Wagah border closing

April 9, 2006

I had heard from many that I should really go see the border closing ceremony at Wagah. Wagah was on the India-Pakistan border, less than an hour away from Lahore. There is an elaborate ceremony every evening to accompany the lowering of the flags and closing of the border gates. Getting there was relatively easy. From in front of my hostel I caught the number 3 bus on The Mall to the train station. From there I caught the number 4 bus to Wagah. The fare was ridiculously cheap, 6 rupees (10¢) and 12 rupees (20¢) to Wagah. Like everything else in Pakistan the busses were gender segregated. The front of the bus was reserved for women, and there was a solid metal wall separating the women’s seating from the men’s.

The bus ride was unremarkable, but it did take me through the outskirts and countryside surrounding Lahore. It was the usual assortment of shoddy looking concrete buildings and rickety shacks, the same, as you will see in any developing country around the world. The car garages were interesting insomuch as the car ramps were just two wide parallel concrete ramps that cars were driven up onto which gave space for a mechanic to get under the car and work, a lot cheaper than a hydraulic lift. Every so often I would see a large painted billboard of a marching band in uniforms that were a very odd mix of traditional Punjabi costume and Scottish tartans.

Turns out the bus did not go all the way to the border. I was dropped at the bus station in what I presume was Wagah. While looking for a ride to the border the bus driver pointed to a van full of Pakistani men who were waiving me over. They were all headed to Wagah and said I should join them for the ride. I took their offer and hopped in the van. The large group were all Pashtuns from Peshawar. They worked for the government doing something I could not figure out, and they were all in Lahore for training. It was a rowdy group who were all laughing and joking, clearly in a holiday mood. One of the guys pulled out a bag of hash which he displayed proudly and said, "Pashtun culture!"

When we got to the actual border we all raced so as not to miss the beginning of the ceremony. There are large grandstands build on both sides of the borders. This is a big spectacle and draws capacity crowds everyday. Typical of Pashtun hospitality, when I went to pay for my ticket, the guys I rode with paid and would not hear of me paying. The grandstands were already full when we got there, but as a foreigner I got special treatment. I had to say good by to the guys I got a ride with as I was ushered forward to special seating for foreigners near the front with good views. Like the bus ride the seating was segregated by gender, the seating on the opposite side from where I was reserved for women.

The ceremony had not started yet, but patriotic songs were being blasted from loudspeakers and there were two cheerleader men in green uniforms carrying large Pakistani flags running up and down working the crowd, getting everyone riled up shouting patriotic slogans. Similar things were going on, on the India side of the border.



This ceremony dates from Partition in 1947. When British India gained its independence in 1947 it immediately split into two countries. It was a painful and bloody divorce, over a million people died in the sectarian violence that accompanied Independence and Partition. Since then Pakistan and India have fought three wars and came close to a fourth war just a few years ago. The border ceremony at Wagah is a peaceful ceremony that symbolizes the strong rivalry between the two countries.

The actual ceremony is just ludicrous. Soldiers from both sides march up and down making these huge silly goose-step marches, lots of dramatic arm waiving, glares, and shouts. It immediately brings to mind that old Monty Python sketch, The Ministry of Silly Walks. The crowd eats it up, and they shout enthusiastically in support of their soldiers. At the end the national flags are lowered in just such a way that one is never lower than the other at anytime. Finally the gates are banged shut and the soldiers march away solemnly carrying the flag of Pakistan, all the while being applauded by the audience.







It was crowded and hectic on the way out after the ceremony. I did not see the Pakistani guys I rode there with, but I did manage to hitch a ride with a Finish family back to Lahore. The father was in Pakistan working for the government highway department and his wife and teenage children had come out to visit. I was very happy to be able to hitch a ride back rather than have to figure out how to get back to Wagah.

Lahore

April 7 to 11, 2006

Every Pakistani I have met has sung the praises of Lahore. I have been told over and over again that it is the cultural capitol of Pakistan and a must for any tourist. I had hoped to visit Lahore, but was not sure I would have enough time. Since I cut short my Afghanistan trip I did have some extra days that I could now spend in the city. It is not important to my novel, but it is part of the back-story of some of my Afghan characters, so it was nice to be able to visit Lahore.

Before I could start my day I had to get back the core city. I was still staying at Malik's house in the outskirts. It was Friday, the Muslim day of worship and everyone in the house was sleeping in. I wanted to get started on site seeing, but did not want to have to wake the sleeping household. Fortunately, one of Malik’s son’s was up so I was able to explain that I was heading into town for the Regale Internet Inn (and not just taking off without paying for my room). Taking an autorickshaw I made it back into town to the Internet Inn. The Regale Internet Inn was easy to miss (and hard to find). At ground level it was nothing more than an open doorway on an alleyway off The Mall (a major boulevard in the city). The hotel itself was at the top of two flights of stairs. The Regale itself is a small but cozy backpackers’ hotel with several dorm rooms and a couple private rooms. At the rooftop were a couple shaded lounge areas where travelers could relax, mingle, and share travel stories. It even had a tiny kitchen for use by the guests. This may not seem unusual to anyone who has budget traveled and stayed at youth hostels or other backpacker places in Europe or Australia, but in South Asia a place like this is rare and a welcome relief.

The major sightseeing attractions in Lahore are the Fort, the Badshahi Mosque, the old city, and the museum. My first day I was able to explore most of the first three. Lahore is a big, busy, crowded, and chaotic city, so I have to say the best thing about the Lahore Fort was that the park like atmosphere was a welcome relief from the city outside. The only thing that annoyed me was the steep sliding scale for admissions: 10 rupees for Pakistanis and 200 rupees for foreigners. There were a couple museums in the fort, but I did not get to see all of them. This being Friday everything shut at noon and I was kicked out of the museum so people could go to the mosque to pray.

Decided to take a break at a little café in the Fort for some Pakistani tea (similar to a chai latte, but way cheaper). It is never possible to sit alone in a public place in Pakistan so I was not surprised when a man with a long henna-stained beard wearing a black karakul cap approached my table and asked in excellent English if he could join me. He introduced himself as Aslam a professor of English at Punjab University. He then explained that he wanted to talk to me about Islam, that it was the duty of all Muslims to proselytize, and offered me a free copy of the Koran in English. I had to tell him honestly that I was unlikely to ever do more than skim it and that he should save the book for a more serious student. He took this well and chatted with me for a few more minutes before heading off to the mosque to pray. Having traveled in many Muslim countries I have become accustomed to having my ear talked off about Islam, but this was unusual because Aslam was the politest person who has ever talked to me about Islam. I dubbed him the "polite professor" as a result.



The mosque was impressive and I wanted to snap a lot of photos, but it was Friday and it was full of worshippers. I felt a little uncomfortable snapping photos of people praying, but nobody seemed to mind and a few people encouraged me to do so.

After the mosque I headed into the old city. Lahore’s old city is huge and I only scratched the surface. Wandering around the dark narrow winding streets of the old city I entered a very different world than the Lahore visible from the main boulevards like The Mall.

The deeper I went into the old city the less comfortable I felt. Not a place I really wanted to spend too much time in by myself. It was fascinating, but also a little intimidating; in some ways charming in an old-world way, in others gritty and threatening like a Pakistan Mean-streets.

Heading back to my hotel I passed a large brass cannon. This is the famous Zam-Zammah of Kipling’s Kim fame. It sits in the middle of The Mall road across from the Lahore museum, just as it did in the opening of the 1901 novel: He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher - the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that fire-breathing dragon, hold the Punjab, a for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror's loot.

I felt safer in Pakistan than I did in Afghanistan, but this is not all that stable a country either. There are many seething currents of discontent that occationally boil over. Not more than a block from the Regale was the burnt out ruins of a Kentucky Fried Chicken that was torched during the Danish cartoon protests.

The fort, the mosque, and the old city were interesting, but they could only hold my attention for so long. If that were all there was to Lahore it would only be good for a day or two. That evening I got to see some of the cultural life that Lahore is so famous for. Early in the evening a group from the hotel went to see a play by a touring troop of Indian actors on a cultural exchange from Calcutta (attempting to foster better relations between India and Pakistan). It was all in Hindi so I had no idea what it was all about, but apparently it was a critique of the caste system in India. Later back at the hotel, I saw some Sufi drummers that the owner Malik had invited to perform. Gonga Sain and Mithu Sain were brothers and the sons of a famous Sufi drummer. They were great. One of the brothers, the one in polka dots was even deaf, but it apparently had no impact on his drumming. During the performance the same guy would start spinning so fast his drum would stand out at a 90-degree angle, all the while he was still playing it. After the performance at the hotel a large group of us followed the drumming brothers to a large Sufi music festival that was happening in the city that night. It was a large event and very interesting, unfortunately I did not get to see much of it. We had three women with us, a German and two Japanese gals, and all the men in our group had to form a wall around the women to keep the crowds of Pakistani men from rushing up and groping the ladies. It was shocking; I have never seen anything like it before. You would think they had never seen a real woman before.

That next day I visited the Lahore Museum. It’s a good-sized museum with a broad range of exhibits; the greatest portion of their collections is paintings and sculptures from the region. The most memorable artwork for me was the Gandharan Buddhas. Gandhara was an ancient Buddhist kingdom in what is now Pakistan. The Buddha statues were close to two thousand years old. The thing I noticed immediately about them is that they were all skinny and had mustaches. I think I am so used to seeing East Asian depictions of Buddha as a jolly bald fat Asian man, the serious thin Buddhas with mustaches surprised me. The next night we had another musical performance at the hostel from Sain Mohammad Ali and his band of Punjabi folk musicians. This was interesting, but did not hold my attention the way the Sufi drumming did.



My third day in Lahore I went out to see the border closing ceremony in Wagah (see the Wagah entry). When I got back I had a bowl of curry at one of the food stalls around the corner from my hotel. I had eaten there before, but this time I got violently ill. About an hour after dinner I came down with the worst case of food poisoning I have ever had. I was violently ill all night long. I have never in my life been so happy that a hotel I was staying at had a sit down toilet. For my forth day in Lahore I had planned to explore the old city, but the only part of Lahore I saw was the hallway between my dormitory and the bathroom.

Back to Pakistan

April 6, 2006

It was time to go back to Pakistan. I had decided to cut short my stay in Afghanistan by about four days. I found that to live and travel safely in Afghanistan requires at least one of two things: money or connections. Having been in the country fewer than two weeks I was only just beginning to make connections. As for money, I did not have a large budget and Afghanistan was proving too expensive for me. Although Afghanistan is a developing country, unusual circumstances (i.e. war-ravaged country and lots of Western cash) have distorted costs. In Kabul I had been paying between $35 to $50 a night for my room. In neighboring Pakistan I would expect to pay, at most, between $6 to $10 a night for similar accommodations. Some of what you pay for in Kabul is reasonable; that extra cost buys you 24-hour security guards, diesel generators (that Kabul city electricity is none too reliable), and Western style toilets. Partly though the market is inflated by the large number of Western aid-workers needing accommodation and their aid-agency cash. At the guest house I stayed at I was the only patron paying for my room out of my own pocket. I had not really budgeted enough for Afghanistan. I expected costs to be higher than a typical developing country, but not by as much as I was spending.

I would have liked to visit the Panjshir Valley and Bamiyan before I left, but to do so in safety was beyond my means. Sure for less than $10 I could take a bus to Bamiyan, but I felt I had already pushed my luck enough taking the bus from Mazar. The only way to fly to Bamiyan was on a UN plane, but I didn’t know who to talk to about that. I looked into hiring a car for a day trip to the Panjshir. Hiring a car, driver, and guard from a reputable logistics company I would have run me between $120 to $150 a day. The Panjshir Valley is supposed to be beautiful, but will not feature in my novel, so I decided it was not worth the cost. Bamiyan very likely will be in my novel, so missing that was a more significant regret.

I had an afternoon flight back to Pakistan, so I had time enough for lunch at my favorite restaurant in Kabul. I never found out the name, neither the employees nor the owner spoke English. It was one of the zillion anonymous kebab shops in Kabul, but the quality was good. It was popular with the locals too; it was always packed at lunch. I have grumbled at the prices in Kabul, but food was not expensive at the kebab shops. My lunch of mantu (meat dumpling in yogurt sauce), bread, and tea was only 65 Afghani, that’s a buck-thirty.

My flight back was on Pakistan International Airlines. This is another local airline that has earned a bad reputation and a host of unflattering nicknames. My favorite was: Pakistan, Insha’Allah (Pakistan, God willing). Despite PIA’s reputation and amusing nicknames I had a fine flight on an older, but perfectly ok 737. During the flight it was great to look out my window and see the snowy Hindu Kush pass below eventually softening into hills and finally flattening into the vast plains and rolling hills of South Asia.

Back in Islamabad, Pakistan I caught a cab to the Daewoo bus station. From past experience of Islamabad, I did not want to waste anymore time there so I was making straight for the city Lahore. The Daewoo busses are the best of the many private bus companies operating in Pakistan. On the bus I sat next to an officer of the Pakistan Army. I was tired and really did not want to talk to anyone, but this being Pakistan if you are by yourself someone is going to start talking to you. At least this guy had some interesting stories. He had been a UN peacekeeper in Bosnia and had a lot of interesting stories from that time. When he found out I had been in Afghanistan he kept asking me if I was in the Army and if I was hunting for Taliban and Osama. I was flattered that anyone would think I could be in the Special Forces.

It was late, close to midnight when I rolled into Lahore. It’s a huge city of 10 million souls. Good thing I had called ahead about my accommodation. The Regale Internet Inn came highly recommended. They were full for the night, but the owner said he had another place he could put me up in. When my cab dropped me off on the Mall near Regal Chowk [street] Malik the Regale owner and his son were waiting for me with their car. Turns out the other place I could stay was Malik’s house. Malik lived a good ways away from the Regale, in a nicer area of the city. He had a guest bedroom with its own bathroom. I felt a little weird staying at the family home of someone I had just met 10 minutes before, but I was tired and was happy to call it a night.

Salang Pass

April 5, 2006

One of the rules I had instilled into me early was don’t go out at night in Afghanistan. Well my bus back to Kabul departed at 5:30 am, so oh-dark-hundred I was out on the streets of Mazar looking for a cab to the bus depot. An unexpected bonus of being up so early was I got to see the Shrine of Harzat Ali all lit up.

If you were wondering about why if I was too worried about security to go to Balkh, but I decided that an 8 hour bus trip over the Salang Pass was OK it’s simple: crowds. The road to Kabul is well traveled during the day. Also, on a bus I would be surrounded by people. It is only when you are alone in Afghanistan that you really have to worry. Further notwithstanding the opinion of the Balkh police chief most experienced ex-pats I spoke to in Afghanistan were of the opinion that the road to Kabul was “safe” (once again this is Afghanistan, so I will always use quotes around the word safe). It should be said that one of the people who assured me that the road was safe was, this guy John, and old white-bearded Englishman who has lived in Afghanistan for 25 years, converted to Islam, speaks fluent Pashtu, and feels comfortable traveling to Waziristan (a Taliban stronghold) for his work as a BBC correspondent.

Getting to the bus was uneventful. I even saw the stationary shopkeeper there. He was dropping a relative off at the bus stop, so we talked for a few minutes. I had been worried that I was not going to have anything to eat for breakfast, but then in Afghanistan a parked bus is a public area and food vendors repeatedly boarded the bus. So I was able to pick up a loaf of bread and some juice for breakfast. Beggars also feel free to board the bus, before the bus departed around five beggars had worked the passengers.

Departure times are not fixed here, the bus did not leave until full. Closer to 6am we got underway. Right outside of Mazar I saw a first hand view of the corruption that plagues the country. At police checkpoint the bus was waived over. The driver got out and with little discussion got out his wallet and counted out bills which he handed to the two military officers that he was talking to. The baksheesh (bribe) payment appeared completely routine.

Not too much further out of town the road was under construction. There was a detour to the side of the road the bus and all other traffic had to pull out on to. This was not any sort of side road, just a dusty track through the fields parallel to the main road. It started raining too. It was getting muddy and I was seriously worried that we would be stuck in the mud. When we finally cleared the construction area there was a dirt ramp back to the main road. It was now slick and muddy. The bus nearly tipped over at the driver’s first attempt to regain the main road.

After that we at least would be on asphalt for the remainder of the journey. We were on the flat plains of Central Asia, less than a mile to the south was a solid wall of hills that rose abruptly from the flat ground. There was a small and oblivious gap in the wall of hills that the road followed to head south. We were now heading into that amazingly dramatic terrain that I had seen from the air the day before. This would be some of the most amazing scenery I had seen on the trip so far, yet sadly I have almost no photos of it. The window I had been seated next to was permanently fogged. The bus was full and I was not allowed to change seats. I was also still very nervous about this bus ride. I was not sure if flashing my expensive digital camera was a good idea; didn't want to give anyone another reason to rob me.

My big regret of this journey was that I had not hired a car instead of taking the bus. There was so much cool stuff to see on this drive. The scenery was unbelievably dramatic. We passed areas of gentry rolling eroded hills, past lush green fields, orchards in bloom, swiftly flowing mountain rivers swollen with the spring melt, and always in the background were the towering snow and ice capped peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains. There were too, many signs of the violent recent history of the region. All along the way the side of the road was littered with the rusting hulks of old Soviet Tanks and Armored Personnel Carriers. In many places I saw the fields marked of with rocks painted red and white which indicates a mine field. I couple of times I saw de-mining crews at work digging up unexploded mines. Many of the mountain villages were solidly build of stone or brick with sod-covered flat roofs that made me think more of Nepal than Afghanistan.



On the bus, a 23 year old student who spoke some English began chatting to me. I was not sure how he felt about Americans so when he asked where I was from I said Canada. He said that he was a student studying sharia, or Islamic law. After he graduated from his University in Kabul he would then go to Cairo, Egypt for further studies. He was friendly enough, but I did start to squirm a bit when he started asking what my religion was and what I thought of Islam, etc, etc. Still when the bus stopped for a break at a roadside chaikhana he invited me to join his friends for a meal. He asked me a lot of questions about Canada. Fortunately I grew up close to the Canadian boarder and could fake my way through it ok.



At the highest point of the road is the Salang tunnel, six miles of tunnel through the mountain. It was built by the Soviets in the 1960s. I had heard stories that occasionally cars break down in the tunnel and then all the traffic backs up and you get stuck in there. Close to the tunnel entrance the snow was deep and it was snowing hard, but fortunately the road was clear. We made it through the tunnel. It was an impressive feat of engineering, but it clearly looked like it could use some maintenance. The rest of the drive was uneventful (and the scenery remained amazing) until we reached the outskirts of Kabul. At a police check point two policewomen in dark green chadors and black veils boarded the bus and searched all the women on board. Seeing that I was a foreigner a policeman was called on board. He asked if I was a Russian and demanded to see my passport. I had to comply and produce my identification. All on the bus saw my passport and now knew I was an American-damn my cover was blown! So much for my double life as a Canadian. It was ok getting back into Kabul, but the young student did not talk to me anymore.

Mazar-e Sharif

April 3 & 4, 2006

I finally had a chance to leave Kabul. I have decided to cut my time in Afghanistan short about four days. It is just too expensive to stay here and to travel safely to some of the areas I would like to visit it would cost more than I could afford ($120 to $150 per day). Before I left I wanted to see at least a little of the country outside of Kabul. The two safe options for travel are in the north of the country, either Herat or Mazar-e Sharif. Herat is supposed to be a great city to visit, but none of my novel will be set in Herat or the areas surrounding it. My other option, Mazar had a famous shrine and a side trip to the ruins of ancient Balkh. It will not likely feature in my novel either, but the areas along the road to Mazar could be used in my novel. Furthermore the general consensus was that the road to Mazar was “safe”. (NOTE: have to use quotes around the word safe when in reference to Afghanistan. I would never try to claim that anything about Afghanistan is 100% safe).

That settled it. I decided to go to Mazar-e Sharif. I only had a few days, so I decided to fly there and take a bus back. My ticket with Ariana airline was a surprisingly cheap $30. Ariana is Afghanistan’s national airline. Their current fleet is composed of decades old American and Russian planes, and among the ex-pat community in Afghanistan the airline has been nicknamed “Scariana”. My flight was on an Antonov 24, twin turbo prop. The plane was old, but looked well maintained. It was amusing to see all the instruction plaques in Russian.

Flying out of Kabul was great. It was a clear day so I got a good view of the city from the air. It was only a 50 minute flight, but in that time the landscape changed dramatically. Kabul lies in a valley on a high plateau. The landscape quickly transformed from flat dusty plains, to foot hills, to the towering snow and ice covered peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains. On the far side of the Hindu Kush the mountains gave way to the endless rolling plains of Central Asia. From my window, the Oxus River, which forms the Northern boarder of Afghanistan, was clearly visible.



On the flight I met an Afghan who had been living in Germany for the last 18 years. Sultan-Mahmood was back in Afghanistan to visit family. He thought I was a little crazy traveling in the country by myself. Even he was nervous about traveling here after living abroad for so long. After landing Sultan offered me a ride into town and recommended that I stay at his cousin’s hotel. Sounded like a plan. The Aria was his cousin’s hotel, it was dingy and the bathrooms were shocking, but at $10 a night it was the cheapest place I had stayed in Afghanistan. The only thing to recommend was that it was in the center of town and less than a block from the Shrine of Hazrat Ali, the premier and only tourist attraction in Mazar.

Before settling into the hotel and seeing the town, Sultan thought I should register with the tourism office and get the current status on the security situation. Sounded like a good idea, however locating the tourist office was a bit of a challenge. We went from one office to another; finally we were directed to the provincial police headquarters. Sultan’s cousin was the chief of police. The police headquarters was badly in need of a remodel. The paint was peeling inside and out, many windows were cracked, and it looked like no one had been through there with a vacuum cleaner in at least a decade. We had a meeting in his office and when I told him my plans to visit Balkh and take the bus back to Kabul the police chief tried to dissuade me from both plans. After awhile he decided that Balkh would be ok, they had a station there and he could guarantee my safety, but that driving back to Kabul was still a bad idea and that I should fly instead.

I wanted to hire a car to visit Balkh. When Sultan dropped me off at the hotel said he would stop by tomorrow morning with a car and driver that his family recommended. I was very grateful and went off to see the Shrine of Harzat Ali. The shrine is impressive, but it a way it was a little sad. This is one of the only intact pieces of Afghanistan’s physical cultural heritage to survive the last two decades of war.





Next day, I waited for Sultan to show up, but he never did. Sultan flaked out on me, so I was left with a choice. Do I risk traveling to Balkh on my own? It would have been easy enough to grab a taxi or minibus to Balkh, but the visit to the police office had left me a little less confident about the security situation in the North. One piece of advice I had been given about Afghanistan was that it is always bad to be alone. Crowds are usually good and you can feel safer, but when no one is around that’s usually when you can expect trouble. I decided not to go. It was a hard decision. Balkh was the city where Alexander the Great met and married Roxanne. For years it was one of the great cities of Central Asia until it was utterly destroyed by Genghis Khan. Today there is just a small village and little remains of its former glory except some of the city walls and a few arches. Still, it was a disappointment to miss visiting a site so steeped in history.

So, I had a day to kill in Mazar. Outside of the Shrine of Ali, there is nothing for a tourist to do there. Most of the people dress like in Kabul, except the dresses and scarves of the Uzbek women are made from bright floral prints and the burquas are white instead of blue. Beyond that the only other distinguishing feature of Mazar is that it is not ruined like Kabul. There are the usual carpet shops and you can buy chapans, a long robe popular in the North. In other words nothing that could really hold my attention. I did make the decision to take the bus back to Kabul (more on that later). When I bought my ticket none of the men at the office could speak English, so they brought some one over from a neighboring store who could translate. Abdul was a nice guy and very helpful. Typical of Afghans he invited me to have lunch with him and his brother. They ran a stationary shop. The Afghans are so hospitable that I often feel a little guilty. It’s a poor country so I hate taking a free meal from them, but I feel it would be rude to turn down such a polite gesture. After lunch I thought I would buy a pen from them as a way to pay back the lunch. That plan didn’t work so well, Abdul gave me the pen for free. He said that I was a guest and would not accept any money for the pen. I left the shop feeling even guiltier.