Chitral. April 1992.

Something pulling deep strings inside me.

Scenery that tears my retina.

Shy, curiosity from wide, young eyes

And their, laughing, gaiety when my presence is accepted.

Dirty gutter and babbling, brown stream.

Grey, silver walls and tumbling scree.

A great, thick, warm jumper.

A pippy orange,

Candles to bed and they are talking in Chitrali outside where they sleep on the veranda.

4-wheel drive country, bump, ditch and cliff hanging.

Splashes of colour in children with short gum boots.

The polo horses sweat and the polite clapping crowd.

You can feel, see and taste the music.

Honesty , always, from outside the hatred.

Dirty water served ‘room service’ with masculine domesticity.

Hard, dry nan and chewy meat…but it all tastes so good because I am here, at last.

The blue/purple irises and long eared “Baaa..baa”

The sound of running water everywhere.

Juniper fingered, a goddess on a mountainside, standing with these 3 bearded philosophers, gazing in awe. Silent statues crouched against the skyline, seeking, and finding some peace.

One language in this valley another in the next. A cocktail of peoples, the mountain variety. Away from the city and feeling the space. Mind open, frozen, still and at rest.

I have never fallen in love with a place soo quickly.

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