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forest
fire History,
culture and much more
forest
fire Incumbency list of the
Presidents of Indian Economists Association between the years 1917 to 2010 is
a directory of towering personalities including Professor Amartaya Sen (1989)
and Dr Manmohan Singh (1985). Year 1944 is unique as the only year showing a
Muslim entry — Professor K.L. Hyder — renowned academician at Aligarh
Muslim University. Finding his name on the
visitor’s book of Chawan Forest Lodge, constructed in 1888 and located some
20 miles drive from Murree, was naturally a pleasant surprise. However, it
did not take long for surprise to assume romantic proportions as my eyes ran
towards the “remarks” column on the decrepit pages. “Just wandered”
was how the esteemed Professor succinctly described his two-day stay
(21-05-1945 to 22-05-1945) in that pine covered wilderness. Later, Mr. B. Stainton Esq,
OBE, ICS, Deputy Commissioner Rawalpindi spent three days in the same rest
house during the snowy December of 1945, and wrote “awfully beautiful”
alongside an entry regarding payment of “three anna” probably as room
rent. I came across these
snapshots of frozen times in the same Chawan Forest Lodge many years later in
1990s, as I spent several days leading a team of foresters and coolies trying
to beat a jungle fire. The fire had erupted as someone had thrown a glass
bottle in thick pine jungles along Karor-Ariari Road. Surprisingly, tinder
dry and resin-impregnated pine needles easily catch fire from sunrays
collected by thick glass of a bottle. Originally starting in a
thick stand of pole trees, the fire had mercilessly engulfed the whole ridge
that ran eastwards towards Lehtrar and westwards along one of the finest
mixed scrub and Chir jungles of Sambli Bheramaal. It was at the end of one of
those long days, when we had sweated and sweltered for nearly 16 long hours
from dawn to dusk, hopelessly trying to handle the fire which veteran
foresters described as the fiercest in many decades. Extinguishing — or
more correctly — beating back raging jungle fires in Chir pine jungles can
be termed as one of the most draining activities that man can think of. Chir
pine trees are rich in combustible resin as are the millions of its needles
(leaves) which are liberally shed on forest floor. As if these two were not
enough to kindle fire spell for days on end, the pine cones (rounded fruit of
Chir pine trees) which are produced in dozens over each mature tree, pop,
spark, snap and burst like crackling hand-grenades, carrying the burning
frenzy of jungle fire in all conceivable directions. The first trick in beating
jungle fire is trying to figure out the so called “tongue” or the advance
battalion of flaming fury. Only decades of experience in dealing with jungle
fires enable one to correctly decipher the exact direction wherefrom remedial
measures can be planned. Getting this right is onerous responsibility as any
miscalculation can literally backfire with every possibility of being roasted
alive as small missiles of pine cones are relentlessly shot at your team. Once, the direction of
advancing fire has been determined, score of additional issues also need to
be settled including the direction of wind, the gradient The particular fire that I
am referring to would not succumb to any tricks that our team of experienced
foresters could think of. It was then that I started thinking about having
recourse to that perilous and extremely dangerous tactic around a
foresters’ belt — backfiring — which virtually means beating jungle
fire with another, purpose-built fire. This is one of the most lethal
professional hazards as the fire handling team virtually locks itself between
two firewalls (one natural and the other man-made) and any error can cease
all escape routes, leading to serious burn injuries or even death. Veteran
foresters strongly advise against this suicidal mission, which is only to be
undertaken in cases of extreme situations — for example impending damage to
human settlements. Having made up my mind much against the wishes of old
foresters, I announced my intention of setting up a new fire from a
scrub-covered slope early next morning and called it a day. Back in the rest house —
covered in dust and ashes and with a body full of bruises received from
forcing our ways through smouldering embers and thorny thickets — I
mindlessly got hold of the old visitor book that I have already alluded to.
As I turned its pages, reading old accounts and expressions, my mind was
battling the precarious question about where to start our fire early next
morning. While puzzled about various eventualities, my eyes suddenly got
fixed on an old entry on that visitor book. It was year 1929 and one Mr.
Treample, Deputy Conservator of Forests from erstwhile Indian Forest Service
had these lines written in a quaint and cascading handwriting. “Jane and
myself spent last four days in Chawan bungalow, working with coolies and
guards; have succeeded in beating down an ominous fire, like of which I have
never seen before. But for having started beating back the fire from that
dilapidated fire tower, jungles in whole of this block would have been burnt
to ashes; Jane is exhausted yet glowing with success”. I doubt, if Jane — the
valiant wife of that old timed British forester — would have glowed with
even half of radiance that my face must have shown on that gloomy night at
this revelation in Chawan bungalow. I had long known about the existence of a
fire watch tower in the jungles on Ariari ridge (these fire towers were built
in pre-partition days for helping watch-over by foresters in fire season for
timely identification of any smoke or fire build-up in remote jungle areas).
With this great clue, I could not close my eyes for whole of that night with
anticipation. My team and I were up
around “false dawn” next morning and in forced marches, and listening to
raging noise of fire all around when we reached the fire tower. It was indeed
an excellent vantage point and by another hour, we had set up two fires along
the northern and western ridges, starting directly below the fire tower. An
hour or so of initial hiccups and then the converging fires started slowing
down. Major jungle shrubs in the path of two vicious fire columns were burnt
and by mid-day there was nothing to sustain the groaning fires and around
dusk, the fires gradually died down. I could not be more grateful to the
visitor book of Chawan forest lodge. Anyone interested in
visiting this watch tower (re-built some 15 years ago) should take the road
from Charah Chowk to Ban and some two kilometres after crossing the small
town of Karor, take the kacha road to the left. A walk of around 45 minutes
would take you to one of the most beautiful fire towers in Murree Jungles. Another fire tower can also
be reached near the dilapidated Charehan forest bungalow in blue pine jungles
along Lower Topa-Gulehra Galli ridge. However, the latter one is much old and
a rickety metal structure and should only be mounted on massive personal
risk. In case, you visit the
Chawan bungalow, please remember to have a look at the entry by Professor L.K.
Hyder and many other quaint visitors to this erstwhile paradise. The visitor
book was mercilessly damaged some years ago by some unscrupulous visitor,
otherwise a noble name to reckon with, washing away many priceless entries
not only from fast paling pages but also from annals of bygone times.
History,
culture and much more I have visited Balochistan
a number of times; mainly making short trips to Quetta. However, on two occasions,
in early 1994 and again 12 months later, I had the chance to travel through
the beautiful and largely unknown, misunderstood province of Balochistan —
to the treeless plains of Sibbi to the apple orchards in Kalat to the
moon-like landscape of Dalbandin to the sprawling date farms near Turbat to
the snow-topped, juniper-covered hills of Ziarat to the virgin territory of
Gwadar. Together, colleagues, friends and I, we enjoyed the Baloch
hospitality, its breathtaking scenery and its rich culture and history. These
visits enabled me to experience first-hand the daily struggles of the local
people as well as their hopes and aspirations. Balochistan left an
indelible mark on my memory. The pristine beauty of
Balochistan is best encapsulated by the peculiarly named Pir Ghaib. It was
reached by travelling 10 kilometres on a jeepable track that veered left from
the road connecting Sibbi and Quetta somewhere in the middle of the Bolan
Pass. Surrounded by lofty mountains and huge boulders, lay Pir Ghaib where a
breathtaking waterfall and a crystal clear pond with date trees lining the
periphery added to the serenity of the place. According to local
folklore, the idyllic place is named after a saint who used to meditate at
the spot till he disappeared suddenly one fine day. Balochistan’s wealth of
history surprised me. My first encounter with history came at the Sibbi mela
— or horse and cattle show — and a visit to the museum showcasing an
impressive collection of photographs on the Quaid-e-Azam’s life. Quaid had visited Sibbi in
February 1948 on the occasion of Sibbi Darbar and addressed the Shahi Jirga
at the Jirga Hall. He spent some of his last days at the famous Residency
which is set on snow-covered slopes amid dwindling juniper forests. But history goes much
further back. Not far from Sibbi is Mehrgarh where remains of a civilisation
estimated to date back to 7,000 B.C. spread over a wide area. The uncovered
remains are said to provide conclusive evidence of crop cultivation, animal
husbandry and human settlements. French experts, working at the site at the
time, believed that Moenjodaro rose only after Mehrgarh had become history. A week in a chilly Kalat,
with day time temperatures rising to an average high of -10 degrees
centigrade, allowed sufficient time to visit the palace of the Khan of Kalat.
Shaped like a ship, the palace is an impressive storehouse of fine china,
carpets and furniture dating back to the glory days of the state. Just outside the town of
Kalat was the huge mound of Qila Miri which afforded a bird’s eye view of
the numerous sprawling apple orchards with the RCD highway snaking its way
past low hills towards Khuzdar. Qila Miri is said to have been the original,
seven-storey-high palace of the Khan of Kalat that was probably destroyed in
the 1935 earthquake. The view from the castle of
Punnon — the hero of the folk tale Sassi Punnon — in the outskirts of
Turbat was not dissimilar to that afforded by Qila Miri. It was just that the
apple orchards were replaced by the extensive date farms that stretched out
towards the Central Mekran Range. Two or three crumbling mud-and-brick walls
were all that remained of the castle.
With a vast, empty area and
low population density, Balochistan’s problems have their own peculiar
nature requiring peculiar solutions. Some of the infrastructure was
encouraging. The Pat Feeder Canal seemed to be making some difference in the
areas surrounding Naseerabad while the Akra Kaur Dam north of Gwadar was
expected to solve the town’s one major problem — lack of water. At the
extensive farms of Turbat research was being conducted on dates. But poverty was so obvious.
A natural reservoir of rain water close to Dhadar served as the source of
drinking water for humans and animals alike while facilities at the health
units in Kalat and at educational institutions close to Sibbi were not even
basic. It has been 17 years since
my last visit to the province. A lot would have changed surely. But I do hope
that Pir Ghaib remains the same idyllic spot, dolphins still visit the shores
of the enchanting Gwadar, visitors still throng the Ziarat Residency and the
apple orchards of Kalat and coal mines of Bolan Pass still contribute to the
local and national economy. We must treasure
Balochistan.
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slope, composition of jungle, proximity of natural fire barriers (bridle
paths), fire lines (strips of cleared vegetation in each forest), proximity
of human settlement, watering points — the list is indeed complex.
Balochistan
also turned out to be a place for adventure. It afforded the opportunity of a
five-hour journey on a dusty and bumpy track aboard a Toyota Hilux through
the wilderness of Mekran from Turbat to Gwadar as well as a seafood lunch
aboard a ferry that skirted the Mekran coast with excited dolphins in tow.
There was also the hair-raising road journey past myriad coal mines deep in
the depths of the Bolan Pass and the sudden confrontation with icy winds on
the top of the Lak Pass, separating Quetta and Mastung, as we waited for the
road to be cleared of an overturned truck.
