by Danny Bent
Antonia, Nat and Simone were in town. Nat and Simone were the Swiss couple who had wanted to cross China with a donkey that had been refused entry – it didn’t have a passport.
Islamabad is the capital of Pakistan. The name translates as the Home of Islam. Bombs laid by extremists were exploding regularly in Islamabad now, targeting the infidels.
Celebrating having survived the Taliban and the bandits, we all headed for the diplomatic enclave and the French embassy. This place is full of diplomats who don’t venture past the walls and barbed wire for their whole stay. They walk around as though they are travellers of the 1800s, dividing and conquering. But in addition to these frauds there was also beer. None of us had touched a drop for the weeks or months we’d been in the country, and we were so excited we were even able to pretend we were interested in the diplomats for a few moments. Being back in this Western civilization was fun for a night, but the stimulus of our surroundings was nothing compared with the streets of the old town of Islamabad.
Despite the horrendous traffic and smog, Islamabad - or Pindi (Rawalpindi) – is quite beautiful and colourful in its own special way. Flocks of eagles swoop left and right, whilst pan is spat, colouring whatever it hits red. Cars hoot, goats casually graze on the piles of rubbish in the street, tuk tuks swerve round the traffic, calls for prayer are drowned out by break-beat Indian tunes emanating from the shops, sumptuous material is used to cover the women, and the men chatter around burning rubbish to keep warm. Drinking in the sweet fruits of the juice shop, I listened to the world go crazy around me.
The smog on the journey to Islamabad was still having its effects on my body. I was coughing heavily, with black bogies crystallising in my noise to form sharp shards.
Karrar Haidri, one of the photographers from Gulmit, left a message at the hotel saying I would be picked up in the morning to meet some of his friends. He told me to bring my bike along. Just what I needed - a cycle ride in the bustling streets.
Arriving at a sports complex nearby, I was greeted by the flashing of camera bulbs and the scrutiny of video cameras. Microphones were thrust into my face. Karrar had organized a surprise press conference during which I had to relive every moment of my trip as I cycled in circles and waved to the cameras.
That morning the hotel had pointed out that my visa had expired and that I had to move out today. Karrar gave me a lift back to the hotel with my bike hanging out of the back of his boot. My clothes were all on the landing. The manager said I had to leave.
Typically, the TV was turned up so loud as the background noise to the hotel that I couldn’t think of a reason why they should let me stay. Karrar was gesticulating towards the TV, but I ignored him, wondering what to do. If only they’d turn the sound down.
Before I knew it the reception was empty and everyone was in the other room watching and listening. What had happened? I was able to see over everyone’s heads, being the tallest person in the hotel by far at only 5”9.
On the TV was a face I recognised, slightly hairier than I’d seen it before and a bit wind-swept. But it was clear to see. My face was blown up to about a foot in size on the TV. Beautiful Urdu scripted subtitles adorned the bottom. It was the interview I had done that morning. The interview finished, so someone switched channels. Another news programme was showing the same interview. Flicking through the national channels I saw myself time and time again telling the same story, talking of the money raised back home for the charity in the sub-continent.
The manager's attitude suddenly changed. He gave the receptionist a clip around the ear and told him to return my clothes and equipment to my room. Touching my hands and bowing slightly, and advising me to avoid the police, he helped Karrar up the stairs with my bike.
Karrar stepped into my room and almost vomited. I hadn’t really considered it in a critical way but it was indeed pretty gross. The walls were coated with dirty finger marks, the floor was covered with dust. Unidentifiable stains had never been cleaned, smoke had stained the roof, mould hid in every corner, holes punctuated the walls, the stench of sewage penetrated every fibre of our bodies, the curtains were torn netting, and the door was held shut by a single nail. At less than two quid a night in a capital city, I couldn't complain.
* * *
From then on I was on TV constantly across all channels. People in the street pointed or laughed at me but, to be honest, that wasn’t too different to how it had been the whole way. Friends throughout Pakistan sent emails to say they’d seen me. However, nice as it was, time was ticking away and that time dictated that I should leave Islamabad.
A knocking on my wall woke me in the night. It was from Antonia’s room. Getting up, I pushed her door which swung inwards. Antonia had taken a cocktail of prescription drugs which she’d been told acted as a do-it-yourself abortion kit. She had decided that there was no way she was going to have the baby and consign herself to a life in a kitchen with nothing to do but clean and cook. The man she was involved with was a Pashtun and many of his tribe were mixed up with the Taliban. The consequences of being exposed as having had sex with an infidel would be swift.
She was in extreme pain. I sat down next to her and held her hand as she convulsed in agony. I didn’t know what to do. Telling someone might put her in grave danger, but not doing so might do the same. She calmed down after a time and was able to sit upright. She pulled out some white powder, rolled it into a spliff and lit it. I asked her what it was. Heroine. Man, it was definitely time to leave.
* * *
Before I could do so, however, I had a favour to do for a friend. Abdul, with his most childlike enchanting giggle, was the one and only Pakistani hippy I’d met. He was in his prime during the 60s which he’d spent mostly travelling Europe, smoking and meeting ladies. Owning a guesthouse in Gilgit now, he smoked with tourists and generally did his best to keep everyone amused. He’d been invited to Spain by one of his old friends and needed a visa. Since Pakistanis were forbidden from entering the diplomatic enclave, it was pretty difficult for any local to get a visa for another country. I had promised him earlier in the week, when he’d told me all about Pakistan’s and his own vibrant history, that I would act as a go-between and take the passport in for him. I felt extremely nervous walking past all the armed guards with a Pakistani passport in my pocket, I can tell you. Arriving at the Spanish embassy, I sat waiting for someone to see me. When finally they did so, I soon found out that they were far from pleased that I had brought a Pakistani passport inside their embassy, and the situation got rather heated as I argued Abdul's case. Despite this, I managed to persuade them to at least consider him for a visa, at which point they checked over his passport and began laughing. His passport had expired in 1967. They apologised but there was nothing they could do for him under those circumstances anyway. I couldn’t argue that one. So Abdul was left to fight his own corner as I boarded a bicycle, destination Lahore.
Chapter 33
I was able to see first hand the extent of slum housing in Islamabad as I left the city. Plastic sheeting, branches and anything else the owners could get their hands on made up a whole village where people squatted cooking on fires. Without the poverty it would look like a colourful modern art exhibition.
The same smog-ridden air that was filling my lungs was also filling handmade kites. Made from plastic bags and sticks, they were flown by the children in ragged, if any, clothes.
I thoroughly enjoyed returning to being the unknown guy on a bike again and waved cheerily at people who either returned the gesture or simply stared open-mouthed as I cycled past.
I was repeatedly advised to avoid crowded areas or going out at night, however, within three hours of checking into a hostel two floors above a busy road and market stall in Lahore, I found myself surrounded by thousands of people in a passionate mood in the pitch black.
I had been invited to a gypsy festival and I felt I couldn’t turn down the opportunity. I was told it was only one hour away, so why not? Three hours of dr
iving later and still on a bus, I was squeezed between eight people on three seats. Geoff, Aron, Nisa and Aban - our hostel owner - were a few rows back. We had our legs and knees intertwined and, if the bus had hit the brakes suddenly, it would have been goodbye to Dan's future children and hello to agonising pain. Luckily the buses brakes didn't work. Instead it just swerved left and right around any obstacles.
One of the Pakistani boys in front of me had his phone out and was encouraging me to look at it. Whilst the bus bounced down the road it was as if my eye sockets were on a spin cycle and I couldn’t make anything out. When we came to a standstill, I saw that the boy was showing me Western pornography in which a powerfully built white guy was standing proud, with a girl on her knees in front of him. Pointing to the guy, I asked if it was him, to raucous laughter from his friends. One of the friends didn’t laugh. He was gazing at me with a faraway look in his eyes, his hand rested on my leg. There wasn’t much room to put it anywhere else. “You are so beautiful,” he said as he squeezed my cheek between his thumb and forefinger. “Can I kiss you?”
This brought about no laughter from his friends. They wanted to know how I would respond and were looking quizzically at me. I had been warned that local men on the sub-continent might take a liking to blonde men, but I hadn’t realised they would be so open about it. Antonia had told me that many of the tribal boys practised sex with each other before they were married. Simply calling it ‘practising’, both parties would be highly offended if it were to be suggested that they were engaging in anything that might be considered homosexual
Back looking at the phone, the first boy said “I used to like English girls. ...” He paused for affect. “.... until I found out they like to have sex with horses.” Someone had sent him some disgusting animal films. He assumed if one English girl would do that, so must all the rest. This is life in Pakistan. No-one stands out or goes against the grain.
As we took photographs during the festival, we were swamped by male Pakistanis as interested in us as we were in them. The attention got so frenetic that it started to feel like a rugby maul. We were quickly whisked to the ladies' chamber where we were served dahl with rice. There were no chapatti. With the chapatti bread it had been easy eating with our hands, pinching the bread between thumb and forefinger to make a scoop. Without the bread, it was impossible to grasp the sauce or the rice. We couldn't put our whole hands in our mouths, so we got it as far as our lips, opened our fingers and spilt it down our fronts. I resorted to holding it above my head and dropping some into my mouth like birds feeding their newly born. The local women thought this was very funny. The most fundamental of tasks, eating with your hands, had to be retaught. It was only some weeks later in India that I actually managed it without dropping it all over myself and anyone else unfortunate enough to be within a couple of metres of me.
When we’d been ushered to the ladies enclave, we realised we’d lost Geoff. As I sat there feeling very sorry for myself and embarrassed about my eating techniques, he was out taking cool pictures. Gutted.
As festival fever erupted, the band was still nowhere in sight. It was decided it would be safer to move us to a home in the village for tea and biscuits as our security had been compromised. Biscuits! Couldn’t complain about that.
On the way to the local house, Aban returned from looking for Geoff having concluded he wasn’t there. Offering to go back to the festival, I found myself in an atmosphere that could be cut with a knife. Gypsies from all over the area were here, and each tribe viewed itself as superior to the next. There was now a heavy police presence so, of course, lots of dark metal was reflecting in the lights around. I could feel the aggression and saw a fight broken up by tough looking tribal men.
We duly scampered back to the house, assuming Geoff had somehow decided to go home. Worrying about this, we were told to form a line like school children before being dragged back to the festival. The music had arrived and, with it, a serene calm. Walking hand in hand like the Brazilian football team, we stepped over people crammed into the small tented arena until we were right at the front, just ahead of the spiritual leaders and organisers. We were VIPs.
The singing and drumming started to make my hair stand on end. My body convulsed with the energy and passion of the music. I could see how it plays a massive part in the religion. By the end of the first song, grown men were weeping and the organisers were dropping 5R notes all over the spiritual leaders and the band members. Some fell by my feet. Nisa looked at me and mouthed “Not for you”.
Nisa, a Turkish girl with gorgeous golden skin and dark pools for eyes, and with enough energy to power an Indian city – with none of the usual power cuts - was travelling with Aron, her Estonian boyfriend, a man who maintained the most caring and happy nature even when projectile vomiting. They had travelled overland from Turkey to Pakistan and were planning to get to Mongolia. They had brought bikes with them, enjoying the freedom to cycle or to take a bus, depending on dangers, distances and desire.
The night progressed and I was asked to stand. A wedge of 5 Rupee notes was forced into my hand. I dropped them over the spiritualists and band before copying my Pakistani neighbour who threw a handful into the air, allowing them to fall like snow flakes all around me.
The music got better and better, hypnotic in it’s expression.
* * *
We were relieved to find Geoff tucked up in bed on our return. He’d actually got lost on the way from the bus to the festival. How he’d managed that I have no idea as it was only a stone's throw away.
During the process of Pakistan becoming independent, Lahore was made capital of the Punjab State in the new country of Pakistan. Almost immediately, large scale riots broke out among Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus, causing many deaths as well as damage to historic monuments. Punjab is the only state in the world that straddles two borders. Half is in India, half in Pakistan.
With its cultural and religious history, it is inevitable that music of many genres should centre around Lahore.
The next night we went to a Sufi night. The music wasn't a touch on the previous night, but it still left us energised and humming a tune. The dancing was out of this world. The Sufis are religious icons who relax until they become the music. Their most prominent feature is the wobbling of the head. Starting slowly and increasing in speed, their features blur making them look featureless, or at times as though they have faces on either side of their heads. Looking away as the tempo increased further, it looked like their heads were going to fall off. The music went on to have a real 'drum and bass' feel, and the Sufis span in circles faster and faster, beyond the limits of human kind.
One person in the whole crowd was asked to get up and dance with them. Who? That's right. Me. Spinning onto centre stage, I tried the head wobbling. Relaxing my neck and keeping my shoulders still, I gave it everything I’d got until I felt as though I was going to vomit. I had a headache for one hour afterwards. The pressure they put on the brain can only be compared with repetitive road accident whiplash or going twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Is it any wonder some of them were losing their hair in chunks and seemed a little brain damaged?
The next morning it was time to brave the border guards with my expired visa. Nisa and Aron joined me on their bikes after I’d done a little DIY on them. Their wheels were almost flat, their handlebars were loose, and their seats very low. How they’d got this far I had no idea. It showed wonderful perseverance.
Their tyres were worn so thin they suffered repeated punctures. I was happy to lend a hand. Also struggling with food poisoning, Aron had to stop and vomit every few minutes.
This all somewhat delayed us and, by the time we'd made the thirty kilometres to the border, it was closed. Happily we put up their small two man tent in no man's land and all squeezed into it until Aron needed to vomit and we had a bit more space.
We surreptitiously packed up the tent whilst being serenaded by a drummer from the local housing. I took a deep breath. This was the last
country on my itinerary - India. I stepped into the border post with trepidation.
Chapter 34
The Pakistan / India border is a very fragile one, running almost three thousand kilometres. Both countries claim Kashmir as their own, killings are common, fighting is continuous and both refer to the other as ‘The Enemy’.
There is only one official border crossing and it proved to be my most dangerous yet. It has very strict hours of opening and on our first night we had to camp beneath the watchful eyes of the Pakistani border guards.
The guards themselves are far taller than any other Pakistani men, whom I normally tower above. Possessing the size and physique of NBA basket ball players, plastered with medals of honour they have no doubt earned fighting the Indians, their long fingers play with their weapons which hang caressing their legs in the perfect position for a grab-and-fire.
You can imagine the tension I felt approaching this border. Adrenaline ran through my veins, my muscles were taut, my eyes watched every move and my ears listened out continuously for a trigger being cocked .… the feelings I experience watching horror films, as I wait for the blood to flow, when I hide behind a cushion, hair on end, and wish for it all to be over and forgotten.
What I didn't expect to find at the border was a carnival atmosphere - a circus enacted with schoolboy competitiveness. It was more like a Disney cartoon than a horror film after all.
