The Longest Way Home Travel Blog

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, or on the history of the place. Instead I got pleasantries and a more straight laced approach.

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. A little yellow taxi arrived, our ride for the day, and we were off to the Khyber Rifle’s Police station. Ifzal headed in while I waited patiently with the friendly taxi man. Some time later Ifzal appeared along with a smiling Sargent and an moustachioed officer. The Sargent came over to me and his smile increased as he shook my hand and nodded at Ifzal.

The Sargent then said something and bid us goodbye as he turned back to the station. The young officer in his white speckled black coat 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 took off down the road, or 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. 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. We got back into the car and headed off, the young officer still as silent as ever.

I asked Ifzal a few questions about the areas we were going through, and they were answered, although they sounded fresh out of a book he had read that morning.

We started to pass through a rather unusual area. 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.

This was a smugglers area, and these were the house of the warlords. My ears picked up. The Khyber pass may have been a famous trade route hundreds of years ago and been written as such into history, but time had not changed much. Kings had been replaced by warlords, spices, camels and jewellery 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 forts walls even bore the scarring of bullet marks. These were the signs of the fierce 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.

We drove on along a winding road and into a deep 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, ‘IamgrtIamgrtd 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.

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 racks camouflaging well into the high valley face. Ifzal was failing with his information. I sank into a past world mixed with this strange new bountiful one. At one point I even put my MP3 player on as Ifzal and the asshole started babbling in Farsi together.

We finally reached the end of the Pakistan side of the Khyber Pass as we approached the Khyber Rifles Lookout point. There stretched 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 grated 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 there sole guests up so a better look. They had a rows of confiscated weapons out on display. Mortars, heavy machine guns, rifles, grenades and what I hoped were disarmed missiles. 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. It was here I finally figured out what the contrast buttons really can do on my camera!

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. Lovely news to be told I must say.

We headed back. I must say if it were not for my own interest in the history of the Pass it would have been a disappointment Ifzal just wasn’t making it as a guide. This coupled with the asshole officer, who I am sure was no officer and just a lowly grunt had put a dampener on the whole thing.

I decided then and there I needed more out of the trip. So as we approached the warlords fort like 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. This is turn sent the taxi driver into a bit of a panic, which in turn had the asshole 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.

We stopped by some gun shops on the way. Rifles, pistols, machine guns the works. They were all on display. I 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 hash 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 bagged 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.

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 colours show as he started to demand payment from Ifzal. Thankfully Ifzal was able for the guy, and told him where to get off or he would have no problems reporting him. The asshole left in an undignified huff.

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 headed in with the driver and each enjoyed the tasty food. A went for seconds, breakfast had been small and the burger kebab things were tasty.

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 one spot so we headed there.

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

Pakistan Travel Guide

Resources: How to Guide – Iran to Pakistan overland