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One of the worlds most beautiful Mosques, Badshahi Mosque, Lahore, Pakistan

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 14:39:21 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: I have been in, and lived in many Islamic countries, and have seen many mosques. To me their unique architectural outlines and structures are very unique in the world. Badshahi Mosque in Lahore was a lot more. The sheer scale of the courtyard alone was incredible, but it offered a beauty I can only describe as peaceful and serene. Not to mention the fact that the on site museum house a few special things too.

The Huge Badshahi Mosque in Lahore, Pakistan (click to enlarge)

I headed to Badshahi Mosque in the morning. The courtyard was even more crowded than it was the other night. It seemed like school outings were all the rage. Rather than leave my shoes with the shoe minder at the Mosque entrance I packed them into my bag and headed in.

The mosque was built by the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb Alamgir. It was completed in 1673 after only two years. It’s said to house over 100,000 people which judging by the sheer size of the it, or rather its main courtyard is quite impressive. The surrounding bright terracotta walls contrast the slightly lighter tiles and the mosques three bright domes at the far end.

The exquisite detal of Badshahi Mosque, Lahore Pakistan

Inside, the mosque is not all that impressive, or big. But the black & white chequer flooring is quite nice and it made for some great photographs. I met some students who showed me how sound reverberates through out the mosque, and how whispering in one corner can be heard in a distant corner. Also a nice old man sat with me in corridor and began to chant. All in all I think they were trying to tell me the place sounded as good as it looked.

Old man chanting in Badshahi Mosque, Lahore Pakistan

I decided to pay 5 rupees and visit the mosques museum where allegedly some artifacts of Prophet Mohammad are on display. I headed in and joined the long queue of people viewing various artifacts from the Mosques past. All kept behind rather grubby glass displays. Just ahead of me a young school girl group were staring in at a particular exhibit. When it was my turn I could see why they were staring. Or rather what they trying to stare at. On display was a hair from Prophet Mohammed, allegedly. I say this because the glass was so dirty it was next to impossible to see anything beside his hat, and staff. Where his single hair on display should have been, was a stand. And nothing much more.

Mother and daughters preparing to pray at Badshahi Mosque

I moved on, only to find the group of girls pointing and muttering between themselves at the next display. This time on full display, complete with stains, was Prophet Mohammed’s underwear. It was hard not to frown. The news media was in full swing about an English teacher in the Sudan who was going to be sentenced to prison for letting her children name a Teddy Bear Mohamed. And here in Pakistan I was looking at Prophet Mohammed’s Underwear on full display. . .

Hmm. I tried to take a photo but a broad smiling soldier type shook his head as he saw me rise my camera up. If only I had my phone out…

It made my day.

I wanted to come back to the mosque. It was a very beautiful place. I certain highlight of my trip. I toured around once again. The tourist guides were used to me shaking my head, and I enjoyed watching people coming and going here. It had a certain peaceful and friendly ambiance to it.

Badshahi Mosque, Lahore, Pakistan

I went to the Forts high top restaurant for lunch and enjoyed a stunning view on the Mosque from the top. A snake charmer peddled his craft far down below as a crowd gathered. I think I paid more for the view than the food. So to aid digestion I took the Regal Inn’s advice and headed back through the old city. I should have learned that the Regal advice was not to my taste. And sure enough I was caught up in 2 hours worth of throat clenching traffic and people.

I wanted to spend more time in Lahore, there was plenty more to see, but with only 10 days for India it was time to move on. I grabbed a Beef Subway, the last of beef for a while I thought and headed back for my last night.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

Video: The Wagah Border Ceremony

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about One of the worlds most beautiful Mosques, Badshahi Mosque, Lahore, Pakistan

Getting to see the Wagah Border Ceremony

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 14:20:49 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: No one seemed that excited about the Wagah border when I mentioned it. Few actually knew what it was. For me I knew a little of the history between Pakistan and India. And, I think more than anything else for an overland traveler it is one of the greatest spectacles on earth when it comes to borders. At least for me. Check out the video link at the bottom of the page.

Wagha Border Ceremony in Pakistan / India

The Wagah Border Ceremony from the Pakistani side (click to enlarge)

Needing to get to infamous Wagah Border Ceremony that afternoon I took the fastest of looks at Badshahi mosque, and was blown away by its awesome size and beauty. I needed to extend by a day.

How to get to the Wagah Border Ceremony?

At the hotel the Serb’s had changed their mind about going to the Wagah border ceremony as did a new comer German youngster. There went my idea of taking a shared taxi! Malik, the hostel owner, had told be it would only cost 25 rupees to take a local bus. I cringed at the idea.

First I would have to take another Rickshaw across the city = 60 rupees. Then battle endless questions on where on how to find the actual bus. And, the same on way back. Instead I headed to a Taxi rank and one guy who had been bugging me for a ride since I had arrived in Lahore. It would cost me 700 for a drive there, and back plus 2 hours waiting time. I took it.

Arriving at the Wagah border to see the ceremony

Segregated seating at the Wagah Border Ceremony

I arrived at the border about 30 minutes before the daily ceremony was about to begin. This is where each evening both Pakistani and Indian sides gear up ceremonial border with full military and civilian honors for the ‘lowering of the flags’.

I looked at the long green and white border gate ahead, in full few from football like stadium seats a little back on either side and exclusive VIP seats just in front. I was motioned to the VIP section, but managed to take a little detour up into the stadium section. I was lucky I took the one on the right as they were segregated on this side of the border. So turning left would have led me to the “women only” section!

Witnessing the great atmosphere at the ceremony

Almost immediately a selection of speakers boomed on some generic Pakistani pop music, and the small crowed that gathered erupted into cheers. Already I could feel this was something very special in the world. I have crossed many many overland borders, and this was for sure the most unique.

Lowering of the Pakistani and Indian Flags

From my vantage point I could see clearly the small gathering at the Pakistani side of the border, and the bus loads of Indians getting off on the other side of the double gates. Below a man dressed in a Pakistani flag t shirt began waving a his flag on a pole then came running over to the grassy area below us.

Pakistan and India for head to head at the Wagah Border ceremony

He began to shout up encouragement to our small crowd. They responded with passion.

Cheers of ‘Pakistan’ and ‘Allah is great, Pakistan is great’ rose up and with friendly fists and smiles directed at their Indian counterparts.

Pakistani Passion at the Wagah Border

What happens at the Wagah Border Ceremony?

Officers in full dress uniform came marching down, as late comers flocked into the VIP seats. Soldiers kicked their legs high in the air as if in a slapstick comedy. Spurred on by shouts from the crowd. Chants and cheers rose up as selected people ran towards the border gates waving the Pakistani flag. On the other side the Indian’s cheered on their own ceremony but were drowned out by the passion of the Pakistani crowd.

The flag ceremony commenced and we watched on as flag bearers lowered the two flags at the same time before exchanging the most brief of handshakes and salutes. The gates were slammed shut, and the music was turned up.

The Pakistani Flag gets taken home, at the Wagah Border Ceremony

The Wagah Border is the best overland border in the world!

This was all purely theatrical and more. The once and sometimes still warring nations, basically try to out do each others performances. And, it was fantastic. The noise. the pompous over acting, the passion from the crowd all made it quite a spectical. Both sides trying to out do each other. I might be a little bias, but it did seem the Pakistani soldiers kicked their legs higher into the air.

Video of : The Wagah Border Ceremony

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs and video from Pakistan)

Stories about: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories from: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Getting to see the Wagah Border Ceremony

Visiting Lahore Fortress, and then getting blown away by Badshahi mosque

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 06:16:09 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Around about here, I finally reconnected with Pakistan. I avoided tourists. A visit to Lahore fort, a few bribes, and I was soon in some hidden areas. Then, I came across a fleeting visit to the mosque opposite, surely the best I’ve seen so far.

Badshahi Mosque viewed from Lahore Fortress (click to enlarge)

I was up early and finally made it to the real Lahore Fortress. I paid 200rps for a ticket and headed in. The place was relatively early and quite impressive for an old fortress. The history of the Fort goes back hundreds of years, if not more. Destroyed many times over, it was easy to see rebuilds.

The fort had a nice atmosphere about it. The paths inside the fort were wide enough to accommodate elephants on parade, giving the place a different sense of history to European forts. Pageantry and pomp seemed to be an important part of the forts history as much as its strategic importance. Vast and thick old sandstone ramparts surrounded ornate buildings housed within its protection.

I headed up some old stone pathway’s and noticed a single western female tourist being giving a whistle stop private tour my a well dresses man. We were all headed in the same direction, the Palace of mirrors.

Palace of Mirrors, Lahore fortress, Pakistan

I watched from a view point over the city as the guide handed some cash over to a guard by the entrance to the closed off area of the palace. I circled around, and waited for the girl to leave before trying my own Baksheesh tactics. The area was was aesthetically nice. Another courtyard, but with a great look out point showing off Lahore’s landscapes. I looked out over the golden domes of the forts mosque just as the girl and her guide left.

Reflections in the Palace of Mirrors, Lahore Fortress, Pakistan

I did not have to do any approaching, the guard had been waiting too. I handed him 100rps and got a personal tour of the off limits Palace of Mirrors. It was under restoration, but little had progressed. Mirrored tiles adorned the ceilings. My guard guide lit an oil based torch and waved it theatrically around and grinned up at the mirrored tiles and thousands of little orange flames appeared on the tiles.

Elephants sized path, and entrance to the off limits underground palace

I felt a little privileged at having seen the palace of mirrors. It had a Palatial French European feeling to it, though I could not help but think in France most of the area would also have been closed off to the public, and no bribes taken. With that thought I gave my guard guide another 100rp note and we descended into the hidden off limits underground palace.

Now while this may sound quite intriguing, it was for all intensive purposes just a network of underground chambers, corridors and a few windows looking out into the gardens and the exterior wall of the where one can see the beautiful mosaic paintings that depict everyday sport of the Mughal princes. In fact the most interesting thing was the hunched up little old long bearded key holder that opened the door and took my guard guides 100rp note. I had a feeling I had just seen an important part of the palace not so many people get to see.

Corridors from the underground place, Lahore Fortress

My guard guide refused any sort of payment. In fact all he wanted were some photographs to be taken of him, and the photographs sent back to him. He even ran off for five minutes to get his uniform, while withstanding a few jibes from his friends that told him to get cash instead of waiting for photographs a foreigner would never give. Whether he will get the photos or not, I do not know. But I do know I printed and sent them to him.

Detailed archway from the underground palace in Lahore

Needing to get to infamous Wagah Border Ceremony that afternoon I took the fastest of looks at Badshahi mosque, and was blown away by its awesome size and beauty.There was no doubt, I needed to extend by a day.

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Visiting Lahore Fortress, and then getting blown away by Badshahi mosque

Getting lost in Lahore

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 08:51:35 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: I’d grown an aversion to tourists. Day trippers from India, hippies, and hashish smokers. This in turn started to annoy
The streets of Pakistan (click to enlarge)
me, I was nearing India, and knew there would be more.

I slept as well as one could expect. 8 beds remained empty that night, and I wondered why the idiot in reception put me next to the bed beside the door? Sure I was able to wake up 4 times during the night as the 4 other occupants either came in or exited the room and having to nudge into my bed to do so.

I met 3 somewhat expatriate type Serbs that were planning on opening an orphanage in Pakistan and an English guy over breakfast. It was a day of music at the shrine of Shah Jamal and later that night at a Sufi music bar. No one was going to the day time festivities so the hotel receptionist bundled me into a Rickshaw babbled something briefly and told me it would only cost 50rps. I really did not want to see the shrine, nor music being played there. But I had a few hours and it seemed ‘Everyone’ had to go.

As traffic ground to a halt, I started to really regret not doing my own thing. Choking smoke bellowed into my face, the heat of the day increased and we seemed to nudging into ever thickening traffic. I am not a music person. Not at all. It would be nice if I was, it could help with conversations. But being stuck in in heavy pollution to go and see a bunch of stoned drum beating locals was not my idea of fun. After 5 minutes in one particular place I threw my hands in the air. Enough. I asked the driver to pull over. I wanted out. I would hail another diver, knowing the process of changing one’s destination was usually too much for a rickshaw driver to handle mentally.

The driver nodded and we pulled over to large junction square. I got out and handed him a 50rp note. HE lost the plot. The driver started shouting as waved the note in the air before grabbing my wrist. Bad move buddy. I reversed his wrist into a wrist lock and warned him off about trying to touch me. He dared to shout back only to be completely drowned out by my fierce roar of profanity. He backed off immediately. His little eyes quickly scoured the area for moral support. A few bystanders gave open eyes looks in our direction but quickened their pace away. I roared again, making a look around as if to invited people to look at the cheating Rickshaw man. He ground his teeth in silence as I walked away. It felt good to vent.

Street children eating ice cream in Lahore

I looked around to see where I was. There were masses of people around and not an inclination where I could be. There was a mosque with an open square across the road, from asking a few people it seemed to be Acta Mosque. I was none the wiser, and after 30 minutes of walking I was in less dense traffic. I wanted to get a cover for my day bag which was getting rather scruffy. An old Rickshaw driver with a friendly smile and frizzy beard swore he knew the place. This chap was full of chat, and was very curious about what I liked in Pakistan. We pulled up outside the travel store and he insisted in waiting to be sure it was the right place.

I headed inside the shopping mall like hallway towards the well lit travel store. It was closed. The lights were on, but only a phone number on the door indicated life. I called it. The voice at other end was not that interested in occupying his shop. I left.

The old man was still outside and gave me a little wave. I walked over deciding I needed to see something good. “Lahore Fortress”.

The old driver smiled his toothy grin and nodded reassuringly, “Ah, the Fortress!”

30 minutes later and I was standing outside of a modern looking terracotta colored building. Some questions later and it seemed that rather than the famous Fortress the old driver had rather taken me to Fortress Stadium. Arh!!!

I refused to join a few travellers heading to the Sufi music night. I had enough that day without being surrounded by stoned hashish smoking locals and travellers alike. Instead I headed for a night time look at Badshahi Mosque, one of the largest mosques in the world. It certainly felt like Lahore was in a different Pakistan. The mosque was set onto an adjoining courtyard that opposed the Real Lahore Fort and was lit up quite beautifully. People wandered around in couples and in groups, all very relaxed and at peace. I must say I was a bit nervous taking photos, it was Friday and few people, in fact none, had cameras. A few stares, but not much else.

Brass and copper seller in Pakistan

This is one of those times I realized the difference of travelling alone versus with someone. If their had been two of us photographing it would not have been so nerve biting. There was twice the argument if an upset emergency rule arm man came over, and twice the detraction to hiding a memory card. Instead it was just me, so I took my time.

I spent the rest of the night in conversation with the trio of Serbs who’d been there a while and concurred it was just a smoking den at the music night out.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Getting lost in Lahore

Lahore, Pakistan is full of tourists?

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 08:47:12 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Lahore, I was hoping, would be another extension of this great country. It wasn’t quite that. In fact it seemed to add something else again to the mystique and diversity of Pakistan.
Boy selling Garlic in Pakistan (click to enlarge)

After a little lateness caused by my Rickshaw driver literally running out of gas I arrived at the Daewoo bus company in Peshawar. From the outside the buses looked fairly dire, but inside there was plenty of leg room, AC, and best of all no one next to me. I read for most of the 9 hours and time passed quickly.

12o Rupees from the terminal and I was at the Regal Internet Inn on Regal Chowk. A place described to me a a grubby and squashed in backpacker place. And, for all purposes, it was. With no rooms available I was stuck in the dorm. I did not mind so much, but the only bed was the one next to the door, and with so many beds (12) packed into one room there was not so much room.

Strangely enough there were actually people here, backpackers. Unlike the rest of Pakistan it seem Lahore was quite a popular destination. And there was little sense of Emergency rule here. It turns out that Lahore gets quite a lot of business from travelers in India coming over for a quick two day stop to see what the place is like before scurrying back across the border.

Even more bizarre was the fact that there was a Subway fast food restaurant and KFC in Regal Chowk. So, all things considered, I feasted on Subway. Which, for the first time, taste quite different to other Subway’s around the world. Cheese was smaller, bread not so fresh and, of course, no ham. KFC on the other hand was good. What’s more, they had only deaf people working there. A refreshing change.

I headed out to Camera road, a place in the LP that stated was the best place to buy anything for a camera, practically in the world. ERM… no…. Well maybe if your camera was an old film type or you wanted to buy a digital compact. Yes there were more camera stores that I have every scene, but to really find something of a bargain or specific there is not going to happen.

Street food in Pakistan

Rather than head back to the tiny Regal Inn, I went in search of Rawalpindi Popular Inn, another budget consideration listed in the LP. I took an Auto rickshaw and headed off at the bargain price of 60 rps. 1 hour later and I was standing on the side of the road with the driver being surrounded by security guards, a policeman, two KFC workers and some other rickshaw drivers – all concerned that we could not find the RPI at it’s maps location. People grabbed, tousled and pointed at the LP map. Then flicked pages, turned the book upside down, translated the address a few times and spat a lot.

Nope, no sign of the RPI. My driver was quite distraught. As if he had failed me. I insisted there was no problem. But I think he thought I was homeless for the night or something as he kept persisting. Either that I or it was the cliché white man is never wrong scenario. Still, everyone was very nice and was treating this with the utmost importance. So much so the security guards began peeling back posters attached to the building with the same number as the address in the book.

The policeman pointed to a sign from a letting agency high up on the wall, and then proceeded to telephone them. No answer of course, but I could see where he was going. The two security guards were going somewhere else, down the side street and into someone’s house. Minutes later they emerged with a local chap who looked like he had been sleeping. Much conversation then started with many more noddings and wagglings of heads. My driver finally came over to me and explained to me what I had already figured out. RPI had closed up. I looked on at the mass of concerned faces staring back at me. What to do? Well I did what anyone would do. I held up the LP for Pakistan and said it was a very bad book bringing me out to a closed down hotel. Everyone immediately began to nodded in agreement and waggling their fingers at the book.

Kebab making on the streets of Pakistan

Everyone content with the outcome, I headed back to Regal with the driver. I gave him a whopping great 500rps. The man started to look for change, even as I was trying to say thank you for all his help. He had after all gone to more trouble than any other taxi type driver I had ever met. When I pushed the note back in his shirt and was met with a frown. I told him this, and ended in a “Shukran”, his face broke into a little shy smile.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Lahore, Pakistan is full of tourists?

Watching the Truck Painters of Pakistan, and moving on …

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Sat, 08 Dec 2007 08:43:05 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Recovering, and with my mind made up I got to visit one of the most inspiring of places that I’ve been. A truck garage.
This entry has been rewritten under Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters here you will find better editing and a lot of photographs
A Pakistani Truck Painter

This was one of my final days in Peshawar, and although I wanted to head for another or the same Afghan refugee camp there was another area Pakistan life I wanted to document. We headed into the center of Peshawar, aiding the usual plethora of rickshaws, bike mules and even camels. Ifzal wanted me to see the Bala Hisar Fort; a place I had been before during one of y walks around the city, but one I hoped might prove a little more interesting with my guide. Bala Hisar was commanding fort set on rocky mound looking over the city. While the fort would have been interesting to visit, it had been occupied my the military now for years, so I really did wonder why we bothered to come.

We took a taxi to a bus park off one of the main ring road. A few questions later and my Peshawar resident ‘guide’ took me to another location, another park. All this uncertainty was making me think I had made a good choice about not going to the north. At least the new bus park had what I wanted to see.

We entered over a muddy stretch and past oil drums, engine parts and planks of heavy wood. Buses and trucks were lined up in rows, some mere rusting skeletons of their former selves others sparkling new brightly colored road monsters. We walked over to the first area where there were people. A group of 5 men were sitting on planks of wood, hunched over long metal sheets that had been hand painted with swirls of whites, greens, red and blues. The men were using heavy scissors along with hammers and sharp pointed chisels to cut out shapes. Some were just long strips, as if intended to ling a door or a roof. Others were cut into circles or spires. I went low and began to photograph. I got the feeling I was not particularly welcome, as if they had seen the like of me before. Still, no one objected.

By the far side near a shack entranceway a coveralled man was working a pedal powered ladle. We watched as he expertly cut out spiral shapes from various off cuts of wood. He was happy to have his photo take, and was easily bemused at my fascination of his work.

We walked across the yard to what looked to be a new truck. Pakistani trucks are old MAC trucks that have been given a new life. The huge engine bonnet still stood with the front windows perched above it. After this the similarities ended. The whole driver cabinet was surrounded by a giant plywood frame as if resembling a lions mane. Although in this case containing a broad spectrum of psychedelic patterns. From intricate lines, to leafy flowers all manner of carefully hand painted designs brought these old road hauling beasts a new passion. And it was indeed with great pride and presence I watched as these roadside artists so very delicately applied Pakistan’s own beauty to the oil guzzlers.

At least five men took up various positions around the MAC truck. Some on makeshift wooden scaffolding, others standing tall. All with paintbrush in hand. The colours were not that mixed. Bright yellow, medium green, brilliant blue along with a lush red and stark white seemed to be the only colours used along with black for outlines. I continued on photographing, and unlike a while ago here I could see wry smiles of pride appear on the faces of these unique artists.

Next to the newly panted exhibit was another monster of a truck that seemed to be nearly twice the size. This was another MAC truck, except this one had been gutted. The engine was taken out, the doors had been removed and the outer drivers cabinet had been stripped down completely. All around the the driver cabinet was a mane of newly cut plywood supported by a skeleton of scaffolding. Two men were busy taking exact measurements of the window area. A small boy handed them up an electric drill and they began making holes. Looking on at all this with a very proud smile was Mr. Shirani. A large grey bearded man wearing a large white Shalwar Kameeze. It was of course his truck. He was have a complete refit. The truck had been a recent purchase and he was having its old eastern block look denoted to history. From a complete engine overhaul to giving it the colourful additions to Pakistani motor fashion. Mr. Kamikaze was getting the works done.

What fascinated me quite a bit was the fact that a lot of metal was being ripped out and replaced by wood. Whether this was because the metal was worth something or because it was easier to carve designs into wood I don’t know. What I do know is that I would never again look at a Pakistan door the same again.

We left with Ifzal trying to take me to another painters workshop. He did find another one, but it paled in comparison and it took us a long time in the sun to find it. We headed back into town and I took Ifzal to a tea house we had been to before. I offered him some money for all the time he had spent with me in showing me around. He was a guide after all, and had lost out in taking me to the north. He refused at first, but then gratefully excepted the few days cash I put into his hand. He excused himself and we agreed to meet back at the hotel later.

I spent the evening packing and that included a nice Pashtun hat Ifzal had given me as a parting gift. IT tweaked my guilt a little, but I was still happy about the choice I had made in not going with him to the north. He was not exactly the most stellar of guides. But more over than that: the whole Katherine, daytime bus curfew shenanigans had me paranoid to the max.

It was time to move on.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Watching the Truck Painters of Pakistan, and moving on …

Purple projectile vomiting in Peshawar, yes I ate a kebab

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 08:36:39 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Travelers get sick, it comes with the territory. Purple vomit though? Not happy. Recoverable like most things. Watch a few movies and plan …
Great Kebabs in Pakistan ...

After returning to the Rose from the Afghan camp I was surprised and happy to see that for once there was piping hot water in my bathroom. My throat was a little sore and I felt like I was coming down with a cold.

I came out from the shower and passed by a mirror. I stopped in slight shock, I looked 7 months pregnant. My stomach was quite swollen.

30 minutes later I was back in the bathroom on the squat toilet. Mild diarrhoea.

30 minutes later again and I was passing water.

I burped and and the kebabs from the afternoon repeated. Bugger. I lay down and waited.

By 1am I was projectile vomiting and shooting from both ends. And as anyone knows, in a squat toilet that’s not nice.

Projectile vomiting in Pakistan

By 4am I was out of water, the reception was closed and I was getting dehydrated. Nothing would stay down, or in.

By 6am I finally fell asleep, but was up by 8am thanks to texts from Ifzal. I headed down to reception and got two bottles of water and a sprite. The vomiting had at least past. Though I noted in the bathroom where the projectiling was commited the night before the tiled wall was now a strange shade of bright purple. Not good.

Henna dyed man reading a paper in Pakistan

That evening Ifzal and Katherine came over. She was leaving for Chitral and her volunteer position the next day. They asked me out to dinner. No thank you to the food. But I headed out anyway. I should have stayed put. Even now they still acted suspiciously. I was really beginning to think something was going on between them.

I headed back and slept.

I met up with Ifzal. I needed money from the ATM and he wanted to know about the trekking. I was not able to think about that yet, my stomach was still on the watery side of solidness. I was weak too, and the fact that 2 ATM’s did not function did not help as we wandered around trying to find a working one. Finally we did. It was during this walkabout I learned Katherine was still in Peshawar and not in Chitral as per her plan. The good news of the day was that my India book had arrived. 400 Rps for a fake 2007 edition, not bad.

I stayed in bed all day. I watched all 6 Star Wars movies, in between bathroom calls. By the evening I headed to the Rose Hotels Restaurant and had my first decent meal, chicken soup and chips. Ifzal arrived with Katherine, she was now planning on leaving tomorrow. He was thinking Sunday was a good day for us to leave for trekking in the North. I tentatively agreed but said it depended really on how I was feeling. I was still not up for eating much, and wanted to enjoy the trek rather than suffer it. Again I felt something strange going on between the two of them. As if they had an agenda, and I was apart of it somehow. I was getting more uncomfortable with the situation. I knew that I was a little paranoid with being sick, but something was not right with them since the start.

I went over to Ifzal house, feeling still none to good, but on the mend. Katherine was there, now that was not a surprise. The bus was due to leave tomorrow morning so Ifzal wanted to get the tickets. I was still seriously uncomfortable with the situation. How to get out?

Bright clothing material for sale in Pakistan

That night I got a call from Ifzal, a curfew had been put on all day time buses heading to Chitral, so we would have to take a night bus. And… Katherine would be coming too. This was really beginning to stink.

Another day passed and my stomach was still not right, so I decided it was time for medication. So with Ifzal advice went looking for a good pharmacy. It took a while but finally a located some ciprofloxin. It looked OK and so bought it for about 150 rps. A little later in his fathers stationary shop Ifzal introduced me to a pharmacy supplier that he knows who immediately dismissed my purchase as being fake.

Why is it in developing countries you are always taken to buy something, and then afterwards introduced to someone your friend knows that could have helped you out earlier. Always.

We still did not have the night bus tickets yet. Ifzal’s reasoning as to why day buses were under curfew and night buses were not had something to do with a narrow road and cargo trucks. I really did not buy it. And yes Katherine still had not left. In fact it looked like most of her things were staying in Ifzal bedroom. She was meant to be leaving on the night bus tonight.

Back at the hotel slept for awhile, hoping the medication, fake or not, would start to kick in sooner rather than later. That night I met up with Ifzal and low and behold Katherine still had not left. This really was not helping the situation. She was now meant to be leaving on the 5am bus. The curfew was semi lifted but only for certain hours. I had practically made up my mind, this was far too suspicious, innocent or not. I told them I would text by 3am if I felt well enough to some, but I already knew the answer.

Old wooden door in Peshawar

That night I made my plan. I would scrap my idea of trekking in north Pakistan, I still had Nepal for trekking an the few days of sickness had eaten away at my precious remaining days. I still had India to go through and if I left in a few days for Lahore I would be able to give myself time to fully recover and time enough for India before meeting up with Paul in Kathmandu for Christmas. I sent Ifzal a text saying I would not be coming in the morning. He Replied straight away, and seemed fine with everything. I guessed that he would not be so happy when I tell him the trek was off.

Finally my stomach was starting to hold it together. I hadn’t eaten much, and was feeling better for it. I chanced chicken sandwiches for lunch and headed over to Ifzal house. And yes Katherine was there. It was blatantly obvious they were an Item, and this was what half the strange looks and mysterious moods were about. I broke the new to them about my decision, and it went relativity well. I added that I would stay an extra day or so in Peshawar to see Bus painting, a monastery and to take advantage of some photo opportunities. Again this went down well. Whether Katherine would be joining us or not was another matter.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Purple projectile vomiting in Peshawar, yes I ate a kebab

Afghan refugee camps in Peshawar

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 08:29:37 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: After visiting the Khyber Pass, we were now in search of the Afghan refugee camps in Peshawar. Some were deserted, some full of life.

"Man searching through abandoned Afghan refugee camp"

I was at first disappointed. The area had indeed once been a refugees camp. Mud houses lined a roadside area and fell back my half a mile. But they were all abandoned. As the war was ending in Afghanistan, or rather becoming less violent, the Pakistan government were packing off the refugees back home. This camp was closed. The refugees had taken with them everything, the tin roofs, doors. Indeed there was nothing left aside from mud bricks and a plastic refuge area that contained the only design of life. A rough solitary figure prodded at the field of plastic rubbish with a long wooden stick. In his hand he had a near empty rice sack filled with salvaged and possible resealable containers.

We left. I was sure there had to be more than one camp. Ifzal said he knew of one other, but it was quite far out of town and he wasn’t sure if it was still occupied. He asked the driver and he nodded.

Small boy at Afghan reugee camp

The camp was occupied. We pulled over and I was off like a shot. Her the mud houses still had their tin roofs, bore holes still dripped water and there were people on the dirt pathways between the houses. Ifzal caught up just as faces started to appear from doorways. Young men started to walkout, emotionless faces looking me up and down, waiting. I smiled and greeted in Farsi. Their faces broke into wide toothy grins and soon I was being invited in for a game of pool in one of the house. Somehow they had managed to obtain a pool table from somewhere, and even with heavy duct tape was proving to be a main source of entertainment. That alongside a TV blasting out pop songs from Asian MTV.

Afghan refugees in Pakistan

We walked around the camp greeting people as they walked by. It was getting late in the afternoon and the sun was turning to a wonderful gold hue. A group of young Afghan girls waved at us from further up the street. I started taking photos to their, and my, delight. One particular girl caught my attention. She was about 10, wearing a bright blue dress, and her hair was dyed slightly with the reddish tinge of Henna. Her eyes were amazing, full of the fire of a torn childhood. She was streetwise and camera shy, but behind those eyes she was taking it all in. Learning. Learning what this strange man and his camera were doing. A future reference. Others appeared. But I focused on the girls. The boys looked no different to street boys anywhere in the world. They wore modern day t shirts while the girls wore more traditional dresses.

Young Afghan refugee girl playing in the dirt

The girls were also working it seemed, while the boys played cricket in the field and kicked makeshift footballs around. Indeed it wasn’t long before the blue dresses girl was off wringing a chickens neck. Up ahead a group of children had gathered on a dirt mound of rubbish and were waving at me,. I gave them a big wave back and received a huge thumbs up from them. This made my day.

As the little yellow taxi pulled up the children swarmed the car. They were not looking for money, nor sweets not anything other than a break from their monotonous day to day life in the refugee camp.

Smiling Afghan Refugee Children in Pakistan

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Afghan refugee camps in Peshawar

Last traveler on the Khyber Pass

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 08:23:28 +0000

Travel Journal Overview for The Khyber Pass: Please take into account this was during General Musharraf’s Emergency Rule, Iran was expecting George W. Bush to invade, Turkey was about to begin an offensive against the Kurds. And, a high ranking Afghan politican had just been assassinated a few days earlier when I arrived into Quetta. Exciting times …

Traveling the Khyber Pass is something overland travelers hold in high regard. It’s not about the view, there’s much better out there. It’s not about the culture, it’s a border. It’s about history, Alexander the great, Genghis Khan, Britain, Russia, the U.S.A; they all tried to conquer Afghanistan through through this route. And all failed. Yes, the Khyber Pass is about adventure from the past and today, just for the sake of it.

The Khyber Pass - No more tourists allowed (click to enlarge)

Traveling the Khyber Pass

Ifzal arrived after breakfast at about 8.30am, thankfully without Katherine. I must say that for a prospecting tour guide he was very laid back. I was hoping for some exciting stories of past trips to the Khyber Pass, or on the history of the place. Instead I got pleasantries and a more straight laced approach. He was a friend though, so you have to take things as they come.

Step on in traveling the Khyber Pass – Bribe an official

We went first to photocopy my passport and details, and then to the Office of National Affairs to seek the vital permission document. 30 minutes later, one piece of permission giving paper, a 100 rupee gift and 200 Rupees later we were set to go.

Hiring an armed tribal guard

A little yellow charter car arrived, our ride for the day, and we were off to the Khyber Rifle’s Police station. Ifzal headed in while I

The famous Khyber Pass Gate

waited patiently with the friendly taxi / chartered car man. Some time later Ifzal appeared along with a smiling Sargent and a mustachioed officer. The Sargent came over to me and his smile increased as he shook my hand while nodding at Ifzal. Had I just been sold?

The Sargent then said something and bid us goodbye as he turned back to the station. The young officer was a different type though. In his white speckled black coat he begrudgingly shook my hand and then entered the front seat. I took an instant dislike to him. Not a dangerous dislike, but a dislike nonetheless. We drove off into the suburbs of Peshawar city. Our little yellow gas powered car battling for road supremacy alongside all other other manner of traffic. Including one bright henna dyed mule.

After about one hour of trying to start a conversation, I concluded that the officer was indeed, an asshole. He was mandatory for anyone taking this trip. Free as well. I’d rather have slipping the Sargent a couple hundred rupees in exchange for a more conversational type.

Arriving at the Old Khyber Pass Gates

We arrived at the gates of the Khyber Pass and got out for the obligatory photos. This was not going to plan. I was being shepherded about as if I was a number. Eyes were watching us from the roadside. We got back into the car and headed off, the young officer still as silent as ever.

It seemed we were now in the elusive tribal lands, Pakistan was no more

History of people who have tried to rule the Khyber Pass (click to enlarge)

The landscape was one of light rocky desert tundra. Yet jutting up from the plains were fort like compounds, complete with ramparts and gun slots. Some were relatively small, maybe enough to house 6 three bedroom houses. Others were huge, maybe over a block in some cases, and in one case several blocks. I asked Ifzal what these were.

Welcome to the Tribal Warlords backyard

This was a smugglers area, and these were the houses of the warlords. Or rather, these were their fortresses. My ears picked up. The Khyber pass may have been a famous trade route thousands of years ago until now, and has been written as such into history. Time had not changed much. Kings had been replaced by warlords, spices, camels and jewelery by drugs, cars and guns. This was a modern day trade route set on old principals.

I asked about the design of the houses, they looked like forts. Indeed they were just that. Gun turrets, slots for rifles and massive thick steel doors decorated the fortifications.

Some of the fort walls even bore the scarring of bullet marks. These were the signs of the fierce violent clashes that would occasionally erupt between the various clans.

I wondered a little how true to reality all this was. Until we drove past and Ifzal pointed out the vast cemetery’s outside each of the forts.

Drug lords, 007, and where all the big boys play along the Khyber Pass
Tribal Warlord House in the tribal lands of Pakistan

We drove on along a winding road that cut deep into a valley. Huge trucks laden down with bags of food roared buy. An incredible amount of brand new sports cars tore by at an even higher speed.

“Drug Lords” mentioned Ifzal.

I looked at some of the custom number plates ‘Pak007′ was a white Porsche, ‘Iamgrt’ was a Lexus. It was all quite surreal. I then noted the large 4×4 escorts waiting in the wings. Whenever one of the sports cars would move, the escorts would always follow closely. Black shaded windows was mandatory here.

The old Khyber Railway comes into view

We past by a washed out bridge and tore town a dirt road. Coming into view alongside us was the old Khyber railway. It’s brown tracks camouflaging well into the high valley face. I sank into a past world mixed with this strange new bountiful one. A pounding soundtrack would bring back memories of great films about this route.

Back then the railway was one of the most important trade providers in the region. It cut through the harsh landscape and linked Central Asia to East Asia.

The Khyber Rifles Lookout Point

We finally reached the end of the Pakistan side of the Khyber Pass as we approached the Khyber Rifles Lookout point. There stretched

The old Khyber Railway, now broken

out in front of our high hill vantage point was Afghanistan. Along to our right the Khyber Railway tracks disappeared into the a rocky mountain tunnel.

We posed for some typical photographs and I took satisfaction in watching Ifzal grab the young officers AK-47 and handing it to me for one of the photographs. Perhaps more satisfying was the barrel was under the assholes chin.

A duo of military types from the actual look out post invited their only guests up for a better look. They had rows of confiscated weapons out on display. Mortars, heavy machine guns, rifles, grenades and what I hoped were disarmed missiles.

An old Afghan prison

I looked down at the dusty valley that opened up before us. The start of Afghanistan was marked my a mountainous hill where an old prison was perched. Rather unusually it looked like a rectangular wing of the palace was falling down one of the sides of the hill.

It turned out that this was the prison section of the palace, and it had been built like that on purpose. Doomed prisoners would be thrown down this its a perpendicular corridors into waiting swords at the bottom.

Modern day kidnapping and death

The two guards at the lookout post were questioning Ifzal about me a little. It turned out a Turkish tourist had been kidnapped at the border yesterday by bandits and his driver shot. Where they quite went, I couldn’t figure out.

The guards said the bandits no these mountain better than anyone.

To me a sheer cliff face was a dead end. To them it was a stone staircase.

A story of another death slowly began to reveal itself as well. Another foreigner, this time one that was selling weapons. His fate was more certain. Quartered, this body parts were left around Peshawar market as an example to others.

Back on the Khyber Pass where the warlords rule

I decided then and there I needed more out of the trip. So as we approached the warlords fort houses I asked them to pull over for a pit stop. I got out and walked back a bit from the car and started taking photos of the Fort like houses. In hindsight this was really a very stupid thing to do. But, at the time it was the thing to do.

It sent the taxi driver into a bit of a panic, which in turn had the asshole guard out of the car looking around for any onlookers to my photography. My job was done, I headed back.

Ifzal wasn’t to fazed my all this. The warlords were essentially untouchable. This was tribal land, and not even the Pakistani government could touch them. It was their law out here, and as they ruled, they didn’t fear anything or anybody.

Gun shop stop with some hashish thrown in

We stopped by some gun shops on the way. Rifles, pistols, machine guns the works. They were all on display. A small grey bearded man offered a pistol for me to fire. I knew if I did it he would charge me, and Ifzal was being silent as I asked probing questions as to where the weapons were destined for. I lost interest. It may be a boyhood fantasy to fire off lots of AK-47 rounds but this could be done in other places. I wanted to know a little more about the place.

The Khyber Passes winding road before the valley

The hashis shop was next. This seemed to get Ifzal and the driver a little more excited than anything else. Bales of marijuana, opium and other illicit substances lined the the dusty shop. A hippies dream, bar the gun factory next door.

Ifzal at last came into his own and began reading off prices, quantities and qualities of various merchants he knows. Pashtun Hashish is the best in the world they all confirmed. I would have rather gone back to the gun factory. As strange as it seems, but standing in a wooden tin roofed shack surrounded by rice bag bales of mid inducing substances really is not that exciting. It could have just been wheat in the bags. The skinny man tending the store did have a lump of brown sweet smelling hashish to tempt customers with. But that was it. Maybe a better place to come pre stoned.

Along the roadside

A row of women in red were seen scraping at a roadside wall. It looked almost as if they were digging scares into it. I asked why? But was given no answer. Road widening? Or punishment. The bright red clothes were so different to the indigo burkas most women out here seemed to wear.

Again another woman along the road walked alone. She looked tired. Her face not fully covered. Then a man with a missing leg in a little wheel cart appeared.

The Khyber Pass was either their route of mercy, or route to the end.

Peshawar Aftermath

Back in Peshawar we pulled up to the Khyber Rifle Police station and let the silent asshole out. It was here that the prick let his true colors show as he started to demand payment from Ifzal. Thankfully Ifzal was ready, and told him where to get off or he would have no problems reporting him. The asshole left in an undignified huff.

If I could redo the trip, I’d have wanted a different guard. It wasn’t a game changer, but this guy …

It was lunch time, so Ifzal took me to a great looking open air kebab restaurant. Seated outside were two large bearded fat men in front of giant iron skillets with many many giant burger looking patties sizzling onto. We walked in with the driver and each enjoyed the tasty food. I went for seconds, breakfast had been small and the burger kebabs were tasty.

Those that walked the Khyber Pass to escape death

The day was still not over. I wanted something that would bring me a bit more than what the Pass was meant to. Afghan Refugee camps was something that I had been mentioning to Ifzal for the last few days, and today seemed like no better day. The driver seemed to know where they were.

We were now going to meet the people that were forced to flee their homes …

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Seeing the Unseen Stories: The Pakistani Truck Painters

Travel Stories: The Last Khyber Pass Journey (read this for a more detailed account of this journey)

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Last traveler on the Khyber Pass

Getting to know Peshawar

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 08:10:37 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Peshawar is unlike any other city I’ve been too. It’s a multicultural torn up part of the world that opened it’s doors due to tribal rights. It reeks of tribal law, and an unknown element. It is perhaps the quintessential border city.
Fruit seller in Peshawar (click to enlarge)

The TV next door seemed to be on all night, I stayed in Bed until 10am. There was no sign or noise of the gun runner types that had amalgamated in the hotel the previous night. After a brief bucket shower I headed out. The contrast between the streets late last night and now was impressive. Gone were the cold misty shadows, replaced by an exuberance of life similar to the streets of Lagos Nigeria.

Just about every conceivable inch of road was taken up by every conceivable for of transport, the oil based one all bellowing out vast quantities of greys and blacks. Indeed it was this pollution that had the most striking of impacts on the city proper. One literally could not see to the send of a short road due to thick blueish smog.

Old buildings in Peshawar

Noise was everywhere, car horns, revving engines, street merchants and more than anything else the higher pitched revving of auto-rickshaws. These little boxes on wheels seemed to great more noise than anything else. And as I later out were power by LGP gas canisters, so where there smoke was coming from I did not know.

I wandered up my hotels street in search of food. It was here that I guessed a large portion of my hotels bad odor came from. I seemed to have landed myself in a road that on one side was strewn with dozens of oil oozing engines, some stacked as high as 8 feet. While on the other side were an equal number of tannery’s oozing out blood and intestinal juices from various animals. Both black and red liquids amalgamated in various run off along the roadside and in parts were brewing nicely in the rising heat of the morning.

Butchers in Pakistan

I headed up to the Khyber Bazaar and dropped by the Rose hotel. They had a room free so I booked it. Then it was out onto a market square where I squatted down by a ground based cookery. Options for breakfast were limited. I ordered liver, onion and tomato along with some naan. I am not a big intestinal organ fan, and this was no exception, but it was passable.

Back to the hotel and I moved by stuff out and over moved over to the Rose. I now had the luxury of an en suite with a cable TV! And a pretty decent restaurant, which served a really good chicken Jalfreezi. It was here I met up with Hussain, a young tour guide. He began to list off his tours: A trip to the gun smugglers market, opium market, Afghan Refugee camps and the infamous Khyber Pass. I didn’t bargain with him yet. I knew that Ifzal from the on-line forum was due any minute so I had time to wait this one out.

Indeed Ifzal did arrive on time. And to my surprise, showed up with two western girls! Tina and Katherine both looked as if they had been in Pakistan for quite some time. They both wore traditional Pakistani clothes, all be it with a western touch. The bespectacled Ifzal was much like I had imagined, of small build with a big smile. Tina I liked immediately, she from Australia and was outgoing. Full of talk about Pakistan and her adventures.

Woman in Burka at the evening meat market

She’d been volunteering with a family in the north for the last six months and was about to head off for further adventures in India. Tina on the other had was quite silent. She was had the air about her of a missionary type, yet was very covert in what she spoke about. If a could have hazard a guess her accent was from somewhere in the north of England. But such information was never confirmed by her avoidance of direct conversation.

As the four of us sat there talking of our travels, I got the feeling that something was not right. Tina was bubbly and largely oblivious to this. Yet it was Ifzal and Tina that were setting this strange mood of edginess and awkwardness. Ifzal was a trekker, or tour guide of the mountains. And this is what he was expecting me to do. I had mentioned it in my emails. But time was of the essence as was cost, so I asked for some photographs and information on the treks he did. To be honest what I saw was not all that great. The photographs were nice, but all of Chitral. I wanted to see other areas, and while technically sound, Ifzal was struggling to inspire me.

That night we met up for dinner at a local place on a balcony overlooking the early night-life of Peshawar. It was much like during day, aside from even more vast plumes of smoke rising up from various food stalls lining the roads. It was all very atmospheric, and the closet I can say that I’ve been to a place that could easily have been to a place half a world away.

Henna dyed donkey in Pakistan

I wanted to head out myself for my own look around Peshawar the next day. A bookshop was first on the agenda. I still had a rough arrangement with the biker Paul for a Christmas day meet up in Kathmandu. Which was now only one month away. Whether I would get there on time or not I didn’t know, but what I did know is that I wanted some information on India and Nepal. My LP map was truly useless. It would not help a Gerbil make a nest with its paper. Enough said.

Saeed Book Bank on Arbab road was the best I could find. And considering everything, it is pretty damn good. I found no book on India, but did see a single Solitary book on Nepal for 1700 rupees, I grabbed it. I also inquired about a guide book on India, and was pleased to hear they could order me one to arrive in a few days. What’s more it would only cost 500. A fake, no doubt, but it put me at east knowing I would be armed for both countries.

It’s a little strange that prior to entering a new country I always find myself being confronted with information from the residents of the current country I am in telling me about how terrible the place is to get around. This never helps in relaxing back about a place, and always ends up with me getting a guide book that rarely gets used. In all my travels so far I think I made most use of a Multi country European book and the India. Mainly for transport routes and a few main things to see. Its strange that I spend over 2 years in West Africa and never used a guide book once. I guess its a time thing. Less time, the more prior knowledge of where to go.

I met up with Ifzal and Katherine again that evening, Tina had unfortunately left for Islamabad. The strange atmosphere of what I can only refer to as suspicious tension still hung thick in the air. I really did not know what was up with Ifzal and Katherine. All I did know was that it made me tense and very distrustful of them. I got the hint that they were in a relationship together, but then again I could be wrong.

I agreed to go with Ifzal to the Khyber Pass the next day. This was the opportunity Ifzal had to impress me with his guide abilities and convince me he was the man to go with to the North. Either way, this was at last my time to travel to the border of Afghanistan along the path of kings.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Getting to know Peshawar

Arriving in Peshawar in the dead of night

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Wed, 28 Nov 2007 08:05:01 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: Still on my 40 hour overland train, I arrived into Peshawar alone. A curfew was in place and I was roaming the streets. I also had a little face to face with few interesting characters and a jeep full of guns. Wonderful place.

Streets of Peshawar (click to enlarge)

Arriving into Peshawar Pakistan on a train

10.30pm came and we pulled into another station. I peered outside. A few passengers got off. The train seemed empty. It came across my mind then that there were no announcements nor signs to indicated where I was. Could this be Peshawar? It could easily have been a no name town. I wondered when I would know when to get off. I walked the corridor in search of somebody to ask. Nobody. The carriage was empty.

The train eased off again, and we plunged into darkness. I turned the compartment lights on and left the door wide open. I looked at the map and saw that the tracks indeed ended in Peshawar, but then again this was a Lonely Planet Map. . .

I heard a door swing open as we slowly drew into another platform. The conductor appeared at the door entrance. He looked a little curious to see me there. I waved, and knowing he spoke no English from previous attempts. Pointed outside and said “P…E…S…H…A…W…A..R?”

The conductor grinned. Then nodded! Shit I missed the stop! Then he shook his head from side to side?? Maybe I hadn’t? Then his head began to wobble as if missing certain muscles in his neck. This was my first encounter with the infamous Indian head wobble. Although in this case Pakistani head wobble. And in either case at this moment in time, an unbelievably frustrating sign of neither yes nor no.

Finally as he began to turn away, he waved his hand with one finger pointed out straight in the direction we were headed. “No.”

I took this to mean it was not Peshawar we were now disembarking from, and stared back out into the darkness of my window. I could have been in Afghanistan for all I could see out there.

10 minutes later and we pulled into a completely deserted dark platform. I headed out to the carriage door and peered out into the night scene. No one disembarked the train. No one seemed to be even out there. Then from the shadows of a gate I saw three military types appear. They were walking along the platform and headed past me. I went on gut instinct and ducked back into my compartment and grabbed by bags before re-emerging at the carriage door just as they were passing my.

“Hello guys!” I said with a wave.

The three military chaps all stopped and watched as I hoped off the carriage. The large heavy set man in the center eyes me suspiciously, especially my bags.

I smiled my best fake dumb ass smile and started again. “Hello, Salaam Malekum,” I was greeted back instantly and so continued with the most important question of the night, “Is this Peshawar?”

There was silence for a moment before they mumbled to each other. Then the stocky one turned to me, “No.”

He turned to leave with the others. Bollocks, where the hell was I? “This not Peshawar?” I tried again.

The other two military men ignored me, but the stocky one tried again, “No”.

“Where here?” I asked throwing may hands in the air.

The stocky man scratched at his stubble, “eh, this Cantonment… Army.”

Bollocks again, not only was I not in Peshawar but somehow I’d ended up in a bloody army base in Pakistan during military bloody rule! A light bulb went off in my head. There were two stations in Peshawar, the city platform and the arm base. “Ah, this Peshawar Cantonment!” I announced.

Man selling bottles in Peshawar

The three soldiers all grinned and nodded, then hurriedly turned to leave.

So I was in Peshawar after all, only in the Army base part of it. Well at least they did not seem to upset about me being there. I looked at my watch. 11.15pm. I headed over to the nearest gate I could find. The one with another armed military type standing in the shadows. Here we go again.

“Hello there!” I waved at him stupidly. I had the name and address of the Rose Hotel in my hand as I approached him.

The bearded guard seemed quite surprised to see me, and also a lot more helpful than the other three. He looked at the address, and nodded. He knew the place.

His English was poor, but he did manage to ask where I was from and where I had come from. He walked me out onto the main road and explained that I needed a taxi. We both then stared at the deserted road. I smiled and then shrugged. He nodded and then walked out into the center of the road. A small motorbike flew past, and the soldier shouted at him. Then a tiny little white car trundled into sight turning ever so slightly to avoid hitting the soldier. However the soldier stepped across his path again and put his hand out tot stop the car. A brief conversation took place before the car turned around and pulled up beside me.

“This your taxi tonight.” Grinned the soldier, “Please get in for Hotel.”

I laughed and thanked the man very much, then frowned and stared at the man behind the wheel. “How much?”

The skinny man behind the wheel looked up at me, his eyes darting between me and the soldier, “No problem mister, I take you.”

“How much?” I persisted rather stubbornly, before launching into a random conversation with the helpful soldier about cheating taxi men.

HE shook his head rather confusingly, “No problem, it go Hotel.”

I remembered my Quetta taxi and started down at the driver before taking out a 50 Rupee note and waving it at him. “Fifty no more!”

The man waved it off and scurried out, taking my bad and placing it carefully into the back-seat. “Come, come, is fine sir, please.”

I turned and shook the hand of the soldier, thanking him for his help.

Three minutes later on a deserted road in the little white car and we were at the Rose Hotel. I took my bags our and left the 50 rupee note on the seat much to the drivers delight.

The Rose Hotel looked quite nice. But no rooms. Amir the manager there that night said that Ifzal had been in earlier but everything was booked out then too. I asked where there were other hotels, and got the directions of around the corner.

Peshawar’s cool night streets were empty. A few carts were being pulled along my both man and mule, and a few lone figures scuttled by into the shadows. I headed down Cinema Road. Regal hotel also full. Shanan’s Hotel, full. Even two unknown hotels, full. Small things like little portable kebab stalls were still open, and were the majority of hotel doors. Just no room. I began to wonder if something was going on?

I finally wandered into Ali-Haq hotel. No single rooms. I asked about a double, yes, plenty. 350 Rupees. I took it. I set my stuff into my nights lodgings and wondered what the smell was in the room. It had an en suite squat which answered the question. It was gone midnight, my fears of Peshawar were long gone this night and I was enjoying myself. I headed out into streets again in search of one of the Kebab stores I’d seen earlier.

It did not take me long to find one. There perched on a seat above two rows of smoking coals was a one eyed man with a long grey beard serving several types of kebab. He smiled broadly at me as I ordered 3 kebabs at 3 Rupees each. An older man in a Pashtun hat sauntered up to me and ordered a stew before turning to me with a smile and announcing that he was an Afghan.

He walked away and was replaced by a short boy that looked to have segmental progerias, an aging disease of the skin. The boy ordered food with a croaky high pitched voice as a youth with designer clothes and blown dried hair came up to my other side. IT was truly a scene from the Twilight Zone.

I sat down with my very taste Kebabs and naan bread. The blown dried youth was seated on a very short stool infront of me and offered some of his stew. I have to say it was even better than my kebab. I handed him over the yoghurt that came with my bread, and bid him goodnight.

Just as I was approaching my hotel, two large sparkling new white 4×4 pick-ups screeched into the remaining parking spaces in front. I looked on as several people got out and began to hurriedly unload rifles from the back. Seeing this I took a swift footed detour across the road to the solitary roadside shop that remained open and pointed to a random bottled drink. I looked on across the road as the rifles were hastily carried straight into my hotel… lovely.

Once all was quite and unloaded I headed back to my room. Dragged the spare bed over to block the door, jammed the blood stained pillow on my bed and placed it over the squat to try and hamper the fatal smells rising up from it. I pulled my own self provided sheet over my head to block out the still pungent smell and listened on as the closed box like window above my bed did little to block the noise of a blaring TV outside.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Arriving in Peshawar in the dead of night

Quetta to Peshawar a 40 hour train trip with some interesting people

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 07:57:35 +0000

Travel Journal Overview:Not being able to travel through SWAT valley I had to take the 40 hour train trip that traversed most of the country just to get a few hours north to Peshawar. I expected to be long and boring, instead it was a highlight.

Dinner vendors over the Hudus River, Pakistan (click to enlarge)

The Bloomstar Hotel manager was holding on to me for conversation on my last morning in Quetta. He wasn’t a prudent as I was in getting to departing train on time. Indeed he insisted the train stood no chance at leaving on time whatsoever. He was of course correct. I think for the first time in my life I arrived for a train 15 minutes late, and still it had not even arrived. I sat by the door of the first class waiting lounge. I had the ticket to allow be into such a privileged place, but preferred to wait outside to see an actual train arriving.

And arrive it did, a few minutes later. Stacks of bags of all shapes and sizes were scooped up by there owners and taken onboard in every conceivable manner. The train was had a very nice old style appeal to it. I think it had something to do with the yellowish colour and odd looking iron handles sticking out at odd angles.

I boarded with my usual confusion as to where I was meant to be. I large bearded man with silver rimmed glasses and a heavy black leather jacket approached me and examined my ticket. He showed me to my rather plush 1st class compartment, and then rather suspiciously asked if I was a journalist. It took a good hour but finally Lt. Colonel Abdul Taj finally opened up and became a good travel companion.

Our only other companion was a silent Doctor by the name of Haani who spent most of his time preparing for a medical exam he was attending. The Lt. Col had great English and a fabulous knowledge on the history of Pakistan. It was with Abdul’s encouragement he ventured outside at most stops, getting the curious stared from countless locals. He also encouraged me to take as many photograph’s as possible. At one stage this consisted of him holding on to me as a swung precariously out of the rusty carriage door at 80km as the sun was setting over the . The photographs would be too blurred with all bouncing around the train was doing, but it was at last enjoyable to be taking photo’s with the guardianship of a Col. during military rule.

The Bolan Pass from the train, Pakistan

Our conversations ranged from the ancient history of Alexander’s conquests to modern day politics. His favourite topic was on war strategy and and as we headed out for a dinner of Chamma Curry beside the Indus river I learned that he was in fact a military teacher and had worked in the USA. Still, any mention of his work or past was always avoided. He kept mentioning the street vendor who served us the watery, but still quite tasty curry, and how happy he looked compared to those in the west. Simple life, happy man. I wondered about it for a second, but could never settle on the idea. I think if that man and his family had an option to live a similar income life in the west he would take it.

Too often I hear those in developing countries say how happy they are living there. Yet at the same time they are constantly thinking of ways to work overseas. This is a mute point that many disagree with. But, I have to say this is my opinion of what I have witnessed many times over.

That evening another man came into our carriage. He was a Pakistani NGO worker, and had plenty to say about the state of development in Pakistan. Yet at the same time complained about his new car, and the state of the 1st class carriage. I was glad to settle down to sleep early. I had the bottom sleeper that pulled out from the wall giving plenty of space and lots of cushioning.

The NGO man was thankfully gone by 5am while Col. Abdul was gone by 7am. He left me the train timetable and his contact numbers. Plus the warning that he just received word there were riots in Lahore over Bhutto’s arrival. He said to contact him, “We can help you out, if you get into any difficulties”. hmm

A lone truck at sunset from the train to Peshawar, Pakistan

My main concern now was whether to get out at Lahore, or continue on into the night with the train, hoping it would arrive into Peshawar on time, 9pm. But it was already behind time by a few hours. Lahore was the safer option, albeit with a riot rather than coming into Peshawar at 2am during a military curfew. Ifzal, a guy I had met on an internet travel forum some time back lived in Peshawar and had been expecting me. That sort of sealed my fate, as I had told him I would be staying at the Rose Hotel that night. I texted him again, and soon got a reply. He would try to book me into the hotel.

I was on tender hooks, not helped my the remaining passenger in my carriage Dr. Haani who when he wasn’t reading a medical book was telling me how bad Peshawar was. I looked out the window at the rolling desert landscape. It seemed far more populated than Iran’s. Bright clothes hung from lines near sand colored mud brick houses. Donkey;s with their carts stood idly as we slowly chugged past.

Just before Lahore we pulled into a small village. Gone were the nice food stalls of last night. In fact I was relegated to eating my supplies from Quetta for breakfast. The train gave a sudden lunge and loud bang echoed down through its carriages sending adrenaline pumping into my blood. What was it? There’d been bombs found a few day’s earlier on a Pakistan train. Dr. Haani looked worried too as he popped his head into the corridor. He looked back in with a tight grin, it was just another carriage linking up with ours.

We reached Lahore at 11.50am, and pulled out again at 12.30pm, we were running late all right and I was still sitting on board. Having seen my determination Dr. Haani tried to call the Rose Hotel in Peshawar for me to confirm my arrival, but the lines were down. He just shook his head. This was not helping.

I ate a now two day old quiche and hoped my stomach would handle it. Outside the golden hue of sunset started to glow down upon stretches of increasingly populated villages. The Doctor looked at his watch and nodded confirmation that the train should be arriving at Rawalpindi at 5pm. He was a little premature. We arrived at 7pm. The Doctor bid me farewell, and with a sad expression, good luck.

I began to regret not getting off at Lahore. My head was pounding and I was feeling confined in my now empty and dark compartment. I locked the doors and swallowed two Paracetamol. This had the makings of a long night. I lay back in my sleeper bed, and listened as the train slowly eased out of the platform. The rhythm of the train, the dark carriage and the security of the locked door meant I could sleep a little.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Quetta to Peshawar a 40 hour train trip with some interesting people

Meeting friendly Pakistani’s in Quetta

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 07:52:38 +0000

Travel Journal Overview:I found Quetta a great place to find out how Pakistan was. It’s not the most exciting city in the world, but it does have nice people, and good food.

Fruit vendor in Quetta (click to enlarge)

I forced myself to sleep until 10am & woke up feeling good. I met the hotel manager over breakfast and we talked for a while over general things. Then, just out of nowhere he mentioned that last night a Baluchi Political opponent had been assassinated in Afghanistan and that a large portion of Quetta near the university had been covered in riots. Apparently the lightning I saw last night was actually distant explosions and gunfire. The noise on the street were rioters heading out to battle. Still, he shrugged it all off as an everyday type occurrence.

I headed out and saw that the streets were a bit quieter than they had been the day before, and there were more army types around making it a little tense. But life looked to be continuing on as per normal. I went back to Usmania for a Chicken Korma that was not a touch on the Mutton yesterday and failed in trying to translate what deodorant was while looking for it at a few stores. I did manage to get a few provisions for the train trip though.

At the hotel I realized I had not taken any photos of Quetta. This perturbed me a little due to the tense atmosphere on the streets. I headed back out with my camera, unsure of what to expect in this new country after a riot in military rule.

Freindly people, happy to see strangers during emergency rule in Pakistan

I stopped off at a fruit stall on the way and ordered a Pomegranate juice. It was here the two young owners saw my camera and asked for a photo. Sometime you don’t even have to try. As I was taking their smiling faces, I got a tap on the shoulder. I thought straight away it was the army. Instead it was a trio of men. The oldest with bright red henna hair, they were all smiling and pointing at the camera. I took there photographs and was soon surrounded by locals all asking for the same. The two guys at the fruit stall thought all this was very amusing, and also good for their business as people ordered from them while waiting for there photograph to be taken.

Even drivers and conductors of passing by buses began to wave out the doors and windows of their vehicles, prompting passengers to do the same. The hooting began, and soon rickshaw drivers were pulling up as well. The frenzy soon died down much to my relief of taking photographs of monotonous grinning faces, but still it was good.

Freindly vendor in Pakistan

I headed off in search of deodorant again, this time armed with an empty container. I was presented with Dover shampoos, talc and all manner of dried up deodorant sticks from yesteryear. Finally I found one small store owner who after showing me several glow in the dark ladies deodorants that no longer contained liquid finally appeared with a Johnson & Johnson deodorant stick that worked. Unfortunately he insisted on rubbing it on his hairy arm to prove this. Fortunately no hairs stuck to the deodorant.

That night I headed to bed. Turning the heater on in the hope of drying my clothes before the train trip in the morning. It didn’t happen!

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland

What do you think about this? Leave a comment & let me know about Meeting friendly Pakistani’s in Quetta

Emergency Rule in Quetta Pakistan

Dave from The Longest Way Home — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 07:32:53 +0000

Travel Journal Overview: I truly enjoyed my introduction to Pakistan. Travel is after all not meant to be a smooth ride, otherwise there is not point. Pakistan during Emergency rule, fun and games, but with 50 + hours of no seep I was struggling.

Downtown Quetta (click to enlarge)

Arriving into Quetta, Pakistan

After some confusion with the Rickshaw driver I finally arrived at the Bloomstar hotel. The LP had said it closed at around 10pm, so you can imagine my sheer and utter despise for the book when the man at reception said that they were open 24 hours.

We argued a while as he showed me rooms, I was now on for 50+ hours of no sleep and was functioning on mistrust for everyone after the Niskey incident. Finally I settled on a single room with bathroom (squat) and a heater for 400 rupees.

More overland travelers in Pakistan

I headed into the courtyard for breakfast figuring food before sleep. It was there I met two more bikers, a nameless German and Nicky and Australian. I then remembered Paul in Yazd telling me of how he had met Nicky on-line and thought it was a solo female biker going through Iran and Pakistan, but once they met in person he realized Nicky was in fact a guy. WE joked over this, and it soon came to light that Nicky was really not doing so well. He’d been arrested by Pakistan customs for not having a carnet de passage and had his bike confiscated.

This in itself is bad, but what came next made me have little sympathy for the guy that was once thought of a a girl. He was broke. Next to nothing left. Hence he never got a carnet de passage. He’d no idea about Iran or Pakistan needing a carnet de passage and was really surprised Iranian women had been so covered up. Also, he found out the hard way that I Ran does not except international credit cards. Hmm, he reeked of a lack of research. So much so it was worrying he had managed to get this far.

I mentioned I was going to head to the PTDC to try and get some information on where was currently good to go in Pakistan under the current circumstances. Nicky was coming too, except that the customs men were waiting for him at reception. . . Well… I figured the guy was buggered.

Getting more information for more overland travel in Pakistan

I headed off to the PTDC office, taking in Pakistan for what it was in Quetta. The roads were completely different to Iran, gone were the neat tarmac lines and reasonable traffic. Here it was choking fumes with loud colourful buses charging down pot holed roads dodging auto rickshaws and cycle rickshaws. The people were quite different too. Now there were fewer women on the streets. And there were a lot more women completely covered in Burkas. What was unexpected too was that a lot of the Burkas were bright blue, or grey in colour.

Pakistans Streets - A striking border change

I headed into the PTDC office and sat with the rather boarder yet proud Mr. Dost as he handed me more maps of Pakistan that I knew what to do with. I think there had been an over print, or rather under number of tourists in Pakistan. We then turned out attention on what and where I wanted to go in Pakistan. I had mentioned trekking in the north. To which I got a positive response. Unfortunately the response on how to get there was not so good.

A direct bus from Quetta to Peshawar, where I knew someone living there from an on-line forum, would only take 24 hours. But according to Mr. Dost the whole area in-between the two cities was off limits due to terrorist activities. I would have to go to Multan, then onto Lahore, up to Islamabad and onto Peshawar from there. At a guess several days travel. I cringed, and asked if I just took my chances on the bus what would happen. Mr. Dost shook his head gravely and said that I would have no problem getting a ticket, but there were many police stops along the way and I would be asked to leave the bus. This could take place at any time, day or night. And I would have to make my own way back to Quetta. Considering Niskey; this was not good news.

Banks, money, and my first taste of military rule in Pakistan

I headed off to see the rest of Quetta, although I had essentially been awake for the past 55 hours I was OK so long as I kept moving. Quetta was beginning to remind me a lot of Nigeria. Open drainage ditches, crazy traffic and a lone traveller walking through it all. Donkeys with carts, rickshaws with old men piloting them, bright buses all jostled at speed for a position on streets with no signs. With my really crap LP I got quite lost trying to find Standard Charter bank, and ended up in a street full of heavy machine gun turrets, coils of razor wire and army types staring cold faced at each other. My real first taste of Musharaf’s Military Rule. Still I was lost, and most of the local banks had no clue where standard charter was. A few military types did as I boldly asked a local Sargent. Hew pointed me in the right direction and I continued on down that path in a similarly questioning manner. Unfortunately the bank did not except my Switch card, but it did thankfully except my VISA. Standard Charter, as reliable as ever.

The best mutton leg in the world comes from Pakistan!

Hunger started to bite so I made my way to the Usmania Restaurant, not thanks to LP’s incorrect map, and many thanks to the locals who again pointed me in the right direction. I sat in the middle of the fairly classy restaurant and noticed the lights coming on for me. Who doesn’t like that?!! I ordered a Mutton leg and two cokes. Much to my surprise the mutton leg was huge, and much to the surprise of the people opposite me I finished it. Really I have never tasted mutton that good before. I wiped my brow on my shirt and noticed the thick greasy black trail it left behind. I must have looked a site after 50+ hours of travel. What’s more, Pakistan was humid, and I really did not like the way humidity made me sweat. I paid the 460 Rupees before heading back to the hotel for a shave shower and a very much needed bowel movement.

I decided there was no need to spend any more time in Quetta, and Multan did not make be that interested. I would visit Lahore on the way back into India, there were also no trains going through the banned North West Frontier Province. So the best option for me was the 32 hour train to Peshawar, which would have me circle down through the Bolan pass into Multan and up to Lahore before passing through Islamabad and into Peshawar. I changed into clean clothes I headed out to the nearby train station for a ticket to Peshawar.

Pakistan’s friendly people

It was only after changing into more western style clothes that I noticed more, “Hello, Mister’s” being directed at me. Friendly faces waved, and an occasional person would offer me chai, or come walking alongside me for a chat. I made it into the train station and after a bit of a jostle of a queue managed to find out that all economy seats were booked up and the only remaining seats were super economy and 1st class, the latter costing a whopping 2700 rupee. Also, according to the ticket master, the alleged arrival time would be 9pm, or rather 12am or even later depending on the ‘weather’. I went for the ‘First Class’. Can’t afford it anywhere else in the world, and I knew I wanted a bit of comfort on such a long journey. If the train was going to be that delayed I could always hop off at Lahore, but I had a contact in Peshawar along with the hotels number so I could always call ahead.

Dinner consisted of a seriously nice Chicken Shabeeya and a strange conversation with the night watchman. He told me that Nicky had left, but was looking for me. And had waited around all afternoon for me in order to ask me for some money to help him out. I have to say I was glad not to have been there. For anyone stuck in a place under current political clime’s I would have helped. But to help someone who had landed himself in this predicament was a long shot. especially with my current lack of sleep. As distant flashes lightning flickered the dark clouds to life the night watchman turned to leave saying that the tourist man was very bad. I shrugged it all off. Nicky must have packed the bike onto the train like the customs had told him to do instead of driving it overland. Once at the Indian border he could take his chances again.

I headed to my room and did some washing, turned on the heater and read for a while as I heard the rumbling of thunder mix with strange new noises of Pakistan street life outside. Surprisingly I was no longer that tired. In fact I felt more tired getting up at 4am sometime in the comfort of European travel. Finally I turned the light out and settled down to sleep.

Some related links from this website that you might like: (including a lot more photographs from Pakistan)