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By Hannu Berghall
We visited a few monasteries in the surroundings,
but when there is no festival going on in them the monasteries are
all very much the same, so after 4-5 of them I got bored to visit
any more. Still, they are nice, and some contain great and beautiful
buddhastatues. The one in Thikse, for instance, where we were given
a folder on the place by the monks. After the visit to the monastery
when we sat in a restaurant down below the monastery hill, an old
woman came buy and picked up Kathrin's leaflet from the table, just
to have a look. When she saw the picture of the buddha, she raised
the pamphlet to her head and closed her eyes in a touching silent
prayer for a few seconds. When Kathrin then gave her the paper she
seemed VERY happy...
We had decided to fly from Leh to Jammu town, instead of taking
the bus which would have taken us 3 days (minimum) via Srinagar.
After all, Kathrin was only on a 4 weeks holiday. We had bought
our tickets for the flight in Manali; therefore having to pay an
extra 25 just to get them (90 of 65). This seems to be common practise;
the travelagencies in Manali and Leh buy a lot of tickets for outgoing
flights, and then re-sell them with a profit. Our tickets for instance
had a stamp on them saying "blabla something travelagency, New Delhi",
and then a date from a few days before we had booked our tickets
in Manali. Only our names had then been written in by hand, and
as promised been confirmed with Indian Airlines in Leh so that we
surely would get on the flight.
Now it was the morning of the 3:rd of July, and we were at Leh airport.
Only we 2 and 4-5 Dutch people were lining up; the rest of the passengers
being Indians who were now shouting and screaming up at the front
counter, where a man tried to keep them abay with the help of armed
guards. But we had confirmed seats; we were safe; we thought...
Not so: Soon it dawned on us from what different people said to
each other that the plane was overbooked and that it was a matter
of getting a boarding pass from the airport manager (the man up
front) to be allowed on board. Flights from 3505 meters can not
take of with full load, but still Indian Airlines sell all the seats
in the plane. Apparently Leh is always this chaotic when it comes
to leaving, but with our sharp elbows we had soon got boarding passes.
Maybe it's the airlines policy to help tourists, but what happened
to the poor stranded locals? Back home and wait 4 days for the next
flight, only to then have to bump other passengers out of the plane...
What a chainreaction! Before you are allowed on board you must go
through security check after security check. Well, the area (J&K)
is prime target for Kahmiri separatist groups, so better one security
check too many...
After a 55 minute flight over the himalayas, that abruptely came
to an end at the fields of Jammu, we were back in the heat at almost
sealevel. SWEAT! Bus to Amritsar, where we then stayed in the Sikh's
golden temple. The Sikh religion states that every pilgrim shall
be given a place to sleep and food, and so one can stay there for
free (maximum 3 days) and eat as much chapati-bread and cooked dhal-lentils
as one wants. A donation is not pressed for, but much expected and
should be given. Walking around the temple, barefoot and with the
head covered by a golden scarf provided at the entrance, is a magic
thing. The Golden temple itself stands in the middle of a waterfilled
tank, with a causeway leading to it, and in the temple 4 sikh priests
resite from the sikh's holy book from morning to evening. This is
then played out in loudspeakers all over the templearea, and also
broadcasted from the sikh's radiostation in Canada (!). People visiting
the temple wish to take a photo of/with you, sikh's want to discuss
their religion with you, the whole whitewashed area (apart from
the gold-covered temple itself) is so peaceful... It is a special
thing to be there, and a must when in northwestern India.
The next day we shared a taxi to the India-Pakistan border togehter
with a Dutch-American guy we had met at the temple. When we arrived
at the border there were already a young frenchman (we learned about
his nationality later) waiting, but he avoided contact with us...?!?
The tree of us sat down at another table, soon more people arrived,
amongst them a japanese couple of whom the girl was dressed in a
tanktop. I asked Kathrin to tell the japanese girl that she should
cover her shoulders - after all, Pakistan is muslim, and not covering
up is not only insulting but it also gets you into more trouble
then you would want. The japanese woman put on what she had handy
in her bag - a black nylon raincoat, perfect on a sunny cloudless
day like it was...
Soon the border opened and we rushed in. This is the only landborder
open between Pakistan and India, and here the boarderguards try
to outdo each other and give as good as possible an expression of
their country. On the Indian side everyone was asked to fill in
a few comments in a book about how the service had been, how fast
one was let through etc. etc. Me and Kathrin came to the customs
department just when they were checking the French guys suitcase
(No backpack?). In the suitcase was a few items thrown in: a waterbottle,
a couple of books and magazines, a calculator, and an alarmclock.
That was it. No extra clothes, no toothbrushes etc... The customguys
were wondering where the rest of his clothes were, but he only pulled
his shirt from his chest a bit as to say "this is it", and eventually
they had to let him go... Today I still wonder what he was smuggling...
Soon we were through on the Indian side and passed the stands they
are now building on the Indian side of the border, right by the
actual gate and borderline drawn on the tarmac. These are built
for the people coming every day to see the border closing ceremony.
Friends have told me that apparently 1000:s of Indians (and a few
100 Pakistanis) gather at their sides of the border every afternoon,
to cheer at their own troops lowering their flag, marching around
and eventually closing the bordergate, all the while while booing
at the opponents soldiers... Quite childish, but I'd love to see
it one day...
Ah, back in Pakistan after 6 years. First impressions from the taxi
between the border and Lahore's busstand was that Pakistan seems
to be better of economically than India, at least judging from the
slightly higher standard of busses (far from all of them, but quite
a few at least), and the fact that more shops than in India have
real windowdisplaying and are not just a hole in the wall. And then
the new superhighway between Lahore and Rawalpindi! It was almost
surreal to get on such an autobahn after the roads in India. Built
in 1997, it has 3 lanes in each direction. Smooth going, an A/C
delux bus of western standard, and highway restaurants that could
have been anywhere within the EU. It seems like the fee's for the
road are too high for most traffic though; there was hardly any
cars on the road.
One night was all I spent in 'Pindi. We had heard rumours that there
was going to be the yearly horsepolo game between the villages Chitral
and Gilgit on the comming weekend, so off we went towards Chitral.
That turned out to be a too long journey to complete in one day
(or rather night, as we set of in the late afternoon), and so at
7.30 pm we were dropped off in a place unknown for us, by some guys
collecting roadtaxes from passing cars. With the help of some englishspeaking
guys passing by they managed to explain to us that we should just
wait; at 11 pm the buses between Peshawar and Chitral would come
through, and we could then get on one of those. Now it was 7.30
and we were offered seats by the road...
And we waited and waited. The taxcollecting guys picked up the receipts
thrown out from passing cars, people came and wondered who we were
and the minutes passed ever slower. Some policemen patroling the
street came by and smoked a few joints with the men sitting under
the rainshelter, and when Kathrin saw that they were starting to
fool around with a gun that the taxcollectors had in a draver of
their table, we felt it was time to leave - although none of the
passing buses had had more then one seat free, if any at all. When
a bigger bus stopped in front of us we got onboard an went for the
next town, which at least was towards where we were going... We
didn't make it far and were unceremonically dropped of by a man
sitting on a bed by the street in a similiarly small town just 30
minutes from where we had boarded the bus. Now it was 2 in the morning,
we started to get really tired, the man on the bed didn't speak
much english and we feared we would have to take it in turns and
sleep on my campingmattress on the steps in front of a shop right
there. But then Pakistani hospitality struck: the man on the bed,
who had managed to explain to us that he was some sort of guard,
took us to his concrete "bunker" where he offered us a mattress
on the floor, and his bed. Exhausted we fell asleep immediately...
The man woke us up at five already and of we went after many thanks.
A minibus took us to Dir, where we had to change to another minibus
going over the 3100 meter high LOvari pass to Chitral. The views
from the pass were great, the air was comfortably cool and over
all the trip went well in the new company of friendly locals and
a British and American guy who had turned up in Dir. Just before
Chitral we passed the headquarters of the Chitrali scouts, the borderpolice
(The North Western Frontier Province; NWFP; as this state of Pakistan
is called, is close to the Afghani border), and were welcomed by
their slogan on the wall surrounding their compound: "We desire
death more than you desire life". Alas, you feel in no way threatened
as a tourist in the region. Quite the contrary: The people up here
are a mixture of Pashtuns, Afghani refuges, tribal Kalash people
and a few more groups, and they are worldwide famous for their extreme
hospitality. As a guest in their country, you are treated as a king.
A local would do ANYTHING, even die for you, to help you and make
you feel welcome. Theft is virtually non-existent, prices are almost
always honestly quoted to you without any attempt to rip you off,
and many many times you are invited to sit down for a chat over
a tea, or to join a meal. True, women might feel a little uncomfortable
in such a strict muslim society, but as long as one plays by the
rules of the locals, you are in no way treated badly.
Now we had travelled almost without breaks for four days, and Kathrin
was understandably tired of spending so much time on transports.
We decided to split for the weekend, me going to Shandur pass and
the horsepologame, she joining the American and British guy from
our minibus on a trek to the Kalash valleys. I set of in a jeep
up the windling gravelroad to Shandur, and 7 hours later I arrived
at 3700 meters. The Shandur horsepologround is the highest one in
the world, and every year thousands of people go there for 3 days
of camping to see a polomatch a day. It was like a rockfestival
there, with tents everywhere, although no beertents or music from
loudspeakers. But foodstalls, occasional dancing by the locals and
a festive but extremely dusty atmosphere. I had come just for the
last day's finals, and so stayed only 24 hours from Saturday mid-day
until Sundau noon, but some people had no showers for 3 days. Using
the few icecold communal showers was almost futile - one hour later
you had a cover of fine dust all over you again. For the night I
was luckily offered to share a tent with an american guy, otherwise
it would have been quite windy and cold outside...
On the morning of the 9:th of July the finals would take place.
As a westerner I was allowed by the beautifully dressed up Chitral
scouts to sit on the VIP stands built by stacked stones, together
with most of the 75-odd westerners. From there I had a splendid
view of the field. A few military helicopters that came and landed
flew over the tentcamp and caused a massive dustcloud and all the
tents almost flew away. We all wondered if this was Pakistani military
leader general Perwez Musharaf that came to see the finals? Rumours
had said he would turn up; they had also said that the sultan of
Brunei had been invited, but that the sultan didn't have enough
time to pack his bags, having been given only 15 days notice. A
caravan of cars drew past to the back of the VIP-seats, and everyone
stood up (to the despair of the guarding Chitral scouts), and tried
to get a glanze, but I couldn't see anything. A red carpet decorating
the stairs next to me was brushed clean by a scout, but it was soon
full of footprints again when people passing from one side of the
stands to the other trampled on it.
Pakistani paragliders and hanggliders came flying in from the mountain
slopes surrounding the field, most of them missing to land on the
field itself as intended, instead dissappearing behind the audience
crowds that were standing on the small hills around the field. Inexperience
or was it so difficult to steer in the thin air?
The players rode in and the judge went out on the field saying something
to them, before returning towards the carpeted steps, and then all
of a sudden he was standing there next to me - The general himself.
The judge saluted him, gave him the ball, and so Perwez was given
the honour of starting the game by throwing in the ball on the field.
What a game! Action! Full speed ahead, abrupt stops and a vigorous
fight to hit the ball with the clubs. It was WILD! Never would I
have imagined that I would ever like any kind of horse-sport. But
this was fun!
After the first 25-minute half Gilgit was leading over Chitral with
5-1. There was dancing, the general himself getting out on the field
and clapping the beat, before returning to the stand. Then he held
a speech thanking especially the foreigners present for coming and
giving the show such colour. And then the second half, just as hectic
as the first. Finally, Chitral came back and won 7-6 in a magnificent
style.
As soon as the game was over there was a massive exodus to the readyloaded
jeeps. Everybody was in a hurry to get home before the working week.
I was lucky to get a frontseat in one of them (very appreciated
if you are a tall guy). There was soon a long caravan filling the
windling road down back to Chitral, and everywhere along the road
children from surrounding villages stood waving to the passing cars.
The rumour of the victory, the first one for Chitral in 4 years,
had spread. We made a break halfway back for a late lunch, and the
driver of the car talked with an 50-55 year old machinegun wearing
policeman who he claimed was his uncle. After the lunch everyone
from the car went upstairs from the restaurant, including the policeman,
and then the driver rolled a spliff that was then passed around.
I took a great photo of the policeman posing with his gun, sitting
on a bed next to the jointrolling driver... Pakistan is, together
with neighbouring Afghanistan, very famous for the "Afghan black",
and it's all part of the local culture and tradition. We have our
alcohol, the muslims have their hashish...
Back in Chitral to where Kathrin returned a day later, exhausted
but happy. The next day it was my turn to go to the Kalash valleys,
and so we parted for good at the junction where I started walking
towards Rumpur valley (there are 3 valleys where the Kalash people
live, and Rumpur is said to be the most beautiful one, so - I went
for the best). Kathrin had to get back all the way to Delhi for
her return flight to Sri Lanka, and had to do this in 3 days of
travel. Sigh; why must parting always be so hard...?
The tribal Kalash people are unique in the way that they are a non-muslim
tribe in a sea of islam reaching all the way from Turkey to Kashmir
in India. There's only about 3000 of them left, and many of them
are more or less forcefully converted into islam. It probably makes
life easier for them, but their culture is clearly dying out. Their
men don't dress very different from other mountain Pakistanis, but
their women wear black dresses with colourful decorations and kilo's
of orange, yellow and red necklaces. On their head they have a very
specific looking "crown", that I will try to describe: it is like
a crown with a just as wide tail hanging on their back all the way
to the waist. This "crown" is decorated with seashells and buttons
sewn on, and also with other shining silverpieces, colourful threads
etc. They don't cover their faces, and so are a curiosity for visiting
Pakistani tourists from (mainly) Punjab state. Apparently the Punjabi's
come to stare at them, and to snap photos in the most unfriendly
way, and so the Kalash women tend to dislike any attention given
to them. I had a splendid time there though, staying with a Kalash
family of whom the man had an odd name - Enginer. He explained that
his father had got the titles of the British wrong (remember, they
were here only about 50 years ago), and so named his son what he
so often had heard brits present themselves as. Enginer is himself
a teacher, and also told me that 2 years ago he made an alphabet
for the Kalash language - thereby trying to preserve their traditions
and culture. Kalash has apparently until now only been spoken...
I went to Peshawar after Rumpur/the Kalash people, and started out
my latest quest: to get a visa for Afghanistan. Over the last month
I have met people both live and on the internet, who have been or
will try to go to Afghanistan. The guestbook in my hotel here is
full of hints (there are no guidebooks available for that country),
and more then a few persons seem to have made it there and back.
The talibans have at least brought one good thing to that country
- Peace and order in the areas where they rule. Here in Peshawar
I have also met people that are working in the country, and judging
from them the country is quite possible to travel around in.
The picture of Afghanistan in the western media is rather black
and white (articles on taliban brutal rule sells), but to get the
full picture I think one has to go there oneself. As a friend of
mine put it yesterday: actually the talibans aren't doing anything
new. What they are trying to do is to implement in the urban areas
what the rural areas have been living by for 500-600 years. Women
has always been hidden away in the houses on the countryside, it's
just the way it has always traditionally been; why is the world
awakening to it now when the towns of Afghanistan will have to obey
the same thing? Why no protests earlier?
Anyway, I could write so much about what I've now heard about the
taliban's and Afghanistan that this mail would be of double length,
but as it is already mastodontic, I'll let it be. I will go there,
insh'allah (god willing), and make my own picture about it, and
then when coming back from there I'll write to you all about it.
There's no internet cafes in Afghanistan, so it will have to wait
until I'm back in Pakistan. Next week I'll get my visa (if they
issue me one), and then I'll be ready to go a few days later. I've
been growing a full beard over the last month (it actually quite
suits me), I'll take absolutely no photos of women (and be very
careful so that no one sees me take other photos either), no walkmans
or tapes (music is condemned unislamic by the talibans - funloving
people, eh?), and dressed in my Shalwar Qamiz (traditional very
loosefitting Pakistani and Afghani dress, excellent in this heat):
having made all these preparations I am ready to meet the true interpreters
of the quran...
Otherwise here in Peshawar I've made a few daytripstp the surroundings.
This area was a very troublesome spot for the british while they
ruled British India, and at one stage half the british troops in
India were stationed here. Attacks from the Afghani side of the
border was a constant threat, and even today this part of Pakistan
is not fully under the control of the Pakistani government. Peshawar
town is safe, but surroundings are tribal areas where buses sometimes
still get robbed, villages make money from the drugs and arms trade,
conflicts between people are settled within the tribes rather than
being reported to the police, and so on. There is a gigantic smugglers
bazaar just on the outskirts of town, where anything in the world
can be bought at very low prices. There's even a Marks and Spencers
supermarket selling genuine stuff. Buying cigarettes is cheap, but
watch out - often it's counterfeit copies. Guns, hashish and smoke
heroin are sold quite openly (although, this part of that market
is sealed of for foreigners), but getting a taxfree camera or stereo
is easy-peacy. Many of the people working here regularly frequent
this market...
A few days ago I also visited the southern village of Darra, which
makes it sole living from copying all kinds of weapons from all
over the world. Officially you need a permit from the police to
go there (nowerdays unobtainable because of the slight risk involved),
but by bribing the police that met the minibus when arriving I was
allowed to take a one hour guarded tour. Everywhere small factories
make anything from James Bond-like penguns to Kalashnikovs. Even
bazookas are rumoured to be manufactured, although I never saw that.
10000 weapons a day are made, but god knows who is buying them all?
For 13 was allowed to be Rambo for 3 seconds and to shoot 30 bullets
with a Kalashnikov into the air. So much for former views on pacifism
and "I will never hold a gun in my hands"...
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MY GOD that became a long mail! Now I'll still have to re-read it
and correct all the mistakes; I sometime feel I write too slow for
my brain and so might have jumped or forgotten some important details.
If you've had the patience to read this far, thank you so much for
showing the interrest. WIsh me luck for my trip to Afghanistan and
for my safe return, and in about a month or so I should be by the
keyboard again...
All the best to you all
Hannu
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P.S. Something funny happened when I went into a shop in Chitral
town. They were not only selling the local newspaper "Frontier post"
(where there on the economy page was an article about how Gillette
had recently launched two new toothbrushes on the Pakistani market
- BIG financial news, eh?); but also postcards. Flipping through
them I found a few that depicted the nature and villages there.
A river in a valley, high snowcapped mountains in the background,
a road with a passing car. But there was something that was wrong:
the car was driving on the right hand side, the traffic signs looked
a little bit too well maintained, and the couple walking away from
the camera dressed in shorts...? I asked the shopowner where in
the Pakistani mountains this was, and he replied that this was not
in Pakistan at all - The postcard was from Switzerland! True, northern
NWFP is said to be the "Switzerland of the east", but to sell Swiss
postcards? "Same same but different", as a popular travellers proverb
goes...
Read
more of Hannu's adventures.
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