Footloose, NOS, The News International
A jewel in the rough
On trek, the point of interest was not people of varying ethnicities or wildlife or surrounding scrubs but the emerald green waters of the Vehowa stream a few kilometres northwest of Chitarwata
By Muhammad Saad Nawaz Qaisrani
Chitarwata, a border town located at the vertex of Punjab, Balochistan and Fata, is a place you would want to see to soothe your wild side.
From the vestiges of an empire that once ruled a quarter of the known world to wildernesses unexplored before, this place is like a jewel in the rough.
Four years ago I got a chance to see the place myself. Since then, despite the insatiable urge to go back there once again, I could never make it. It was only this fall that a chance finally materialised. And so here I was, once again, on the road to the wild lands west of Dera Ghazi Khan.
Chitarwata is about half-a-day away from Tibbi Qaisrani or at least had become since we couldn’t manage the faster Toyota pickups to get there. On bike, it took Rashid and me, a few hours to manoeuvre the low hills. We spent as much time in meandering our way through the Vehowa stream on foot in pitch dark. Fearing vipers and kraits while frightening creepy nightjars escorted us till Chitarwata was finally discovered ahead, discernible by the flashes of lanterns and ringing of bells tied to the necks of animals.
What Chitarwata had to offer presently, I cared least. There would be people of varying ethnicities, wildlife would abound in the surrounding scrubs and a majestic fortress-like Border Military Post oversees the village — but I was aching for the emerald green waters of the Vehowa stream a few kilometres to the northwest.
It was here that I informed Rashid of my ill intentions. I was not here for the fair or the wildlife or the magnificent post. My destination was Diwal — a gorge in the north-west where the Vehowa River transitions from middle course to upper course landforms. And for that he was now to arrange company for me.
Fairs are rare occasions in the hills. What I was demanding from Rashid was to find me a man willing to sacrifice his rare chance of enjoyment for the same old routine of hill walking.
True to his repute, Rashid managed the task.
Early next morning, me and my travel buddy Sher were off to Diwal. With time Chitarwata was replaced by Lashkrala, which then turned into Bitar, the last settlement before Diwal itself.
Bitar is a small valley in the Vehowa River bed, having sparse inhabitants of Eisot Pashtuns. Not all hamlets are alive, and the reason for that is hard to comprehend. Excellent land worth a crop lies bare with no one to fend for it. Here were found two young Pashtun lads from Guzai, a minute settlement slightly to the north. While their herd grazed the surrounding fields, they were on a break, and with them we sat for a while. All four of us settled under a Tamarix.
Walking in this rugged country calls for occasional breathers on the way, including tea stops, though the taste of what is offered can vary tremendously.
In a while we took to our feet again, only to find a group of Pashtun tribesmen, this time a colourful mix of various ages sitting next to a graveyard and pondering with serious concern over some issue. The only item of interest I could notice in that company was a freshly slaughtered goat. A ritual sacrifice had been made, and pretty evidently a healthy protein rich meal was in the offing or so it seemed. But that was not what brought me here and so with a heavy heart we bade farewell to the poor goat remains and made a go for Diwal.
Forty-five minutes post-Bitar the wide bed of the Vehowa River started to cramp into a narrow gorge. The river swirled down a bend, while the walls of the surrounding hills rained down dirt and rock intermittently. Continual pounding by massive waves, created when the Vehowa River flows, ensure that these hills get no respite to settle in peace.
To get west of the bend, we would have to climb a hillock. While the proposition was not so difficult, having been walking for the last three hours made this last climb seem impossible. After much persistent effort the bend was bypassed and we were atop a plateau, itself bordered on three sides by a thousand feet high ridge. Before me stood my destination — the great green pool in the Vehowa River, where the river emerges from a fifteen feet gape in the hills signalling the end of middle course landforms.
Towards west, the river is younger, active and more beautiful. From here on they say, the real beauty of the river begins. The real mountains begin now.
A short break was all we could afford. We were past mid-day. Little knowledge had we of the hills we were traversing, but back to Chitarwata was going to be another twelve kilometres down the rocks.
However, something more important than enjoying the sights of wilderness was on Sher’s mind. He would hint at it again and again. He was eyeing the lunch cooking at the graveyard cum slaughterhouse — and Bitar being another hour’s journey back, reaching there on time seemed an improbable deal to me.
Sher, being smart, left me to care for myself and made a solo go for the goat-roasting fields of Bitar. Despite the explicit words of Rashid instructing him to be with me at all moments, presently, all I could see was Sher surfing away on the rocks at a speed unmatchable in all human capability, while I kept dragging my poor self behind on the rocks hoping that I’d be able to make it back to Chitarwata by nightfall.
At last I made it to the graveyard in Bitar. Lo and behold, here was a smiling Sher with a handful of roasted goat remains perched amongst a party of two dozen or so inspectoral Pashtuns, waving to my lazy self.
As I made greetings, suddenly all conversation ceased, and once it started again, one could hear nothing but various versions of what could actually be the ill intention which brought a city lad such as I roaming in their hills with a camera. Quietly I observed as hypotheses became theories linking me to everything from drones to geology.
Eventually, sense prevailed thanks to one old Pashtun who narrated tales of a place called Murree, where he had lived in the 1980s. From there he knew tourism, and as per him, I could be one mindless lad who forgot the direction towards Murree, ending up traversing the hills in Musa Khel district in Balochistan. I guess a few years down the road these people would remember the Qaisrani lad who they had a hearty laugh on.
From Bitar, back to Chitarwata was another milestone I had to make. Presently, I had started resenting the moment I decided to walk my way to Diwal for another two hours on the feet seemed endless. Eventually, Chitarwata was made by nightfall, and another resplendent day in the hills came to pass.
While night’s sleep was the most beautiful gift I could imagine at this moment of tiredness, my troubles were nevertheless not over yet. Tomorrow was to be back to Tibbi Qaisrani, and for that a four hour walk was still in the books. God, why did I ever want to come here was all I could think of at this last moment of the day.