Old World Exploits

So I found myself on the train, tearing through the heart of Pakistan - before sunset on the first day, we began to leave the desert, and when I woke up the next morning, the land was lush, green - we were in Pakistani Punjab! Gazing out the window, I saw buffallo heads bobbing on the rivers, while brightly coloured women patrolled the monsoon drenched fields. For the veteran traveller to the region, not much perhaps, but for a first-timer to the sub-continent, an image that won't be forgotten.

I was accompanied by a Sindhi, an Afghan, a Punjabi and two Pashtus, my first taste of the ethnic melting-pot that is Pakistan. They communicated with each other in a mix of Urdu and English. I had heard all about the 'interrogation' many travellers face on the sub-continent, but I was not prepared for this. Questions ranged from the cost of my electricity bill, the availability of fruit in Ireland, to the rate of corruption in my government. Nothing was left unasked, and after an hour, I was noticably less than enthusiastic about satisfying their curiousities. I wasn't complaining, however, when they bought me dinner.

So it was a long 34 hours to Rawalpindi, where I spent a night before moving on to Peshawar, capital of the North-West Frontier Province. Peshawar is a Pashtu city, and it was here that I experienced Pashtu hospitality for the first time. This is not like Iran or south-east Turkey. Pashtuns are fiercely hospitable. Why fiercely? Because they will literally fight over you. Example. I made a friend on the bus, Asif, and we agreed he would show me around the old town. Before we set out, he warned me...."Be careful - this is a Pashtu city. It's dangerous. Believe me, I know Pashtus - I am Pashtu!" So, strolling along, and the inevitable calls for tea and chat begin, but Asif doesn't like this, and keeps pulling me away from the shop keepers. Finally, I get a moment alone (he was buying me an ice cream or something), and sure enough, an offer of tea is proposed, and accepted. So I'm sitting down talking to this guy, when Asif returns, and starts throwing those 'I got him first' looks to my new friend. Afterwards, he told me I had been very foolish, and the man was dangerous.

So I was through with Asif. Of course, the next day, I saw the guy who offered me the tea, and he said....."Who was that boy you were with yesterday? He was Pashtu! Very dangerous! I know, I am Pashtu!"

Peshawar is an amazing, bustling city, straight out of Aladdin or something (sorry for the lame comparison). A city where technology has not hampered the process of things staying the same. Donkeys are a major mode of transport through the city streets, and at night, the streets are lined with smokey grills serving tikka kebabs, a truly exotic place.

It is also the base for visiting the Khyber Pass. For this trip, I needed a permit, a driver and an armed escort. An expensive day out, but well worth it. As you leave Peshawar heading west to Afghanistan, you enter Pakistan's Tribal Belt, a huge autonamous region where Pakistani Law is not recognised. This is the heart of the 'Pashtunistan', and it has been catapulted into world news with the rise of the Taliban, many of whom originated from the region. The Pass itself is not remarkable - brown, rocky, dusty mountains. But the history behind it gives it an edge, as you stand at the top imagining all the armies of the past that have poured through.

I had wanted to visit the gun-producing town of Darra, but was put off when I heard the guards were now asking for a 500 Rupee bribe for the visit. So, it was time to head up to the mountains. Twelve hours (by minibus and jeep) north of Peshawar, over the Lowari Pass, lies Chitral, a small town with a picturesque setting in the Hindukush. This was my base for visiting the Kalasha people, a famously non-Muslim tribe who dwell in three remote valleys south-west of Chitral. My plan was to trek between the valleys, and for this purpose I hired Imran, who I had met on the Pakistan Travel Forum, as a guide. Imran knew everyone along the trail, and has family in Bumboret Valley.

Our first stop was Birir Valley. At the first house Imran brought me to, I was stunned to see a Kalasha girl fiddling with a lap-top! It transpired she was an Austrian working in a school, and her self-rightous attitude said 'You're just a tourist, whereas I'm actually doing something here'. See you later.

The trek began on the second day, a 1000 metre climb and then descent into the second, most visited valley, Bumboret. As we eased into the villages, I could see houses with satellite dishes, souvenier shops, and numerous hotels. The locals looks said 'Hi, we're really sick of you tourists coming here and sticking your cameras in our faces, but would you like to buy this authentic Kalasha necklace for 500 rupees?'. No thanks. I was getting worried I was 50 years too late - the Kalasha seemed more interested in putting on an act than carrying on with their lives. Indeed, I was told that the prettiest girls were now charging 150 rupees per photo.

But all was not lost. The great thing about this trek was that I felt I was actually discovering the valleys - no jeep ride straight in, instead, a four-hour climb over a 3000 metre pass, and then a 2-hour descent into the valleys. Between Bumboret and Rumbur (the third valley), lies a very narrow valley, where a few Kalasha families have summer pastues. Imran knew one of the families, and it was in their home, with no power or transport, that I experienced a way of life unchanged for centuries. We ate freshly cooked chappatis, cooked our dinner over a wood-fire, collected corn for the coming months, and camped out underneath the stars. Definately authentic.

A lot has been said and written about the origins of the Kalasha, with the popular theory being that they're the descendants of Alexander The Great. Some certainly have European features, but to me, they look like a mix of all the different people I've come across so far on this trip - Slavic, Albanian, Greek, Turkish, Persian etc. Ask them, and they say 'Siam', although they don't know where this is. They lead simple lives of routine, though they have complex beliefs and traditions that the local Muslims don't understand. As far as I could see, the women did all the hard work - harvesting, collecting wood, cooking etc. - while the men collected a few nuts, but mostly just sat around getting stoned all day.

Last stop was Rumbur valley, the most beautiful in my opinion, and the morning before I left, we visited a school, taught a bit of English, and played with the kids. Before long, we were back in Chitral, so it was time to say goodbye to Imran, and set off on the long journey to Gilgit.

My last stop in NWFP was Mastuf, a tiny little oasis in a sea of spectacular peaks. I had planned to stay one night and move on, but as soon as I settled into my guest house, I knew I'd stay a little longer. Chicken and chips was on the menu! Not only that, apricot brandy! And, as luck would have it, there was an Ismailli wedding on that night.

About the Ismaillis - they're a branch of Islam that spread to this region from Afghanistan, and they're extremely laid back and tolerant compared with the Sunni and Shia sects. So, alcohol is no problem, and their parties are pretty wild (by Pakistani standards). At the celebration that night, there was traditional dancing with music, and it wasn't long before word got around that there was a foreigner in town. Eventually, the request came that I couldn't refuse, and soon, I was up giving them my best moves, mostly picked up at Dublin raves over the years. Still, they seemed happy with my performance, and the next day, as I strolled the tiny bazaar, I got many calls......"Hello mister! You are dancing, very good!"

Finally, I was off to Gilgit, over the Shandur Pass, an 11-hour journey to some of the world's biggest mountains.

Conor.

*(There's been an earthquake here, but Gilgit is ok, will write about it in the next blog)

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