In the footsteps of bin Laden (Part 1)

Greetings from Peshawar or as the locals like to pronounce it.... Piss Shower.

Firstly, if anyone......ever again......and I mean ever again......in my lifetime.......mentions the words chicken and corn soup or mutton.....I will not be responsible for my actions. You have been warned!

Now I've got that off my chest (or to be more exact, out of my backside), it's time to update you on what we've been up to in the past 3 weeks. It has not been possible to send an update before now due to there being no Internet service in the areas we have been visiting. Believe me, we considered ourselves lucky if there was electricity.

We left you last time at the end of our first day in Is-scam-abad. Well, the next day (Saturday 12th August) saw us back in a totally different part of Pindi than we had been to on the previous day. It was a market area full of little narrow alleyways teeming it seemed with hundreds of thousands of people. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned round and couldn't believe my eyes when I saw....yes you've guessed it....Jafar standing there. Not five minutes earlier, Jo had said to me wouldn't it be a co-incidence if we bumped into Jafar today. He invited us for a drink but we managed to explain to him as tactfully as possible that we wanted to explore on our own and that we would be stopping frequently to take photographs. No problem. He wished us good luck and went off on his merry way.

The next day we decided to explore Is-scam-abad itself although it is not in any way tourist oriented and there are few sights. In the morning we visited the Faisal Mosque, one of the largest in Asia. After lunch we walked down the main street which is about 4 miles in length and ends at the Prime Ministers office. Surrounding this office are many other official buildings such as the Supreme Court and the main Sharia Court where the more severe sentences, like having your goolies cut off, are handed out under Islamic law.

Security in Is-scam-abad, indeed in the whole of Pakistan, is very much in evidence and the police, army and private security forces are absolutely everywhere. In Is-scam-abad almost every building whether it be a hotel, bank or ordinary shop has its own armed security guard outside 24 hours a day. They even guard the ATM machines all night at all the banks even though the banks themselves are closed. It's very strange coming from the UK where you hardly see a policeman on the street to be met with rifle-toting men in uniform at every turn.

Having seen the official buildings from a distance (you can't get within a quarter of a mile of the actual buildings themselves) we walked on a bit further and suddenly heard someone shout out 'Hello'. No, it wasn't Jafar but a policeman who called us over to his armoured van where he and his two colleagues were sipping tea. He asked us if we would care to join them for a cuppa and in the 40 degree heat, we weren't about to refuse. They all had very limited English but it turned out that they were on special patrol for the Anti-Terrorist squad. After assuring them that we had not been sent by either George Bush or Tony Blair, they told us that it was Independence day on Monday but that celebrations would be starting that very evening when apparently hundreds of thousands of people converge on the centre of Is-scam-abad. It all ends with a firework display at midnight. We made a note to attend. After a further half hour exchanging pleasantries they happily posed for photographs and we said our goodbyes.

We continued walking back towards our hotel through various side streets of what looked like very smart houses. They all had high security fences around them with huge gates and outside each one of them was a sentry box complete with an armed security guard. At one particular building, we smiled and acknowledged 3 uniformed men who had waved to us and they beckoned us over. Their uniforms were different to the first lot but they were still armed to the teeth with rifles, handguns and batons. It turned out that they were the Diplomatic Corps police and after chatting for a while, one of them disappeared into an office behind several high wire fences. Moments later he reappeared and told us that his boss would like to see us and led us to the office. His boss introduced himself as Chief of the Diplomatic Corps police and told us that he held the English in very high esteem and that he was delighted we chose to visit his country. He insisted that we should get together and he would show us around Is-scam-abad. We agreed to meet him the following evening at our hotel. On our way out we spoke again to his officers, one of whom happened to be a poet of some standing. He recited a verse or two of a poem he had written although being in Urdu, we didn't quite get the gist of it but gave him a round of applause anyway. After posing for photographs, we made our way back to our hotel for a short rest.

A couple of hours later (around 7pm) we heard lots of cars honking their horns. As most drivers in Pakistan drive with one hand on the steering wheel and one on the horn anyway, this is nothing unusual but the din was much louder than normal. We looked out of the window and there were hundreds of cars, buses, trucks, wagons and all other manner of vehicles bumper to bumper making their way to the centre of town. People were standing on top of vehicles and hanging out of the windows waving huge flags shouting 'Long Live Pakistan'. We also heard fire-crackers going off everywhere. We ventured out on to the street to walk the two miles to the centre and the reaction couldn't have been more intense if a spacecraft had landed and aliens emerged. People were yelling out greetings from all around us and so many came up to shake our hands and photograph us or have their photographs taken with us that it was obvious Westerners were a very rare sight indeed. We have had this reaction everywhere we have been in Pakistan and everyone stares at us intently, not in a threatening way but simply because they are curious. They seem to be able to spot us from hundreds of yards away whether we are walking or in a vehicle and we can only assume it is our dress which gives us away as even at night, in the pitch black, the reaction is the same.

Anyway, we finally reached the centre of town and sat down on terracing which appeared to be a permanent fixture by the side of the road. Several young children came over to shake our hands and although they only knew one or two words of English, were very polite. We weren't sure what the celebrations would actually consist of but it looked like there might be a parade so we went down to stand behind a barrier at the roadside. Very soon, a policeman came over to us, introduced himself and before long started saying how wonderful England and the English were. 'So polite, not like in Pakistan where the people are so backward. For instance, you English politely clap when your country scores a run at cricket whereas our people jump up and down like uncouth barbarians'. He then went on about how educated the English are and that Pakistan was mostly a nation of peasants. As you can imagine, we were rather lost for words and we didn't think it would be good for international relations to agree with him.

As he spoke to us people kept coming up to stand by us and listen in on our conversation hoping to learn more about us. When it became clear that they didn't speak English, the policeman would take out his baton and push them away with it. If they didn't move on the first time, the digs got harder. If they could speak English, he was happy for them to talk to us and then he would say 'Oh, those Punjabis, they are very educated, just like you English'. He seemed to take delight in running Pakistan and its people down. As it turned out, one young girl and her husband spoke perfect English and told us they were from Is-scam-abad although they now worked in Saudi Arabia as the salaries were higher there and they were only home for the celebrations.

We spoke at length with the policeman and he told us that he was from a village near Peshawar but like many people came to the capital to work because the salaries were higher there. He told us that he earned 10,000 PKR per month (less than GBP 100) and that he had a brother in California whom he regarded as a millionaire because he was earning around GBP 40,000 a year. He asked us if we would like a drink and told us to follow him. We walked about a mile to a shop where he kindly bought us a welcome cold pepsi and on the way back introduced us to several of his colleagues who were patrolling the crowds. Each time we stopped, a big crowd gathered around us even though the police were very aggressive towards them. We stayed with him until after midnight and although no parade materialised, it was great fun waving to all the cars going by and joining in the celebrations. One motor cyclist was so stunned at seeing a Westerner that he lost control of his bike and almost fell off much to the amusement of everybody around us. At one stage, a firecracker went off right beside us and our policeman went straight for his baton and looked all around, to no avail, for the culprit. He then kept apologising and muttering 'Barbarians' under his breath. At midnight, there was a short firework display and then everybody started making their way home. We later learnt that on the Monday (Independence Day itself) everyone would be making their way to a huge local park for family picnics.

Both this policeman and the previous ones we had befriended gave us their cards and said not to hesitate to call them should we need any help day or night wherever we are in Pakistan and they would be happy to sort things out for us. We said our goodbyes and made our way back to our hotel. On the way, we were stopped many more times by people wanting to speak to us and shake our hands, surprisingly many of them small children.

One phrase which they all seem to come out with (and this is something we have encountered all over Pakistan) is 'How are you'. It is exactly like how Manuel says it when he talks to the stags head in an episode of Fawlty Towers. It is blatantly obvious that this is where everybody has heard the phrase and we crack up laughing everytime we hear it as they all say it in the same tone of voice.

We were looking foward to further celebrations the next day as we assumed everywhere would be closed anyway because of the holiday. Oh boy, when we woke the next morning, we didn't know what hit us. We were racing each other to the loo as Delhi Belly hit us both with a vengeance. We couldn't pin it down to any particular food we had eaten but it hit Jo particularly badly. As well as sh.tt.ng through the eye of a needle, she was vomiting consistently too. We strolled down to the local chemist but she just sat on the wall outside being sick and looking white as a sheet. A guy came by and asked if he could help and took us into the chemist where he explained the situation to them. They gave her some crisps and a drink to line her stomach as she had not eaten that morning but she brought it straight up. They suggested I took her to the hospital which was a 10 minute walk away.

Now, picture if you will Guy's hospital in London. Is-scam-abad General or PIMS as it is called, is about as far removed from Guy's as it is possible to get. For a start, PIMS stands for 'Pakistan Institute of Medical Science' which makes it sound more like an animal research lab than a hospital. After we convinced the security men on the gate that Jo was actually a potential patient, we walked through the grounds to the main building. These grounds were littered with hundreds of people in various states of undress. Many of them looked to be asleep or dead, we couldn't tell which. It looked like they were a mixture of visitors and patients as some were being fed by others. We assumed they were outside to get some air as the temperatures were again in the 40s and must have been 10 degrees higher at least inside. The chemist had told us we needed to go to the 'Accident and Emergency' department. We asked the security guard on the door of the main building for directions. He pointed vaguely in the direction of a long corridor. Well, judging by the look on everyone's face as we walked down this corridor, it was pretty obvious we were the first Westerners ever to grace the portals of this place. The men stood open mouthed in sheer amazement and the women cowered against the walls trying to hide their faces. All along the corridor patients were sitting in small groups cooking their own food on open primus stoves and if you weren't ill when you went in there, you soon felt it with the overpowering smell of mutton curries being dished out.

There were rooms off to the side all along the corridor, many of them general wards and they looked like something out of the dark ages. Most of them only had candles for light and the decor can only be described as 'Glasgow Tennement'. We finally got to the end of the corridor but could not find any signs for the 'Accident and Emergency' department. We did however spot one for the 'Outpatients' department on the first floor and decided to give that a try. There must have been around 200 people in there and the place was utter chaos. We decided to go back to the main entrance for further help. We eventually found the main reception and a girl came with us to show us the way. It turned out that 'Accident and Emergency' was through the only door with a sign in Urdu rather than in English like every other room.

The place was bedlam with people holding various bits of paper aloft and crowding round anyone that looked vaguely like a doctor. The receptionist helped Jo to register and then pushed through a crowd of people to an office where there were several others waiting to be seen and one doctor who looked to be in need of therapy herself. After a few words, Jo was shown to the front of the queue where she had her blood pressure taken. She was then taken to another office to see a proper doctor who would decide her treatment. Meanwhile, I was shown into a waiting room where 3 women were lying flat out on the floor wailing and shouting Allah's name as the door was shut behind me. I honestly didn't know whether they were praying or crying. I got a packet of tissues out and handed it to the youngest looking woman and asked if anything was wrong. She explained that the other two women were her mother and aunt and that they were there because her brother had just been knocked off his motor-cycle and that the doctor's feared he would be brain damaged. I gave what words of comfort I could but in a society where the women avoid all contact with men who are not their immediate family, it wasn't that easy. The young girl was obviously educated and understood my awkwardness but the two older women turned away and covered their faces if I so much as glanced over at them.

At this point, the receptionist came back and I was reunited with Jo who by now had her own bit of paper in her hand. This apparently was a prescription and we were shown to a pharmacy counter which turned out to have none of the drugs Jo had been prescribed. We were told to go to the chemist where they would be available. We returned to the entrance through another maze of corridors, this time with surgical wards off to the side. It was rather disconcerting to hear groaning from one of them and a rather loud scream from another. We wondered if they were short of anaesthetic as well as medicine for bad stomachs.

Fortunately, the chemist had everything in stock and after paying over the equivalent of 50p, Jo was given 3 separate medicines to take. We then went back to the hotel to recover where at least we would be next to a loo. We phoned our police friend from the Diplomatic Corps to tell him we would have to meet up with him tomorrow night as we were feeling too rough.

The following morning we both felt just as bad and were in no fit state to leave the vicinity of either the room or the loo. As well as the medicines Jo had been prescribed, we still had to take our tablets for Malaria as most of northern Pakistan is in a malarial zone.

Jo took her tablet as usual but this time it seemed to stick in her throat. She was finding it difficult to breathe so we went down to reception to get some help. You may be asking why we didn't phone down but nobody spoke good enough English and it would have taken much too long to explain. I told them as best I could what had happened and asked if there was an in-house doctor or one nearby. They suggested we go quickly to the hospital and we went in the hotel taxi with one of the staff. Although we arrived at a different entrance this time, we worked out where we were and led the way to the 'Accident and Emergency' department again. The security guard on the door was using his baton to heavy handedly beat people back but as soon as he saw us, ushered us through. Jo was breathing a little easier by now but had turned very pale and we were led to an office where we were told a senior doctor would be down to see us. Fifteen minutes later he turned up and we explained that Jo could still feel the tablet caught in her throat. He said that although it might feel like that, it would certainly have dissolved by now but he would examine her just to be on the safe side. He stuck various medieval instruments in her mouth that wouldn't have looked out of place in the London Dungeon and confirmed that indeed the tablet had dissolved but had caused her throat to swell right up which is why she felt it was still there and she couldn't breathe. Another prescription followed and we decided it was time to get out of that place before they named a ward after her.

During all this, our Delhi Belly wasn't showing any signs of improvement and we were living on vegetable soup when we could face it. The rest of that day was spent in our room. We had to put off our meeting with our police friend once again.

Most of Wednesday was also spent in our room recovering although we finally met up with our policeman in the evening who drove us around the same sights we had already seen. On arriving back at our hotel he suddenly produced a bottle of whiskey from under his seat which he invited us to share with him. Obviously, this was one of the perks of being Chief of Police of the Diplomatic Corps as locals are completely banned from obtaining alcohol and although it is available to tourists at top hotels, you still need a permit to buy it. We politely declined his offer stating we were on so much medication, a nip of whiskey would probably see us off. We bid him goodnight before he had the chance to offer us best quality Afghan hashish or some other banned substance which would see us rot in jail forever.

On Thursday morning we braved a visit to a viewpoint recommended to us from which apparently you can see the whole of Is-scam-abad. Not quite true. Although it is fairly high up, much of the view is blocked by trees so it was really not that impressive. After the drive, we were still not 100 percent (more like 10 percent) so went back to our room to recover some more, stocking up on several more rolls of toilet paper on the way.

On Friday we decided to go to another viewpoint in the Margalla Hills which overlook Is-scam-abad in the hope that the view from there would be better. We were not disappointed as it was possible to see for many miles. We went to a local restaurant for an early lunch and as we were tucking in to our meal, a man came to our table and said 'Good morning'. I replied 'Good morning'. He said 'Ah, the Queens English. I can tell sir that you are not from Lancashire'. Now, the thought of having Northern blood in me has been a constant worry for many years so it was good to have it confirmed that I was indeed from the right side of Watford. He then asked us where we lived in England. We told him we had just moved to Bexhill and he said 'Oh, Bexhill, my first girlfriend came from there when I was a student in Surrey. Her father came from a town in Kent called Sevenoaks. I remember visiting them there before they moved. I understand Turkish people have now taken over their house. That's the trouble with Kent today.....too many bloody foreigners'. Well, Jo and I just sat their opened mouthed. The chances of such a coincidence must be astronomical. It turned out that he was a High Court judge from Lahore and was in Is-scam-abad with his Algerian wife for a conference. He said his 3 daughters were studying in London and although they didn't know it yet, he planned to travel there in early September to settle in England for good. He then asked us about house prices in Bexhill. When we told him, he seemed to think they were very reasonable. Who knows, we may be getting a new Pakistani neighbour. That should give them something to talk about at The Sackville coffee mornings! After a last look round the City on Friday afternoon we decided we would leave the following morning.

Our planned route was up the Karakoram Highway which runs from Rawalpindi to Kashgar in China and straddles some of the highest mountains in the world. We had planned to go as far as Gilgit in the far north of Pakistan. Our first stop was to be Abbottabad (how comes every other town in Pakistan has the word 'bad' in its name?), a former British garrison town founded in the 1850s. We took the hotel taxi to Pindi bus station and attempted to find the right bus. Because these buses are private enterprises, it is usual to find several waiting to go to the same place. However, they only leave when they are crammed to the rafters inside and with people hanging on for dear life on the back as well as sitting on the roof with the luggage. Obviously, being Westerners, fights were almost breaking out for our custom and we were shown to the best seats on one bus whilst our luggage was taken care of. We paid over our GBP 1.50 (total cost of both tickets) for what the guide book said would be a 2-1/2 hour journey of 60 miles. After about half an hour the bus finally left and we were on our way. 10 minutes later we came to a complete halt with a flat battery. Most of the male passengers got out of the bus to push it and give it a jump start, unfortunately to no avail. Having unloaded all the passengers and luggage on the side of the road, a young boy who said he was also going to Abbottabad decided he would be a gentleman and look after Jo's luggage. Ticket refunds were organised on our behalf by some of the other passengers and the system now was simply to wait for following buses to see if they had room. Once again we were given preferential treatment and ushered into the best seats (the two next to the driver) on the first bus that came along. They were not empty of course but were quickly vacated by the two people sitting in them when they saw we were Westerners. This particular bus was only going halfway to Abbottabad but at the interchange we were once again looked after and shown exactly where to go and made as comfortable as possible even though nobody spoke a word of English. Jo even had the audacity to ask for two cokes and someone was dispatched to run over to the store to fetch them.

We finally arrived in Abbottabad after about 4 hours and jumped in a taxi to the hotel we picked out of the 'Lonely Planet' guide book. It was, of course, on the other side of town. Although very shabby, we were shown to what the owner described as the best room in the house (no doubt with the best prices too) which was the size of a football pitch and had views on 3 sides overlooking the bazaar. During our stay we did see a few of the other rooms and he was right.......we did indeed have the best room. We asked him for a key to our room and he said it would take about an hour. We assumed he had misunderstood and said we wanted to secure our luggage and weren't happy about leaving it in an unlocked room. He just smiled and said 'No problem, Sir. It will be an hour'. Well, this could go on all night I thought, so we retired to our room to see what would happen. An hour later, two men turned up and proceeded to drill holes in the door. We realised they were carpenters and in no time at all they had installed a brand new lock and bolt and handed us the key. How's that for service?

After a spot of lunch, we wandered around the Cantonment area (the part of town the British actually lived in) and were surprised to see a couple of catholic churches. Unfortunately, the gates were locked so we were unable to view them. It was soon after this that we were stopped by a couple of students as we were walking towards the bazaar. They introduced themselves as Danish and Bilal. Both were just preparing for an interview that was coming up in a few days time. They had passed all the exams they needed to be able to study in Britain and this interview was the last hurdle for them to gain admission to the colleges of their choice. Danish had chosen the South London College in Borough High Street and Bilal had chosen Westminster College. They had stopped us to see if their English was good enough and to ask us about how they should approach their interviewer whom they said would be British.

Their English was certainly passable but we could offer them little in the way of advice about how to conduct themselves at their interview other than be themselves and give good solid reasons for choosing Britain over the USA or Australia which apparently they could also have applied for.

We had barely noticed but by this time a sizeable crowd had gathered around us listening in on our conversation. This happens to us all the time in Pakistan. You only have to stop for a nano-second and taxis or tuk-tuks pull up, people just stand around to see if you need help and if you so much as look like you are going to open a map or guide book, the whole village comes out to show you the way.....usually in 20 different directions. They normally end up arguing amongst themselves as we walk off quietly.

Anyway, Danish and Bilal invited us for a drink and were quizzing us about life in Britain. Neither had travelled much further than the area around Abbottabad and seemed not to have been told much about what to expect. They asked us if they should stay in a hotel or rent a house out whilst they were in London (their course would last a year). I think they thought we were pulling their leg when we told them the cost of either option. They said the best private room in Abbottabad would be 5000 PKR (GBP 45) a month. When we told them they could easily pay that a day in central London, they looked more Albino than Pakistani.

We met up with them again that evening and they gave us the grand tour of Abbottabad. They showed us many buildings which had been destroyed in the devastating earthquake which hit Pakistan last year. Up until then, we hadn't realised how close we were to the epicentre. Whilst walking around, they bought us all manner of things from bananas to local sweetmeats as well as keeping us stocked up with drinks. Because it is so hot during the day, it is not until the night time that the town comes alive and the bazaar is in full swing. Several times during the evening there were power cuts and Danish explained that the town shared its electricity supply with another one some 50 miles away. Each took its turn to have power for about an hour at a time.

Perhaps now is a good time to explain something about Pakistan. We are convinced that the people were a race of moles in a previous life. With the exception of one or two streets in Is-scam-abad, there is no street lighting at all. Every building, including hotels and restaurants works on half power and you are living in a constant gloom. It is very rare indeed that you can see what you are eating and it is impossible to read inside any building. In the bazaars, the odd stall has a kerosene lamp or a candle and it really gives the impression of what Victorian London must have been like. The pollution is horrendous, so everywhere it is smoggy which adds to the gloom. Added to this, there are no pavements anywhere so all of the time you are walking in the road not only trying to avoid traffic coming towards you down the wrong side of the road but the pot-holes as well. These could easily swallow a small child. In addition, most of the drain covers are missing, so, as you can see, you take your life in your hands just walking about. Yet, as I have mentioned before, the local populace can spot us half a mile away. It slowly dawned on us that we had seen virtually nobody wearing glasses.

Power cuts happen on an almost daily basis and whilst one or two of the hotels have their own generators, they only work the emergency lights which are barely worth having on for all the brightness they give out. In the country areas, the power is only on for one or two hours a day, usually from 6pm to 8pm and that's it. You have to do everything by candlelight for the rest of the time.

Anyway, back to the story. After a visit to a tea shop we said goodbye to Bilal who lived around 45 minutes away by bus in a small village. We agreed to meet up with him and Danish the following morning as they had said they would show us the town and surrounding area from a hill which overlooked the town in a commanding position.

Danish then invited us back to his home to meet his family. He lived about 5 minutes from the centre of town and hired a taxi for us which followed him on his motorcycle. We drove along in the pitch black (many vehicles have no lights and those that do usually only have one working. Bikes and and auto-rickshaws do not require them.) and arrived at his house in one piece. As we walked into the courtyard, a man clasped his chest and fell to his knees. I thought he was having a heart attack but it turned out that this was his father and he was offering up a prayer to Allah on our behalf for an enjoyable visit and safe onward journey.

We were then shown to Mum and Dad's bedroom as this seemed to be the only place in the house (despite it being on four levels) that could accommodate us. In trooped Mum, Dad and Danish's seven brothers and sisters. Two friends turned up later for good measure. We were offered drinks and food and just sat there rather awkwardly as none of them except for Danish's eldest brother spoke any English. Suddenly, Danish said that his mother wanted to give us both a present and we suddenly had visions of having to carry a sacrificial goat back to our hotel. Father and one of the daughters both left the room. They re-appeared five minutes later and Dad handed me a shirt that would have been out of date in 1973. I could ascertain that much even though there was no light. Danish told me that his father had picked it out especially from his own wardrobe. The daughter then handed Jo what looked to be a sari. We were unable to check there and then as we had read it was impolite to open gifts in the presence of those you had received them from. We thanked them profusely and the mother was almost beside herself that Westerners were gracing her house. We were able to hold a conversation thanks to the brother being able to translate everything for us and in the end it turned out to be a very plesant evening indeed. They were a charming family and we are very grateful to them for their hospitality. Danish kindly arranged a taxi for us back to our hotel and we said we would see him at 9am the next morning.

When we awoke, the sky looked rather cloudy but Danish and Bilal turned up as promised and off we set to the mountain. We started walking and after about 45 minutes we were still walking and getting further and further out of town and rising steadily upwards when he turned a corner and we saw what looked to be Everest in front of us. Now, another thing the Pakistanis can do is climb thousands of feet on the roughest of ground, in sandals, without breathing any faster than you or I would do whilst we are asleep. We had to tell our two friends that we were in no way capable of climbing such heights even if we had the next 3 weeks to spare. It had also started spitting with rain by this time. Danish said no problem and ran off. Ten minutes later he pulled up beside us in a truck which he had hired to take us to the top. Even driving, it took 15 minutes to reach the end of the road and we all piled out. We still had to climb another couple of hundred feet over jagged rocks to reach the summit. When we arrived, the heavens opened but this didn't seem to bother Danish or Bilal one iota. By now we had also been joined by a couple of shepherd boys and some other locals. The view was quite spectacular and on a nice Summers day would have been immensely more enjoyable. Unfortunately, turning round at one point, I noticed our hired vehicle was halfway down the mountain. Yep, you've guessed it, we were going to be walking down. Danish assured us that he knew a quick way and visions of ropes and pitons were coming into my mind. We headed down what could only be described, by now, as a river through mountain villages where, despite the rain getting harder by the minute, villagers were out on the streets keen to get an eyeful of the Westerners. We met numerous people, some as young as 5 or 6 and some as old as 80 coming up the steep mountainside carrying loads that would make an elephant baulk and waving cheerfully to us. We were having heart palpitations just looking at them. We finally made it to the bottom of the mountain in about half an hour.

We walked back into town and the roads were under 2 feet of water. It was nearly noon by now - check out time at our hotel where we had left our luggage. Our plan was to pick up our rucksacks and get the bus further up the Karakoram Highway to Besham. We learned that the road was closed due to the heavy rain and landslides and there was no way of continuing our journey along that route. These landslides are a common occurrence in the North of Pakistan and sometimes can block a road for several days. This was really the only viable road so we decided to give Gilgit a miss and make our way instead to the Swat Valley.

Now, for those of you who didn't pass 'A' level geography in borstal, the Swat Valley is the most visited (at least 2 tourists a year) area of Pakistan. It is also arguably, the most scenic. It runs for around 120 miles although only 60 miles is navigable by road from Mingora in the South to Kalam in the North.

To get to Mingora at this late stage in the day would have involved 4 buses and a journey time of around 12 hours. Call us un-adventurous if you like but as it's already pitch black by 6pm, the thought of arriving in torrential rain at midnight in a strange town with no accommodation booked didn't really appeal. We decided to take the cowards way out and hired a jeep with driver, this being the only vehicle guaranteed to get through any landslide or earthquake that may occur on route.

We thanked both Danish and Bilal for their unstinting hospitality (although we offered, we didn't spend a paisa the whole time we were with them) and asked them to keep in touch with us via e-mail. We have since heard from Danish that his application to come to Britain has been refused and he is now lodging an appeal. Again, this is a common tale we hear all the time over here. Students are desperate to get to Britain to study as taking a course in Britain is far quicker than in Pakistan and the exam qualification is worth so much more to them if it is obtained in Britain. Because of the influx of Europeans into Britain, mainly from Poland, Asians are finding it increasingly difficult to have their applications approved.

Our driver, who spoke not a word of English, stopped in a town after about 4 hours and managed to convey to us that this was his home town and that his brother who also lived in the town and ran a mobile phone shop in the local arcade would be joining us as a second driver. We then continued on to Mingora but his brother never once took over the driving. We think he probably wanted the company of someone who could speak Urdu.

We had picked out a hotel (once again from the 'Lonely Planet' bible) and pulled up outside the entrance. The manager came flying out, thanked us for choosing his hotel and told us the place was full and we would have to find somewhere else to stay. It was 8.00pm by now. He recommended we try the nearby PTDC (Pakistan Tourism Development Council) Motel. This group, which is the equivalent of the English Tourist Board, have around 30 of their own motels all over Pakistan. Fortunately, they had room (in fact they had all the rooms, as we appeared to be the only guests). The fact that we were now under PTDC control was to become an important factor in our travels for the next 10 days as will become clear shortly.

After spending a couple of days catching up with laundry and e-mails we decided to work out the best way of seeing the Swat Valley. The ‘Lonely Planet’ guide made it sound easy to do the journey by various buses but we had already seen the condition of the roads and knew it would take much longer than they suggested. Using the buses would mean we would be at their mercy and could not stop as long as we liked in a particular place or take photos of anything interesting we might pass. We decided once again that the only way to do the trip would be with a car and driver.

Co-incidentally the PTDC Tourist Office was attached to the Motel itself so we went in there to arrange things. We agreed a package that would take us up the Swat Valley stopping at Malam Jabba, Miandam and Kalam. We would then return to Mingora before driving to Chitral via the Lowari Pass. From there we would visit the Bumboret Valley, home of the Kalasha people before driving back over the Lowari Pass to Peshawar. The package would be an 8 day tour including all accommodation and transport costs (i.e. hire of the driver/guide plus fuel) plus hire of a separate jeep and driver for part of the route for just under GBP 500. We would be staying in PTDC motels throughout.

That evening, as we were waiting the usual 20 minutes for a page to load in the local internet café, the man from the PTDC office came in with another man in tow. He said to us ‘This is Hassim, he is my brother. He will be your driver/guide for the tour’. He then added ‘He is your brother too’. Now, I’ve been researching genealogy for five years and I think I may have noticed if I had a Hassim Mohammad Faisal bin Khalid in my family tree, particularly if he was my brother. Hassim smiled a lot but seemed a man of few words. Yep, you’re way ahead. I know you’re thinking ‘How could we be so naïve?’ but I have to admit we fell for this one hook, line and sinker. It turned out he didn’t speak a word of English…….and he was supposed to be our guide.

We left around 9am the next morning in a very comfortable car and headed for Malam Jabba, some 27 miles away. The village lies about 12 miles up a side valley off the main Swat Valley road. This 12 miles takes almost 3 hours to drive due to the condition of the road and the fact that it climbs to over 9000 feet. The scenery is very similar to that of Switzerland with high jagged peaks and there are fantastic views towards the Karakoram range. Malam Jabba is the main ski resort of Pakistan but the season doesn’t start until November. It then runs through to April. Although the resort is open the rest of the year, it attracts few visitors as there is little else to do except appreciate your surroundings. When we arrived, there were hundreds of people working on getting the ski lift ready for the coming season.

The following day we drove a very circuitous route to Miandam due to a bridge being washed away on the main route. Miandam, also situated 6 miles up a side valley, stands at 5500 feet. This is a very picturesque valley full of pine clad summits and more gentle rounded mountain summits…..much more like Austria. It is very popular with the Pakistan Army and Navy who have many of their rest-houses here. It was my favourite place in Swat although Jo preferred Kalam, which was to be our next stop.

The following morning we drove to Kalam via Madyan and a small town called Bahrain. At this point of the Swat Valley, the mountains close right in and the road becomes very narrow. You can really appreciate the grandeur of the mountains.

In Bahrain, we decided to walk through the bazaar on our own and asked Hassim to wait for us at the other end. He was very reluctant to let us out of his sight and and kept suggesting that everywhere was a ‘bad place’ or ‘dangerous’. We tried to explain that we were big and ugly enough to look after ourselves and anyway, we wanted to take photographs of the merchants. This over-protectiveness was to become an increasing problem as the tour progressed.

As we strolled through the bazaar, all eyes were on us of course but we were used to that by now. Many people came over to shake hands with us or called out ‘How are you’. Several asked if we would take their photo which of course we were happy to oblige. The beauty of having a digital camera is that you can show them the photo of themselves straight away and this was very much appreciated. Digital cameras are rare in Pakistan and the photo shops seem to mainly stock film cameras and all the photo labs on the streets are geared for film rather than digital.

In one particular road of the bazaar, we spotted a crowd of people looking at something and went over to investigate. It turned out to be another Westerner also taking photographs. We went over to introduce ourselves. He spoke with a very plumby BBC English accent although he didn’t look English. He said his name was Petta and that he was a Swedish student studying at Oxford University. He was in Pakistan for the wedding of one of his classmates in Lahore but had a few days to spare so decided to check out the mountain areas as well. He told us he was staying at Greens Hotel in Kalam which happened to be the one next door to the PTDC Motel where we were booked in at.

By now, a huge crowd had gathered around us to witness, what to them was the most historic meeting between Westerners since Stanley met Livingstone. We chatted some more and although we didn’t make any firm plans to meet up again, we guessed we would probably bump into each other at some point. Petta also had his guide with him, who spoke perfect English and he too was a delightful man to talk to.

We finally arrived in Kalam after a further 3 hours despite the fact that ‘Lonely Planet’ says the bus takes ½ hour from Bahrain. Michael Schumacker would have difficulty doing it in under 2 hours, I can promise you.

Kalam stands at a height of around 6000 feet and is surrounded by high peaks, many with snow on top even at this time of the year. It is a major holiday resort for Pakistanis especially for those from the Punjab region. Many people there seemed to be from Lahore and indeed we spoke to one man and his brother who were there with their wives and 8 children. He said they both got married recently and were there on their honeymoon. We didn’t delve any further. He did however tell us that it cost him GBP 150 to stay there for one week for the whole family. He was bemoaning the fact that prices had risen steeply since last year and he wasn’t sure he would bother coming again unless they dropped their prices. The town closes down for 6 months of the year and becomes inaccessible from the outside world once the snows come.

That evening we asked Hassim to take us down to the bazaar as it was quite some distance from the motel which was situated high above the town. He once again muttered the words ‘bad place’ and ‘dangerous’. We checked with the motel staff who assured us there was no problem, however rather than upset Hassim we stayed in the complex that evening. The following day was spent going along two very rocky mountain tracks which were just about passable in the car. These led up two small valleys through the mountains surrounding Kalam but ended after a few miles. We sat in a park at the end of one of these tracks to have a drink. Suddenly we were approached by 3 students who came running over towards me excitedly. They insisted on having their photo taken with me and said that I was the spitting image of the Pakistani cricket coach. Now, grant you, I’ve acquired a bit of a tan during our time in Pakistan but I didn’t think I was that brown! Not being a cricket fan I had no idea who the Pakistani cricket coach was but I later found out he is a white South African. When I saw him on T.V. a few days later, I was horrified. He’s at least 80 years older than I am.

That evening we told Hassim that we needed to make a phone call to England and insisted he take us to the bazaar. He drove us down there but as we got out of the car, he spotted an acquaintance, one of hundreds he ran into throughout our journey. As he turned round to greet his colleague we took the opportunity to sneak off down a side street out of sight. We decided to teach him a lesson and strolled around the bazaar for the next hour taking photos and meeting many of the people who worked there. Once again, we were the centre of attention and we had many invites to have tea or partake of food. Eventually, we went back to the car and Hassim looked frantic with worry. He was not best pleased at us sloping off but there was little he could do. We did not experience one iota of trouble in Kalam or indeed anywhere we have been in Pakistan. We have felt perfectly safe day and night everywhere we have been and could not understand why he was being so protective.

On arrival back at the motel, we walked back in the direction of our chalet but sneaked around the back and back out of the complex to go to Greens Hotel for dinner. We had hoped to meet up with Petta and invite him to join us. Fortunately, he was sitting in the lobby with his guide and was just about to go in to eat himself so our timing was just right. We had a very enjoyable evening together and after dinner, Petta and his guide walked us back to our motel.

We had gone to Greens in the hope of some different food. All of the PTDC motels have the same 20 items on the menu. Item number 1 is Chicken and Corn Soup. Items 2 to 11 are Chicken in its various forms……Curry, Jalfrezi, Korma etc. Items 12 to 18 are Mutton in the same forms as the Chicken. Item 19 is Desserts and Item 20 is Drinks. Item 1 is always available. Items 2 to 17 were never available. Item 18 which was Mutton Curry was always available. Item 19 was never available and Item 20 was Mineral Water. We had the same choice, i.e. no choice at all, at every PTDC motel we stayed at, irrespective of its location. At least at Greens Hotel we managed to get a dish resembling Chicken Chow Mein with vegetables despite having to wait almost 1-1/2 hours for it. Incidentally, whilst on the subject of food, another problem is the waiting time. At all the PTDC motels it states on the menu that there is a waiting time of 30 minutes for each dish and believe me, they stuck to it rigidly. That included the toast you had for breakfast or a simple cup of tea. It all had to be ordered 30 minutes before you wanted it and they would then call you from your room or you just sat waiting in the restaurant, usually in the pitch black.

We left Kalam the next day for our return to Mingora and an overnight stay before our journey to Chitral. Despite one or two annoyances, we had very much enjoyed our time in the Swat Valley. The scenery was just stunning and at least the air was fresh and clean. The temperature was very pleasant too unlike the intense heat of Is-scam-abad.

We were up bright and early the next morning (5am to be exact) for our 6am departure. The journey to Chitral would take 14 hours, 7 of which would be by jeep. 5 hours would be spent travelling the 42 miles of the Lowari Pass between Dir and Drosh. This reaches a height of almost 10,000 feet. Three hours drive from Mingora, we came to the border of NWFP (North West Frontier Passage). This is the most lawless state of Pakistan and therefore has a high police and military presence. After we registered at the police post we were permitted to continue our journey to Panakot, another 4 hours away. Here was located another PTDC motel, again in a beautiful setting, however this was only a lunch stop. I bet none of you can guess what we had!!!

After lunch, our jeep and new driver turned up and we transferred all our luggage from the car. The car would be left there for us to pick up on the return journey although Hassim, of course, would be accompanying us. The new driver spoke even less English than Hassim which was none at all so we never did discover his name.

We set off for the Pass and it wasn’t long before it became clear why a jeep was needed. This so called road was nothing more than a barely visible mountain track covered in rocks along its whole length with waterfalls at various points running across washing the surface away. It was only several feet wide yet vehicles (including big trucks) were passing each other on both sides with little more than an inch to spare between them and with a sheer drop of several thousand feet on the other side. Road barriers were non existent. Despite its remoteness, there was no end of various work gangs repairing the road as best they could at various points and often they were actually laying down the surface in front of our wheels simply so that we could drive that section. All along the road were people herding goats, cows etc or simply just squatting on the edge of precipitous rocks with no care in the world. It was a most surreal scene.

After about 2 hours we got to the top of the pass and encountered yet another police check point where we dutifully got out to sign the log book. Dressed only in a tee-shirt and light trousers, we almost froze to death as we got out of the jeep. The temperature had suddenly plummeted to freezing and we weren’t laughing any more at the police guards in their big overcoats.

During the descent of the pass you encounter a series of 43 switchbacks, one after the other and if you weren’t already dizzy at that altitude, you soon were going round and round like a fairground ride. A little further on we were held up for around an hour due to an accident but finally made it through the pass and into Chitral at around 7pm. It was the most bum-numbing ride either of us had ever encountered and the prospect of having to do it all again on the return journey didn’t exactly make us jump for joy. Nevertheless, it had been an experience and that’s what travel is all about.

The PTDC motel in Chitral was very conveniently situated at the end of the bazaar, however the stalls were all closing just as we arrived. This was very unusual as most bazaars stayed open until very late in the evening. Chitral was much smaller than we had thought and we had no choice but to go to the hotel restaurant for dinner. Just as the waiter put the plates on the table after the usual 30 minute wait, the lights went out. So that was why the bazaar closed early. Power cuts were as common as Chicken and Corn Soup in this part of the world and we sat there eating dinner by the light of a candle, which although we were the only ones in the restaurant, was used to illuminate the whole place instead of being put near our table.

Despite the poor choice of food, it has to be said that at all the PTDC motels, we were usually given the best room in the place, i.e. the ones that had the best views. We were also treated to extras such as fruit baskets from the management once they realised they had Westerners as guests.

Whilst we were in the Swat Valley, almost everyone we met asked if we were going to Chitral as they all said the scenery there was even better than Swat. Whilst it was certainly stunning, we didn’t feel it matched Swat. Nevertheless, we were looking forward to spending the next evening in the Bumboret Valley, supposedly the prettiest of the 3 Kalasha valleys, home to the Kalasha people.

As we drove through the first part of the valley, the road squeezed between almost vertical mountains on either side and it was like a scene from ‘The Land that Time Forgot’. Once again, we encountered another police check point. This time we had to buy a GBP 2 permit which allowed us to visit all 3 valleys if we wished and also to sign the log book. The idea of signing these log books is so that the authorities know that you have passed that way should anything happen to you. As well as natural disasters, hostage taking is not uncommon in this province.

We arrived at the Bumboret PTDC motel which was again in a beautiful setting and settled in to our room. This place didn’t have any TV which was a sure sign that they probably didn’t have any power either. We were wrong. The village had its own generator and they ran it for one whole hour a day supposedly between 6pm and 7pm.
Our driver and Hassim decided to show us a bit more of the valley which only consists of the one road. Although they stopped often for us to take photographs, we only had the opportunity to say hello to a few of the Kalasha people. Hassim felt that we were happy with the photos we took and didn’t see the need to elaborate any further. We were back at the motel in no time. We had different thoughts however and when we saw him close the door to his room, we walked out of the gates to do our own sightseeing. As we strolled through the village, we were called in to the grounds of another hotel by the owner. We got chatting to him and were relating the problems we had with Hassim as well as the lack of variety of food in the motels. He immediately arranged for a guide to take us up to a Kalasha village nearby and invited us to have dinner at his hotel that evening. He said he would cook up some local Kalasha fare and if nothing else, it would make a change from the PTDC food that was on offer.

The guide he arranged spoke excellent English and took us to meet many of the Kalasha people who were all charming, many of whom invited us into their homes. Although some were shy, most of them had no objections to us taking photographs of them. Whilst they tend to live together in their own villages, they live side by side with the local muslim population quite happily and attend the same schools, use the same shops, etc. After a brilliant tour and meeting many of the Kalasha, we returned to the hotel and as promised the owner laid on a feast of various dishes all of which were delicious. Unfortunately, there was no power at all that evening and apart from one or two candles, we were once again sitting out on the terrace in the pitch black. We did however notice our jeep driver and Hassim stop at the entrance to the hotel to enquire if anyone had seen us. We had already asked the hotel owner (who also spoke perfect English) not to say anything and he kept his word and they drove off. An hour later, the jeep driver and someone else from the PTDC were back again and it was obvious that they were going up and down the valley frantic with worry at our disappearance. We thought it best to make our presence know and we told them we had been waylaid in the Kalasha village taking photographs and decided to stop at this other hotel for a bite to eat. After our meal, they drove us back to the PTDC where Hassim was having kittens. He said ‘Big Problem’ and we heard the word ‘Garda’ mentioned. We took this to mean that he had called the police to have them join the search for us. We once again told him (in a bit louder voice) that we were not children and were perfectly entitled to go for a walk where and for how long we wanted and that we were also entitled to have dinner where we wanted as the meals were not part of our package. We hoped he had got the message.

The next morning we felt somewhat guilty at having lost our temper at him as we realised he was only doing his duty by looking after us. We apologised to him and tried to explain that it was unlikely we would have the opportunity of visiting this area again and we wanted to ensure we saw everything we had planned to see as well as taking the respective pictures.

We asked him to drive us straight back to Chitral as we wanted to find an internet café to catch up with our e-mails. We told him we were going to be doing our own thing for the rest of the day and we didn’t require his services until the following morning. He seemed happy with this arrangement thinking we would be holed up in the internet café all day. The internet service in Chitral was even slower than that in Mingora so we just spent the day wandering around the town taking more photos. That evening, as we were sitting on the porch outside our room, Hassim came over and wanted us to show him the photos we had taken over the past couple of days. As he hadn’t done this previously, we were wondering what he was buttering us up for. He then went on to discuss the next days travel plans albeit that we couldn’t understand a word he was saying. He still hadn’t twigged on that we couldn’t speak Urdu and just carried on as if he was having a conversation with the local hairdresser. We did however hear him mention the name of the town where we had first crossed into the NWFP followed by the word Daewoo. He then kept saying OK, OK, OK. This rang alarm bells as we knew that Daewoo was the fast bus service used all over Pakistan and we told him to follow us down to the motel office where there was someone who could speak a modicum of English.

The guy translated that Hassim was going to drive us back to the check-point and arrange a Daewoo for us for the onward journey to Peshawar. Our attempt to explain in Urdu that this was not acceptable came out more like Go F--- Y------- as we made it perfectly clear that we had paid for a car and driver to take us the whole way to Peshawar and that was what we expected. The motel officer told him what we had said and Hassim, looking very sheepish by now, said ‘No problem’, ‘No problem’.

We knew that Hassim lived only half an hour away from the checkpoint and was trying to get out of driving us for a further 5 hours from there to Peshawar. We agreed that should he mention Daewoo again, we would demand a GBP 100 refund which we knew he had no power of authority to give.

The next morning, we were up at 5am again for another 14 hour slog, this time to Peshawar. Our official tour would end there but we had already booked accommodation at Greens Hotel so we would at least have somewhere to stay should we get held up and arrive late.

Despite the fact that we ran into 2 landslides on the way back over the pass, they were cleared pretty quickly and we made good time back to Panakot. This time Hassim said there was no time for lunch (guess he was still sore at us) and got into his car to continue the journey. He switched on the engine and guess what………yep you guessed…..the battery was flat. We had discussed together the possibility that he might pull a stunt like this and we had planned to tell him that we were quite happy to go in the jeep but he had to honour his contact. After a few words with the jeep driver, they exchanged batteries and we were soon on our way again. We had a brief stop for tea about 4 hours later and finally arrived in Peshawar at around 6pm. Hassim told us that he intended to drive back to Swat that night……another 5 hour journey.

Despite these few minor hiccups, it has to be said that Hassim was very obliging when it came to us stopping where we wanted and he would often try to explain various things along the route although we didn’t always understand what he was getting at. He also treated us to many drinks along the way as well as introducing us to quite a number of acquaintances. However, it was nice to be on our own again without having to feel we were answerable to anyone.

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