Pakistan

Dec 1999/Jan 2000

How on earth do you describe Pakistan without moving pictures? It is a fully animated kaleidoscope of colours, sounds and smells. We've been here since December 24th and I am wondering how to describe it all. Some wonderful scenes. Some terrible sights. But the people are coping with their lot and we have been made to feel very welcome here. All I can do is start from the beginning.

With Pakistani visas, we had no problems crossing over from Iran. No searches. The clocks went forward another 90 minutes. Taftan the border town was a dust blown, fly infested series of shacks. Goats nibbling on the mounds of rubbish strewn everywhere. We had entered the state of Baluchistan - a huge trait of land known as "the dump where Allah shot the rubbish of creation". Barren, inhospitable landscape. The least developed and the least accessible area of Pakistan. There are tight restrictions on travelling here for fear of kidnapping and banditry in the region.

There was only one way out. By bus to Quetta, 600km east. The 15 hour trek leaving at 4pm was a nightmare. An overcrowded bus (whenever we got off we had to clamber over people and luggage like contestants in a game of "It's a Knock Out"). Our packs were stowed on the roof with another ton of boxes. There would be no quick escape if there was an accident and there are plenty of those here with the worst, careless driving I have ever seen (to date - I've seen 1 burnt out bus and 3 overturned trucks. The newspapers describe any road accident as a 'mishap' - 52 people died in a bus last week in a 'mishap'). The good news in Pakistan is that they drive on the left. The bad news is not much of the time.

The road to Quetta runs through (Footprint) " a forbidding, inhospitable arid landscape, combining wide expanses of desert". ie a continuation of what we had just left in Iran - but with one major difference. The road was terrible and non-existent for much of the way. The single lane of un-metalled track provided my bumpiest ride since Honduras. There were regular checks and searches by police for drugs under the bus. Once the sun had disppeared we froze to death with no coats. I could hardly hold a cup of tea at 4am at a roadside shack. Someone took pity and lent us a blanket. There was a strange sight through the night - that of mammoth trucks trailblazing across the land. They are decorated like temples, covered with intricate designs everywhere and at night, lit up with red lights everywhere. They looked like monsters approaching us and had horns that sounded like elephants in distress. Our driver was forced to pull off the road to let them past. They were taking no prisoners. We were to find out later that no one takes prisoners on the roads here.

Quetta, the provincial capital, was completely destroyed by a 1935 earthquake. It has been "overtaken by heavy traffic and pollution" but in retrospect, it was a lot better than other towns. We spent two days there, getting our first attack of Pakistan in-your-face culture. Which is where the descriptions become difficult. I can only list observations of what you can expect

The city roads of every city and town are chaotic. Tiny 3 wheeler vespa powered Rickshaws swarm everywhere, fighting for space against the colourful lumbering buses (decorated like the trucks) with small boys hanging off the sides and yelling destinations, donkeys hauling produce, horses and carts, camels and carts plodding along, people pushing carts of fruit and nuts, mopeds (just because there are 4 people on them doesn't mean there isn't room for a extra person), Datsun pickups with 20 people hanging off them, and cars. People everywhere. They walk out in front of anything without looking. So do the bicycles. Everybody cuts each other up. You nearly die in a rickshaw every minute you are in one. The noise is terrible on the eardrums. You cannot hear each other talk. There are no MOTs here and the exhaust fumes are staggering. Traffic policemen attempt to control junctions, wearing face masks. A blue haze lies over every major town. Quetta had seen no rain for over a year so the lack of moisture made it even worse on top of its high altitude.

Everywhere we walked we were greeted with "Hello Mister, where you from?". It occurred so often I started to switch off to even acknowledging them. There are few tourists and people do double takes when they see us. If we take a photo, people swarm around and request their photo. If we buy some fried food from market stalls, a crowd stands to watch us eat it. A entourage of children follow us whenever we walk around a small town. There are a few beggars that are easily ignored. By the side of main roads, men with no feet or deformed limbs, lie and beg from the traffic. At Quetta bus station, I saw 3 dirty children grubbing around the rubbish heaps for scraps of food. However, everyone seems to be making an effort to get on with their lives and selling something, or cooking things like sugarcane to sell, anything to make a rupee in a country where 65 rupees is the average daily wage (about 75p).

The Bazaars are a hive of activity, crowded, dusty and noisy (see above for description of traffic and then replace main roads with narrow alleyways). Afghan traders are the most aggressive, following you around pleading you to visit their shop (one followed us for 2 hours in Quetta - it was like being stalked. He found us the next day as well - sorry pal - no sale). The Bazaars contain everything you would ever need and are broken into different areas - carpets, clothes, tailors, jewellery, coppersmiths, chemists, fruit and veg, spices and nuts.

The food here is excellent and a pleasant change from the drab Iranian fare. We have been eating balti curries, lamb and chicken tikkas fried in woks at dirty market cafes where the owners welcome us with open arms. Bread is cooked on the spot in brick ovens and is piled on your table until you finish the meal. The tea (chi) is wonderful - hot sweet milky tea that costs less than a penny a cup. I m also drinking the water (against all guidebook device). Nearly 50 days into the trip and neither of us have experienced any "stomach problems".

Despite all of the above, we have not suffered from "culture shock". We take it in our stride. I suppose we are just used to travelling and accustomising ourselves to every new country.

The two day stopover in Quetta was good preparation for the rest of the country. When we booked train tickets to Larkana, there was a military band rehearsing - Pakistani men dressed in scarlet tartan kilts and full dress uniform.

Pakistani trains are, from our limited experience - crowded, grubby and very slow. We imagined that we would take trains everywhere as a change from buses but it is like waiting for paint to dry to get anywhere. Our first ride to Larkana, took us though the majestic Bolan Pass. Hanging out of the open doors, you could almost touch the towering rocks, which at sunset were a wonderful pink. Boys clutching buckets of sweets and eggs would climb along the side of the carriages and crawl into each carriage then along the side of the next one. The railway was built by the British in the 1880s in an attempt to link Quetta (and Iran) with the rest of British India. It swooped down through 17 tunnels through the gorge of stark arid rock past dusty, squat, one story mud houses or tented villages. And seemed to stop at every one of them. Soldiers with guns patrolled the platforms at every station (but you would not think that there had been a military coup recently - Pakistan is used to them and life goes on - better it seems - without politicians)

At 3.30am, a bum-numbing 12 hours later we arrived in Larkana. Our hotel was locked up and I was forced to climb over the wall and wake up the nightwatchman and armed guard who were asleep. Our only luxury in Pakistan was access to BBC 24 World News on the TV, where we learnt about the India Airway Hostage crisis. That said, we are able to buy daily English language newspapers which are full of editorials about the Indian 'conspiracy' to blame Pakistan for the whole thing.

We had come south to Larkana to visit the ancient ruins of Moenjo Daro. The landscape of the Indus Valley was in complete contrast to dusty Quetta. Water everywhere and water buffalo. Lots of birdlife - egrets, kingfishers. Lush green agricultural fields with people planting crops, donkeys and carts full of hay on the roads, camels and carts full of bricks that were made in the mud of the fields and fired in ovens with tall thin chimneys with smoke bellowing out of them. There were a lot more women around. In the cities, they seem to hide.

The buses cost peanuts to travel in, but are slow on the poor potholed roads and endless bouts of obstacles. Near the ruins we climbed aboard a tonga - horse and cart for the last 5 tranquil kilometres in the blazing sun, along a Euclyliptus lined track, past a village with the hairdresser working out in the open with a mirror hanging from a wooden frame as he shaved someone's head. Large black cows roamed around the roads.

Between 2500 and 1500BC, Moenjo Daro in the Indus Valley, was one of the most advanced settlement in the world, and UNESCO protected, is Pakistan's most historic sight. "One the most stunningly restored and preserved historical sights in the whole world" (Footprint). Excavated in the 1920s by the unfortunately named Mr Dikshit, it is a large complex of brick foundations based around a citadel. It is so well preserved, it looks like a present day construction company has laid the foundations for a new town. The ancient baths were almost complete. Founded by the Indus River which changed course thousands of years ago, it was designed, with contempory state of the art, town planning (separate neighbourhoods for the administration, rich people and the lower orders with all the latest mod-cons - sewage and sanitation facilities. Even the large brick dustbins survive). No one knows why it was deserted, but the silt built up. They kept having to build the walls and wells higher. Now cleared, some well walls are 16ft tall above the ground. It was a remarkable place. The visitors book which you had to sign to get in (1p admission) showed that an English couple had visited it, 10 days before. Today there was only one other visitor - a Buddhist monk from South Korea who told us that he had visited 60 countries. I didn't know that Buddhist monks did the lottery!

Back in Larkana, we were the focus of attention in the market with our own entourage, as we explored the market, trying out food and taking photos. The rest of our time in Pakistan would be spent in the North.

We decided to catch an overnight train to Peshawar from Rohri. This involved a slow nightmare bus journey of 3 hours (it would have been slower if the bus driver had decided not to turn into a reckless Formula 1 driver and keep his hand on the horn everytime something got in the way). We had to change at Sikkar which was more of a traffic jam than a town. Exhaust fumes and crowds yelling prevented us from seeing anything other than dead dogs by the side of the road.

Rohri - it's "twin town" (of despair) on the other side of the wide and impressive Indus River was just as bad. Flies covered us as we ate a lunchtime curry while passing a 4 hour wait for the 4pm train. One of the railway staff took care of us, getting us tickets, cups of tea, and introducing every other member of staff to us for a chat. Two things stand out at Rohri train station. A naked man with a blanket over his shoulder, was prowling around a platform. He saw us on the footbridge, came running up, got on his knees, started to kiss my feet begging for money. Onlookers crowded around, taunting him. Suddenly he jumped up, produced a broken bottle from under the blanket and proceeded to wave it in my face threateningly. I didn't move, but I have never seen 50 Pakistanis move backwards so quickly. The railway staff quickly assumed control and led him away, still naked. Good job, otherwise I would now have a second mouth.

Secondly, just by the station, there was a small open air hairdressers. I had got chatting to the boys inside and said I'd like a shave (with the long razor). Jo took photos as I was lathered up and shaved (twice for that extra smooth finish), then had water squirted in my face. As I went to pay, the boy refused money, asking only that we send him a photo. It was very touching and he will get the photo when developed.

We had reserved First Class air conditioned sleeper beds on the Karachi 'Express' to Peshawar. We had been told that it would take 21 hours "or so". We were looking forward to our own private compartment for a relaxing ride. When the train arrived, an hour late, our "compartment" was a aisle seat with bunk above. The bunks were triple stacked. So much for the privacy. We also learnt from a fellow passenger, a doctor that the trip would probably take over 30 hours.

It was actually a smooth ride with few stops. When it did stop, people would come aboard with prepared food and tea and the inevitable beggars would parade past. I was in my sleeping bag on my top bunk with my money belt in the bag, my boots and camera under me. I awoke around 3am to see a small boy beneath me. A thief! He scuttled silently down the aisle and was gone. The whole carriage was asleep. Waking suddenly, I looked beneath me to see Jo lying asleep Her money belt was secure under her chadour and her head was on her travel bag. Our backpacks were still under her bunk. When the family across the way awoke, we discovered that the woman had had her purse stolen with £100 in it. A lucky escape.We pulled into the major city of Lahore at 8am and decided to jump ship.

Upon arriving in Lahore, I bought a newspaper. My horoscope said “Aquarius reminds you of all the extreme changes taking place in communications and transportation”. They should have replaced the word “changes” with “dangers”.

The doctor from the train and his son, led us to the rickshaws and we followed them to a small bus station to climb aboard a western deluxe coach to Rawalpindi. This was our quickest route to Peshawar. We would return to smoggy Lahore later. On the way out of the city we saw an advertisement for “Titanic” – not the movie. This one was “the perfect tonic for all kinds of sexual diseases”. We also saw “Lady Doctor – child spacialist”.

It was shocking to leave Lahore and join an empty 3 lane motorway with a smooth surface. No potholes. No traffic. Just occasional policecars parked by the side of the road. Halfway along the 4 hour journey, we pulled into a “Service Station” that was a real culture shock. Just like the English ones and now very alien to us.

In Rawalpindi, the Doctor put us on a minibus to Peshawar and bade farewell. You don’t hear of many Pakistani men becoming Formula One drivers but I think we got the first attempt. Our driver of “28 years. Very senior. The best”” I was informed by regular passengers, took us on a two hour drive to Peshawar that made dealing with central London rush hour traffic seem like a Disney ride. It was the ultimate ride from hell. We seemed to have a head on collision every two minutes.

A passenger gave me a running commentary. “He is an expert. This is our frontier mentality. He feels nothing. If you took his pulse it would be normal”. Yeah? “Well try taking mine. He drives like my bloody grandmother!” All of a sudden the minivan screeches to a halt by the side of the road and the driver and passengers all troop in for the 4pm prayers to Allah. All peace to the world – but wait till he gets back behind the wheel. All that danger just so he could wash his feet on time.

We reached the frontier city of Peshawar on the north western border of Pakistan intact. As well as confronting the usual chaos and congestion, we were engulfed by a choking, eye-stinging blue layer of fumes which hung over the city in a permanent haze. We were both to pick up heavy chest coughs here – having to clear our throats constantly. We were to spend 3 nights here (including New Year’s Eve) in a grubby downtown hotel.

Peshawar, the capital of the North West Frontier Province is a frontier town – the meeting place of the subcontinent and Central Asia. “No other city is quite like old Peshawar. The bazaar within the walls is like an American Wild West movie costumed as a Bible epic…. Smuggling, drug trading and arms’ dealing are all in a day’s work”(Footprint). This sounded like my kinda town.

What we found were very interesting bazaars but being slowly destroyed by the rickshaw traffic destroying the ambience. The horses and carts and Indian cows with their large humps, still hauled the produce through the streets but had hundreds of these smoking droning wasps dodging them on all sides. At one point we saw a policeman lose his temper and lash out at their windscreens and side mirrors with his cane and smashing three as camels plodded past oblivious to the onlookers.

We spent a day in the bazaar and it was hard work. “Mister, where you from?”. I got so bored I just started making up countries – Finland, Mozambique, Timbuktu. Inevitably, when I said Sweden, the inquirer asked if I knew the central hospital in Oslo because his brother worked there. We were getting worn out by what had appeared to be initial friendliness but increasing seemed to become a nationwide conspiracy to make us answer one question a million times in a fortnight.

The bazaar was larger but not unlike Quettas. Much of it was in covered narrow alleyways. The dentists had huge signs with gleaming teeth and then piles of plaster cast false teeth sets on their counters. Outside the law courts, legal people sat in the sun with their books on a table under a tree. We saw manacled prisoners being moved to the jail. Huge painted posters advertising the latest movies on Cinema Rd.

In the tailors’ bazaar I decided to get measured up for a “Shalwark Kameiz” (the standard Pakistan/Indian daily suit – long baggy shirt and baggy trousers). No one spoke English so it took a little communicating to get across my request. Finally a tailor measured me up and took me to a cloth stall to pick the material. I needed 8 metres and chose a dark navy blue silk. The material cost 400rp and it cost 150rp to have it made. A day later I was the proud possessor of a custom made spectacular baggy suit for about £6.

On New Year’s Eve, all celebrations had been banned by the local authorities. They were gearing up to their “Eid” celebrations on Jan 8th (the end of Ramadan) and wanted nothing to do with the Infidel’s corrupt western calendar. Any Western type restaurant was closed by the police. I read later that police were used in the capital Islamabad to ensure that no one was allowed out on the streets to celebrate. What with that and not the slightest chance of a beer, we were sleep by 9pm ignorant of the world wide celebrations. (So much for the smuggling image – no one offered me anything illegal – not even a beer).

The North West Frontier Province covers an area of 100,000 sq km (including the tribal areas) and the mountains border with Afghanistan. The route between is via the infamous Khyber Pass. For our New Year’s Day excursion we had organised a private driver and an armed guard to escort us into the badlands. We had to get an official permit to visit the Tribal areas and Pass which are independent of Pakistani law. Essentially it said, we had to enter through a specified route, take armed protection, produce documentation at every checkpoint, only travel during daylight and not take photos of sensitive/military places.

At the Khyber Agency, we picked up our burly armed guard with his Ak-47 automatic (hired for £1.20). He was a member of the Khyber Rifles that are responsible for the jurisdiction of the area. For the next three hours, whenever we got out of the car, he got out too. We were driven from Peshawar into Tribal Lands called the Khyber Agency with “No Foreigners Allowed” signs. The usual dusty, scruffy markets gave way to gunshops everywhere with guns on racks openly displayed in the windows. It was deemed to dangerous to get out and take photos but ironically I spotted a “Mothercare” branch juxtapostioned with “Arms Dealer” and what looked Arnold Schwarzanigger’s Home Protection Arsenal. I think I have discovered the major drug suppier to English children. It must be loveable “Mothercare” What a cunning disguise. There was also a “Shell” garage so check out their supply routes.

The Tribal lands are populated by the Pathan tribe. These are no-messing-about-eye-for-an-eye-tooth-for-a-tooth-people. When they have none to fight (eg British, Pakistanis), they feud amongst themselves. As we entered the Khyber Pass, I noticed that every second person had a rifle or automatic over his shoulder.

The Khyber Pass may have been overstated in historical importance, but to us British, it was always the “Gateway to India” and the scene of various Afghan Wars. The mountains around the pass were dry, bare, buckled affairs – little vegetation, but a nightmare to spot any snipers or military hiding in them. Our driver told us that the Indian Airways hostage crisis had ended the day before and that the hijackers were rumoured to be heading this way.

Along the twisting, turning road, we followed the Khyber Railway through the pass (now disused) – a remarkable feat of British engineering in the 1920s with 34 tunnels and 92 bridges. We passed a large ex-British military Shagai fort and various police checkpoints. The narrowest part of the gorge is only 14 metres wide. The river was nearly non- existent. There had been no rain here for months and the snow had not arrived.

From here, the pass opened out into a wide valley dotted with fortified Pathan settlements These were protected by towering stone walls – we never saw a house, only walls and iron gates – which were to protect them against former invaders and feuding tribes. Our driver pointed out a huge complex which belonged to a wealthy drug lord who was based there. The complex with every available luxury was also built underground. Not that it mattered, he had been arrested in the USA two years ago and was in a Pakistani jail.

We could get out and take photos away from any villages, but passing through them, the driver locked the doors and we could only view from the window. “These are bad people” he repeated at every village and slowed down to avoid killing anyone. Landi Kotal looked like a scene from “Mad Max 3”. Desert scavengers, hardened people in scruffy dusty clothes, ecking a living from smuggling. I was surprised not see a satellite dish out here. Usually I find them in the most extraordinary places.

After a 90 minute drive, we reached the limit of our Permit. From the Michni Checkpoint, a few kilometres from the Afghanistan border at the Khyber Rifles last outpost, we were allowed to walk around to view the borders of the two countries, marked by hill towers. An Afghan man offered me a complete set of Afghan currency which was too good to pass up after haggling down to 50 rupees. I also took pictures of our armed guard complete with gun. We returned by the same route in less than a hour. There was no stopping our driver.

For the first two nights in Peshawar, we had been eating at cheap, grubby but friendly lamb and chicken “tikka’ stalls – not British-Indian-Tikka style. The meat was fried in a wok and you just got flat bread and onion salad with it. It cost about an English pound for two meals. At the local Chi (tea) stall, the owner’s son attempted to teach us some Urdu.

Tonight, we completed our New Year by visiting the Khan Klub restaurant which was open again. Dressing up in my new clothing, we were welcomed by the armed guard into what has been voted one of the “Top Ten” restaurants in Pakistan. The Khan Klub is a beautifully restored 200 year old Sikh merchants house. “Quite unlike anything else you will find in Pakistan” (Footprint). The 8 bedroom suites are 5-star ornate jobs, but we were only interested in the restaurant. This was a beautiful affair of scarlet brick walls, lush carpets and subtle lighting. You sat on large cushions against low tables. We had our best meal of the trip so far - an Afghan meal – and it cost under £5 between us. Afterwards, our waiter gave us a tour of the mansion. The rooms were exquisite.

It was time to roll east. Now my horoscope said “Steer clear of increased accident producing potential on crowded highways”. What was this guy – a clairvoyant? He must have known it was time to return along that infamous Peshawer-Rawalpindi highway. This return trip was to have as many laughs. We had a younger driver (oh dear I’m thinking – not so senior!). and we were sitting in the front seats of the minibus .These are saved for ignorant tourists like us. The good views of terror in the other driver’s face is counterbalanced by the fact that you will die first if inevitably you crash. He drove with his horn and bullied his way through the traffic as best as possible. But it just wasn’t his day. First we were stopped at two separate police checks and had the minivan searched for drugs using torches (underneath, tapping side panels for hidden compartments). With these delays, he had to drive faster to make up time. Then an unmarked police car pulled him over and did him for speeding (A first in Pakistan!). The legal speed limit is 60kph (pull the other one). I thought it was 100kph by the normal speed. Before he was booked, he removed the van’s radio and hid it, so the police did not take it as payment. Then we got into a fight.

There is this constant battle of smaller minivans trying to get past slower trucks. The trucks don’t give a damn. They overtake each other regardless of the fact that at their speed, it will take them two miles to complete the manoeuvre. When this happens the minibuses try and pass the two parallel trucks on the inside or outside – that is, they just come off the surfaced road, swing onto the dust, gun it past the trucks and swing back on again. You get used to the van tilting suddenly at 45 degrees as we crash off the road, heading for a line of trees, for no particular reason - but occasionally I looked up from my book to make sure the driver had not just fallen asleep.

A minibus ahead of us had tried various attempts to pass two trucks from the same company. They played cat and mouse. As he cut inside, they moved inside and the same on the outside. The driver spotted a gap and decided to go through the middle of them. They closed ranks, slowed down and forced him to stop. Two truck drivers and minibus driver jumped out and started fighting. Our driver thought “I’m getting some of this”, pulled the van in front of the trucks and waded in. All highway traffic came to a standstill behind us and then on the other side. Hundreds of people climbed out of cars, buses trucks, and what had started as a personal driving feud, developed into a mini brawl of various people who had nothing to do with it. Then the police arrived and they joined in. It was nothing serious – they fought like women – arms flailing and handbags at dawn with a lot of yelling and cat calling, but it made for an interesting road stop. Our driver got hammered. Fifteen minutes after we stopped, he returned with a bruised lip, cut hand and dusty behind. Someone had put him down.

As we drove off with the original minivan at fault, I could see them angling for a return bout up the road away from the police, but the trucks never materialized and getting bored with the delay, he finally put his foot down and got his horn going again.

We arrived in Rawalpindi which is a sprawling city and one of the fastest growing in Pakistan. It is the neighbour of the capital city Islamabad just up the road. We were just using it as a base to make day trips. Our hotel had a sign urging people to check in their firearms and weapons upon signing in (and this was mid-range!). The hotels in Pakistan are amateurish affairs. Even mid range – you find the sheets and towels dirty, grubby floors (and old pairs of underwear in the cupboards). When you request to have the stuff changed on arrival they take hours (when we returned to this hotel at 1am on our first night – they still had not changed the sheets from 12 hours before and we could not not have any toilet paper because “the shops are closed”. Imagine a hotel with no toilet roll. And this cost us £3 each.

We headed for the western capital of Islamabad – the starkly contrasting twin city. It is a modern , neatly planned capital, built in the 1960s to a grid design with wide empty tree-lined boulevards. Very un-Pakistani and completely characterless. But the rickshaws seemed to be banned which was a start. There were western type shops selling western type products and I was surprised to see every English newspaper available in a bookshop 2 days old. (No, I didn’t bother buying “The Sun” for $3US). More importanty for us they had a 24-hour Internet Café at about 50p an hour on-line. We got out of there at midnight. While waiting for a bus we chatted to a medical student. He kindly paid our fare (6p each). It was strange to catch a local minibus back to Rawalpindi along wide empty roads which had been clogged with traffic on our way up. It had taken over an hour to get there but only 10 minutes to get back. I don’t think the driver dipped below 90 miles an hour.

We made two trips from Rawalpindi. To the northeast of Islamabad, on a series of outlying Himalayan spurs, lie a series of settlements that were developed by the British as hill resorts known as hill stations so that they could escape the baking Punjab summers. Murree is the most developed of these. We were expecting snow and views of Kashmir from the top, but the valleys were shrouded in haze and pollution (there has been no rain here for nearly three months) and not a snowflake in sight. But at nearly 4000ft it was enjoyable to potter past the old English mansions and remnants of the Empire in the sunshine. It was so peaceful up there, but we saw nothing beyond the trees and the hugh black ravens cawing.

To the west of Rawalpindi back on that infamous GT (Grand Truck) Road lies the ruins of Taxila. It was the capital of the rich Gandharan Buddhist civilisation dating from the 6th century BC to 5th century AD. There are quite a few sites well spead out and we spent the day walking between some and catching local Datsun vans (those of the minimum of 4 people hanging off the back fame). The ruins were nothing special in themselves but the rural scenery was pleasant to walk through between the sites. The Taxila museum was excellent. Well laid out, tranquil and with some interesting stuff. It cost 5p and the ruins 5p too.

At the Buddhist Stupa of Dharmarajika we met our first aggressive hustlers. One man latched on as our “guide” without request. Others offered us “ancient buddhist relics”. After viewing the site we tricked the guide by heading for the old monastery at the edge of the site and we just kept walking into the hills. No one tried to follow. It was too much like hard work for them. No sale today. We walked through the ruins of Sirkap, laughing off the prices of relics. At our final site of Jaulian – the most complete monastery complex, the caretakers had a better scam. They had the exhibits locked up behind wire cages. You had to be escorted in and “guided around” by one of the them who would then start looking for a handout. But they had a problem. An American quartet, a French couple and ourselves all turned up at the same time (ironic because we had only seen one Finnish tourist in Peshawer since we had entered Pakistan). They opted for the better dressed groups. But a few minutes later, we snuck in behind the cages, did the sites and got out. Its not that I begrudge people trying to earn an extra buck. I just feel that I have paid an admission charge (no matter how small) and I should get to see the place without anymore hassle.

In the minivan back to Rawalpindi we were joined by 9 clean cut and tidy Sri Lankan airforce cadets who had been on an Air Force Exchange in Pakistan for nearly a year. They were on holiday to see the Buddhist sites. They were moaning about the fact they couldn’t find any alcohol in the country and couldn’t wait to get home. We were invited to join them in February to make up for “lost alcohol time” in Sri Lanka.

In Rawalpindi, we had been eating at market stalls around the corner from the hotel – chinese soup at one stall, hamburgers with egg and chicken in them, or chicken cornish pasties with chickpea stew at another. Pink milky tea and banana milkshakes next door. A meal cost about an English pound between us. After our return there, we were adopted by them and given freebie samples. It is nice to get recognised in a strange place.

But on our final night, trouble erupted. We cannot put our finger on the cause, because Jo ate exactly the same meal (except for the pink milk), but by midnight, I was heaving violently into the toilet. I haven’t thrown up that badly since a plate of olives while cycling around Portugal a decade ago. And then it started coming out of the other end. I don’t think I will spare you the details. For the past three days I have been passing illuminous green liquid in horrendous bursts and it is no fun when you have to make a dozen visits to the toilet before 9am.

Or when you have to sit on a minivan along bumpy roads! Despite feeling very poorly the morning after, we decided to take a chance with my bowels and reach Lahore and try and find a decent hotel for me to recover in. I survived the 5 hour bus ride – good job they stopped for the toilet half way there or I would have exploded.

The city of Lahore is considered to be the cultural capital of Pakistan. The former Mughal Mosque and world famous Fort are offset by the former red sandstone architectural grandeur of the British Raj – or so the guidebook will tell you. It has had a turbulent history, but nothing as turbulent as the traffic congestion here. It is a city going down the pan. The lack of rain and growing pollution had produced endless days of fog which has shut down the airport and caused many accidents (at least two people have died falling down open man-holes in the streets – and just when I was getting used to them). The newpapers reported that end of Ramadan shopping was down and a doctor recommended that everyone chew gum in the mist to help their breathing. From our comfortable hotel room on the third floor we could only make out silhouettes. Photography was useless. We had arrived in the arid version of Manchester in Pakistan.

Our hotel “Hotel Kashmir Palace” however, was the best we stayed in and so it should be for 1000rp ($19). Warm, clean, CNN T.V and a bath. A great recovery room. I felt confident enough to venture out and we explored the massive red sandstone Badshahi Mosque, one of the world’s largest with 4 x 50m minarets at the corners and a courtyard capable of holding 100,000 people. This was being swept down by a group of men welding palm leaf branches ready for “Eid” (the end of Ramadan on Jan 8th).

Next door the imposing walls of the 17th Century, UNESCO protected Fort contained a motley selection of buildings in disrepair. I’m sure it must have looked spectacular once, but after the Sikh invaders removing all the marble and finery and the British using it was a base, it is nothing special. There are a few men chiselling away at red sandstone blocks attempting to replace the damaged architecture, but at the rate they were working it will take them another 300 years. Maybe it was just the overcast skies of smog that undermined its grandeur.

On our way to the Fort, walking through the Old City of bazaars (by now we were “bazaared-out”), we got talking to a friendly 28 year old aluminium worker. We ended up sitting outside the fort for an hour arguing about Pakistan. Fed up with Lahore, I was brutal in my comments but he did not take offence. I told him the major problem was overpopulation. Too many people for jobs = less money per job = more poverty. He argued that their Muslim religion encouraged babies – that couples were ostracised if they had not had a child within one year of marriage. If they were child free, “the woman always gets the blame, even if it is man problem”. The husband is then allowed to get divorced and remarry. Many Pakistanis had been astounded to hear that we had been “Married” for 4 years, but we had no children. “What is the problem?” they would ask. He said the Pakistanis depended on large families to take care of the elders. I put up various arguments (eg Chinese 1 child policy as evidence Pakistan was doomed on its current course. 130 million people. Over 65% under the age of 18).

I also poo-pooed their new nuclear prowess. “What is the point of having nuclear bombs when 75% of your population is on the poverty line?” “So we can kill the Indians” he said. He dismissed our travelling, telling us that if we read the ‘Quran’ we would find enlightenment and broaden our horizons without leaving home. “Travel is useless” he concluded. We both agreed that Pakistan had no leadership available. No one has a clue.

Lahore has a bad reputation for bad hotels, drugging and robbing travellers, bogus policemen etc. Which is why we had gone upmarket. One evening, walking back to our hotel, a car pulled up. A man in the passenger seat flashed what I assumed was a false police ID card. He started asking questions and then asked to see my passport. I knew the scam. He wanted to see where the money belt was and ask to see our currency exchange. Then do a runner. I told him it was back at the hotel and he gave up. We had seen no other tourists in Lahore. No wonder.

After a fortnight, I think I was just getting bored with the noise and non-stop frenzy of this country and feeling sorry for my bowels. I was ready to leave this adolescent country of 50 years, that seems to go through the motions of being an adult, but is feeling around in the dark. It doesn’t know what it wants to do or where it is going. It just runs around a lot and makes lots of noise without much to show for it. It seems doomed to forever be fighting India on every possible issue, resentful of India’s rising importance.

I loved the rural scenery around Moenjo Daro, but the cities are a nightmare on your eardrums and throat. I can’t knock the friendliness of the people and we felt very welcome. Visit this place only if you are a hardened traveller who can cope with the aural abuse and come back in 50 years when they have finished building it.

Road kill statistics of trip so far: 4 dogs, 3 cats, 2 rats, 1 goat, 3 trucks, 1 burnt out bus, 1 totalled minivan

Travel - £35.66
Accomodation - £79.88
Food - £24
Other - £78.13
Total - £217.67

Grand Total - £788.36