New Delhi, Monday April 18
I didn't tell many people I was going to Pakistan: I just bought my ticket, got my visa and kept my mouth shut. When I traveled to Iran in 1999 I got a lot of grief about safety and this time I didn’t want to have to answer other people's doubts. I am neither particularly brave nor stupid and wouldn’t go if I thought it was dangerous. I had done my homework, writing to westerners that had been there and reading all the reports I could find. I planned to go unannounced: my safe return would speak for itself.

I landed in New Delhi where it was nearly 40 degrees (104 Fahrenheit). I spent the whole day running around Connaught Place, the commercial center, making my plans: I bought a round trip train ticket to Amritsar near the Pakistan border and a round trip air ticket to Nepal for the end of the trip. I also did a lot of sweating and vowed to get out of Delhi and stay out. It was brutally hot and by afternoon all I could think about was getting into some air-conditioned place.

Lahore, Tuesday April 19
In the morning I boarded the most luxurious class of India train - Executive air-condition chair car - for a very pleasant four and an half hour ride to Amritsar. My seatmate was a Sikh businessman from England returning for holiday to his home village. As we talked about our life and travels we were almost continually served food. It started with tea, next came corn flakes with warm milk and finally an omelet with a croissant. The seats had plenty of legroom and there were large, clean windows through which I could enjoy the passing landscape.

We were traveling through the Punjab, home to the Sikhs, which was flat and fertile. Wheat was being harvested in the fields leaving large piles of wheat and wheat stalks in the stubble-covered fields. The sky was cloudless and the air no doubt hot but inside I had to put on a long sleeve shirt against the cool air-conditioning.

Late in the trip I took a walk and stepped into the area between the cars where people go to smoke. There I met 4 or 5 young men from Pakistan. Given the animosity between India and Pakistan I was surprised that they were visiting India. They told me they were on a "sports visa" and were returning from a cricket match.

They asked me if I was going to Pakistan and were pleased to hear I was. I said I was planning to stay a day or two in Amritsar and asked when they were going to cross into Pakistan. They said they were moving on directly after the train arrived. I hadn’t thought it possible to make the trip from Delhi to Lahore in one day.

Back in my seat I consulted my calendar and decided crossing directly might be better for me too. I got up and visited the Pakistanis again. They said the border was open until 3:30 and that the train would arrive about 1:00. As the border was only about 20 or 30 minutes away by taxi I decided to continue on directly to Pakistan too.

When we arrived into the chaos of the Amritsar train station I pushed my way out to the taxi stand and bargained with a tall Sikh for a ride to the border. On the way we passed autorickshaws full of school kids in blue uniforms and, outside the city, more flat fields of wheat.

At the border there were three stops on the India side: at each my passport and visa information were carefully written down. Then there was a fairly long, hot walk across the no-man’s-land to the Pakistani border where there were three more stops. One of the questions they asked me at customs was did I have any beer, wine or alcohol? I knew my stay in Pakistan was going to be "dry."

Finally, I entered Pakistan and changed my Indian Rupees for Pakistani Rupees with an old man sitting at a card table under a tree. Then I walked into a large, dusty parking lot to find a driver to Lahore.

None of the drivers spoke any English and I had to use a middleman to do the negotiations, which almost always means problems. I wanted to go to the Best Western Shalimar Hotel but the driver only listened to the last part and tried to drop me off at the Shalimar gardens instead - it was on the opposite side of the city. When he finally understood where I really wanted to go he demanded more money. I just kept saying the name of the hotel, which he then repeated to passersby until we finally found the hotel. It was a long, hot, nerve-racking drive with the driver seemingly lost and continually demanding more money.

When we finally got to the hotel I just grabbed my bag and got out - no way I was going to pay him any more, he had already charged me almost twice what the same ride cost in India. In the cool of the lobby I discovered the hotel was full. They directed me to another place just down the road, which was both considerably more expensive and also full. They in turn pointed me to a guesthouse down a dusty, hot street. I was starting to get tired and a little nervous - where would I stay?

The guesthouse was odd and looked more like a private residence than a rooming house. There was only a small sign outside and a tiny lobby just inside the door. They said they were also full but somehow while we were talking they took pity on me and moved someone out to make room for me. It wasn’t exactly clear what had happened, but I finally have a room.

It was a strange place full of silent, starring Pakistani men. Only one story high, the rooms were arranged along a narrow, dark hallway. My room was clean and quiet, but somehow I didn’t feel comfortable and decided to look for other accommodations the next day. I dropped my bag in my room and headed back to the previous hotel for a late lunch/early dinner. Then I took a long walk around the neighboring commercial districts.

There were fabric vendors, gold shops, toy stores and banks. Lahore is perhaps the most modern and liberal of Pakistani cities and it was the only place I saw women without headscarves. They seem to shop in small groups and live in a separate, parallel world. I never had any interactions with them, not in the hotels or restaurants nor on the street: all the servers were men except for one woman attendant on the bus from Lahore to Peshawar and she always had down turned eyes and said precious little.

Lahore, Wednesday April 20
Early next morning I walked back to the Best Western and had breakfast. After eating I reserved a room for the night. Back at my guesthouse I checked out and moved my bag to the Best Western. Then I needed to exchange some money and wanted to visit the Badshahi mosque, so I asked for some advice at the hotel desk. I was hoping they would help me negotiate with the taxi drivers outside. Instead the desk clerk said he was getting off in a few minutes and offered to take me on his motorcycle. How could I refuse an offer like that?

He told me to wait and disappears in the back. When he returned I really didn’t recognize him. Gone were his blue suit and red tie. Instead he wore jeans, a baseball cap and sunglasses. Out in the busy, dusty morning traffic he drove me to the American Express office where I exchange a traveler's check while he waited outside. Then he suggested we have a drink and took me to a juice bar in the old city where he bought me a glass of fresh orange juice.

We sat taking for a while and then we hopped back on his motorcycle and he drove deeper into the old city. He stopped on a busy street and consulted an autorickshaw driver about taking me the rest of the way to the Badshahi mosque. So we parted company there: him heading home to sleep and me heading on into the old city.

In the 17^th century Lahore and Delhi were ruled by the Mughals. They had built many great buildings, among them the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore and the Friday Mosque in Delhi. The two buildings are remarkably similar, made of red sandstone and decorated with white marble. Their prayer halls are both covered with three white, onion-shaped domes and flanked by minarets. In front are open areas used to accommodate the large, overflow crowds on Friday, the Muslin holy day. Having seen them both it would be impossible to say which is more beautiful. After walking around a while I found a place to sit and drink in the majesty of the place. When I first visited the Friday Mosque in Delhi I had vowed to see this one too. Now I was finally there.

I was greeted warmly by other visitors and was frequently invited to take their picture. The Pakistan men I met were very courteous and friendly to me. They always asked where I was from and I never received so much as an odd look when I told them the US. In fact, I was usually given an extra warm welcome because so few of my countrymen visit there. It seemed they were telling me in their own way that they didn't blame me for the actions of my government.

After visiting the mosque I spent the rest of the morning wandering around the old city taking pictures. The traffic was thick, the fumes choking, and the sun blazing hot - but not nearly as hot as Delhi. The streets were full of buses, trucks, autorickshaws, motorcycles, horse-carts and pedestrians so the traffic moved at a crawl. Vegetable vendors lined the sidewalks along with fortunetellers and watch repairmen. Everywhere I looked there were interesting things to take pictures of. I understood the probation against shooting photos of women but otherwise no one objected to my camera.

After several hours in the heat and dust I got an autorickshaw back to the hotel. After lunch I had the hotel make a bus reservation to Peshawar for the next morning. Then I took a nap.

In the late afternoon I headed to another commercial area near the corner of Mall and Hall streets where I hoped to find a souvenir shop. I wasn’t ready to buy anything yet, but wanted instead to get an idea what might be available. As the temperature had fallen it was fairly pleasant waking around the busy streets.

I had a hard time finding the shop: no one seemed to know where it was, so I just kept looking. As usual I was often stopped and asked where I was from or simply waved at by shopkeepers sitting in front of their stores. I didn't see any other westerners, so I guess I stood out.

Finally, I found the shop, browsed the stock and then headed back to the hotel for dinner. After that I walked around the commercial area near the hotel again taking a bunch of photos. Jewelry shops (and banks, for that matter) usually have an armed guard sitting in front of them. I wanted to take a picture of these guys, but was a bit intimidated by the guns and, well, they weren't exactly the friendliest looking guys either. Finally, I just took the direct approach: I walked up with my camera held out and indicated I wanted to take a picture. To my surprise the guy stood up and posed for me.

Peshawar, Thursday April 21
Next morning I got up early again, checked out, said goodbye to the hotel clerk who had been so kind to me and got a bus to Peshawar. I was traveling by Daewoo bus, the top of the line in Pakistan.

First, I had my bag inspected and then I was allowed to board. As soon as all the passengers were in their seats a man with a video camera got on. First he photographed the clock in the front of the bus and then walked down the aisle taking a video of all the passengers one after the other. Then a prayer was played as we pulled out, followed by a request to put on our safety belts.

We were quickly out of the city and onto a smooth, divided four-lane highway. The land looked pretty much like the Punjab with ripe wheat filling the fields on both sides. The 6.5 hour trip was punctuated by a box lunch served by the only woman I had an interaction with my whole time in Pakistan. She also passed out English and Urdu papers and came around periodically with pop and water.

I was as happy as I could be: I was on my way to a new city; I was on a comfortable bus with great scenery to look at; and I was listening to country music on my MP3 player. It was one of those great travel moments.

I had several objectives in traveling to Peshawar, which is located northwest of Lahore. First, I wanted to travel up the Khyber Pass, the route leading to Afghanistan. It’s a famous route traveled by anyone entering or leaving India for Central Asia. All the great conquerors have used it from Alexander the Great and Ghengis Khan to the Mughals, who built the Taj Mahal. I wanted to follow in their footsteps.

Also, I wanted to visit Peshawar's old city and finally take some pictures of Pakistani trucks. I had seen pictures of these hand painted beauties and wanted to take a closer look. When we arrived at the Daewoo station in Pashawar I discovered we were right across the street from the local bus station. As we drove in I could see that the local buses were also elaborately decorated, so instead of getting an autorickshaw directly to my hotel I slung my pack on my back and headed off to shoot the buses.

I stopped at a dusty, oil-stained yard where buses were being repaired. Everywhere I walked, I was greeted warmly by the men working on the buses. They would jump up or run over to stand proudly next to the buses as I took pictures. The decoration followed a common theme: painted metal bird usually decorated the roof, red and yellow reflectors dominated around the windshield, decorative chains hung from the bumpers and sides and all the flat areas were painted with nature scenes or Urdu (the local language) script. The overall impression was of color and handwork. The result was a visual assault and a desire on my part to take a picture of every one.

After a couple of hot hours I finally got to Green's Hotel. This time I had made a reservation before leaving Lahore. I wanted no more wandering around in the heat looking for a place to sleep. Green's was located in the commercial center of the newer part of the city, an area called Sadder.

As soon as I checked in I went looking for a place to exchange money. At the hotel desk they told me the banks were already closed for the day so I headed to the nearest exchange office. Much to my disappointment I was told that they were out of money - the clerk actually showed me an empty drawer.

Outside I looked across the street at a bank. I could see people moving around inside so I walked over and tried the door - it opened. At the desk a friendly fellow - he said he was the customer service representative - told me he that he was sorry but the bank was in fact closed but, he offered to help me get some cash anyway.

He walked me across the street to the same office I had just visited and had a short conversation with the clerk in Urdu. This time they didn’t claim to be out of money. Instead they just asked me how much I wanted to exchange. On the way out I asked my bank friend why they had money now: "Oh, they had it all the time but wanted to keep it. I just told them we would give them some if they needed it." He then asked me if I would come back to the bank for a cup of tea.

He had me sit in the lobby and while I waited the assistant director and then the director himself came to greet me and shake my hand. Then I was invited into the director's office. There were a few other people sitting in there too - one was an economics professor who spoke excellent English. Some of the bank employees came in also to say hello as we drank our tea. I spent a very pleasant hour talking to the professor as the bank director went about his work.

I have experienced this kind of warm welcome in other Muslin countries. They have a culture of hospitality. Often when I would thank someone for going out of his way he would say that I was a guest in his country and that it was his responsibility to help me. I know it’s hard for most westerners that haven’t experienced this to reconcile it with their apparent vehement hatred of the west that makes the news.

On the way back to the hotel a man stopped me. "Are you the American staying at Green's Hotel?" he asked. I had told the hotel clerk I needed a guide for the trip up the Khyber Pass and this was the guy. He had just been to the hotel looking for me. So we stood in the street and talked over the next day's plans. We decided to leave at 8:30. He wanted 4000 Pakistani Rupees ($68) for the car, himself, a guard and the permit. This seemed a little high but I didn’t have a lot of time to shop around, so I said ok.

I spent the afternoon walking around Sadder taking pictures. Then I went looking for an Internet "club" - as they are called in Pakistan - to send some photos home. I had ready experienced how painfully slow a connection in Pakistan can be. Couple that with old computers, dirty keyboards and regular power outages, it made sending email a chore. Add to this my need for a newer version of Windows to upload my photos and I often spent a lot of time looking for a suitable place.

This time I found a club in the basement of a huge commercial office block. When I find a new place I always talk to the guy who runs it so he'll know that I work with computers and to explain what I want to do. I sat next to the owner, connected to my remote email server and started uploading photos. Right on schedule the lights went out but I noticed the monitors stayed on and the files kept moving. The owner, a handsome young man, leaned over and bragged, "Pretty good, eh?" The whole place was on an uninterruptible power supply and could tolerate short outages. He was rightfully proud of his system. After that this was the only place I visited in Peshawar.

Peshawar, Friday April 22
Next morning after breakfast, Raza Khan, my driver and guide, was waiting for me at the hotel desk. We hopped into his car and headed over to the Office of the Political Agent, Khyber to get my permit. As it was both a Friday, the Muslin holy day, and a holiday, the Prophet Mohammed’s birthday, Raza had had to make special arraignments to have the Political Agent come in to write my permit. After some handshaking and picture taking we got my permit and our guard and headed off.

A western traveler needs a permit to travel up the Khyber because it crosses the Northwest Frontier Province, a semi-autonomous area in the mountains next to the Afghan border. I was told that Pakistani laws only apply to a narrow band along the road. The guard was ostensibly to protect me from danger but, was more likely there to keep me from wandering off the assigned path. There was simply too strong a military presences and too much traffic for bandits to be lurking anywhere nearby. Farther off the road, who knows what it's like?

We headed directly out of Peshawar and the road soon started to climb and the air cooled down a bit. We passed trucks and buses that were laboring up the increasingly steep road. Small villages and empty fortifications dotted the hills and patches of green vegetation colored the otherwise dull brown hills.

Our first stop was a military checkpoint where my guide showed his worth: he knew everybody. Having the soldiers check my papers wasn’t good enough: he wanted the commandant, who was called out of his office. He looked at my permit and then we all sat down for a cup of tea and to have our pictures taken.

It was clear Raza had worked with many tourists and understood just what was needed. In fact he had been telling me about all the famous reporters and photographers he knew. At first I assumed it was just talk but by the end of the journey I decided he really did know his business and was worth the extra money.

Farther along the road we saw a small shrine had been setup in a dusty parking lot in front of a walled compound. The dome of the shrine was covered in green cloth and a lot of people we milling around. We pulled in and Raza set off to find the headman. He was a stately, gray-bearded fellow who spoke no English: he had Raza invite me to tea.

We sat in the shade of a lone tree just off the road with some other villagers and lots of young boys watching from a polite distance. As tea was served a technician from the local clinic joined us. He spoke excellent English and told me about life in the village. He said that the health care was terrible because the doctors tend to reuse the same needles spreading hepatitis.

Soon we were back on the road again and after a few more check points and other stops for tea we finally reached the top of the pass, the farthest point I could travel. We got out and walked to the edge of the hill. Below us we could see trucks winding down the road to the Afghan border. A refreshing breeze blew and I had that wonderful feeling of accomplishment. "I have made it," I thought. Visiting this out of the way place had long been a dream of mine.

After more pictures, and hand shakes with the military, we headed back to Peshawar. On the way Raza asked if I would like to eat a traditional Pakistani meal. I said sure. He then told me the story about a tourist he had taken to this restaurant and how he, the tourist, had insisted that they split the bill. The story appeared to be about an ill-mannered tourist but I believe it was really a way to make it clear that I was expected to pay.

So we dropped the guard back at the office and headed into the old city where most of the shops were closed and decorations were being put up in the street. When I asked what they were for Raza told me that they were for tonight’s celebration of Mohammad’s birthday. I decided I should come back tonight to see.

The restaurant was empty, which I always take as a bad sign, but there was no turning back. We sat on the floor on cushions near the window so we could see the activity in the street. Raza ordered and then disappeared to talk to his friend the owner.

Soon the food arrived. Before me was quite a feast: eggplant in a cream sauce, curry chicken, meat kebab, rice sweetened with raisins and orange and, of course, naan. It was delicious: the best food I had on the trip. The bill came to slightly more than $8 US. Raza told me that he had explained to the owner that I wasn’t one of his reporters on an expense account but a simple traveler paying out of my own pocket. The owner made sure I knew he had given me a 10% discount.

As I planned to return to the old city later I had Raza drop me at the main mosque. I used it as the starting point and walked around from there so I would know where I was when I returned for the evening's festivities. I spent about an hour getting a sense of the main landmarks and then returned to the hotel for a short rest.

Early in the evening I took an autorickshaw back to the main mosque. The adjoining streets were already lined with vendors selling food and festive decorations. There were tinsel streamers used to decorate buildings and shiny paper hats that young boys proudly wore. The streets were lit with strings of colored light and closed to traffic. Bands of boys ran around excitedly and families enjoyed ice cream bars. I was the only westerner in sight. Men stopped to ask where I was from and welcomed me when I told them the US, then they lined up to have their picture taken.

After a short while a young man started tagging along with me. He said he just wanted to practice his English but I suspected he would eventually try to sell me something. He walked me deeper into the old city, away from the area I had scouted in the daylight. I was a little nervous but also intrigued. The farther we walked the more crowded and interesting the streets got. The every-present military and police were somewhat reassuring.

Eventually we ended up at a small shop where my ‘guide’ got out a small wicker tray covered by a baby-blue cloth. Under it there were hand made knives. He then proceeded to try to sell me one. Repeatedly I told him I wasn’t interested but, as he had been such a good guide, I didn’t want to be too rude. After several attempts I finally told him I wanted to go: he was clearly disappointed but still helped me get an autorickshaw back to my hotel. It was a good thing to since I no longer knew where I was.

Travelers coming from India often comment on how much less hassle there is in Pakistan. While there are beggars and touts they are considerably less aggressive. Muslin countries don't seem to have the culture of begging so prevalent in India. Also Pakistan has fewer tourists, which seemed to translate into fewer touts.

Peshawar, Saturday April 23
The next day I decided to relax a bit. After a leisurely breakfast I headed back to the bus station. Just down the street was a large staging area where trucks were serviced and loaded. Just as with the buses, the trucks are carefully and lovingly decorated. As I walked around taking pictures men would run out of their shops to stand by their truck for a photo.

The funniest thing that happened was that two men ran out of a shop with their cell phone which they used to snap pictures of me taking pictures of the trucks. After an hour in the heat and dust I had enough pictures and headed back to the hotel. Then I went shopping for a "kameez" - that long shirt that almost all Pakistani men wear. Although they are usually quite plain - light colored and undecorated - I did notice that some had designer tags on the pockets. "Branding" apparently had snuck into Pakistan clothing.

I wasn't looking for anything fancy, just something to wear when I showed my photos at home. I tried one on in a shop: it was huge and hung comically loose on my skinny frame but the clerk seemed to think it was the right size. For about $10 US I figured I couldn't go too far wrong.

I also stopped at a rug shop next to the hotel. I didn’t want to buy anything - it was too early in my trip to start lugging stuff around - but the shop was a pleasant, well-lit place and I had a little time to kill. I warned the owner I wasn’t going to buy anything but, of course he started throwing rugs on the floor to tempt me. We talked about this and that as he tried to tune in on what I liked. Eventually he threw down a rug that caught my eye. It was a brightly colored kilim, about 2 by 3 feet, with tiny animals woven into it. "I had a rug just like that," I commented, "but my wife took it when I got divorced."

"If you buy this one you might get a new wife too," his friend commented - he had been sitting quietly until now. "Oh, I might buy a rug but I'm not ready for another wife," I replied. They both laughed as I stood looking at the rug. It was very appealing: I had really liked the other rug. "Show me how small a bundle you can make out of that thing," I asked. The owner folded it into a pretty small package but I figured I could roll it up even tighter.

"Ok, how much," I finally gave in. He asked $150; I offered $100. He said he couldn't sell it for that and countered with $130. I thought about it for a few minutes and finally said, "I'm tempted to offer you $120 but I figure you will then say $125 and I don’t want to argue over $5, so I’ll take it." So now I had an extra 6 pounds to lug around for the next two weeks. That was half again as much as my whole pack weighed.

Later I sat in the hotel lobby, which was a large, plant-filled atrium and wrote in my journal - I sure did miss my evening beer. After that I sent some more emails before heading to bed.

In the morning I took a Daewoo bus back to Lahore where I immediately got a taxi to the border and crossed back into India. Ahead lay a couple of days in Amritsar and then a week in Kathmandu.

Ann Arbor, Michigan
July 2005

Read more of my travelogues

Send your comments to: