Point2Point

7-11-2007

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A the hotel the Serb's had changed their mind about going to the Wagah border ceremony as did a new comer German youngster. 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.

I arrived at the border about 30 minutes before the daily ceremony was about to begin. Here is where each evening both Pakistani and Indian sides gear up ceremonial border with full military and civilian honours 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 luck I took the one on the right as they were segregated on this side of the border.

All most immediately a selection of speakers boomed on some generic Pakistani pop music, and the small crowed that gathered cheered. 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.

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 and waving a similar flag on a pole came running over to the grassy area below us. 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.

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

This was pure theatre between the once and sometimes still warring nations. And it was fantastic. This noise. the pompous over acting, the passion from the crowd all made it quite a skeptical. Both sides trying to out do each other. I might me a little bias, but it did seem the Pakistani soldiers kicked their legs higher into the air.

It seemed like a little let down to have to undergo the 2 hour saga of using the Regal Internet Inn's washing machine later that might. But a KFC dinner made up for it.

8-11-2007

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.

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.

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.

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 ambience to it.

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.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lahore_Fort

6-11-2007

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.

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.

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.

5-11-2007

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 travellers 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.

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.

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.

4-11-2007

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.

27-11-2007 - 28-11-2007

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.

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.

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.

29-11-2007

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.

30-11-2007

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.

1-12-2007

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?

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.

2-12-2007

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.

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.

3-11-2007

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.