with his barons, knights and esquires in his hall. Some of these silent, imperturbable old men are indeed barons holding their village and land in the Dir domain, free of all rent or tithe. Only if Dir goes to war are they in honour bound to raise their own lashkar and join the army. Others are chiefs of conquered lands and pay rent. One and all sit silent and immovable

After rather feeble efforts at tea, and the usual three-cornered stilted conversation, the local minister for foreign affairs gets up and reads out a long and terribly flowery speech in Persian from the Nawab to the Chief extolling his virtues, habits, etc. The Chief then replies extempore in three parts, each part being in turn translated by Stewart. When completed the foxy prime-minister rises and shouts out a very garbled precis into the Nawab's ear, for deafness also afflicts him. In spite of his being such a loathsome sight, I cannot help feeling much pity for this wreck of a man, for in his day, before the fell disease attacked him, he was a determined ruler, though obstinate and superstitious. He had taken part in no less than 84 local wars and engagements, and his personal bravery in the field was beyond dispute.

The Chief then makes presents to the Nawab, a silver-mounted photograph of himself, a pair of binoculars, and some bottles of scent, soaps, powders, etc. These are gracefully accepted and we get up to pass through the archway to look at the view down the valley. The Nawab is inordinately proud of this and we have to admire a very gimcrack water-mill bubbling below us, and the size of the town, which is very small and very dirty. Below, a road runs by the palace wall. Naked little boys are playing in the dust ; men are loafing in the sun, their backs to the wall; but never a sign of a woman anywhere. The Old Testament comes vividly to my mind again. Surely in just such a place Jezebel must have met her boisterous end.

Somewhere near is this potentate's prison. It consists of a deep hole in the ground like a well. If the crime is serious, or rather, if the Nawab is really angry, the prisoner is thrown in quickly and left, so he is lucky if he breaks his neck, which is more than probable. If the Nawab is not so angry, the prisoner is lowered into the hole, where he sits among the remains of former occupants and is fed once a day with water and chupattis, pending the declining wrath of the monarch ; sometimes he comes out alive. Crime is generally a personal matter between the Nawab and his subject. Murder is sometimes taken notice of, but killing as revenge for adultery is permitted. In spite of purdah, the local morality is not of a very high standard, and luckily for the birth-rate, the usual process of adjusting the eternal triangle is for the co-respondent to buy the bundle of fun for a little more or less than the price of a cow, according to her age and beauty.

We leave the palace and visit the rifle factory. A small gun is shown with great pride as having been made in the factory. It is a clever piece of work inasmuch as it is rifled and is a breachloader, but a fuze cannot be achieved, so the shell is hurled at the foe in the form of a cylindrical cannon-ball.

We mount and ride back to the post, the Nawab and Saftar accompanying us. At the gate the Nawab bids a final wheezing farewell to the Chief. Later come presents : Swati blankets, a fine sword that started life with the Nawab's grandfather, a yak's tail with silver collar as an ornament for a horse, Gilgit puttoo, Chitral whips and boots, and some daggers.

We hear by telegram that the Mehtar of Chitral is ill in bed with appendicitis.

Thursday, 2nd August. On the road by 5-30 A.M. yesterday. The Waliarhad and Saftar escort the Chief with usual accompaniment of bodyguard, levies, etc. A good climb in front as we leave Dir at about 5000 feet, go over the Lowari pass at 10,000 feet and down to Ziarat at 7500 feet.

Up a narrow defile through which the Dir stream rushes and splashes, a steady rise all the way. High hills on each side, and great mountains that surround the Lowari towering up ahead. The ascent soon shows in the flowers—buttercups and forget-me-nots among other Indian flowers. We reach the region of firs ; after nine miles come to Gujar post. We rest for a quarter of an hour while the Chief sketches. A cool drink and a cigarette to keep off the swarm of flies ; then on again, the road still steeper. Fine forests of fir all round, and high up gigantic spurs and mountain-tops of grey-white granite.

Near the fir-line, after rounding a hill right-handed, we see the summit of the Lowari pass in the distance, just a dip between two mountain-tops. In a grassy valley to the left is the very humble village of Gujar. We are above the tree-line now, and there is snow in deep gullies, scarred up to the mountain-tops. On the ridge of the pass is a large gathering of men and horses at the boundary between Chitral and Dir.

As we reach the summit, the Chitralis push down the narrow road to meet us. They have come into Dir territory, so the Waliarhad and Saftar, followed by their myrmidons, push up as hard as they can into Chitral territory. Glorious confusion results while the Chief tries to shake hands and say " How d'ye do " to five of the Mehtar's sons, two of his brothers, and umpteen ministers, at the same time as he is saying " Goodbye " to the now completely disgruntled Waliarhad and Saftar, who scowl, collect their riding ponies and hop it down the hill to Dir as fast as they can !

The five sons are a little disconcerting—all the same height and apparently the same age. However, we cut out Nasr-ul-Mulk, the eldest, and mark him down. The Chief inspects a guard of honour of the Chitral Scouts and bodyguard, all in khaki, with the local headdress of close-fitting puttoo with a rolled edge all round. Then down a steep road to Ziarat three miles away. The fir forest here is thicker than ever, and the mountains seem more massive. There is still snow in parts of the stream-bed—snow brown with mud and pine- needles, under which the stream cuts its way. This is the worst place for avalanches in winter. The bed packs up with thirty or forty feet of snow, and enormous avalanches come hurtling down the steep slopes. The road is closed, but stout-hearted men get through with the post. Twenty-four men were lost in one avalanche last year.

Ziarat, a simple rest-house of wood and mud. It is cool, a steady breeze sighs through the pines, and the stream bubbles below. Personally I am sincerely thankful to be out of Dir with its surly morose countrymen, who scarcely ever greeted the Chief. The possibility of an odd shot or two, in spite of the Nawab's warm welcome, fired by some faction in order to get another into trouble, was always present. In Chitral all seem happy and cheerful. The Mehtar's boys are jolly lads and delighted at meeting the Chief ; everyone bustles round cheerfully. Col. Tancred, commanding Chitral force and Captain Bowers, commanding the Chitral Scouts, Assistant Political Officer, met us.

Friday, 3rd August. Chitral. Left Ziarat after breakfast at 7 A.M. A steady incline down to Mirkani, gradually leaving the firs and getting back to holly and oak. At Mirkhani, a dilapidated- looking post, the road bends sharply to the right. In from the right comes the Chitral or Kunar river, a fine sight as it is large and runs at a great pace. Below Mirkhani it passes through a defile into Afghanistan. Facing the post is a high jagged range of hills which are the border of Kafiristan.

We halt for ten minutes. Some fine old Kafirs roll up to see the Chief. One old grey-beard is pointed out as having killed 130 Pathans in his time ; he is now a benevolent-looking old gentleman. Another is dressed in a long brown choga, with his head tied up in a handkerchief like a pirate of old ; a seared, lined old face, bright beady blue eyes, a hook nose and a fine scarlet beard make him a most picturesque figure.

We ride on down a steep hill to the river, then up the left bank towards Drosh. Gradually we leave the trees behind and massive rocky hills tower above us on each side. The last hour gives us a hot ride. The new ponies are small and not too fit, mostly Badakh- shanis. We reach Drosh Fort about 11-30 and have a welcome drink in the 4-12th Punjabis' Mess. In the evening the Chief inspects the regiment. They are the old 24th Punjabis, a fine regiment ; also the Chitral Pack Artillery Section. The parade ground is on the far side of the river and we cross this by the best bridge in Chitral—a suspension bridge built by the Military Works at a cost of Rs. 25,000. It swings a bit as we go over. After parade the Chief inspects the lower fort where the S. and T. live.......A hot night. Chief and I slept well, but Glen and Hissam-ud-din attacked by fleas or worse.

On the move by 5 A.M. and it was just light as we rode down the hill and over the suspension bridge and turned up the right bank of the river. Fine hills each side of the river getting bigger and bigger as we go on. It got pretty hot and all of us were glad to get in to Ayun, where breakfast awaited us in a garden under the shade of some chinar trees. From here we got a view of Tirich Mir, a snow-covered peak of the Hindu Kush rising 25,700 feet above the sea. It is only 30 miles from Chitral. Not a cloud was on it this morning and it was very lovely. It has never been climbed ; indeed no Chitralis would go near it, as according to them it is infested with fairies.

We passed Gahirat at the 10th mile, a post on the left bank, and joined by a suspension bridge 50 feet off the water, but condemned now ; no one will cross it save a Chitrali or two on a windless day. The road just before Gahirat was a nasty bit, the river running in great strength through a rocky gorge, and the roadway cut three or four feet wide out of the rock. A slip, and you would fall forty feet into the torrent—a clear drop. All the ponies took it quietly enough. They seem to have a most boring habit of walking along the extreme outside edge of the path, due to carrying loads, I suppose.

Left Ayun for the eleven miles into Chitral. It is a hot, dusty, treeless ride till, coming round a bend, we see the road winding down to the river-bed and beyond it, on a plateau above the river, the trees and green fields of Chitral. A canter along the river-bed and we come up to a good road with willows each side, and after a little while to a grassy open space with a low hill behind it. A guard of honour in khaki is drawn up and beside them a pipe-band in scarlet and gold coats with blue trousers. Nasr-ul-Mulk meets the Chief with another host of sons, and on a hill behind hundreds of Chitralis fire off matchlocks into the air. A gun fires a salute at the same time ; it is a noisy 5 but warm welcome. The Chief dismounts and we stand in the shade of a tree and watch the local knuts trying to shoot the popinjay. This consists of two small silver balls at the top of a 15-foot pole. The lads of the village then gallop past in turn and take a pot-shot at the popinjay as they go by. There are a good many missfires, but at last some keen-eyed Chitrali rings the bell. Kafir dances follow. Kafir girls in pairs running round and round with the men dancing in pairs as well, the girls being dressed in a brown blanket with cowries sewn on to a head-dress of brown blanket.

More introductions. Kohistanis and Kafirs form up with petitions. At last we break away and march off, headed by the red and green bands and the guard of honour. We soon reach the bazar, a single street of wooden and mud huts. A sharp turn to the right and we come to the palace, which is gaily decorated. At an outer entrance stand the last batch of sons ranging from ten years of age down to two—quite wee ones who can just stand—all dressed in green with the Chitrali head-dress. In the gateway on a bed lies Shuja- ul-Mulk, Mehtar of Chitral, looking very ill indeed. In spite of the Chief's efforts to prevent it, he is assisted to his feet to welcome the Chief. He is sent back to bed as soon as possible and we go to our camp, a charmingly arranged affair in the palace gardens and on the river bank, with Tirich Mir right above us. The Chief has a regular pavilion, two large rooms and a bed-room running off it. We all have comfortable " Swiss cottage " tents and there is a large mess-tent as well. Lovely grass and trees all round. A welcome drink and a change and we settle down. This enormous row of sons entertain me. They are marvellously alike and the eldest is only a lad. Are there any sisters ? It appears there are, 26 of them, while the boys number 13—unlucky, but perhaps the Mehtar has another one up his sleeve. Curiosity gaining the upper hand, I ask one of the sons how his mother is. He replies rather vaguely that he has many mothers !

An easy afternoon. The Chief sketches Tirich Mir. Glen,, Hissam-ud-din and I have a look at the bazar which is thronged with good folk who have come in for the show. After dinner, dances by the light of a huge bonfire and a welcome bed.

Sunday, 5th August. Began yesterday splendidly by sleeping till 7-30. Several mails in so worked in the morning and afternoon. At 5 P.M. we paid a visit to the Mehtar, being taken through the palace to the room where he lay. He was looking bad, but better than on the day before. Chief told me to wire to Northern Command this morning for an expert doctor for appendicitis to be sent up at once. The Mehtar is much pleased.

Rode down to the polo-ground where sports were going on. After sports, polo. Mastuj plays Chitral. It is weird and wonderful. The ground is 40 feet wide with a low stone-wall along each side. The spectators are massed on the walls ; some sit with their legs inside on the ground. The length is about 200 yards and they play six a side. One back each side and the remainder rush in a mob after the ball. No rules : crossing, hooking sticks on the wrong side going on all the time. A pipe-band plays throughout; the chukker lasts for 20 minutes. When a goal is hit, the scorer picks up the ball in his stick-hand and gallops for the other goal. When in the centre he throws the ball up and has a prodigious welt at it while in the air, and generally hits it. Spectators frequently get hit or trodden on, but that seems to be more amusing than anything else.

Our turn comes next, and our four, including Hissam-ud-din, play four of the Mehtar's sons. Thank goodness that Bowers has some normal polo-sticks, for theirs are of the oddest shape, the sticks being rammed into one end of the head instead of in the centre, and at a sharp angle. Great excitement. The Chief mounted on a fast little Arab, gets going and scores almost at once, amidst shouts of joy. I tittup round after him on an animal that trots with great difficulty. The ponies average 13.2 and our colossal Hissam-ud-din is hurt that his animal won't go faster. Glen rides the opposing back all over the place, which he doesn't understand, and we beat the boys in a 20-minute chukker by 5 goals to love. The losing side is supposed to dance for the benefit of the winners, but the boys won't turn out !

After dinner more dances, both Chitrali and Kafir. The Black Kafirs do their dance in pairs and now get a move on, both men and women doing their curious shuffle. These Kafirs are very interesting.. They are very fair and have no ordinary religion except those who have been converted to Muhammadanism. They seem to have been here since before the beginning of time, even before the Buddhists. They live entirely by grazing a few goats and cattle in their valleys. Numbers of them are still armed with bows and arrows. Polygamy is practised, and their dead are placed in a box on a high hill with their best clothes on, a little money and food, and are left there. They hate all Pathans. Wish I could remember Kipling's " Man who would be King." I know the scene was in Kafiristan.

The Red Kafirs do a turn next. This is most perplexing. They stand in a circular crowd and one of them gives the note. They then start singing a definite tune of two lines, something like a Gregorian chant, in a major key. I ask Nasr-ul-Mulk what it all means and he tells me that this dancing is all their religion, and that the words mean " We are dancing in praise of God ; we do not know how else to praise Him." As they get warmed up they move round in a circle marking time with their feet in a sort of double shuffle. There follows another turn by Kafirs, two of them fooling with hobby-horses and wearing huge beards and lungis. After a Chitrali dance, a man lies down on the ground and does a Punch and Judy show with puppets, representing a boy and a girl. It is an old story, the boy making love to the girl and getting rebuffed, and the girl making up to him again. It is cleverly done and ends, needless to say, in a manner that would be considered somewhat indelicate in a Western country, but which is received with roars of natural merriment in this distant corner of the East.

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