Forrest grump

With temperatures finally rising to a balmy 22 degrees Celsius, mountain life has taken on a new pace: Popeye soaks up the sunshine in his chair which is strategically placed upwind of his wife’s buffalo; Olive Oil has turfed every single item out of her mud-walled, mud-floored home for a cleansing sun-bath; Hitler’s wife is on water duty, swaying gracefully down the track with a red plastic bucket balanced on her head and Forrest Gump is lurching towards my front gate, shoulders hunched, hatchet face set in engrained lines of concentration, disintegrating, too large trainers, slopping on his shuffling feet. He resembles a ferret crossed with a scarecrow and I know exactly what he wants. We have gone through this before and will, no doubt, replay the scene a few dozen times more before the summer is over.

“Asalaam alekum,” he mutters, staring at the ground as if it is going to leap up and hit him.

“Wa alekum a salaam,” I reply looking down on him from high… i.e. the top of the retaining wall which is a good 12 feet above the subsiding apology for a road. Actually, this ‘high point’ comes in pretty useful for spotting the boles of stolen fir trees being smuggled out in the backs of jeeps and for zeroing in on construction material being ‘quietly’ transported further down the steep mountainside for illegal house building. Not that I can do much about these two obscenities, the Forestry department doesn’t listen and local planning laws are for breaking and I’ve long since given up trying to alter the unalterable.

Forrest Gump chews nervously on the inside of his cheek, racking his brains for the well-rehearsed speech to come.

“Grass is growing well for the time of year” he haltingly begins. “Grown another two inches overnight.”

I nod my head and wait.

“Needs cutting. That little lawn I have needs cutting. It’ll only take 10 minutes or so. I’ll bring your lawn mower right back. Be back with it in a tic. Doesn’t take long to cut that patch. I’ll bring it straight back. Can I borrow your lawn mower for a while?”

I shake my head.

“It’s only a little patch” he whines as if he’s been whipped.

I shake my head again.

“Why not?” he finds the courage to demand.

“The last time I lent it you didn’t bring it back. I waited a week, then had to climb up to your house to get it. You’d broken the handle which I had to get fixed. No.”

“It won’t happen again,” he promises.

“No it won’t,” I tell him, “because you’re going to have to cut it by hand.” And so saying I begin to retreat towards my front door and am almost through it when he fires his parting shot.

“Your phone line’s gone,” he raises his voice and grins. “Went sometime this afternoon. Didn’t see anybody taking it but it was there at lunchtime and it ain’t there now.”

‘Now’ being 4.30 p.m. on a Friday evening, an evening I’d already planned to spend online if the electricity stayed on of course.  The phone was working at 3.30 p.m. therefore, if he was correct in his timing, then someone stole the line between 3.30 p.m. and 4.30 p.m.

Telephone lines have a habit of ‘walking’ up here, particularly during the summer months when people flock to this relatively cool area in droves. They pile into vehicles of all descriptions and head up to the hills for a day’s outing from Rawalpindi and other hot spots within picnicking distance. Their first stop, unless visiting relatives of course, is usually Murree where they parade up and down the Mall until the novelty wears off.  Next stop Bhurban to have their photographs taken outside the entrance to the supposedly 5-star hotel. They can’t get in through the gates and past tight security without paying an entrance fee of Rs 300 per person so they settle for posing against its ‘name plate’ instead.

Then, as the heat goes out of the day and they think of wending their weary way homewards, they look around for souvenirs. Some settle for aromatic pine cones, others for garlands of daisies and yet others, wanting to make a return on their investment, load up with ‘just off the beaten track’ telephone lines which they sell for scrap. The police do apprehend these criminals at times but this doesn’t help those of us who are suddenly minus a landline.

Hats off to the telephone department though. At least up here, the lineman rummages around for replacement wire almost as soon as he is notified and then struggles, heroically, to fasten it higher up difficult-to-climb trees than before, disguising it in greenery as he goes. Minus the convenience of  actual poles, my own line gets moved around the forest at least four times a year on average and the lineman long since took to leaving extra lengths of wire here to save on replacement time. Having absolutely no idea how much of my two kilometres of wire has ‘absconded’ this time I hope he can cobble something together in the morning. He has a tough job on his hands tomorrow it seems as at least six other houses have been plunged into silence.

With my day well and truly ‘made’ I headed out to water some rapidly dehydrating plant pots just before the sun went down. Filling up the watering can from a rainwater tank, acknowledging that both the can and the tank badly need a coat of paint, I homed in on thirsty plants, tilting the can to spray position but only a dribble emerged. Presuming the ‘rose’ as it is called, was blocked by debris, I pulled it off and gave it a shake — nothing came out. I could hear something inside going thumpity thump so I held it up to the light for a better look. . .screamed, dropped it and ran.

It was inhabited by what looked exactly like a rolled up baby snake. Yikes.

With the help of a stick, I tossed it over the garden fence out on to the road where it landed at the feet of two very startled passers-by. “Snake” I yelled as one of them bent to pick it up. “There’s a snake inside!”

Armed with leather gauntlets and a very big stick, they carefully set about extracting the intruder which, as there are highly poisonous snakes around — vipers, cobras and kraits to name but three — called for the highest degree of caution. As something tumbled out, all three of us leapt sky high before simultaneously dissolving into relieved, if slightly hysterical, laughter. It was not one but two snakes and both well and truly dead.

I decided to batten down the hatches and see what tomorrow brings. Communication would be good.

Published in the Express Tribune, June 13^th, 2010.