AFGHANISTAN: from love to hate ... TWO WEEKS OF MOUNTAIN TRANSITION (continued, part 5) In the afternoon the storm subsided. Snowflakes are now falling slowly, giving enough time already covered with snow on it so it began to melt, submerging entire villages in mud. Without the bright white snow, I did not so much dizzy, and stay on the street it was quite normal. Gradually, the villagers left their homes and began his usual rustic work. Struck two boys, a guy who was over 20, and Sarfiroz. All were thoroughly wrapped and dressed in a coat of different styles. Sarfiroz seemed to be nothing useful for not doing, as if wandering in a state of stupor there is nobody, but three others have worked tirelessly. Soon there were women and girls, dressed in dirty bright red with purple, dresses. It seemed that they perform the work. Unlike men, they did not have suitable clothing, which would protect them from melting snow. Pretty quickly they get wet, but nevertheless, the village is full of quiet singing, as they began to herd sheep and milking goats. Their soaked clothing during work stuck to the body. After lunch, Saeed asked me to give him my knife. Then I realized that in all this confusion left him in Varma. Despite my protests and entreaties that it is not necessary, he immediately began to prepare for the long way back to pick up my knife. District Chpodkis He returned with three men, three donkeys and horses. One of the men offered me a small pocket knife. "I'm not" - I said to Said, pointing to the knife, and demonstrating with gestures that my knife was bigger. Three strangers started laughing, clapping me on the back, something to shout loudly in their language, then one of them gave me my knife. Soon, he said goodbye and left the village. No matter how I tried to ask Said that it was for people from where they were going, and why they had my knife, all to no avail. It was obvious one - they were more than friendly and even casually, than all the locals I've met so far. Dinner that day was the first full meal in the last two days: bread, rice, home, but the sour yoghurt and salted tea. Sarfiroz even closed the hole in the roof of the yurt, which is why within a few degrees warmer. In a sleeping bag and under a few blankets, I was pretty warm. He said that usually there are sleeping woman, but because I, and Said was a guest today is the place turn into a man's bedroom. I first started the campaign with a good night's sleep. The next day we were in for an easy 5-hour shift on a flat surface through a large long green valley, which locals call Chpodkis. All the snow melted, and almost cloudless blue sky, bright sun shone. I somehow got used to the altitude and, despite initial lack of oxygen, soon again to adjust to walking. We had breakfast together with Sarfirozom, breakfast was modest - the bread and salted tea. Meal (if you can call it that) was held under the sounds of singing, village women and children who worked outside. Their clothing was still wet after the snow removal. Lunch, we came in about an hour, when the villagers Mathuz invited us for bread with yogurt. In general, the mood among us was good. We laughed and joked as they did in the beginning of the campaign, and Said filling all the moments of silence in his loud discordant singing. Just my still wet shoes and jacket marred appreciation, almost a perfect day. Sarfiroz with his son Initially we planned to cross the pass in the place called Varmdih. However, in the hour of the day we met those who returned from the area. They told us that the valley Varmdih is six hours away, and we do not have time to go before nightfall. I sighed with relief - to the point I was tired and I hurt leg - when Sayid invited to spend the night in a nearby village. Half an hour later we crossed the valley and climbed a few hundred meters to the other side. So we went to the village, consisting of four low-pitched stone houses. In the first of them were three men. I went to them, they got up and started laughing. Come to me, they started to clap me on the back and press my hand. At first I did not understand what was happening, but then it dawned on me that it was for the people. I recognized one of them, when pressed her hand to him. This was the same man who gave me my knife the day before. Wadud They took out a bag big piece of white canvas, spread it on the ground in front of the house and invited me to sit down. Then the hosts carried the kettle with warm tea and launched a piece of cloth which were chunks of what was once a vast, dry, insipid, tasteless pastry. Together we sat on the denim, drank tea, jammed his handfuls of crumbled cookies and tried to understand each other. It turned out that they were traders from Badakhshan, from that part which is outside the city Ishkashim. They cruised along the route the convoy that was transporting food between their villages and settlements of the Afghan Pamir Kirghiz. The eldest of whom was named Wadud, the youngest - Danuk. I can not remember the name of the man who gave me my knife. Donkeys and horses were loaded Wadud various spices, food, cooking utensils, ornaments, medication and so on. Start material: Read more:
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