A trek taking me through the heart of still-pagan Kalash country and the few remaining villages and valleys therein only reachable by foot.

When plans for Dale and I to visit the high goat pastures were scrapped at the last minute due to his wife Emma feeling unwell I made a snap decision to go to Rombur valley and hike back here again across the mountains. Dale gave me a recommendation of who I should stay with in Kalasha-Grom Village in Rombur Valley and I started walking down our valley, got all the way to the police checkpost, sat with the guards thumbing through their book and then started walking up into Rombur Valley from there – last 30 minutes of the way hitched a ride in the back of a faltbed truck some other foreigners guys were sitting in. On the way the driver bought some ripe deep blue grapes we all shared standing in the middle of the flatbed as it moved over the bumps and grooves of the mountain road, trying our best to inspect, shove a few grapes in our mouth before the next bump made it necessary to clutch the rollbar with both hands.

I got let off at Grom and found it to be an additional stiff eroded walk up the other side of the valley to Kalasha-Grom. I was looking for the house of Sarawat Shah – his place turned out to be in the middle of the village: great, but in all other respects a regretful experience. The room he had was foul and full of biting ticks, fleas, spiders and other vermin. The wife cooked with no hygene, Sarawat himself was not there, I spent all night talking to Sarawat's brother – a guy who spoke English and looked like he was 100% about personal gain even though our conversation topic was about increasing Kalasha opportunity & upliftment. The wife, who looked like a tart and made me uncomfortable, charged me way more than anyone else in the whole Kalash land at 200 Rupees (about $4 USD) for this fiasco.

Here is a picture I found on someone else's site which by coincidence happens to be of Sarawat Shah's wife.

The best part of my time there was observing the typical Kalasha practice of multiculture and climbing with a boy I met strolling around the adobe pueblo-like village up the trees to glean those remaining painfully sweet half-raisened grapes.

The larger village of Grom across the river back near the road is the home of the famou "'Lection Bibi" whose name is just one of many some more worldly locals snicker about. Turns out in this family there are people with the first name of Election ('lection Bibi'), Major, General, and Engineer (who turns out to own the nicest guesthouse in the valley and much cheaper than Sarawat's place). Apparently their parents associated the English language with prestige but did not speak it themselves. They thus just chose these names randomly maybe having heard them associated with important outsiders. This has not stopped the kids from actually becoming some of the most prominent people in the area (even though we laugh perhaps these parents knew something we do not about naming children).

Next day I left Kalasha-Grom to hike up the Rombur Valley one lonely gravel road until I saw the bridge & tent I was told to look for (on the way out of Grom I at some nice food at Engineer's place and he gave me oral directions for the hike). The tent turned out to be the makeshift field house of some Kalasha who had converted to Islam. I spent about two hours there under the bridge napping, looking at the Farsi (Persian language) book and generally keeping out of the strong midday sun. Started up the narrow gorge stream bed of a tributary valley starting on the opposite side of the bridge. The trail was not marked and I went way too far. On the way the narrow trail winding in the folds of the valley side which at first was silvery pretty shale with a ledge became more and more eroded until I was carefully climbing over metallic avalanches of eroded shale and fallen pine saplings. By 5:30 PM I was at the valley's end – too shady-looking desperate characters I came across there (who looked themselves also lost to me) said going any further just connected me back to upper Rombur Valley. I threw in the towel and headed back to the last farm I had passed on the way up (where only a blind Kalasha-only speaking farmer was threshing grain). Luckily the urdu-speaking Hakim Khan was there who walked me back casually to his farm while taking great pains to ensure that I did not slip even though I caught him one time (I think).

Hakim was 60, his wife 40 or 50 and they lived with three boys here in their March – October high country square timber and clay hut. He was so clean and delicious in his food preparation (great tea also) and had a wonderful bed made for me on the roof out of corn husks, grass, and a blanket and another blanket for on top of me with a little twig fire alongside as a heater. He and the boy spoke with me till I was sleepy – despite my scarce Urdu this was easy since his mind was so sharp.

Had the whole black and starry sky to look at and in the morning woke to a glorious mountain blushing in front of me at the valley's curve. Best bed of my life!

Next day his boy led me up the indescriminate slopes of fallen cedars and pine to the Gunyak An pass – too tree-clogged to see aught. We parted and I climbed down taking several flute-playing restes along the way. Steep descent. Reached the central upper part of the valley "maydawn" or square (with Hakim's family last night I realized how many Persian words are in use among the Kalasha) which was really a somewhat flat bright green planted field in an otherwise steeply side bowl valley. Sat eshausted under a HollyOak tree by an irrigation channel and felt dizzy and weak from the sun & dehydration. Just made it to the first house with smoke coming from the chimmney, told the Baba (term used among Kalash meaning "sister") there that I had no money to give since I could not break the 500 Rupee note I was carrying and she said "no problem" and ushered me in with a friendly wave of the arm.

Mobat Khan and wife did all they could to resuscitate me, putting this short bowed little sinew bed out on the porch, giving me honey, corn cakes and good dry apricots (just a few) alond with the standard corn, wheat cakes and dry goats cheese. The corn was very nice. They were very patient and taught me as much Kalasha as I could digest and were reallynice people. Their sing-song way of speaking Kalasha reminded me of Italian. They were not the least bit disturbed that I spoke no Kalasha – just barrelling onwards explaining heaps of abstractions to my uncomprehending gaze. There was no sugar so their tea was always prepared with salt instead (eek!). When I felt stronger I went out in the evening to help Mobat in the fields and he taught me how to harvest corn with the hand-sythe, his son interested enough by my paticipation to come help also and show me how its supposed to be done. Competeing this way, trading the one hand sythe back and forth and watching the other work we finished harvesting a large area before it became completely dark and the mother called us in for dinner. I slept in the same short sinew bed out on the porch, my legs tucked under me, waking occasionally to see the white bright moon showering the leaves and wood outside with light.

Seems as though there are a few homestay "hotels" in this hidden valley of Acholgah. The valley sees a fair number of trekkers, one English man and guide were below in Shigala hamlet the same night I stayed here. I will leave money for Mobat Khan's family in Anish Village back in Bomboret Valley – they were so gracious that any talk I made of money was rejected.

Left their house early and had stress trying to find the trail towards the Donson pass. Finally opting to bushwack my way up the eroded mountainside, causing me several times to be clutching my way up steep slopes of loose soft ash and shale grabbing the occasional pine tree root for support. Only by the grace of God I was able to eventually reach the path unscathed – lots of uncertain hard trudging going up made me employ the Buddhist "Chankarama" technique of only thinking "right, left, right, left" and focusing on my breath as I went. Otherwise, trudging 3-4 hours hard uphill with no trail through steep forested slopes not knowing if I am even going the right way and might be faced with a huge gorge and have to start over would warp the mind.

Reached Donson Pass at midday – perfect fairybook pass – spectacular views on both sides (Tirich Meer's snowy 7000 Meter plus peak on the North!) grassy crest, wonderful acoustics. Sat and played my flute for hours (did several teary renditions of "Oh say can you see" for some reason – really made me feel weepy), sang a long diatribe against the scourge of the Earth – the evil "Green Revolution" whose effects I have seen in all the developing countries I have visited and whose outcomes I know too well from the pollution and poisoned ground and water at home in the US. Seemed appropriate to sing this in light of the Kalasha's continuing spectacular use of multiculture where tomatoes grow on berry bushes next to squash, bean vines grow on corn stalks, and grape vines grow on trees around the field all supporting and fertilizing each other.

Disovered Donson was the same pass I had seen on my early solo day odessey to the peak of Bomboret's North range from Dale's guesthouse at Brun Village – I should have some down that way – good switchbacks on the first steep 1000 meters descending to the valley floor.

Came back to Dale's guesthouse and supervised the preparation of what may be the best meal ever made here (even including salsa and salad). I needed that for keeping up morale (and it appeared so did Dale's family).

I think that with my flea and spider bites from Sarawat Shah's hole of a guesthouse in Rombur and my whipped physical condition I have seen all I can for now Kafiristan and may leave out hiking to Birir valley and just get to Chitral ASAP. Now I must write out my long list of to-dos for Chitral. Going to miss my Ganesha mantra cassette from India – who will be the lucky recipient back in the states?