Our entry into Pakistan
5th July 2006

Border officials are not on a time bonus
Another country, another dirty city
GT by name, GT by nature
Who said capital cities should have soul?
A word about our sponsorees
Once again, I fail to strike a romantic chord for Hippy’s birthday

What’s the difference between an Indian and a Pakistani?

There are events that define visits to countries. Crossing the border from India to Pakistan is one of them.

Firstly, although there is only one open border post between the two countries, the only people crossing were foreign travellers and one diplomat. In other countries we’ve been to it is almost certain that there is a healthy mistrust and dislike of their neighbours but almost without exception there is a little bit of something or other passing across the border in the way of trade. Border disputes, or anything else for that matter, rarely stand in the way of profits. Here the rift between the countries is beyond repair; the only time citizens come down to the border is to witness the posturing flag lowering ceremony where the Indian and Pakistan guards gurn at each other and make frightfully scary noises. If the animosity between the countries was purely historical it would be funny but grown men shouting “Yah, boo, sucks” at each other and actually meaning it is a little pathetic. We were offered a video of the event by the hawking Indians, the Pakistanis simply have a tea shop and a book store where you can exchange Lonely Planets.

One would think that departing from a country would be easier than entering. “Turn out your pockets so I can make sure your not nicking the Koh-i-Noor and then clear off!” Stamp passport, check details of carnet against vehicle presented, stamp carnet and you’re done. Most countries can achieve this in the twinkling of an eye, Indians take an age over it. It could only have been contrived to frustrate, there was just no reason why it could possibly take so long - there were precisely two vehicles to process. In keeping with the Indian need to fiddle, the chief of customs decided that he could have a bit of a grovel around in our tank bag after the bike had been inspected and cleared. It was lucky that Hippy saw this out of the window and I could accost the chap as soon as he stepped back into the waiting hall. We’d been told that we could not wait with the bike and that it would be perfectly secure where it was parked but it is an absolute rule that you should NEVER let your bike be inspected in your absence. Customs officers the world over know that this is the rule so that false accusations of planting/discovering’ stuff can be avoided. I ripped into this guy good and proper and he kept stammering out that he was just interested and looking and blah, blah, blah. It was like being in a sweet shop with a child and having to tell them that “You don’t look with your fingers!” I just stood in front of him repeating the mantra that correct procedure is that bags and vehicles should only be opened and inspected with the owner present. As I repeated and repeated each time he uttered a feeble excuse, his colour rose and rose until he eventually caved in and apologised and agreed that he should not have done it, whereupon I gave him a curt Basil Fawlty thank you and turned on my heel and walked away. That told him. It then occurred to me that this was the bloke who would ultimately have to stamp my carnet I might have created a further wait for myself. I was now on a roll though and returned to the desk of the junior and bullied him along until he discovered that, yes, after all, everything was in order. So I pretty much chased him from his desk to that of the chief and glowered over them while the stamp was thumped down. A triumph of bullying - this whole episode lasted about 30 seconds after the chief had re-entered the building. It’s a bit sad that a) you have to shout and stump about to get anything done and b) that these officers are so pathetic that they want to throw their weight around but when it comes to the crunch they can’t keep it up when challenged.

Pakistan, though needing to check that we are not fundamentalists of some sort coming to cause trouble or bringing some kind of nastiness into their country, processed us in a jiffy. So much so that the other vehicle which was being co-cleared with us had still not arrived from the Indian side by the time we were processed and ready to roll in Pakistan.

While I was doing the paperwork thing, I’d chatted with the young Swedish occupants of the other vehicle, a Landrover on its way back from Nepal. As I got bogged down with officialdom, I left Hippy in their company. With the blanket of sponsorship stickers on their van, it meant one of three things, one of them had an unhealthy obsession with self-adhesive plastic, they had got a lot of sponsorship because one of them was a great marketer and/or bullshitter or more they were actually doing something exceptional. These guys were on a mission, a rather more concrete, goal-driven kind of mission to our own. That is to climb up and ski down the tallest mountain on every continent. So they were on their way back from doing the biggy, Everest that is. They had already completed Kilimanjaro, for which they had to climb up with skis to ski down a meagre 300m of snow. Craziness I call it.

There were on their back to Europe, planning to drive 24 hrs. a day to get back taking the driving in relays between them. the Indians were giving them an even harder time at customs than us, getting them to unpack all their sealed plastic barrels of ‘stuff’. I hope for their sake the Pakistanis are more accommodating.

We left the border with high hopes. The officials had proved their superiority over their Indian counterparts and everyone we’ve met has had glowing things to say about Pakistan and Iran. Our next impressions, then, were something of a disappointment. Clearly the road from the border to Lahore was being revamped but it seemed that work had ground to a standstill. Bits were muddy, bits were rough and the paved sections were an attraction for all the maddest drivers. We were in poor humour when we got to Lahore. Things got worse. The traffic was heavy, the roads narrow and emission regulations lax. As usual we got one or two wide-boys shadowing us through the traffic so that they could have the chance of burning us off when we missed a gap. I think they’d be so much better off with clutchless scooters so that they could have a hand free for playing with themselves, thus relieving their manly frustrations and allowing the rest of the traffic to proceed safely. One of these silly sods had to demonstrate his mastery of his 5 horse-power beast by pulling a whopping 6-inch wheelie as he passed us. My how we laughed.

La Whore. Sorry, Lahore

It was hard to breathe in the stifling heat and to cap it all the YWCA had closed its doors for a couple of days. I decided that it was a day when the budget could go hang and insisted that we head for the National Hotel based on it’s simplicity to find and the rumour of air-conditioning. Our guide book suggested 950 Rupees for a room but the clerk on the front desk asked for 2500. I was outraged that he should be so flagrantly ripping me off and I told him so. Without batting an eye-lid, he agreed to give me the room for 950. Later I discovered in a newer edition of our guide book that rooms should be 1350 Rupees. Now I’m completely confused.

We’d stopped in Lahore on the chance of getting permission from the chief of police to use the new motorway that runs through to Amritsar. Rumours suggested that the Great Trunk Road, which it runs parallel with and so relieves, is a complete nightmare with heaps of traffic and many towns to pass through. No one seemed capable of pointing us in the direction of the chief of police so we had to give up on the idea. Plenty of people have tried to use the motorway on motorbikes but all have been turned back with safety cited as the major concern. The motorway is apparently almost completely devoid of traffic and so considered an enormously expensive white elephant - one billion dollars of aid money for the benefit of the few who can stump up the toll fees. How can a new road that is so quiet possibly be dangerous for motorcycles? The truth is that just as in many other countries, the only motorcycles are the underpowered, little variety which we also ban from motorways in Europe. It is far simpler for the authorities to set the rule that no bikes can use the road rather than have to make decisions about what constitutes reasonably sized. Without the permission we would have to use the Great Trunk Road. That’s life.

Lahore traffic is as dense as we’ve seen and engine tuning is clearly not a well developed service. I took a stroll to buy snacks and water about 10 at night to find just as much traffic as during the day. For some unknown reason there was even a road roller passing through that was discharging so much soot with its exhaust that it was completely filling the street with dense black smoke. Along the roadsides, scores of men (men only, naturally) were crowded around the chicken stalls; I couldn’t imagine a more unpleasant place to purchase and consume fast food. Of course, the smoke rising from the barbecues added to the impenetrable haze that was masquerading as air. I was overjoyed to get back to the room and the clinical comfort of the air conditioning unit. We needed to get out of this town before we went down with a mild carcinoma or two.

With such unsavoury air quality, I could readily understand that women could be pleased to be sending their menfolk out to get the take way. But something told be that women were not absent from the streets entirely from choice.

GT Road

So why on earth were we bothered about trying to get on the motorway. Here is a perfectly surfaced, well signposted, direct highway that is trafficked by motorists who drive rationally and at sensible speeds. There is just nothing more to say about this excellent through route.

I have fallen in love. In love with Pakistani trucks, they are truly wonderful. The Pakistanis have taken truck art to a whole new league. They are truly tremendous, the bumpers extended with ornate decoration, with chains that hang and ching- ching as they bump along the roads. The bonnets have metal adornments of birds and flowers accentuating the curves of these converted old Bedford trucks. The front of the loading area has been converted to slope forward primarily to create more decorative area and secondarily to make a bigger load space. The load area is the piece de resistance, a fiesta of miniature pictures are crammed over the the complete surface of the panelling. Some have gone one stage further - having run out of available surface area they have started to nail metal adornates to wooden transoms and mullions, also finely painted in the shape of flowers, birds, Pakistani film stars or aeroplanes. I am afraid to say that some have moved on to more reliable modern trucks, but a flat fronted Scania just doesn’t quite complement this form of artwork.

The bottle-nosed friendly face of the old Bedfords is perfect, and I had to fight the urge to buy a fleet of them to drive around the UK. They of course would be immediately fail all road safety regulations, with the bumper additions an accident liability, the windscreens 3 quarters obscured by fluorescent stickers. But this has nothing to do with practicality this is simply an illustartion of sheer passion. The old Bedford buses were not immune to this love that is lavished on them. The truck and bus drivers are rightly immensly proud of their creations. Apparently it is not unknown for the decoration to equal or top the original value of the vehicle, making these truly prized possesions.

In a country where the clothing is shapeless and bland, the truck and buses seem to be the sources of freedom of expression that burst forth onto the vehicles like a Hollywood epic in the Depression. They are almostly incongruously cheerful and delightful, in such a conservative world. I was disappointed to see that many trucks are opting for instant mass produced decoration rather than the hand painted original work, using bright purpose made glitzy sickers.

Milton Keynesabad

Islamabad was conceived in the 50’s when Pakistan was looking for a suitable administrative centre - previously, before partition, government had come from Calcutta/New Delhi/Shimla depending on period and time of year and so something of a government gap existed. A planner of some kind conceived of quite an interesting idea as to how to move forward with a city that would initially be tiny but would grow at a rate of knots; lay out the city as a pattern of large squares, each of which is self-sustaining in terms of housing, shopping and other services. As one square reaches capacity, start developing the next. And so it is that there are regions with zippy names such as G6 and F8 each have their own uniquely appellated market; Jinna Market, Super Market (a large set of shops rather than a single large store), etc.

Just as in New Delhi and other reasonably modern, planned cities, space abounds and there is plenty of greenery or at least areas of vegetation which are seasonally green. Part of the green area is the Tourist Campground (For Foreign Tourists Only) where there are lots of Pakistani blokes residing. With such a large number of seemingly underemployed staff, you would have thought that standards would be high but it seems that little maintenance has been carried out since the site opened some 30 years ago and cleaning is a dirty word. There are concrete pads with small pillars that have random wiring inside - one presumes these were once hook-ups or at least lights of some sort. The toilet blocks have mosquito netting to keep the mosquitos in - I couldn’t bring myself to use the ‘English’ toilet that had so many mosquitoes clinging to it that you’d swear the porcelain was black. There are a couple of rooms available but there are no beds or carpoys and the floors are so filthy that you have to put down newspaper before placing your baggage or personal effects there. Still, it is very cheap. But honestly, in normal circumstances we would simply walk away from such squalor but this is an important node on the overlander's route from Europe to India and a good place to meet travellers who have come the other way that can provide up to date information.

We hung around for a few days while we organised things. Obtaining the Iran visa was nothing short of a miracle. We were prepared for another set of hurdles but they failed to materialise, even paying money into the bank account of the Iranian Embassy was achieved in short order as their bank (with an ATM!) is conveniently located a couple of hundred yards away. In all, issuing the visa took 3 hours. Extraordinary. We mentioned about the huge amount of marijuana growing in the himalayan foothills in India, but it would be remiss to not mention that by far the most prolific growth of this terrible weed is in the Diplomatic Enclave in Islamabad. Get there in late August and you can spend the time you’re wasting waiting for your visa with a bit of harvesting.

Once again the Iranian Embassy was delightful, with free refreshments, nice brochures to read about Iran and a free road map of the country. Generally a lot more pleasurable experience than our visit to the US Embassy in London.

VSO, Pakistan

Our other mission in Islamabad was to visit the office of VSO Pakistan. We found it eventually although it did involve a diminishing spiral process. Extraordinary how the sign posting could be so good and street numbering so consistent but throw in a few dead ends and the whole grid system collapses. Despite all the roads being numbered, and one would assume that 10 is next to 11, you find that perversely you cannot access 10 from 11 you must go to Road 27 which is a through street.

We met Afaq, the Field Director in one of the most buzzing offices that we’ve seen. Most of the staff had just been in Sri Lanka for a regional conference of some sort and had returned only the day before. The programme here is staffed entirely by locals which we always find refreshing. There is still a tendency for most NGOs to head their in-country operations with foreigners which rather sends the message that they either don’t trust locals or don’t feel they are capable of managing their own affairs. VSO’s three focusses for Pakistan are education, HIV/AIDS and governance. We picked up a few contacts of volunteers who are on our route to visit and find out more about their work. I was intrigued as to how the HIV/AIDS issue was approached in such a hard-line Islamic country. Apparently there is an approach under way where the spread of the infection is blamed on the use of dirty needles amongst ‘users’ and homosexuality as a concept is gradually being phased in. Apparently a couple of people have ‘come out’ recently without too much aggro. There is hope for enlightenment.

Afaq was pretty frank about the problems hindering development; mostly corruption, just as everywhere else in the world. It is very difficult to turn around a culture based on baksheesh. In many ways it is unimportant; you pay your staff less but they make up their wages with contributions. If they ask too much, you go elsewhere. When you get to services that are a monopoly, though, for example getting an electric connection, the system is hugely open to abuse. A huge problem for transparent organisations such as VSO is accounting for such sums of money. Often as a foreigner you would not even know what is happening as the baksheesh is nicely hidden in items such as ‘facilitation fee’. Not sure how they manage it, but the office remains resolute that they will not succumb to the baksheesh thing, they find creative ways to not pay the extras and still get the job done. I admire their inventiveness. As Afaq says the major problem is that the poor people have neither the money nor the political clout to get anything down.

The office had closed for a year or so after 9/11 to avoid backlash against volunteers. Interestingly, it is the first VSO office that we’ve visited which has no plaque on the outside gate. Apparently, recently there were fears that a certain set of Danish cartoons might make European organisations targets, for a short time and maybe there are ongoing issues that mean they have to keep a low profile.

Volunteers from Kenya and the Philippines, although their host organisations accepted them initially with some reservations, have been wholly successful. It is good to know that whatever else VSO is achieving, it is at least breaking down a few stereotypes between nations.

Boring birthday baht bacon, British birding biker

Luckily, for us we were quickly joined on the campsite by another overland biker, a Brit on a Yamaha Teneré. Neil had come the other way, but was in Pakistan for the second time, sorting out another Indian visa. Who kindly gave us Iran and Pakistan maps in exchange for chocolate cake. He was sitting engrossed in the activities of the crows about him, over the next few days it transpired that Neil is a fascinating man. He was not the twitcher that we first suspected him of being but a dirt-biking falconer.

He enlightened us on this fading art. Birds of prey like people have their likes and dislikes, some prefer a furry snack and others feathered, some are born to be wild and will only follow your instructions while it suits them and others are so used to humans that that sending them into the wild would be like expecting a person brought up on chicken Macnuggets to know how to kill and pluck a chicken. His respect for bird life was infectious, and the crows that I had seen as pesky brash creatures I looked on with a new awe, as they analysed how to access the food, watching intensely as you zipped up your tent, figuring out how to undo it. He gave up running his falconry, a labour of love mostly, on the basis that it was 24 hour 7 day a week job, even the weekends there was no-one to stand in. Understandably the birds, get used to a person they trust and tend to be a tad tetchy with strangers however well meaning they may be.

He, a far more experienced dirt road rider than Patrick, is a green-laner back in Blighty. Green-laners and ramblers in the UK appear to be constantly at odds, which is strange because essentially they both enjoy ramping around the countryside. He admitted that in the green laning community there are some idiots that go on footpaths that do not double as farm tracks and trash them and give all green laners a bad name, but he has a point if the track was made for a agricultural vehicles than what is wrong with a bike using it. I appreciate there is the noise factor, ramblers go to enjoy the quiet, and a swarm of two-strokes buzzing around the lanes is hardly what they want. It will no doubt continue to be a heated war between these groups. What I did wonder, but didn’t ask, was if he went hunting with his birds whilst green laning. I somehow picture a hawk clinging to the handlebars wings outstretched enjoying the breeze as he bumps his way down farm tracks, with a couple of dead rabbits hanging off the back. Now that I could see would be a quite unnerving sight, if you were out for a quiet afternoon stroll.

With maps in hand we were filled in on the roads of Pakistan, with tips like - great to this village then it goes seriously bad. Now with Pat concerned about making it to Turkey on the current tyres, I was having a hard enough time persuading him to go North on the tar-paved (mostly) Karakorum highway, so although side trips to Skardu and Chitral, sounded both beautiful and intriguing, pragmatism must win out. We haven’t got far to go in percentage terms back to England but there are still several thousands miles to cover, treating Berthette tenderly may be a good plan. Days were consumed achieving nothing concrete except enjoying exchanging travel banter with Neil and acclimatising to Pakistan after 3 months in India. We did slot in a day’s sight seeing and whizzed around the capital to see a rather clinical enormous mosque but avoided the overpriced cultural museum.

While we were staying on the campsite it was my birthday. I really did not feel in a party mood. Male dominated Pakistan is hardly conducive to having a jolly up. Pat, in his usual uninspired style, asked what I wanted. I set him an impossible challenge. I had a craving for a bacon sandwich:- thick, white, fresh bread where the salty bacon juices had seeped in, a smear of brown sauce sealing the surface and rashers of thick smoked bacon, wedged between the slices, with maybe a garnish of tomato. I knew I was asking too much, but I really wanted nothing else. It had been 9 months and 12 days since my last bacon sandwich (not that I am counting at all) and that was what I wanted. Conservative, Islamic Pakistan was not the place for my craving to reach it’s peak. I pondered whether it would be illegal to have a cool-pack of bacon couriered to Pakistan. Were there pork product police at the airport, did they train dogs to sniff out the smallest piece of pepperoni on a pizza, or bacon juice on a napkin? I could not be the only person that has such unquenchable craving in a completely unsuitable country. Is there a market there? To courier Thorntons chocolates to a pre-menstrual Brit snowed in in a tent in outer Mongolia, or a clandestine black pudding to a cuddyead (someone from Westhoughton according to Pat) in Iran, an unholy beef steak to a Texan in Varanasi, a plate of sushi to a Japanese guy stuck in the Congo waiting for parts, a dish of momos to a Tibetan in Bradford, or a full roast dinner to an ailing Irishman in Bolivia.

I was having some difficulty, with the male atmosphere in Pakistan, although Islamabad is said to be more liberal. In Pakistan the wearing of a head scarf is theoretically optional for women. It was hot, 45 degrees kind of hot, and wearing a scarf around my head was a sweaty experience. Probably, 20% of women didn’t bother, so to start with I joined them, but then the leery looks I got from the blokes was uncomfortable, despite wearing a shirt large enough for Cyril Smith to disguise my shape. The leering reduced if I wore a scarf, but I was irritated that the effort I was making to not offend was not being noted and they felt that my naked hair was enough to make it OK to subject me to their leers, I was white after all and so an infidel. Then there was the fact that now we were not only being subjected to the skin tax, where prices rise with the possession of a white skin, but now, there was also a sex tax. The sex tax applies to eateries, the cheap eateries are 100% male domains, not barring us but eliciting unwelcoming stares if I enter and the ‘family’ restaurants where it was acceptable for women to go are 3 times the price.

I decided to ignore my birthday, with the only concession being chocolate cake, and a nice but bacon-less meal with Pat and Neil, in a ‘family’ restaurant, until I was somewhere more conducive.

On a more positive note, Pakistani food is good, at least for meat dishes and cake. Don’t go if you are a vegetarian diabetic though. A tip for you when looking for the ideal curry house is that want a Hindu chef for the veg dishes and a Pakistani one for the meat ones. Unfortunately, the two don’t tend to get on. So for a fall back position, the Punjab region stretches over the Northern part of India across Pakistan to Afghanistan, which means that Punjabis cook both.