The Chitral fairytale — where mountains whisper secrets – Pakistan

Making your way up to the Chilam Joshi Festival, which requires a short trek, can be a daunting task. One has to make their way through the crowd of tourists that pushes against you like the waves of a turbulent sea. The unforgiving sun glares holes into your back as you try to find footing on the uneven pathways.

But the journey to the heart of the festivities, one wood plank at a time, culminates into an unforgettable adventure. Once close enough, a flurry of colours welcomes you. In the centre of the action, dances held in an open arena instantly immerse the viewer. Arm in arm, indigenous Kalash girls groove to the beat of folk music.

In essence, the dance exhibits the various stages of life as women, across all ages, perform. In some instances, a man from the tribe would jump into the circle, a colourful scarf hanging loosely around his neck, his head adorned with a hat boasting a bright feather.

“The dances are about as old as when Alexander roamed these lands,” said Ejaz. The Greek ruler and explorer travelled through the lands of what is now modern-day Pakistan in 327 BCE. Though there is little proof that he ventured through what is now Chitral, there is no doubt that the Kalash have a unique culture and language.

However, in the backdrop of cultural curiosity brimming with bright colours and feathers lies a harsh reality. During the spring festival, several unsavoury individuals make themselves known among the throng of tourists, with groups of men comprising the majority of domestic visitors.

Many of these male tourists are enticed by the dangerous and incorrect idea that they can choose and take a Kalash woman at will. “Men have told me they were disappointed they could not get a Kalash girl,” said a travel companion who had visited the valley twice.

“The Kalash only marry within their tribe; if a member of the tribe marries an outsider, then they are ostracised,” Ejaz added.

As my curiosity got the better of me, I asked our guide if it was true that the Kalash chose their spouse during festival dances. “We choose our spouse before the festival and the couple decides which festival they’ll officiate their marriage. The festivals double as a wedding,” he replied.

Immediately after the bright colours and vivaciousness of the festival, I was taken to a more sobering site — a Kalash graveyard.

Through a narrow dusty path, past a restaurant, and across a small bridge, the graveyard surrounded by trees offered a solemn silence. At first, I was taken aback; caskets above ground filled the older part of the funerary site. “We used to lay our dead in caskets above ground with their wealth,” Ejaz explained.

“But now we bury them and place a charpoy on the burial spot.”

The Kalash are no longer buried with their possessions because “the white people stole it all”, he said, referring to the British colonial rule.

Another ritual that the Kalash have is to dance when someone passes away. “It is to comfort the bereaved and celebrate the deceased’s return to God and a better place,” said Ejaz. This harkens to the Kalash belief that everything in the universe is connected, like a dot, and in tune with nature.

Interestingly though, the graveyard was not just the final resting place for the locals but also ‘outsiders’. A Spanish zoologist is also buried there, his grave marked by a white plaque. Deeply inspired by the tribe, the Spaniard wanted to live like the Kalash and be buried the same way.

Moving away from the festival and along a path less taken by tourists, the backstreets of homestays led me to a small market area where the Kalash sell their merchandise; headdresses decorated with feathers, shells and tassels and ornately detailed embroidery.

The tin-roofed shops entice tourists with dresses, featuring colourful laces and contrasting designs, hung at the entrance. Each item is handwoven with care on a loom; the headdresses take about two weeks to sew while the dresses take 10 days.

Amid these vibrant displays, glimpses of ordinary life are hard to miss — children running along the narrow streets, sharing snacks as a grandmother knitting outside a shop watches on tenderly.

Deeper in the market is a small opening that leads to a residential area. Built in proximity, old wooden houses stand tall. Steep steps lead to small mezzanines, connected by sloped wooden stairs leading to small cabins where the Kalash reside.

Climbing these steep slopes can be challenging, but when you see how effortlessly the locals manoeuvre up and down them day after day you understand how different their lives are from ours. This is what keeps the Kalash close to their ancestors. That and their 200-year-old abodes.

The house I visited belonged to an elderly couple who were close to 100 years old. Their wooden cabin was dark, only illuminated by daylight seeping through the windows. The walls were decorated with animal hides and skulls. A black cauldron of wine and two wooden chairs were the only other furniture in the room.

“Ishpata (hello),” greeted the elderly lady with a kind smile and a gentle shake of hands. Happy to have visitors, she posed for pictures and then led us over to the cauldron. “The wine is still in the brewing process but once done, it is stronger than whiskey,” laughed Ejaz. After dusk, the wine is served to foreign tourists visiting the valley.

As I bid farewell to the elderly couple, I was led to a more upscale store. Inside, a bright sitting room showcased wooden shelves adorned with framed photographs of visitors to the valley, including former president Pervez Musharraf.

Yet, commuting in Chitral is not an easy feat. Driving through the winding dusty and bumpy tracks, with little to no barrier, is not for the faint of heart and take a seasoned driver.

“In a way, it’s good that the roads are not well maintained, and difficult to reach; it keeps nature’s beauty intact,” said Chitrali princess Mina.

Hassam Shah, chief executive officer of the travel group, Rawan Pakistan, concurred. “If you look at commercialised areas in northern Pakistan such as Saif-ul-Malook Lake, all you will see is litter, hawkers and traffic,” he said.

But these unpaved roads are not the only problem Chitral faces. The city faces a lack of clean water, electricity and gas.

At a two-hour distance from Chitral town, inside a small shack in Gol National Park, a man prepared tea on a woodfire. Despite a bunch of light switches outside, the interior of the shack was dark and dingy.

Chopping fruit with the little light that seeped through the windows, a middle-aged man told me that the switches were rarely useful due to the lack of electricity. “We are dependent on electricity from solar power but not all areas can afford panels,” he said.

“There is no gas up here in the mountains, I have to hike for dry wood.”

That day, as the sun set over the beautiful valley, I realised how these scenic mountains, beyond their glory, were a chamber of dark secrets. In Chitral, women face the brunt of these hardships.

“Women throw themselves into the river because of the pressure to either get married or perform well academically; there is also domestic abuse,” said local travel group head Hassam, pointing to the fast-flowing Chitral River.

Despite their strenuous circumstances, the people of Chitral offer visitors a warmth rarely found in many touristy areas.

“You will not find this kind of hospitality in any other area in the north nor an appreciation and respect for cultural traditions. Influencers often travel to the northern areas only for internet validation and views … they never look at the lived experiences of locals,” Hassam lamented.

From genuine smiles, and fluffy walnut parathas with fresh goat cheese to the myths of fairy princesses and breathtaking views, Chitral makes a place for itself in the hearts of travellers, its mountains beckoning them to visit again.

All photos provided by the author.