A Passage (Back) To India: Chitral-Peshawar-Lahore
Chitral was similar to Gilgit in that they were both the regional centres for large, remote areas of northern Pakistan. That was more or less where the similarities ended, however. Gilgit, occupying a spot on the well maintained Karakoram Highway, felt like a small but burgeoning city. Chitral, meanwhile was cut off from the rest of the country for several months a year by the closing of the Lowari and Shandur passes to vehicular traffic. During this time, the only access to the town was by air from Peshawar or on foot over one of the passes. This isolation probably had a lot to do with Chitral’s appearance as a big frontier outpost rather than a modern, developing Pakistani town.
Nick and I were dropped off at the front door of our chosen guesthouse. After a checking in and resting a bit, the manager suggested that we head down to the police station and register there, as all foreigners were required to do.
Our five minute walk took us past the Chitral fort and the town’s oldest mosque. Once at the police station we were invited into a dark, dusty room where three Pakistani men sat talking. As soon as they saw us at the doorway they stopped and welcomed us in. The process was painless, if slowed a bit by the number of officials that needed to look at or sign copies of our registration. As we sat waiting for the process to be completed, we learned that the Lowari Pass (at 3100m considerably lower than Shandur) was STILL not open, though likely would be in a few days time. As a result of this, there were still very few foreigners in Chitral (there had been four registered in April and Nick and I were numbers four and five in May) but they were starting to filter in.
With our presence in the town legitimized, we went out for a look at the rest of Chitral.
Our first destination was down the busy main street at the far end of town, the Pakistan International Airways office. We’d planned to fly back because A. The flights over the mountains were supposed to be nice enough to be attractions in their own right and B. If the Lowari pass wasn’t open when we went to leave it would mean walking over another (albeit much easier) snowy pass top, and we’d already had enough of that.
Our reservations made, we returned to the guesthouse with a couple of stops along the way. First, we stopped in at the Chitral polo ground to see about catching a match while we were in town, and second we popped into one of the many bakeries along the main road to pick up some snacks for the afternoon (in my case pakoras [deep fried battered spicy vegetables] and home made biscuits.)
We spent the rest of the afternoon in various lazy pursuits or non-pursuits until it was time to head back to the polo ground to watch a practice match, which, to our delight, turned out to be set for that evening.
At first it looked as though it might not even happen, with the only athletes around being young cricketers on the adjacent patch of grass. One by one, however, the polo players and their mounts started to appear, as did the musicians who provide the traditional accompaniment for the game. After some work setting up the 300m long pitch and a few minutes serenade by a kazoo-like flute and medley of drums, the match was ready to get started.
Polo has been played in northern Pakistan for hundreds of years, and is still immensely popular (especially the annual Gilgit-Chitral match at Shandur Top.) The game isn’t quite the same one played elsewhere thought. The primary difference is in the rules: in Pakistan there aren’t really any. Save for the very basic structure of the game, pretty much anything goes. Players often lean over across their opponents horses to swing away at the ball on the far side. All of this leads to a pretty jarring game. While we watched one player caught a mallet in the face, almost undoubtedly losing some teeth in the process, while one of the horses was injured in a collision and limped off the field, barely using its fourth leg. For all of its roughness, the game was also very beautiful, with the shine of the horses’ coats and muscles shining in the sun. The sheer speed and power of the animals was awe inspiring, as was the level of fitness and co-ordination required of the players to allow them to control their mounts and still take swings at the ball below. And as if all of this wasn’t wonderful enough, the bursts of drum and flute music, the setting sun behind us and the Hindukush mountians in front provided a perfect setting for the sport of kings.
As exciting as the game was, it was no surprise that it attracted quite a crowd. Even for a practice match there were hundreds of spectators. As per usual, Nick and I were the only foreigners in the bunch. Everyone seemed very excited to have us there. We were even given cups of tea… Fitting for a polo match, even if there were no cucumber sandwiches.
The match concluded as the last of the light faded from the sky, leaving Nick and I to head back to the guesthouse where we met Danielle, the Australian we’d played poker with in Karimabad ten days before. One of the notable features of travel in Pakistan was that you kept seeing the same people over and over again, and even if you didn’t, the new folks you did meet probably knew your old friends too. Danielle was travelling with her new “husband,” an Englishman she’d taken up with after receiving one too many unwanted gropes and advances from Pakistani men.
The four of us had dinner at a good, ridiculously cheap Afghan restaurant, calling in on a chocolate shop for dessert before bed.
The following day Nick and I were headed out of town. First we had a superb morning meal of fresh nan, paratha (a sort of pan-fried nan) and milk tea with cardomom at a little stall/restaurant that became our regular breakfast spot. This was followed by still more tea at a shop across the road where Nick had gone to purchase some chai to bring home as gifts. This was in turn followed by not much of anything for several hours.
We’d picked up our bags and found a jeep headed for the Kalash valleys, our destination, but it (and we) just sat and sat and sat until finally (as we later learned) Friday prayers were completed and enough passengers arrived to fill out the vehicle’s payload.
The ride to the village of Ayun, then up Bumburet valley was long. Regular jeep stops for things that could easily have been dealt with before departure, most especially fuelling up, were a regular frustration to Nick and I. The ride was also bumpy, especially after Ayun. But in compensation we were in the open air and Bumburet was a gorgeous place.
The residents of Bumburet, and the two neighbouring valleys are Kalash people, the smallest but probably best known of Pakistan’s non-Muslim minorities. Their religion holds a belief in one god, and places special significance on the division of the world into things which are sacred (e.g. goats, high pastures, the hearth) and un-sacred (e.g. Muslim visitors, women.) It should be noted that this division is not one between good and bad, and that both the sacred and the un- are treated with respect and reverance by the Kalash. The Kalash are distinctive in their appearance as well as in religion. They are very pale skinned and have features reminiscent of some central-European peoples. Legend has it that they were all descended from five of Alexander The Great’s generals who were left behind after his conquest of the region. In addition to their unique features/heritage, the Kalash women also distinguish themselves in their dress, which consists of long black skirts and tunics beautifully embroidered in bright colours, along with equally colourful flat-backed round hats which rest on top of their braided locks.
The Kalash village of Krakal, near the valley’s end was an ideal place to settle down and set up our tents. As we sat back in our chairs we felt very lucky to be, yet again, the first foreign visitors of the year in yet another stupendously beautiful place.
Before bed we took a walk around the village. It was an idyllic little place, with several water powered mills complementing its stone and wood structures. The grandest of these was the bashali, a structure where menstruating women and recent mothers go to be segregated from the community during these particularly “un-sacred” times. The valley around the village was almost as different from the outside world as were its inhabitants. The sides were covered in trees for almost their entire height and the valley bottom was rich with crops.
As nice as the As the only two guests we were invited into our host’s home for dinner. It was cold outside, but the woodstove in the communal dining/bedroom kept it very warm indeed. Much to my surprise the delicious food tasted familiar to me… It had a lot in common with Mexican cuisine, from the tortilla-like flat corn-chapatti, to the spicy kidney beans. Even the spicing of the chicken karahi was vaguely Mexican.
After dinner we headed out to the tents. With the moon still well below the valley walls, the stars were some of the most beautiful I’d seen in my travels, and the rushing of the nearby river soon lulled me to sleep.
The next morning Nick and I woke and prepared for a walk into Rumbur, the northernmost of the three Kalash valleys. After a bit of hassle from the hotel proprietor, who was intent on charging us outrageous amounts for our food and tent space (especially given that we were the only tourists in the valley) we got underway.
The walk down the valley was very nice, but sadly our forward progress didn’t last for long. Rain started falling after about 20 minutes and soon after that we stopped on the wooden verandah of a shop to consider our best course of action. The rain didn’t seem to be letting up, so we decided to either catch a jeep back to Chitral if one appeared, or to simply stop in Anish, the next village along. As it turned out, no jeep did appear. We spent the remainder of the afternoon perusing the different accomodation options and finally settled on one where we spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting out on the patio under cover watching and listening to the rain.
Our final day in the Kalash Valleys was bright and sunny to start. No jeeps seemed to be appearing (we’d woken up a bit late and many had passed us by) so Nick and I decided to walk down to the police checkpost and try our luck there. This portion of the walk down took us through the very last of the Kalash settlements, perched up on the of the valley walls. While I desparately wanted to get a picture of the beautiful Kalash dress to share with you all, I just couldn’t bring myself to hassle any of the women in order to do so. Doubtless they had more than enough of this type of thing with me adding to it.
At the checkpost, we found ourselves waiting longer and longer, with the sky clouding over as we did so. One of the officers there gave us an optimistic estimate of our chances to getting to Ayun before the rain did, and we headed out on foot once more. This part of the valley was sparsely settled, but every now and then a few Pakistani children would appear, clearly excited by our presence (from where wasn’t always obvious.)
As we neared Ayun, the population increased, and we started meeting regularly with groups of children who had an odd variation on the pen-begging routine I’d grown so familiar with across Asia. As soon as they caught sight of us, they’d begin singing “you pen, my pen, you pen, my pen!” each in the same time and tune, forming a chorus of voices. One of these groups, shouting from high up on a hillside, exhorted us to keep their cows from running away down the trail, which we did, leaving me with the feeling that if anyone owed anyone a pen, it was them.
The weather had actually cleared somewhat by the time we reached Ayun. We found an ancient minibus headed for Chitral that seemed held together by welds on top of welds. After a bit of the usual waiting, it got on the road and took us back up the Chitral river valley to Chitral Town.
Upon returning, we had a nice rest at our guesthouse before an insanely inexpensive and tasty dinner at the Afghan restaurant we’d been to once before.
The next day continued in a similar vein. After re-confirming our seats on the flight to Peshawar the next day we spent the remainder catching up on e-mails, reading and just generally staying out of the rain that darkened the sky for most of the day. It was a great relief when the rain ended (we’d feared for our flight to Peshawar) and we could get out into the city for at least a little bit. I took a nice walk through the alleys and bazaars, finally ending in a grassy, treed area near some wheat fields by the banks of the Chitral River. Immediately above me were the Fort and the Mosque, making a fine backdrop for what I assumed would be my final Chitral sunset.
It was already well into the afternoon when we got back, but what had been a pretty boring day still held one surprise. Upon arriving back, I discovered that we may have been the first, but not the only ones to cross the icy wastes of the Shandur Pass on foot. Colin, a Vancouver man who had checked in that day had made the journey a few days afterwards in the company of a local guide. His guide had had the sense to get them started at 01:45 and so while his crossing was hard, it hadn’t been the nightmare that ours had. Not only that, but we were joined by Amanda, the young woman from Vancouver whose personality had grated on my a bit when we met previosuly in Passu. This time, however, all was right. We all went out to the Afghan restaurant again. Colin, Nick and I traded stories about Shandur, and Amanda was appropriately (in my vain mind) impressed by it all. And while some of her sappiness, tackiness, fussiness and hippiness remained, I was struck by how, for all its sillyness, it was all well meant and genuine, and I couldn’t help warming towards her for that.
The following morning, Nick and I were very happy men. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and while we’d been warned that the Chitral-Peshawar flight was frequently cancelled due to bad weather we were sure it would be going that day. After breakfast at our regular spot we headed to the airport and were crushed to learn that the morning’s first flight had been delayed due to high winds. After another hour’s waiting, the day’s flights were cancelled and that was that.
We considered waiting one more day and trying for another flight, but by that point both of our schedules were staring to close in on us, and we decided that we’d be better off with the slower but much surer jeep and bus trip across the just-opened Lowari pass. At least we wouldn’t have to walk in the snow.
After heading back to the PIA office and having our money refunded with surprisingly little trouble, we found ourselves a jeep and without so much as a fuel stop were on our way.
At first the road was fine, well paved and smooth as it headed slowly along the Chitral river valley. Things changed very quickly however once we started the serious climb up over the pass. The road was bumpy and potholed and very steep. Outside the mountains rose high around us, with many snow capped peaks becoming visible. The mountainsides were all covered by evergreen trees, making the mountains resemble the rockies back in Canada.
The road went ever upwards, getting worse and worse as it did so. The final climb was a seemingly endless series of switchbacks. Every time the top seemed in view, another section of mountain above us became visible. By this point the road was made of mud, covered in rocks and boulders, and had been opened to traffic by simply cutting canyons into the deep, deep snow that still sat on the mountainside. Despite the bumpy, precarious trip, the views from the top were incredible, some of the loveliest I’d seen in Paksitan. Sadly I was in the middle of the jeep and didn’t get many photos, so you’ll just have ot take me at my word.
Finally we made it up and over the pass. The far side wasn’t nearly as green, nor nearly as steep, but was almost as pretty. On the way down the drivers forded actual rivers (not just sreams… These things were 20 and 30m across) as they blazed down the dusty road. At times it almost seemed like they were rally car drivers. Their behaviour prompted Nick and I to note that it was fortuate that people in Paksitan were genreally so friendly and even-tempered. If there was any such thing as road rage in Pakistan, it would have been deadly, what with the driving habits and the number of guns in the country.
At about 15:30 we arrived in the town of Dir. It was pretty clear that if we carried on we wouldn’t make it to Peshawar until late, so we decided to stop there for the night. I was very anxious to see my friends again, and was already quite late, having missed my flight, but I figured it wouldn’t do to show up at their place at 23:45, so I phoned them again and let them know that I’d be just one more day…
The hotel we stayed at in Dir was probably the most memorable thing about the town. It was formerly a guesthouse owned by the Nawab (prince) of Dir, and it showed. The grounds were lovely, and even had peacocks and heron-like birds (whose wings had sadly been clipped) wandering around the grounds. The food at the place was perhaps the best I’d had at any restaurant in Pakistan, and the hospitality of the staff, as well as the townsfolk (most notably the fruit shake vendor across the road from the place) was as wonderful as anywhere, if a bit less familiar given the rarity of tourists in Dir.
The next morning Nick and I woke up very early to catch the first bus to Peshawar. We’d been told the previous day that it would take four to six hours, and I was keen to visit Khalda, Mubeen and the rest of my friends for as long as possible. I’d already decided that I’d have to depart Peshawar that night in order to spend a tiny bit of time in Lahore and India, while still making my flight to Delhi on the 17th.
Things never go quite as planned of course. The bus trip started out over a hideously bad road as we climbed down out of the Hindukush. The last of the snow capped peaks disappeared behind us, but that didn’t help conditions any. Despite having been (as usual) put in the best seats on the bus, my lower back was still very sore from the jarring ride.
We crossed over one final low mountain pass and soon after the landscape had flattened and dried out entirely. This had some positive effect on the road conditions, though it quickly became apparent that we weren’t going to make it to Peshawar in anything close to five hours. Indeed, by the Nick and I had changed buses, arrived in Peshawar, said our (temporary) goodbyes and I’d caught a rickshaw to their street in Sadr Amad Jaan colony, it was past 15:00, four hours after the time I’d said I would arrive.
Nonetheless, the whole family greeted me with big smiles when I walked in the door. The smiles faded somewhat when I explained my travel situation and that I’d be departing that night. They broadened once more, however, when I heartily attacked the lunch they brought out for me (one of Grandma’s most regular comments was what joy she got from watching me eat her food!)
While I ate, everyone who was home tried to convince me to stay a bit longer, and I must say, I didn’t take much convincing. I was still pretty tight on time, but decided that I’d be able to re-work my schedule somehow, and that I’d at least spend the night in Peshawar.
This brought a bit of happiness back to Khalda when she returned home. She’d resigned from her job that day, and this hadn’t been well received by her boss. He’d threatened to ruin her reputation in her field and even went so far as to say “your father’s sick and your brother’s away now. Who will be able to speak for you?” This news left everyone in the family (and me) somewhat disspirited. Everyone cheered up a bit as the evening went on, especially me, and even more especially when dinner was ready. I don’t mean to suggest that my enjoyment in staying with the Dauds came solely from their food, but it WAS probably the best I ate during my whole stay in Pakistan.
That evening I stayed up as late as I could manage, talking with everyone and discussing their upcoming English exams with Mubeen and Fozia. Finally around 24:00 I needed to head to bed. Before I did, however, Sabia, Khalda’s oldest sister ran upstairs and came back with whatever gifts she could find for me. I insisted that the Shalwar Kameez they’d given me earlier was more than enough (this prompted Khalda to insist on finding me a better one, which I declined on the grounds that the original had already acquired sentimental status.) Despite all my protests, they absolutely insisted that I could not depart without at least a pair of gold bangles (for my sisters) and a bottle of cologne.
In order to catch my bus I needed to leave early, to early even to have a proper breakfast. Nonetheless, I wasn’t allowed to leave without a package of home-made strawberry-apple jam sandwiches and home-grown almonds to take with me. I was sad to say goodbye, but still managed to be happy inside that I’d met such wonderful friends during my stay in Pakistan. As Mubeen and I walked down towards the rickshaw stand, I almost started crying (but still managed not to.)
Once at the bus station, I had a short wait for the vehicle that would take me to Lahore. I’d decided to splurge a bit and was taking the “super luxury” bus, which cost about double the others. This got me a comfortable seat on an A/C bus, and even hostesses who regularly came by offering complimentary towellettes and soft drinks. The trip flew by, and save for a stop at a surprisingly modern looking service centre, I hardly even realized that the time had been passing until we arrived in Lahore, some seven hours later.
Having no map, guidebook or anything else in Lahore, I was forced to more or less accept that the fare quoted by the rickshaw drivers was reasonable (I hated doing that) and headed into town. It was a great shock being back in Lahore, both due to the sweltering heat and the huge crowds of people and traffic. These had all seemed millions of miles away in the mountains of Chitral and Gilgit. The guesthouse I’d picked proved to be almost as crowded as the city itself, and it wasn’t until late in the afternoon that I actually knew I had a bed (instead of a place on the floor.)
I spent most of the day wandering around Lahore, first looking for the Lufthansa office so I could replace my lost plane tickets (it had moved to the far side of the city) and then going to the General Post Office (GPO) to try and pick up the poste restante package I’d sent to myself from Peshawar (I was told to come back the next morning.)
I might have failed in my administrative duties, but my search for a bite to eat was a spectacular success. Lahore is known for its “food streets,” a few pedestrianized roadways that are lined up and down with restaurants. There’s good reason for this. The chicken tikka, bannana shake and strawberry shake that made up my late lunch were all fabulously delicious.
After lunch I headed back through the streets to the Regale Internet Inn, where I did some writing and prepared for a night on the town. The Regale is very well known among travellers to Pakistan, and its owner is a near legend for the trips he arranges to the weekly Lahore Sufi Nights, each Thursday. I must admit to understanding little about Sufism, so my explanation will be brief. Essentially it is Islamic mysticism, and has a strong focus on Saints and on connecting to God through art, music and dance, and by smoking charras (hashish.) It is precisely because of this that the weekly gatherings at Sufi shrines are such incredible spectacles.
A big group from the guesthouse piled into a series of autorickshaws and headed to the shrines. When we arrived the streets were already quite crowded with the faithful, as well as with vendors who had come to sell their wares. Dozens of different snacks were available, as well as jewlery, souveniers and even tatoos (for a mere 40 rupees [US$1] you could be permanently decorated with a cobra or scorpion design by the fellow with a battery powered needle set up on a blanket by the side of the road.)
We squeezed our way up into one of the shrines, and were welcomed by the big crowd that was already there. Some official-acting people even cleared spots for us to sit on the jam-packed floor. The drumming was already in progress. A pair of men stood near the front of the crowd banging away on metre long, 60cm diameter double-ended drums that they had strapped ’round their necks. They used hook-shaped drumsticks that allowed them to produce an amazing variety of tones. Their stamina as they kept drumming (not to mention holding the instruments) for several hours straight, was amazing. Meanwhile in the crowd, I’d been shifted away from the rest of the tourists into the very heart of the action. A group of young Pakistani men sat nearby smoking huge joints, regurlarly offering them to me. Back on “stage” (really, it was just an area of floor near the centre of the room) the drummers were joined by one set of accompanists after another. There was a great trumpet player, who played a sort of improvisational jazz music to the constantly morphing drum-beats. There were singers who were also very talented. There were dancers who were… devoted. They twisted and twirled and swayed in a fashion that seemed more confused than graceful (charras perhaps?) but they too were clearly appreciated by the crowd. The colour, the noise of the crowd, and above all, the drumming made for a very exciting and exotic atmosphere.
More and more people kept squeezing into the room and the resulting heat and smokiness were pretty uncomfortable. This discomfort was added to by the people who walked around handing out chai, carrying ladders or other equipment, or moving to new spots in the room. I couldn’t really blame them, as they had no choice, but to be stepped on, elbowed, kneed and used as a handrest grew tiring pretty fast.
After watching a couple of hours of the performance, I decided to make my exit. Easier thought of than done. I got up at a change of accompaniests and as I approached the entrance was enveloped my a monstrous crowd of people, half coming in, half coming out. I’ve been in crowds before, but never in anything like this. Usually if you’re willing to give up on politeness and personal space you can make your way through pretty much any mob. Not here. You were almost pinned in place and simply went where the crowd went. It took my full strength to have even the tiniest influence on my direction (an important issue when the mass approached a 3m high parapet with no railing.) Finally, those who wanted in seemed to have managed it, and those ont heir way out could safely descend the stairs.
Back outside, the streets were even more crowded. There were loads of people hoping to get inside the shrines, as well as those who had taken the party outside, drumming, dancing and chanting out on the street. Even with a lot more room, moving through this was still not easy. Finally I made it to a less congested roadway where I managed to pick up an autorickshaw back to the food street for a late night (they were open until 02:00) meal before heading to bed.
The next day’s administrative tasks proved no more successful than those previous. I headed to the GPO in the morning and found the poste restante desk without too much trouble. THey only dealt with letters though, so my package was elsewhere. Where exactly? Good question. I was directed and led all over the large building, visiting the same rooms twice or occaisionally three times before finally someone told me that I’d need to go to the District Mail Office near the train station, who could at least tell me where my package was, if not give it to me straight off. Okay.
The bus trip to the train station was no trouble, but on arriving no one seemed to have heard of the District Mail Office or DMO. Finally the manager of the station was able to give me some directions. It took a lot of asking along the way, but finally I saw the sign: DMO. It was only as I got a bit closer that I realized it was, in fact, the office of the Deputy Medical Officer for the Pakistan Railway. Sigh. I asked around some more and met with no success. In the end I finally decided that my package was lost and that would have to be the end of it. So much for my brilliant plan to avoid storing it somewhere. Thankfully there wasn’t too much of value in it. Just some CDs of photos (which I still had copies of elsewhere), an old pair of hiking boots (which had acquired some sentimental value), an inexpensive sandalwood backgammon set from Nepal, a hat I’d bought in Thailand for my new cousin Ben (I’m sure I can pick him up a replacement somewhere) and some old travel guidebooks.
Once again, my fortunes improved with the search for food. I went to an ice cream parlour near Regale Chowk and had trouble limiting myself to two dishes of two scoops… Their fruit flavours were sooo good and sooo cheap.
That evening’s event was another great success. I’d read all about the nightly border closing ceremony at Wagah, and was quite keen to see it in person. I took the bus out there and before long had met up with an Australian couple, and (as planned) Nick, who had spent the past couple of days in Peshawar instead of Lahore, since he’d already been there. We were quickly escorted to the VIP section of the grandstand (I’d read that the Pakistani authorities do this in order to show of the fact that they have tourists too) and waited for the ceremony to start. The male half of the couple were directed to the left, while the lady headed off to the right. Even patriotic rallies were segregated by sex in Pakistan!
As we sat, the bleachers on both sides of the border filled up, and listened to the noise of the crowd on either side. The Pakistanis were serenaded by cheesy sounding patriotic songs, which they joyfully joined in with, while the Indians were led in chants by someone using the PA system over there. After a while longer, a man in green and white came out, running around the roadway before the stands, waving the Pakistani flag and doing his best to get them riled up and ready for the performance.
You might think that the ceremony itself couldn’t possibly live up to all of the preparations. But you’d be wrong. It began with a bellow from above, as one of the Pakistani officers called out to get it started. Each by a Pakistani soldier was duplicated, usually at the exact same time, by his opposite number on the Indian side. The first of the Pakistani troops marched out, lifting his legs high, stamping his feet and winding his way along the road towards the border gates themselves. I couldn’t help but notice very sharp parallels between his marching style and John Cleese doing his famous silly walk.
More soldiers followed, doing much the same, each ending his march by standing at attention near the gates, giving everyone a better look at their splendid uniforms. Two of the men, presumably senior officers, marched right up to the gate, and gave eachother incredibly brief salutes and handshakes (along with scowls) before quickly rejoining their comrades.
The ceremony concluded with the lowering of the flags (done slowly so that neither one is ever higher than the other.) The flags down, they were quickly folded and marched back to the barracks, completing the event.
The whole thing was an amazing spectacle, and would have been so even if it had been done only once each year, but the fact that it was done EVERY NIGHT made it all the more so. The whole thing bordered on surreal, and I can hardly believe the participants managed to get through it with straight faces!
After its completion, we all joined the crowds headed back to Lahore (I’d wanted to spend the night at Wagah, but it hadn’t worked out) where I had one last meal at the food street (this time with Josh, one of the few fellow Torontonians I’d met on my travels.) A bit of bureaucracy, a bizarrely unique sight and some great food. A fitting way to spend my final day in Pakistan.
The next morning I woke and took a bus back to Wagah, where I was the first one of the day to cross the border. The process didn’t take long, and before 10:30 I was back in India, ready for my last few days on the subcontinent.
Lots of thank yous this time.
A couple of duplicates: Thanks again to Nick for being such a great travelling companion (and for writing such flattering comments on my last entry.) I spent longer travelling with him than with anyone else on my travels thusfar, and very much hope we catch up with one another sometime in the future. Enjoy your travels in South America, and good luck back in Australia!
And thanks again to my friends in Peshawar. I don’t know when I’ll be in Pakistan again, but I know I will be some day, and I know I’ll make CERTAIN to visit once more when I do. And I dearly hope that at least some of you can make it to Canada so I can return your wonderful hospitality. All of you you did so much to raise my opinion of the Pakistani people to still greater heights.
Speaking of which… Thank you to ALL the people I encountered in Pakistan. Every single one I met greeted me with a smile, a happy greeting, an invitation to tea, or some other expression of warmth and friendliness. I can’t wait to return.
Tags: Pakistan
Llew