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A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush
Eric Newby
Some of the maps in this title are best viewed on a tablet device.A classic of travel writing, ‘A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush’ is Eric Newby’s iconic account of his journey through one of the most remote and beautiful wildernesses on earth.It was 1956, and Eric Newby was earning an improbable living in the chaotic family business of London haute couture. Pining for adventure, Newby sent his friend Hugh Carless the now-famous cable - CAN YOU TRAVEL NURISTAN JUNE? - setting in motion a legendary journey from Mayfair to Afghanistan, and the mountains of the Hindu Kush, north-east of Kabul. Inexperienced and ill prepared (their preparations involved nothing more than some tips from a Welsh waitress), the amateurish rogues embark on a month of adventure and hardship in one of the most beautiful wildernesses on earth - a journey that adventurers with more experience and sense may never have undertaken. With good humour, sharp wit and keen observation, the charming narrative style of ‘A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush’ would soon crystallise Newby's reputation as one of the greatest travel writers of all time.One of the greatest travel classics from one of Britain's best-loved travel writers, this edition includes new photographs, an epilogue from Newby's travelling companion, Hugh Carless, and a prologue from one of Newby's greatest proponents, Evelyn Waugh.
A Short Walkin the Hindu Kush
ERIC NEWBY
Preface by Evelyn Waugh
Epilogue by Hugh Carless
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u21b534a8-8987-5224-ba56-e7faae4298bc)
Dedication (#u16357e5b-dfea-5f82-9ac4-7def72241dc9)
Epigraph (#ucb34ce1e-3861-5b8a-8742-c28ea64854f3)
Maps (#ued6bef9e-5950-5750-83ca-6e74e53ab6f7)
Preface (#ua8056a95-33d1-50be-87c0-2945a8e7d14b)
Chapter One Life of a Salesman (#uc21eb36a-fa6e-5393-9f0c-37839c3caef1)
Chapter Two Death of a Salesman (#uad9e37f6-a529-55a1-b9cf-f46c08424f7d)
Chapter Three Birth of a Mountain Climber (#u61b45916-0373-59b5-bc3d-37dde9ea9829)
Chapter Four Pera Palace (#uaebe355c-77f9-5b14-ae7e-9273f4fa3ae4)
Chapter Five The Dying Nomad (#ue39ff9e0-2f1f-5476-a625-f3f3e986e4f3)
Chapter Six Airing in a Closed Carriage (#u6f771a57-4e59-5ede-9106-14d3b8edc034)
Chapter Seven A Little Bit of Protocol (#u165510ac-5812-58aa-a713-f50ce5685a02)
Chapter Eight Panjshir Valley (#uc1c47004-6b46-5970-ab39-196ea9ef19a9)
Chapter Nine A Walk in the Sun (#uebdc61c7-109b-5dc9-be5c-2e597d970a5d)
Chapter Ten Finding our Feet (#u82769bb3-b1f8-5b47-ba41-ef12c93cc408)
Chapter Eleven Western Approaches (#uc491daca-cdff-520e-981b-fd2019623266)
Chapter Twelve Round 1 (#u3f93a069-58e5-51ae-9b04-18e88ff241bd)
Chapter Thirteen Coming Round the Mountain (#u4b73823b-d5a7-5378-91ce-dcc04c2d4cb3)
Chapter Fourteen Round 2 (#u492a89b3-ca1f-57ec-a29e-2d3c7c2dbf85)
Chapter Fifteen Knock-out (#u4b95edf8-ccee-5f92-8731-85aa56cbc779)
Chapter Sixteen Over the Top (#u97c934fe-57e5-51c1-9899-25f128d766cb)
Chapter Seventeen Going Down! (#uc2a7a05d-8e48-5f1c-a41d-5cc723d2c2e1)
Chapter Eighteen A Room with a View (#u9abe9237-4034-55f5-8a24-70927907d612)
Chapter Nineteen Disaster at Lake Mundul (#uc9939960-cf97-5e58-b651-2380aec5bd64)
Chapter Twenty Beyond the Arayu (#u469e367a-5911-5c61-93ff-6504b38dd0ad)
Epilogue to the 50th Anniversary Edition (#u60c5fc69-570b-5932-b7ef-eea2da5bbf36)
Plates (#u3bb63500-ac63-590c-908a-fab91c63c17d)
Notes (#u24fefa0f-b1b3-542e-8f37-dc9728b9c083)
Acknowledgements (#u0ea23023-2359-5c20-9bdd-f3cc053c0099)
About the author (#ue0e7a570-a1eb-5caf-91cc-4068d81b1641)
Praise (#u0d0304d3-117d-54b8-9815-c2c4ac651717)
Also by the Author (#ucb17057a-af77-5f02-9f7d-934a622dcdab)
Copyright (#u6d6e04d0-0d0c-544c-b072-b235a005d157)
About the publisher (#u2c869f2a-527e-5a1e-9fbb-0a3c4fd8b956)
Dedication (#ulink_0dbb7d69-6b1e-57dd-9598-27ba5f52f05a)
This book is dedicated to Hugh Carless of Her Majesty’s Foreign Service, without whose determination, it must be obvious to anyone who reads it, this journey could never have been made.
Epigraph (#ulink_c04ee1e8-8e45-5ca8-ae8e-ad0cff363865)
‘Il faudrait une expédition bien organisée et pourvue de moyens matérials puissants pour tenter l’étude de cette région de haute montagne dont les rares cols sont à plus de 5000 mètres d’altitude.’
L’Hindou Kouch et le Kaboulistan
Raymond Furon
MAPS (#ulink_0420bfa1-d46b-5d51-8ac3-b381c1810060)
Preface (#ulink_8f2a81a1-9c56-590b-b705-2d2c67ad6b24)
Mr Eric Newby must not be confused with the other English writer of the same surname. I began reading A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush in the belief that it was the work of his namesake, whom I have long relished. I found something equally delightful but quite different.
Mr Eric Newby, I have since learned, is the author of an exciting sea-log, The Last Grain Race, an account of how at the age of eighteen he signed on as an apprentice of the Finnish barque Moshulu, lived in the fo’c’sle as the only Englishman, worked the ship, rounded both capes under sail in all the vicissitudes of the historic and now extinct passage from Australia to the United Kingdom of the grain-carrying windjammers. His career in the army was heroic and romantic. The bravado and endurance which had briefly made him a sailor were turned to the King’s service. After the war he went into the most improbable of trades, haute couture. It would strain the imagination to picture this stalwart young adventurer selling women’s clothes. We are relieved of the difficulty by his own deliciously funny description, which immediately captivates the reader of the opening chapters of A ShortWalk. One can only use the absurdly trite phrase ‘the call of the wild’ to describe the peculiar impetus which carried Mr Newby from Mayfair to the wild mountains of Afghanistan. He was no sailor when he embarked in the Moshulu; he was no mountaineer when he decided to climb the Hindu Kush. A few days scrambling on the rocks in Wales, enchantingly chronicled here, were his sole preparation. It was not mountaineering that attracted him; the Alps abound in opportunities for every exertion of that kind. It was the longing, romantic, reasonless, which lies deep in the hearts of most Englishmen, to shun the celebrated spectacles of the tourist and without any concern with science or politics or commerce, simply to set their feet where few civilized feet have trod.
An American critic who read the manuscript of this book condemned it as ‘too English’. It is intensely English, despite the fact that most of its action takes place in wildly foreign places and that it is written in an idiomatic, uncalculated manner the very antithesis of ‘Mandarin’ stylishness. It rejoices the heart of fellow Englishmen, and should at least illuminate those who have any curiosity about the odd character of our Kingdom. It exemplifies the essential traditional (some, not I, will say deplorable) amateurism of the English. For more than two hundred years now Englishmen have been wandering about the world for their amusement, suspect everywhere as government agents, to the great embarrassment of our officials. The Scotch endured great hardships in the cause of commerce; the French in the cause of either power or evangelism. The English only have half (and wholly) killed themselves in order to get away from England. Mr Newby is the latest, but, I pray, not the last, of a whimsical tradition. And in his writing he has all the marks of his not entirely absurd antecedents. The understatement, the self-ridicule, the delight in the foreignness of foreigners, the complete denial of any attempt to enlist the sympathies of his readers in the hardships he has capriciously invited; finally in his formal self-effacement in the presence of the specialist (with the essential reserve of unexpressed self-respect) which concludes, almost too abruptly, this beguiling narrative – in all these qualities Mr Newby has delighted the heart of a man whose travelling days are done and who sees, all too often, his countrymen represented abroad by other, new and (dammit) lower types.
Dear reader, if you have any softness left for the idiosyncrasies of our rough island race, fall to and enjoy this characteristic artifact.
EVELYN WAUGH
1959
CHAPTER ONE Life of a Salesman (#ulink_68ecef21-6861-59be-9943-a1b8f999bb0b)
With all the lights on and the door shut to protect us from the hellish draught that blew up the backstairs, the fitting-room was like an oven with mirrors. There were four of us jammed in it: Hyde-Clarke, the designer; Milly, a very contemporary model girl with none of the normal protuberances; the sour-looking fitter in whose workroom the dress was being made; and Newby.
Things were not going well. It was the week before the showing of the 1956 Spring Collection, a time when the vendeuses crouched behind their little cream and gold desks, doodling furiously, and the Directors swooped through the vast empty showrooms switching off lights in a frenzy of economy, plunging whole wings into darkness. It was a time of endless fittings, the girls in the workrooms working late. The corset-makers, embroiderers, furriers, milliners, tailors, skirt-makers and matchers all involved in disasters and overcoming them – but by now slightly insane.
This particular dress was a disaster that no one was going to overcome. Its real name, the one on the progress board on the wall of the fitting-room, pinned up with a little flag and a cutting of the material, was Royal Yacht, but by general consent we all called it Grand Guignol.
I held a docket on which all the components used in its construction were written down as they were called up from the stockroom. The list already covered an entire sheet. It was not only a hideous dress; it was soaking up money like a sponge.
‘How very odd. According to the docket Grand Guignol’s got nine zips in it. Surely there must be some mistake.’
Hyde-Clarke was squatting on his haunches ramming pins into Grand Guignol like a riveter.
‘This dress is DOOMED. I know it’s doomed. BOTHER, I’ve swallowed a pin! Pins, quickly, pins.’
The fitter, a thin woman like a wardress at the Old Bailey and with the same look of indifference to human suffering, extended a bony wrist with a velvet pin-cushion strapped to it like a watch. He took three and jabbed them malevolently into the material; Milly swore fearfully.
‘Mind where you’re putting those … pins. What d’you think I am – a bloody yoga?’
‘You MUST stand still, dear; undulation will get you nowhere,’ Hyde-Clarke said.
He stood up breathing heavily and lit a cigarette. There was a long silence broken only by the fitter who was grinding her teeth.
‘What do you think of it now, Mr Newby?’ he said. ‘It’s you who have to sell it.’
‘Much worse, Mr Hyde-Clarke.’ (We took a certain ironic pleasure in calling one another Mister.) ‘Like one of those flagpoles they put up in the Mall when the Queen comes home.’
‘I don’t agree. I think she looks like a Druid in it; one of those terribly runny-nosed old men dressed in sheets at an Eisteddfod. How much has it cost up to now?’
I told him.
‘Breathe OUT, dear. Perhaps you’ll look better without any air. I must say there’s nothing more gruesome than white jersey when it goes wrong.’ ‘Dear’ breathed out and the dress fell down to her ankles. She folded her arms across her shoulders and gazed despairingly at the ceiling so that the whites of her eyes showed.
‘There’s no need to behave like a SLUT,’ said Hyde-Clarke. He was already putting on his covert coat. ‘We’ll try again at two. I am going to luncheon.’ He turned to me. ‘Are you coming?’ he said.
We went to ‘luncheon’. In speech Hyde-Clarke was a stickler in the use of certain Edwardianisms, so that beer and sandwiches in a pub became ‘luncheon’ and a journey in his dilapidated sports car ‘travel by motor’.
Today was a sandwich day. As we battled our way up Mount Street through a blizzard, I screeched in his ear that I was abandoning the fashion industry.
‘I saw the directors this morning.’
‘Oh, what did they say?’
‘That they were keeping me on for the time being but that they make no promises for the future.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I had just had a book accepted for publication and that I am staying on for the time being but I make no promises for the future.’
‘It isn’t true, is it? I can hardly visualize you writing anything.’
‘That’s what the publishers said, originally. Now I want to go on an expedition.’
‘Aren’t you rather old?’
‘I’m just as old here as on an expedition. You can’t imagine anything more rigorous than this, can you? In another couple of years I’ll be dyeing my hair.’
‘In another couple of years you won’t have any to dye,’ said Hyde-Clarke.
On the way back from ‘luncheon’, while Hyde-Clarke bought some Scotch ribs in a fashionable butcher’s shop, I went into the Post Office in Mount Street and sent a cable to Hugh Carless, a friend of mine at the British Embassy, Rio de Janeiro.
CAN YOU TRAVEL NURISTAN JUNE?
It had taken me ten years to discover what everyone connected with it had been telling me all along, that the Fashion Industry was not for me.
CHAPTER TWO Death of a Salesman (#ulink_eb21b1f2-0200-5320-86f2-8e7b72c18ba3)
The rehearsal was set for four o’clock on Tuesday. At eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning I was called to the telephone. It was the London agent of one of the great New York stores.
‘Miss Candlemass is coming to see your Collection this afternoon.’
‘We’re only having the rehearsal this afternoon. The opening’s tomorrow.’
‘Miss Candlemass has a very tight schedule.’ (I wanted to say I was sorry and hoped that it would be better soon.) ‘She’s on her way home from Paris. She’s open to buy.’
‘We’ll be very happy if she comes to the rehearsal. It’s at four o’clock.’
‘She’s only free at one-thirty. Make it one-thirty and you’ll have to be READY. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
He went on to say that Miss Candlemass was only interested in tweed suits and that the material had to be of a precise weight and proof against the corruptions of moth and rust and every other natural and unnatural ailment.
I told the Managing Director. He pretended to be unimpressed. I told the Head of the Boutique, who was not unnaturally furious, We told the workrooms that they had two and a half hours less to make the final adjustments in the suits and one of the skirt-makers had hysterics and had to lie down on the couch reserved for those suffering from female disorders; we told the model girls that they would have to lunch in the canteen, all four had lunch dates; the Commissionaire was warned to man the porte cochère; the counting-house was ordered to stand by from one o’clock onwards to be ready to answer any difficult questions about shipping and customs. I set off in a taxi on a circular tour of London cloth merchants to obtain swatches of the sort of material required by Miss Candlemass. Then I came back and re-costed the collection.
By one-thirty the atmosphere was electric. The Commissionaire was in position; the Head of the Boutique was ready to receive Miss Candlemass; the model girls were poised on the threshold of the changing-room with the first suits strapped on, like racehorses under starter’s orders. I had just finished heavily annotating three programmes in dollars. The only person not present was Hyde-Clarke.
‘I do not propose to change the habits of a lifetime to suit the convenience of a citizen of the United States,’ he remarked, and departed to luncheon. He proved to be the only one of us who had correctly appreciated the situation.
At half past three Miss Candlemass arrived. It was quite obvious, without her saying so, which she did incessantly during her brief stay on the premises, that she had been lunching at Claridges.
