Seven

The same business is being repeated again today, and at this moment, dispensing is going on through the window.
A fair sized stream comes down through the village from a valley above, and comes out through a very fine rocky gorge.
On one side to the entrance to the gorge is a great rock, about 300 feet high, which is fortified by rough stone sangas (defensive walls) built in inaccessible positions, and this morning I had a walk round with my camera.
There is an old fort near by, and also a very fine timber-built mosque, with very beautifully carved doors and beams.
The woodwork in many of the houses is carved. The houses are built of large pebbles below, and large sandy bricks above, the windows being closed by wattle. The flat roofs are used a good deal for sitting out on, and for drying apricots
We are beginning to think that the natives know more about the Nushik La (pass) to Hunza than they say.
The Wazir, who, as I said, was at first much against going that way, but has now decided to come with us (Neve says he was “appointed to accompany me”) said yesterday: “If we have a fine day like this we shall not want ropes” (Why?), which seems to indicate that he knew something about it.
We are starting the day after tomorrow (Wednesday) and hope, all going well, to get across the Nushik La and down to Hunza next week.

Tuesday 27 Aug. Today Neve has had more work than ever, and had had to send people away (a fact not mentioned by the good doctor in his book). 120 new cases and 60 old have been treated today, and he performed 7 operations for cataracts before breakfast.
The whole crowd of patients and others coming to see the show has thronged the door of the bungalow all day. Neve and Gustaveson preaches to them from the little grandstand of the polo ground, where Neve also did his operations.
Before tiffin, I climbed to the top of the rock at the entrance to the gorge. It makes a very strong defensive position. I also climbed some way up a hillside to get a photo of Shigar and the whole Shigar valley to the north. The view was very fine, and very beautiful.

For several miles below, along the foot of the mountains on the east side of the valley stretched what looked like a forest of fruit trees, broken here and there to make room for the bright green fields, whilst a dozen or more clusters of flat-roofed houses nestle here and there among the trees, the flat tops of the houses shining gold with the apricots laid out to dry. Beyond, lay a network of green, yellow and purple fields down to the edge of the sandy plain, with its many winding channels of the Shigar River, and flanked on either side into the far distance by mountains, many from 9 to 12 thousand feet above the river plain. A white rushing stream cut straight across the green country from beneath me, besides many smaller streams, flowing about in every direction.
When I got back, I found the polo ground surrounded by a crowd of natives watching a game, which had been announced by the beating of drums all the morning. As usual, the band sat at the end of the ground and played a sort of running commentary to the game, playing a loud and triumphant air when a goal was hit, or when the Rajah had a run down with the ball.
One wouldn’t think these fellows have much play in them when one sees them mooching about in their long sort of swaddling clothes.
At the end of the game, the winning side 9 in number, went and stood in front of the band and cheered, holding their sticks aloft, and then came a little way down the ground and sat in a row, and the other side retired to the further end of the ground and walked slowly up towards the winners, salaaming very low, and throwing a little earth over their shoulders. Then the winners rose and went forward to meet them. Then all salaamed down to the ground and embraced.
The ground was then invaded by 60 or 70 little boys with hockey sticks.
These customs at polo are observed, I believe, in all these mountain districts.
We are starting at 8 o’clock tomorrow (Wednesday) morning. We are rather sorry to leave as this must be one of the prettiest places in Kashmir, though Neve hasn’t had much time to enjoy the scenery. I wonder we are not ill considering the amount of fruit of all kinds we have been eating at every meal, and between meals as well.
We shall probably send letters back by Gustaveson from Arandu (“Arundo” writes Neve) on Saturday.