Blood Ties Read online

  A sparrowhawk is more or less a goshawk in miniature. They are both of the Accipiter family, with similar psychology and behaviour. The only significant differences are that the sparrowhawk is explosively faster across shorter distances, and the quarry it kills. The goshawk has evolved to kill larger birds, rabbits, hare and more or less anything that hops, flies or runs and weighs under three or four pounds. The sparrowhawk, on the other hand, is adept in and perfect at thinning out smaller birds and mammals.

  With all the commotion, jokes, chatter and general movement, the hawking is turning out to be a significant, connected, communal activity. I expected the numerous people to simply wave us on our way with the hawks. Instead, the whole group is intending to head out and assist, the energy of our party rising from a shared purpose, the default setting of hunter-gatherers the world over.

  As we load the jeep the hawks are swapped between the different members of the tribe. Despite having primary handlers, the goshawks and sparrowhawk seem to belong to the whole community. The water-carriers and beaters appear to be as important as the falconers themselves, each person an integral part of the hunting group. In all, I count thirteen people, three goshawks, a sparrowhawk and two shotguns crammed into two vehicles.

  When I ask why they share the hawks the answer given is as logical as it is simple. If the hawk responds to only one falconer, it may be lost or killed if that individual owner cannot reach it in time. If a specific hawk belongs to a particular falconer and that falconer falls ill or breaks a leg, then the hawk cannot be flown by anyone else; it becomes next to useless. Better to have thirteen people who can handle a hawk equally than just one.

  The jeeps pull out of the compound, the village drops away and the landscape loses evidence of overt human interference, becoming wilder. Twenty minutes later we stop. The falconers and beaters climb from the vehicles and stand in the road surveying the landscape. Salman nods and tells me the hawks are ready.

  The group splits in two, and the big female goshawk leaves with Salman and Chanesar. I remain with Haider, his male goshawk and three other assistants. We move off the road, down into rough terrain, the vegetation chest high, soft and silky, dense, a radiant green.

  This area is the habitat of a small gamebird, highly prized by the falconers. The francolin, also known as the black partridge, is the size and shape of the indigenous grey partridge found in England. It is tough and flies with speed and agility. A francolin is difficult and complex to catch, and the equal of any goshawk.

  Our group spreads out and we begin walking slowly.

  Haider holds the goshawk high above his head. Almost immediately, the bird becomes agitated and changes his behaviour. He stretches up, thin on long legs, his head jerking back and forth. His neck extends far forward, his feathers contracting tight. Flapping violently, he whips back around on the end of leather straps (jesses) attached to his ankles and held in Haider’s gloved hand. He has seen something we have not and focuses tight on the target. I am close enough to see his eyes expand, thin lines of pulsing yellow snapping back against black. His pupils are now the size of a thumbnail, exceptionally wide, able to suck up all light and movement in front of us.

  The cover ahead thins. From across the gap, flying hard and fast, a blurred and whirring francolin shears past. The hawk is released, his acceleration instant. Over the first few feet the francolin climbs high, a mounting arc, swift and perfect. The goshawk follows, reconsiders, drops below and slightly behind the francolin. The sun, reflected, briefly flashes across the bloom of the hawk’s back.

  For the first hundred yards the goshawk repeatedly turns his head skywards. The francolin will either land abruptly or power to the horizon. By holding back, the goshawk is wasting little energy, making no mistakes, watching, waiting, clever and cunning.

  At two, then three hundred yards, they remain together, the francolin refusing to roll or change direction. Her pace is metronomic, precise and controlled.

  Seconds tick by as the flight unfolds.

  At five hundred yards, tiring, fearful, the francolin attempts to rise higher, to outfly the hawk. In shadowed synchronicity, the goshawk follows. They keep moving, are evenly matched. Imperceptibly, the balance of power changes. The francolin panics, the goshawk, slipping fast forward at full tilt, cuts up the sky in silence and intersects the gamebird. As a single black dot, together they drop in slow, stalled momentum.

  Sprinting through the heat and heavy vegetation, I reach the area where the goshawk and francolin have fallen. I hear a bell and find the hawk on a small patch of clear dirt between fronds of pampas grass. I watch closely as the goshawk pulls savagely at the francolin’s primary flight feathers on each wing. The francolin flaps to escape, the goshawk clamps down on her back. By removing the outer flight feathers first, the francolin is incapacitated. Even if she wriggles free, she cannot fly properly and would be easily recaptured. This is the evolved behaviour and actions of a successful wild hawk, one motivated by pure instinct.

  A few seconds later Haider arrives and kneels next to me. Both of us are breathing heavily. We look at each other, smile and laugh out loud. Both of us in equal awe and connected by the hawk’s success. Using a small knife, Haider cuts cleanly through the francolin’s neck. The blood flows slowly, a thick, deep, oxygenated red. The bird flutters, unwinds like an elasticated toy propeller, a thrumming drum, then lies still. Haider allows the goshawk to break into the chest cavity; he rips at flesh with brutality, then fragile precision. While his hawk feeds Haider gently lifts his tail, preventing the long feathers from bending or breaking on the ground. The goshawk remains at ease, unconcerned by the intrusion.

  After a wild hawk has killed and fed, it will find a place of safety to relax. Having eaten his reward, Haider’s goshawk looks about, searching out the highest perch. With no trees nearby, a six-foot white western male seems the best place to digest a meal. From the ground, the goshawk launches skywards, landing on my shoulder. Not content, he moves higher still, up on to my head. I feel the sharp-tipped pressure of talons beneath my hat, but no sense, sign or display of aggression. As if on cue, the rest of our party arrive, see the hawk on my head and start clapping and cheering.

  The francolin is lifted off the ground and inspected. It is a complex array of browns, dust and mud colours, with flecks of yellow in delicate speckled patterns. Although lifeless, she looks quite mesmerizing. Matched evenly by a creature that evolved alongside her, her capture and death are certainly sad, but also arbitrary. The flight could have gone one way or the other. Today, the hawk has been lucky. What I have witnessed is a truly natural selection.

  As Haider and our group prepare to resume hunting, a call goes up in the distance. Salman’s party have flushed several partridge. Selecting one, Chanesar’s goshawk is moving swiftly, flying hard across the horizon, wings pumping. The francolin, with a better head start, confidently flicks over, dropping into thick, heavy cover. The falconers, running, reach the hawk several seconds later. She is picked up and prepared for the re-flush.

  Where the francolin has landed looks difficult to enter. Aiming to scare the partridge into flight, the falconers simply set light to the undergrowth. The flames rapidly take hold and the fire rolls forward; a sparking, powerful, energetic noise. Squealing steam, sap vapour, erupts from thin branches, smoke begins to obscure the skyline. Through the cracking, blazing heat, a large rotating flake of ash transforms into a francolin, swept up and flying fast. The goshawk launches rapidly off the fist, follows the partridge up through the smoke and out across the shimmering landscape. They disappear behind the flames and fumes, the falconers running to catch up. Later, I would be told the flight was a success, the francolin killed nearly a quarter of a mile away. A massive distance for any hawk.

  Over the next few hours the different groups flush many more francolin. All escape, and the goshawks fail. We change tack and drive to areas of farming and cultivation, where irrigation ditches have been dug to control the flow of the Indus river’s
tributaries and direct water to crops. Hanging gently over the shallow canals, puffy green bushes dot the banks. On sight, ducks, water-rails, egrets, herons, bitterns and a coot-like bird take to the wing, skitter across the surface, hiding under cover. They are clumsy in flight, and the goshawks pursue them relentlessly into the reeds, bushes and bankside vegetation. Everything we flush is outflown, the size and power of the goshawks unsparingly consistent. Flight after flight is taken, each ending in a kill. The hawks are not rewarded with blood or fed from flesh; simply plucking at the feathers seems to keep them motivated.

  One particular bird lifts up out of a ditch and loops across the soil, using the underside of the jeep as protection. The goshawk simply folds her wings and hits it with force, rolling her prey through dust out the other side.

  Each falconer is allowed their turn. Without exception, they take great pleasure in killing a grackle-like bird about the size of a magpie. This species has a long, henna-coloured tail; the falconers have nicknamed it the ‘imam bird’. The whole hunting party cheers with delight when one is killed.

  Despite the mounting numbers, the treatment of each dead bird is respectful and without sentimentality; a brief pause to consider, like picking an especially beautiful apple from a tree. As time passes, the flights never cease or thin. For every bird caught, three, four or five escape. The hawks, although efficient, can take only one at a time. There are spaces and gaps of rest. When pleased with a stylish kill, we move to a new location. We take no more than we need, and the chance of endangering wild populations is negligible. Watching the beaters and falconers, there is no sense that survival need be a struggle. The energy is celebratory. There are numerous overlapping conversations; gossip abounds, jokes fly back and forth. They are happy, relaxed, comfortable and excited.

  By the time darkness descends we have caught enough. It has been an astonishing display. As we climb into the jeep the goshawks are fed their rewards and rested on gloves. Small boys and beaters hold birds of numerous colours and varieties, poking and pulling at the feet and wings, inspecting and learning.

  On the way back we stop at the village to drink tea. The dead francolin and other quarry are sent ahead. An hour later, in a small brick room, we sit with a tribal elder. As I admire and handle a new Kalashnikov rifle small bowls of cooked and lightly spiced meat are placed before us, an incredible feast of flesh. A dark clutter of bones stripped bare becomes a high pile in minutes.

  Back at the compound, away from the formality surrounding the elder, the atmosphere is more egalitarian. An electric bulb weakly emits a soft egg of light; darkness cloaks all but close contact. Cigarettes are swapped, and we relax, the happy release of an intense shared hunting experience. The day is replayed through talk and translation. There is intimate laughter, discussions and humorous anecdotes. One is about a troop of monkeys that stole a local man’s possessions while he rested in the afternoon sun. He spiked their drinking water with herbs similar to cannabis and they quickly fell asleep, dropping his shoes, watch and blanket out of the palm tree.

  Chanesar’s goshawk is brought in and placed on a long pole, high above our heads. She recently killed one of the compound’s cats. Huge and belligerent, she cannot be trusted to leave the other one alive. A mouse pops out from a hole in the wall and runs across the shelf beneath her. With only one cat, the rodent population is growing rapidly.

  Salman takes out the present I bought for him in return for his hospitality. Telemetry is a lightweight tracking device attached to a bird of prey. It will send out an electronic signal from as far away as twenty miles, which means any lost or errant hawk can be tracked down. I had brought the best telemetry set available, all high-tech wires, aerials, beeping, red LEDs and plastic and metal casings. Salman explains to the group how it works and what it is for. There is a slight pause, a brief silence, Haider makes a comment, then laughter. Salman translates: ‘English falconers should try to train their hawks better, and not lose so many.’ Through this gentle mocking, I feel involved: in the intimacy of this dark room there are no real differences between us, I am just another falconer welcomed in. More importantly, Haider is right; perhaps we should train our hawks better.

  Eventually growing tired and in need of rest, I lie back. The remaining goshawks are moved indoors and placed on the edge of our beds. They will sleep next to us until dawn.

  *

  Early in the morning Chanesar comes out of his house holding a small bamboo cage containing a male francolin used for trapping goshawks and sparrowhawks. I sit, sipping tea, staring at the caged bird. He is beautiful: jet black beneath a foil of rainbow shades, like petrol spilled on tarmac. Briefly, I look up and out across the compound. A white blob emerges on the horizon. Ten minutes later it morphs into a small boy and his father; a further five minutes and they are standing before me. On the little boy’s bare fist is a small, freshly trapped male sparrowhawk: known as a musket. At only 5 ounces, and only 8 inches tall, he is fragile, tiny and roughly a third smaller than Punhal’s female.

  Of all the hawk species, the musket is the most delicate and difficult bird of prey to train. In the wild, male sparrowhawks are rarely seen, such is their speed, agility and success in camouflage. Their size makes them highly fearful and secretive, and it takes remarkable skill and knowledge to keep one in view, let alone get close enough to trap one. According to Salman, the child and his father caught the little sparrowhawk at dawn, several miles away. The boy is no more than eight years old. I watch the father and son interact, their tenderness towards one another exchanged through the shared care of the little hawk. It is a beautiful moment.

  Being hysterical, highly strung and indignant, the musket would have acted with tremendous rage at the trap site. To transport the hawk safely, to stop it becoming agitated, flapping and smashing its feathers, the boy and his father have used a process called sealing to carry it back to the compound.

  Untangled from the trap, the eyelids of the hawk were pinched up off the surface of the eyeball. A thorn or needle was delicately pushed through the paper-thin skin, creating a small hole. A thread was then passed through the gap. The cotton was pulled, wrapped up over the hawk’s head and tied in a firm loop, closing the eyelids. The musket is literally sealed away from daylight. To my untrained eyes, it looks barbaric, primitive and indescribably cruel. Silently appalled and horrified, I keep quiet, taking photographs, as a crowd gathers.

  On my return from Pakistan I asked a highly respected avian vet and falconer about the process. His reply shamed me, deflating my self-righteous posturing at the time. There are no nerve endings in the eyelids of birds of prey. The little musket felt next to nothing. Far from being hateful and cruel, the method of sealing has been learned through precise observation and thoughtful understanding of the physiognomy of a hawk. It is designed to briefly protect, not to hurt, the hawk. The same is true for the process of trapping.

  On the surface, to trap a creature whose very nature is flight and freedom seems a deliberately unnatural act. In truth, the action of trapping is brief, forming but one small part of a flowing whole, a tiny stage at the centre of a larger, holistic approach to the movement of life in the landscape of Sindh.

  Sparrowhawks and goshawks produce between three and six eggs each year. Once hatched, 50 per cent of the chicks will perish within the first twelve months. Broken feathers, illness, injury, predation and poor hunting skills are very real issues, leading to starvation and death. The goshawks in the compound were trapped in the early autumn and only when fully grown. By this time they have left the nest and are beginning to fend for themselves. Trapping is therefore timed to occur long before the forces of natural selection have taken their toll. Taking a hawk at this point is a lifeline, one guaranteeing protection throughout the whole year. The hawk is shielded from death by daily rations and the shelter provided by the tribe. When the hawk is finally released, the company of humans has given it a better head start for survival; for finding a mate, breeding and thus furthering the
population of wild hawks. Trapping in this manner is a measured conservation activity, leading to greater life expectancy and therefore freedom for both the hawk and the human.

  I watch the boy and his father walk the little musket across the compound into a darkened room to begin the process of training. The crowd slowly disperses and further details about trapping are discussed.

  A trapper from any culture needs three basic pieces of equipment: a noose, a net and bait. When using a noose, the process is deceptively simple. The trapper attaches hundreds of two- or three-inch nooses to a domed cage, a bal-chatri (an Indian word meaning ‘upturned umbrella’). Inside the bal-chatri is a live bird. The trap and bait are placed in a suitable location. The hawk, seeing the prey, swoops down to kill it. Safely contained in the cage, the bird is prevented from being harmed. Unable to grab the bird, the hawk repeatedly kicks out in frustration, trying to foot the free meal. The hawk’s toes become entangled in the small lassos and, as the hawk flaps its wings, attempting to escape, its legs are pulled from under the tail. The gently curved dome of the trap prevents snapped bones or broken feathers and keeps the hawk safe until the trapper arrives.

  When using a net, or dho-gaza, the process is equally simple and effective. The nets are made with gossamer-thin threads, almost invisible to the naked eye. The nets are large; roughly eight feet across, and either square or rectangular in shape. Two wooden poles are sunk into the ground with a thin cord strung between them like a washing line. The net is then stretched between the poles, like a vertical trampoline, and lightly clipped to the cord and poles. A bait bird is pegged to the ground behind two or three sets of dho-gaza. Spying an easy meal and unable to see the nets, the hawk or falcon swoops to capture the flapping bird. When it hits the nets, popping them free from the light clips, the hawk is entangled and comes tumbling to the ground.