The four-by-four jumps at a slow pace on the uneven ground. Inside it, I too jump at every hole and rock along the way. Jafar, our driver, looks at me and smiles. It has been almost one hour since we left the main road to join the path that sinks into the Birir Valley, in northern Pakistan. It is late morning, and the August sun begins to be felt. The village shouldn't be far away, but apparently, not even our guide knows exactly where it is. We skirt the river along a path built on the ridge of the mountain. Suddenly the path turns abruptly around a bend and, on the far end, a suspended wooden bridge appears in front of us connecting the two banks. We get off the four-by-four without hiding our thrill. Beyond the bridge, an agglomeration of wooden and stone houses makes a spectacle of itself. The village climbs along the side of the mountain around a sinuous staircase made of rammed earth and wooden planks.

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We came here to spend four days among the Kalash in their three valleys just west of Citral: Birir, Bambouret and Rumbur.

The Kalash descends from the people of ancient Kafiristan, a historical region that extended at the foot of the Hindu Kush mountain range, on territory spanning across the border between present-day Afghanistan and Pakistan. The name Kafiristan literally means "land of the infidels" in Farsi, and it designated a community of people of animist religion, therefore not Islamic. Even today, the Kalash represent a different minority in Pakistan both religiously and culturally. How different, we would soon discover.

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I cross the bridge with a feeling of anticipation, almost without taking my eyes off the tangle of houses, trying to catch a glimpse of any moving figure. I see nobody. My traveling companions must have made it to the upper part of the agglomeration already. I start climbing the steps. The silence of the valley is broken only by the sound of the river. I keep looking around without knowing what to look for. The doors of the houses are ajar or open. Suddenly, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye: a colored garment through the cracks between wooden weathered planks. A woman leans over a balcony, looks at me and, for a heartbeat, draws up dumbfounded. She probably did not expect a passer-by so strangely out of the ordinary: sunglasses, cap with turned back visor, short-sleeved T-shirt (almost completely wet with sweat), backpack, and camera. "Hello". I wave and smile. International code, I suppose. She raises her hand to say hello and, by doing so, she could not hold a laugh which she covers with her hand as if ashamed.

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Kalash women do not use to cover their heads with a veil, or at least it does not seem to be enforced. They have colorful circular headdresses open at the top and adorned with shells and colored stones woven to form patterns. A band attached to the rear side hangs on the back recalling the same embroideries. They wear long black cotton dresses finely embroidered with colored wool threads. Belts also made of woven wool and spectacular quantities of multicolored grain necklaces complete the outfit. Traditionally, garment making is a domestic affair. Walking through the villages, it is common to meet busy women in front of a sewing machine or weaving threads on their looms with expert hands. I laugh at the irony of the comparison. They and I: a foreign tourist who can't stop sweating wearing the bare minimum of clothing under the Pakistani summer sun.

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I continue my ascent along the steps. There are three children standing in a corner, on a landing. Eyes half-closed the face contracted in the grimace typical of those who look against the sunlight.

Their clothes are identical. A blue knees-long shirt over trousers of the same fabric and a green hat with the writing "PAKISTAN" under a star that recalls the national flag. I assume it's a school uniform.

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During our stay in the three valleys, I asked to be allowed into the schools. The teachers (all men) proved to be happy and willingly supported the initiative. In the main villages, there are often at least two primary schools. One governmental, the other private. In Rumbur, I had the chance, accompanied by two of my friends, to see both. The governmental school, which the locals called the "Kalash school", is a stone structure, apparently of a single room. There were desks and about twenty children overall. The males are grouped in the first two rows. Behind them, some rows of empty desks and, further back, in the rows along the back wall, the girls in their colorful dresses. Difficult to understand whether it was a random arrangement or not. The communication with the teacher was complicated because of the language. English is one of the official languages ​​in Pakistan, but there are very few Kalash people with whom it is possible to have fluent communication in English. Kalasha is the commonly spoken language and children study both Urdu and English at school.

The private school is located in a more complex structure. An outdoor patio equipped for recreational activities and three classrooms according to the pupils' age. There were more teachers, one of them, Aurang, speaks perfect English. There were no desks and the children were sitting on the floor. Again the same arrangement: the boys seated in front and the girls behind. I, therefore, sensed that it cannot simply be a coincidence. But I noticed another difference: the girls were all wearing the veil on their heads. I reckoned it must have been a Muslim-oriented school.

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The three children on the staircase talk to each other in a low voice and keep staring at me as I continue to climb towards them. Their lively curiosity seems to be held back by a sense of caution. When a few meters from them I raise my hand and greet with a smile, they answer almost in unison "Hello - how are you - fine thanks". It sounds like a recited rhyme, however, judging by the sense of hilarity, it must seem like a funny situation to them. Amused as much as they are, I try to establish basic communication, asking them to be my guide and show me the place. They look at each other questioningly and I understand they couldn't make sense of my request. I try awkwardly to express myself with gestures that they mimic sarcastically. Whether they understood the meaning or not, they eventually nod to me and start moving up the stairs, turning back from time to time to make sure that I am following. I notice that one of them has light hair and strikingly green eyes.

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Recent DNA studies have tried to give an explanation to the mysterious genetic origin of the Kalash. The results show a correspondence with Western Eurasian characters. Other studies seem to show that this is a completely separate group. The legend according to which they descend from the Macedonian soldiers who arrived in this area during Alexander the Great's conquest expeditions, fascinating as it is, is no more than that: a legend. Whether scientific or mythological the explanation that one wants to give, it is captivating to find in these faces features and colors so different from those characteristics of these latitudes.

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As I continue to climb, I begin to hear the voices of my traveling companions. The three children wave their hands towards them and tell me something in their language. I understand that their interpretation of our mission was to rejoin me in the group. Fair enough! There is an elderly man among my friends. He says he is Muslim and offers to escort us on a tour of the village. He moves with an expert attitude and gestures left and right with his hands as he walks like a proper guide. I understand very little, almost nothing of what he says. Nonetheless, I look interested in the direction he points out from time to time. Suddenly, without any pause, he climbs the three steps that give access to a house's balcony. He enters and so we do behind him. The balcony communicates with an open courtyard, at the far side of which an old lady looks at us motionless, trying to understand what is happening in her house. The man goes and talks to her, while she moves her gaze alternately between her interlocutor and us, the picture of the situation progressively clearing up in her mind. A few moments later, the man returns to us followed by the woman who smiles amused and, gesticulating conspicuously, invites us to enter the house. As I enter, I notice a penetrating smell of smoke, a preamble to the scene that we are about to witness. In the house there are other women, in fact, it seems there are only women. They are in front of the kitchen. Square blocks of stone placed against a wall, limit the hob inside which, suspended over the fire, a huge teapot blackened by soot mumbles. One of the women has black dots drawn on her cheeks and chin and others in the shape of a cross on her forehead. It is not a tattoo as she explains, but rather a traditional and symbolic sort of makeup. Her hair is tied up in braids. Five to be exact: one on the forehead and two on each side of her head. She is holding a little girl a few years old with her hair practically shaved. The little girl looks at us with indifference, while her mother smiles in amazement at how a domestic scene apparently irrelevant to her can actually appear so interesting to us.

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The Kalash economy is basic but self-sufficient. Agriculture and livestock provide basic necessities. Construction and garment production are also largely managed within the community. Many of the customs and the celebrations of the past are maintained. On superficial analysis, it would seem that the Kalash are among those few communities that remain tied to traditions and resist the push of globalization. A more attentive observer, however, would not overlook the satellite antennas mounted on the roofs (some of which are made of tin and no longer of wood). It was fun to see the family who ran our guesthouse in Bambouret watching a Bollywood-style movie on their giant LCD flat-screen TV. Or it is not so strange to enter a house with a wonderfully exotic and handcrafted feature and spot a desktop PC on top of a wooden table decorated with inlays of ancestral inspiration. Nor should we be surprised by the scene of a mother intent on embroidering a traditional dress with a little girl next to her playing with a smartphone. After all, why should we? The world around them changes, evolves. Pretending from the new Kalash generations not to want what we want and advertise would be hypocrisy. I find myself thinking that the best wish for these warm people is to find a way to bring together progress and tradition in a balance in which neither is left behind. And above all that, perhaps starting from an investment in education, they can themselves become the architects of their progress, manage their innovation, rather than simply becoming a market to be exploited by foreign producers.

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I greet politely, my friends lingering a bit longer with the family. I leave the house from the same balcony from which I entered. I stop on the three steps looking at the street. A middle-aged woman and a little girl emerge from a corner and come down to my direction hand in hand. Their clothes are a festival of colors to which I am now starting to get used. They walk indifferently. They pass about two meters from me without looking in my direction. I think that, after all, my condition as a foreigner does not necessarily have to be a cause for curiosity. I watch them go away. But just before the next corner, the little girl turns around without stopping and glances at me. Realizing that she herself is being looked at, she turns back immediately and disappears around the corner, forever.

 

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Thanks to Gonzalo from Phototravel for organizing this trip. To Amin for being a perfect guide along all our staying in Pakistan. To my travel companions Arantxa, Charlie, Carlos, Carmelo, David, Josep, Juan, Mike, Pilar and Rosa for being so friendly and fun. To Jafar and all the drivers that drove us around restlessly. To ms. Akiko, author of the book "Kalasha" whom I met in Rumbur. To Aurang, the teacher who let us visit his school and shared his experience. And special thanks to all the people I met in the valleys for being so hospitable and genuine.

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