Hafeezur Rahman Malik
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Mr. Hafeezur Rahman is a retired Development Banking Specialist now whiling away his time teaching and travelling. His email contact is: hafeez@khi.comsats.net.pk
Special Page: Facts for Travellers to Pakistan
With its magnificent terrain, Pakistan is an ideal place for hiking. For a solo traveller, it is good to start from Islamabad. It is a capital city, planned like Brasilia or Canberra. The streets and avenues are paved, clean and lined with trees flashing with colour. There is a tourist camp facing the Rose and Jasmine Garden. Camping, parking and dorms are among the cheapest in the world. Ever heard of a bed for 20 cents!! One can have the whole complex for a few dollars and feel like a lord, no questions asked.
Early in April this year, I started from Islamabad on a footloose and fancy free tour. The ultimate destination was Khyber Pass, about 190 km away. Transport was no problem but there was no such thing as hop-on-hop-off tickets. Buses were plentiful and incredibly cheap. A ride on the tightly packed bus had all the intimacy of coach journeys described in old literature. The discomfort was outweighed by the friendliness of the passengers and by the insight gained into the true spirit of the people. The bus drivers were most absorptive. They would make place for all, bending every rule. One could remain standing, sit in, lean to or slant. A much healthier way was to hop up on the rooftop. This could be a life time experience. The gust of cold wind blowing from the poppy fields in many areas would send anyone in trance.
Though I could get a bus from anywhere on the main road, I chose to go to the central bus terminal. I had slept well the night before and started jogging towards the terminal. A friendly mini-van driver persuaded me to take a ride. In about 10 minutes, I got there. It was fascinating to see brightly painted and richly decorated buses in their hundreds. Mirrors buffed, bristling with antennae and ribbons, these looked almost extra-terrestrial. The conductors were shouting names like "Peshawar, Abbotabad, Nowshera, Lahore, Faisalabad, Multan". I asked one for a bus travelling on Grand Trunk Road towards Peshawar. He laughed aloud, pointed to one side and yelled, "Take any." Someone had overheard the dialogue and pushed me to a nearby bus.
I got a window seat. Even if I had not, a mere request would have clicked. People seemed nice to travellers. They would treat them in any affordable manner. Once the bus was out of the city, village scenes were visible. Men and women in long, loose, non-revealing garments walked by the road. They carried a variety of packs on their heads or shoulders. Ox wagons, loaded high and wide with straw, were moving slowly alongside high-speed vehicles. As the sun rose higher, the brooks and ponds steamed like hot springs under its rays.
Just 35 miles away, the bus stopped by the ruins of Taxila, an ancient town, better known as the Buddhist Holy Land. I went to a roadside café and ordered milked tea. All milk, no water, normal sugar with a double dose of tea was the standard recipe. It was refreshing. I relaxed and waved good-bye to the honking bus. The next would be available the moment I stepped out. After all, there were perks when using Grand Trunk Road. While sipping delicious tea, I was impressed by the baker at work nearby. He was sitting on a platform, which had a hole in the middle. The hole contained a clay vessel, the tandoor. Like a robot, the baker picked a ball of wet flour, flattened it, slapped it and placed it on a thickly padded hand pan. As if programmed, he bent down and stamped the flour on the hot inner side of the vessels. By the time the walls of the vessel were filled with "nans", the first ones were done - they nearly fell off the walls and the tandoorwala picked them out with a long iron rod with a kind of fishing hook at the end. The freshly baked nan was a treat to eat with milked tea and cost only a dime.
The main archaeological site of Taxila was 3 km off the road. A variety of transport was available. Tonga, a horse drawn cart, vying with old time convertibles, was best suited. I hoped in one and when I alighted, a self-appointed guide joined me. "It was a famous place 2000 years ago and the best place for learning," said he as if I was listening. However, I was amazed by an archaeologically impressive structure before me. It was made of dry backed mud bricks and looked like a hostel with lined cubicles. Moving further, one could see a wide street studded with houses, temples and stupas. A nearby museum contained engraved stones, terracotta toys, weapons, jewellery and ornaments. It was not a place to spend just a few hours. It was scattered over a wide area. A youth hostel and a government run motel were available for a song, the equivalent of just $2.
In the afternoon, I boarded another bus. It was peak hour so there were hardly any seats left. The driver asked me to sit on the dashboard. I hesitated as it would not offer a view. A young man gave up his seat and all asked me to take it. No one wanted to be left alone in a bid to please the tourist. Once again, I was seeing the sun browned uplands with grey villages desolate under high clear sky. The bus passed by Hassanabdal. It housed the sacred rock on which Guru Nanak, founder and religious leaders of Sikhs, was said to have left handprints. Wah Garden, built by Mogul emperor Akber, was next. The world's greatest rock and earth filled 485 ft-high Terbela Dam was just to the northwest. Beyond Taxila, the land gradually sloped up. Patches of bad land, however, continued. There were cuts by deep set ravines intermingling with fertile fields. A number of villages were seen along the road bustling with life. On the isolated hillocks coloured flags fluttered over the tombs of saints. The terrain was rather monotonous. I felt sleepy. There were no reclining seats. A fellow passenger eased the position by offering me a cotton-sheet as aheadrest.
The bus crossed the mighty river Indus and the landscape changed to plain fields. The prosperity in the area had attracted a number of nomads. One could see their camps near the road. The sun was setting down. Turbaned and gun-touting Pathans were hurrying to finish off their work before darkness. The camels were tethered, the tents closed against the cool evening air. A little further afield a party of nomads was straggling up the caravan tracks with heavily laden pack camels and donkeys. All their possessions went with them - cows, calves, beasts of burden and the family dogs. The valley echoed with the soothing sound of trinkets and bells around their necks and ankles. When I looked around in the bus, I found a young Pathan sitting after the third row. Talking aloud over the heads of others was not considered bad and a good discussion ensued. It seemed that despite winds of change, Pathans were abiding by century old traditions: to give shelter to any fugitive, to offer open-handed hospitality and to wipe out dishonour by revenge. At the same time, they loved music, dance and poetry, an amazing mix of Guns and Roses.
Another change was in the offing. As the bus approached Peshawar City, the land became greener and less wild. The turbans, guns and bandoleers gave way to urban denizens in western attire. At last the skyline of Peshawar came into sight, the silhouette was outlined against the mountains. Thin minarets were spread all over with loudspeakers pointing out all cardinal directions. It was prayer time. The call to prayer, long and passionate, emanated from all mosques at the same time. Most men rushed to join the prayer while the vehicles moved a little faster to reach the destinations in time.
Peshawar, population 750,000, is a place in transition - some areas are ultra modern, others cling to the romantic past. Its old city had a maze of narrow lanes, buildings with overhanging balconies, bazaars, local inns, eating places and mosques. It was the busiest and most bustling area of the city. The vendors were selling everything from tribal jewellery to leather pistol holsters. Clopping horse drawn carts choked the streets. Since it was already late, I decided to stay for the night. The area was famed for its chappli-kebob, a spicy meat dish. A hearty dinner always ended with sabuz chai, green tea flavoured with cardamom or jasmine. For sleeping, I had two choices - the Khyber Inn with fans and shared bathrooms with hot water or a railway retiring room. The charges were negligible, around half a dollar. I opted for the railway retiring rooms. It was quite safe to walk after dark, no one would rob a guest and get cursed for life. On my way, I saw a Khattak Dance. Only men participated, dancing in circles to the beat of drums. It looked like a war dance, powerful and assertive. They had wide skirts over baggy trousers topped by braided waistcoats. Those who have seen the whirling Dervish of Turkey would appreciate the spectacle.
The Khyber Pass weekly double engined train left at around 9 for the fabled Khyber Pass just 25 km away. It was quite slow, gradually gaining height to reach the 1000 meters mark, where its last station, Landi Kotal, lay. The arid crumbing mountain never rose to any great height. I could see the road zigzagging below. The pass was 1.5 km at it widest and only 16 meters at its narrowest. There were many signposts warning not to wander off, only on road and railway line does the law of Pakistan apply. There was rarely any women to be seen apart from nomad women. Their black and gray tents hugged the sand while camels wandered grazing on the sparse vegetation. In the past, it was the most heavily guarded area of the world. Every spur of rock supported at least a turret of rusty stone, clinging like a swallow's nest to the cliff side, with the loopholes and windows protected by heavy sheet of iron. Every bridge had its pillbox and every signal-box on the narrow gauge railway was a miniature fort. The entire Khyber Pass was sprinkled with tiny army towers.
The train stopped at Landi Kotal with fan and fare. The small dusty village became more alive. It had shops, hotels, cafes, restaurants, banks and bakeries. Most of the buildings were low roofed and seemed to huddle together as if for security. The air irritated my eyes. It combined wood smoke and fumes from sizzling mutton. There were open eating houses where meat was being fried and eaten right away. The place was favoured for smuggled goods. Items from all over the world were openly being sold at astonishingly low prices. On the way back, nearly all passengers were seen laden with blankets, blenders, juicers, crockery, TVs, VCR and music paraphernalia. Heavy items like freezers and air-conditioners were carried on hand carts to be lifted up to the train.
Beyond Landi Kotal, everything was dry, barren and flat. In fact, it marked the beginning of Afghanistan, a crumbling country with internal conflicts.
Special Page: Facts for Travellers to Pakistan
Hafeezur Rahman
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