You've Gone Too Far This Time, Sir! Page 19

  Sitting in a circle we were each given a Pakistani sweet dripping in sweet oil. The Qazi recited versus from the Koran.

  A man on the groom’s side kept close to me the whole time, watching my every move, albeit casually. We made some very some small talk but I could tell he had something else he wanted to say. After some deliberating he asked me “Are you all spies?” He was questioning whether all the white people in Pakistan were here to spy for the British or US military. I thought it was hilarious but he expected a straight answer.

  That evening we left the wedding couple to have some privacy in a house filled with the groom’s relatives. Matt met me on the way out. He said I needed fattening before I headed off. Joining him at his new hotel, I found him knee deep in boxes packing up to go home – he had probably a ton of crystal to ship for starters. The miners that day had gifted him some of the finest hash from Afghanistan. He asked me if I wanted a smoke and I had to refuse. Smoking and riding bikes up mountains don’t readily go hand in hand.

  So he suggested I eat some. I tried a nibble, waiting nervously for the consequences. My friends at school had smoked weed but I’d never had a desire to partake. It tended to make them talk about politics whilst playing computer games – neither of those being my favourite pastime. Nothing seemed to happen. We headed out to the finest restaurant in town where another buffet was laid out, my second of the day - eat all you can. The food was sumptuous and I devoured one plate after another. In all I gobbled five plates of food and then had polished off two plates stacked with deserts. Looking at Matt I realised we hadn’t spoken in an hour. We locked eyes and I realised we were stoned out of our brains. We collapsed in giggles. As the effects wore off, so the ominous awareness of how full my stomach was grew, and my giggling suddenly stopped. It felt like my stomach wall was about to rupture. I had to lie down. The ex- President had just entered the bar with a host of men carrying guns, and I wasn’t sure they’d appreciate me lying on the floor groaning. We had to get home. Struggling to walk whilst supporting my over-inflated belly with both hands, I bumped into Matt’s gem dealer whom I found a little creepy. He fell into step beside me and tried to persuade me to buy his gems, immediately giving me an amazing ruby worth $200 as a sweetener.

  Back at the hostel, I tried to sleep it off. Paranoia set in and I was concerned I wasn’t breathing. When CO2 builds up in your lungs, messages are sent to the brain to say ‘breathe’. At this moment my body was so numb from the hash I couldn’t feel the message. I was afraid that if I slept I wouldn’t wake up. Kevin, an Irishman, was in the dorm room. I woke him up to ask him if he’d speak to me outside where I urgently explained the situation and my fear of dying in my sleep.

  He calmly confirmed that I was definitely breathing and suggested maybe I should make myself sick. Fingers down my throat, I vomited all over the hostel's flower beds. Other travellers who’d heard our conversation were laughing their heads off but remained in their warm beds, leaving the joy of dealing with me to Kevin.

  The next morning I decided it was time to leave Gilgit. My experiences had been so wide: I’d met so many people, been to a wedding, decked Shirley out and danced at the final of the Polo Championships. I would have one last day there to say goodbye to Habib and my friends at the hostel. I therefore organized a Pakistan vs. the Rest of the World game of cricket out in the street.

  The Pakistani team was made up of friends of Habib and workers at the hostel, all of whom seemed to know how to hold the bat. The Rest of the World team was made up of Aussies and Brits who one would have thought would know about this great game but, unfortunately, had a penchant for holding the bat baseball-fashion and bowling like children.

  All over Pakistan men and boys were playing cricket in the streets, the ball being wrapped in tape to stop it flying too far. The drainage in the street was a bit of a difficult one. If it landed in there, the nearest fielder had to dip his hand in to get it back. Sarah, an Aussie girl and our best player, was pulling it out of the gutter when she screamed and ran back to the hostel. On closer inspection there was a dead cat in the gutter and the ball had landed on it. Slowly interest waned and people wandered back into the hostel. Two musicians, Darius and Oshan, had arrived. Both half-Iranian half-English, they’d brought violins, guitars and mandolins with them. With me on ukulele, we had a massive jam session until we felt peckish.

  Ali had returned from her travels deep into the Pakistan countryside delivering presents and, accompanied by Matt, we went to our local for the famous chicken currai with naan bread. On one end of my naan was a big piece of mould which must have fallen from somewhere as the bread was fresh out of the oven. Tearing it off, I left it on the side of my plate, not wanting to make a fuss, while I polished off my curry. The fresh meat and sauce were so delicious that when I spotted I’d left a bit of bread behind, I used it to mop up. Swallowing it down I realised that it was the piece with the mould on it. Oh dear.

  * * *

  Oh dear indeed. I awoke at 1am that night with my stomach turning over and over like a tumble dryer. I ran to the toilet and that’s where I remained until dawn. Even when my stomach was empty, I still found more liquid to expel every hour. I had food poisoning of the Asian variety.

  The next three days and nights blurred into a delirious haze. I would wake with either Matt or Ali by my side, asking if I was OK and whether they could help. I could barely walk to the toilet by the end. Every ounce of my energy was gone. Sander, whom I’d met in Osh, joined my aid party. Having seen me in Osh, he said I looked like death and insisted I go to hospital. I refused, not knowing how I could manage a cab ride without a toilet nearby.

  Sander was keen to get the next leg of his journey over. He too had been warned about the dangers of the next stretch of road. I was keen to do the route with a friend rather than alone. As soon I was able to sit on a bike, without a cork, I suggested that we go the next day. He agreed.

  * * *

  Two days later we were still at the Madina. The hostel had locked its doors and it wasn’t a plot to get us to spend more money there. We were woken by gun shots. The results were out in the election. A pact had been made between the Shiite and the Sunni Muslim factions that people would vote with their hearts and not with their religion. As the results were announced, each accused the other of voting according to their religious beliefs and all hell broke loose. Tracers whizzed through the air at night, shooting could be heard, fires were lit in the streets and shops all closed their doors for forty-eight hours.

  Habib assured us the gunfire was in celebration but I couldn’t help feeling some of them screamed with malice.

  Chapter 31

  Ignoring all warnings, we headed south of Gilgit towards Islamabad.

  Studying a map over breakfast we hoped it would take us five days. Habib had said as we set off that he thought we might be OK but “Please don’t travel at night.”

  We hadn’t taken sufficiently into account the fact that the road was horrendous. It was littered with huge boulders and large sections were covered in landslides, or had themselves slid down into the river. We had to edge around corners and jump over rocks whilst at the same time avoiding any other vehicles. Time wore on and owing to the steep sides of the road we hadn’t found a camping spot. As it got dark Habib's final warning started to echo in my ears. I kept my eyes out for tracers flashing through the sky, or bandits.

  Five men stood in the road blocking our passage.

  As we pulled to a standstill, they asked who we were and where we were going. I replied saying I was cycling to India to raise money for children. A smile emerged and widened and I knew we weren’t in trouble. We were grasped by the arm and marched into their makeshift hut. Guns again littered every surface. Positioned out here to protect the Chinese workers against Taliban attack, the Pakistani police kept their eyes pealed for any strange travellers. The Taliban viewed the Chinese as infidels and had been known to attack the workers building the new KKH.

  China is perhaps th
e most reliable friend of Pakistan. Despite some unfriendly acts by the Pakistani secret agencies supporting 'jihad' in parts of China and forging too close alliances with America, China has continued to be friendly with Pakistan, helping it in various mega projects.

  When India developed nuclear weapons, the rest of the world claimed they were giving India nuclear technology for civilian energy production and peaceful purposes. When India detonated its bomb in 1974, they said it was a peaceful nuclear device. What on earth is peaceful about a bomb that can destroy a city? To add to these crazy ideas they called it the Smiling Buddha. The symbol of peace across the new world, the Buddha, now had his name associated with a nuclear bomb.

  The test generated great concern in Pakistan, which feared that it would be at the mercy of its long-time arch-rival and quickly responded by pursuing its own nuclear weapons program with financial and educational help from China who, after numerous wars with India over the past decades, had a vested interest.

  The police welcomed us into their camp, feeding and watering us, and telling us all about life in the area. As normal, the conversation turned to women and matter-of-factly the policemen told us that their wives were not allowed to leave the home. One man in town had four wives and twenty-five children. At less than five foot, he had climbed all of Pakistan’s highest peaks – or at least that’s what he told the ladies. They went on to ask us about our relations and wanted graphic details of our love lives. When we said we were free to have relations before marriage, they were amazed. If someone were to do the same thing there, both parties would be publicly executed.

  “Do you have to pay for these relations?”

  The next question made me giggle. “Do you get shot for being an atheist?”

  The Chinese returned from their work smiling and joking, and passed us by without a glance. Perhaps it was not uncommon to have cyclists in this area, or perhaps they were exhausted after fourteen to sixteen hours heavy labour.

  With food in our bellies, both Sander and I started to droop after the arduous day we had had. Our escorts showed us to an external tent and kicked out the guards who were currently sleeping there to allow us some privacy. Sander's sleeping bag had got wet when he was in the mountains and now smelt like rotting flesh. Laughing at our luck we launched ourselves towards our dreams.

  When I woke the following morning, I was accosted as I staggered out into the morning sunshine, handed an AK47 and told to fire it into the air. The officer then handed me his revolver to shoot as well. I, like most, have a small fascination with guns, built around Hollywood movies and war coverage. Whether it’s the power, the excitement or the loathing, they can’t be ignored. Surprisingly, firing one isn’t exciting at all. Guns were common here and having it in my own hands was neither exciting nor scary.

  I got much more excited taking shots with my camera of all the policemen balancing on one motorbike. As we left they told us of news that during the election four people were killed in a polling station in Chillas, our next destination.

  As we cycled down the road we saw that the Chinese were everywhere, working feverishly on the road like worker ants. They never stopped, nor did they acknowledge us, unlike the Pakistanis who all downed tools and cheered whilst trying to get us to stop for tea.

  Sander was not looking good. Over the past days he had been getting sicker and sicker. He was just managing to keep his pedals moving. I pushed onto the next village to get us some food to try to give him some strength.

  The next village was Jalipur, a bustling market town like any other, except for one major difference. There were absolutely no women. When I asked someone about this, they corroborated the policemen's story of the previous night that they literally weren’t allowed to leave their homes. It’s like lawful house arrest. You marry into prison life.

  Waiting for two dhal to be served, I got to people-watch for a while. It's my favourite past-time even when I’m in London. Nothing beats watching the quirky characteristics of people going about their normal lives. A group of children were dragging a dead dog around the street for fun. A small homeless boy, dressed in rags that were barely holding together over his scrawny body, was throwing stones at an older gentleman. The boy could not have been older than five or six, and the man was edging up on his personal century. As the lentil broth was served, I noticed that the old man was now throwing stones at the boy. The boys who had been playing with the dog now noticed the child and a chase ensued. When they caught the boy, they presented him to the old man who hit him. He was then passed around to anyone else who wanted to give him a whack. Surely people should have been helping this boy, not making things worse. One of the older boys tore a branch off a tree and gave it to his dad to bestow a few lashings.

  Sander couldn’t have come sooner as far as I was concerned and, as soon as he had wolfed down the dahl, I was badgering him for us to get away from this place. It was giving me the creeps. It was clear to me that the lack of women was destroying this place. Where was the compassion, the care?

  Just as we were about to leave, an albino boy was thrust in front of us. His skin was white and so was his hair. His eyes were a very pale blue. He was obviously used to abuse and bowed his head, preparing himself for a Western onslaught. They said he was the same as us, and laughed.

  There a far more albinos in Asia than in the UK. Some villages are up to 5% albino. These children face severe problems in society with the result that they end up with a poor education and social skills. The physical side is the extreme photosensitivity of their skin. It could be worse, I guess. In Africa they are hunted for medicinal purposes. Parents, who care have to hide them away to stop the slaughter. To try and set an example, I grasped his hand and shook it, as I would a member of the royal family, and bowed my head slightly to try to show him some respect. As-Salaam Alaykum. The abuse stopped, but I suspect only for a few moments.

  We made it to Chilas, our last stop before it was head down to get the hell out of this here territory. The next two hundred kilometres were real tribal and bandit country.

  It was just south of Chilas that Matt and Ali’s previous bus had been hijacked, leaving the driver with a bullet hole in his forehead, all the passengers deprived of their belongings, and the bus smouldering in pieces on the road.

  As we pulled into our hotel, someone came up to us and said to Sander “I like your clothes”,. He was wearing the traditional Chalwa Kames - a shirt that hangs to your knees - and a massively baggy pair of pants whose waistband you wrap around yourself numerous times. Turning to me in my Lycra shorts, he said aggressively “I don’t like yours.” I decided pretty swiftly it was now time to put on some trousers and to try to blend in as best I could.

  Leaving Sander to get better in Chilas, I set off for this much-dreaded section of the Swat Valley on my own. Tribal mountain villages were scattered along my route and a police convoy was required for this part. The police followed close behind me, making me feel like a cross between a hardened criminal and the President of the US, which during the Bush administration was very much the same thing.

  I called into a café momentarily to discover that its floor was covered with excretion.

  The Swat valley was only a few miles away now. There was no time like the present to get through it. Hopefully.

  The Swat valley with its high mountains, green meadows and clear lakes, is a place of great natural beauty and used to be popular with tourists, being nicknamed 'the Switzerland of Pakistan'. However, tourists have been replaced with Taliban soldiers, and the Pakistanis who had reaped money from their international guests have been replaced by soldiers. Swat had been home to some of the fiercest fighting between the Taliban and the Pakistani Army.

  A tailback of cars indicated where it began. At the head of the tail was an assortment of police vehicles. Again fears of ambush, robbery and killings filled my mind. No-one in the queue seemed stressed, so I continued on, inching past the stationary trucks and vans. Shirley slipped and I watched stones fa
lling hundreds of feet to the valley floor. Gathered around the front vehicle were thirty or more people. The van was jacked up on two boulders and people were squabbling about how to change the wheel. Another ten people were cooking by the side of the road to feed all who were involved in this much-debated operation. It was a true display of teamwork and ingenuity.

  The wheel was fixed and the spare secured to the roof. Assuming that the people had come from the tailback of other cars, I was surprised when all but two got back into the van that should have seated only twelve people. Contorted bodies could be seen through the windows but still I could see smiles on the faces of those who hadn’t already fallen asleep. The police waved me on.

  Chapter 32

  Mansehra was my next stop and I fell into bed as soon as I arrived. Gunfire sounded in the distance. Tiredness took over and sleep enveloped me.

  A loud bang woke me in the morning. I was up and out of that place like a rocket. I didn’t want to hear, see, or smell another bullet. The next one could have my name on.

  Outside the town an older gentleman told me to wait. I sat and waited for the notorious teas to arrive. They didn’t come and neither did the gentleman. Looking at my watch and stretching out, I relaxed, giving him a few more minutes. Another minute later and a tapping on my shoulder brought me back to the real world. The old man had a Browning Chalwa Kameez in his hand. It was his own one. It was a gift for me and he wanted me to put it on right now.

  I soon came across civilisation. The single lane track became a four-laned dual carriageway and at times six lines of traffic filled the road. The outside lane in each direction – which is usually the cycle lane – was being used for traffic coming the opposite way. The habitual dome of smog showed on the horizon. It got bigger and closer, and I soon plunged headlong into it. The mountains disappeared as did the cars in front. Dust and diesel coated me inside and out. Still, when people looked up they nodded in recognition of my traditional dress before getting back to work.