The Islamic Republic of Pakistan
In the city of Quetta, I was perplexed by the incredible differences from what was familiar to me in the other Muslim environments. It was only after a few days of breaking it down into its various Islamic, Indian, British, and Tribal influences did I feel grounded again. My first culture shock! The first few times I walked out into the streets I had this great big smile on my face and wanted to start laughing but didn't know how to go about it.
While this is a Muslim country, the looks and dress of the people greatly differ from the other Muslim countries I have been in. Regarding women, it appears that any girl after puberty is locked away 'in safety', behind closed doors, by militant fathers. The only places I saw a woman in the streets of Quetta was in the clothing and food sections of the marketplace.
From Quetta to Ziarat, with its spectacular lightning storms. I crashed for ten days eventually diagnosing myself with ameobic dysentery and buying Flagyl to begin operation "Stomach Storm", 800mg x 3 of hard bombing. Like I said, I did not fully recover till just a few days ago, but I felt strong enough (combined with restlessness) to keep moving on.
While the southern half of Pakistan was not entirely stable, I really wanted to see a few things. The Quetta tourist office dude told me with a big smile -- "Oh yeah, it's all safe! Don't worry!" -- and I stood there looking at him with intense disbelief. (All other tourists, even a few locals, told me the opposite.) I ditched my backpack in a Quetta hotel so I could have greater speed and mobility to dodge incoming missiles and flying shrapnel. Then I jumped on the train and headed south.
The train ride was unique. Whenever it would pull into a station, dozens of sellers would jump in and start screaming their product and price -- chai (tea) sellers, bread sellers, candy, mutton, subzi, daal, colas, popcorn, clothing, shoes -- you name it, you could buy it on the train.
First stop was Moenjodara, a city of the Indus Valley civilization that thrived some 4000 years ago and disappeared for reasons unknown. The planning of this city was more advanced 4000 years ago than that of the present day surrounding communities!
On the train to Karachi, I remember waking up about seven in the morning and looking out the train window and seeing an ocean on both sides of the train. The whole Sind province interior had been flooded by a recent monsoon. The train tracks were the only thing above the floodwater, which surrounded us entirely. Hour after hour all one could see was water, destroyed homes, people gathering firewood on pockets of high land.
Karachi, city of approximately 10 million and by far the most destroyed, smelliest and *%#^&@! piece of earth I have ever seen in my life. The river was black sludge -- I followed it for many kilometers, I couldn't believe it; kids frolicked in the mountains of plastic and garbage along every street, sewers overflowed, water shortages and infections, power outages.
Whole farms were smack in the city center; endless barnyards of cows, goats, chickens felt right at home in the slime and sludge -- swimming, eating all the yummies. And the pollution from the rickshaws and trucks, yech! Tape your mouth to an exhaust pipe. The streets, slick from cow and donkey dung, are only paved in the rich sector; the rest of the city is chaos. Hundreds of beggars, amputees, deformed, and diseased people in the streets.
The purest example of a runaway city, population exceeding planning, and the whole place on the verge of falling apart. It has to be seen to be believed. Two sites, Thatta and Chakundi, were areas of some fantastic tomb work and luckily for my lungs, were located a ways outside the city to give me a break. All cities are the same? I certainly don't think so any more.
In Karachi I managed to find a greater variety of grub: the always important fried chicken, but even better -- a taste of lobster. The one I promised myself in Ziarat. Yes, the penthouse restaurant of the Avari Towers -- Fujiyama, Japanese palace. I took in the evening lights and the most expensive dish on the menu. It has to be done once in a while.
From Karachi I zoomed up to Peshawar (a 52 hour zoom) and found a new world -- home to the independent tribes of Pakistan. I have heard the tribal areas are the largest producers of heroin in the world. I skipped the Khyber pass tour (to Afghanistan) and the 'fields of joy', but I did go for a half hour ride to Dera Adam Khel. This is a town which makes its money exclusively on the production of guns. The model that tickled me the most, of course, was the pen gun. It had a deadly range of 2 meters and sold for 150-300 Rupees ($5-10 US). It comically proved to me the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.
The rest of the weaponry -- machine guns, bazookas, daggers, handguns -- I took little interest in. Though I could have tried firing anything I wanted. The sounds of guns firing echoed throughout the town. It is a rumor that a Japanese youth used a goat as a bazooka target, ... one less goat to be eaten.
Peshawar to Mardan and the official entrance into the world of Gandhara -- Buddhist art and site remains. Here Alexander the Great's invading armies of the 3rd Century BC brought with them Greek artistic techniques and styles, which were later fused with Buddhist images and story. In Mardan I began visiting Buddhist monastery remains. Most of them were high in the hills, and a couple of them offered sweeping views of the countryside.
Continued onto Mingora and Saidu Shariff to see more of the same. Up into the Swat Valley to find some of the purest of Pakistan's land and water. Over to Chitral Valley, a convenient base to catch a glimpse of a people called the Kalash. Now only found in three valleys, these people have their own distinct religion and beliefs in a sea of Muslims that stretch from Istanbul to Kashmir. Only 4000 Kalash people remain, and oh! what gorgeous valleys they live in!
The villages are built on steep banks so that the roof of one home is the deck of another. The women have this colorful traditional dress which they wear at all times. When the girls were not working peeling ears of corn, collecting nuts, grapes, firewood or the like, you could hear the sounds of their flutes off in the distance. I am sure all the mice danced to their tunes as it seemed to resemble a fairy tale.
After a further three days taking many types of transport from Chitral to Gilgit over the Shandur Pass (4000m), I immediately came down from Gilgit to Islamabad -- speeding by some of the highest mountains in the world (like Nanga Parbat at 8125m) -- for some rest. Ah, pizzas, roast beef sandwhiches, french fries, chicken, ice cream and carrot cake.
I applied for my Indian visa again and then took to the movie theatres to glimpse Pakistani films. The acting is pretty bad, sound effects and lighting is terrible too. But the one thing that is the highlight are the dance and song scenes. Clearly it is the Indian equivalent of the North American 'sex scene', because some of them get pretty sensual.
Whew! You have the outline of my last 4.5 months. …