Famo Adventure Motorcycling Guide

I’m trying to think back to all I’d heard about Pakistan before entering the country. I suppose I have to go all the way back to my early childhood days watching cricket and hearing the name Imran Khan repeatedly on Wide World of Sports… and The Late Show (I made love to her like a tiiiiiger). The Pakistan display at World Expo ‘88 is lost in my memory and I think it may have been one of the pavilions my parents used to pretend to fall asleep in, the Pakistan expo budget extending only to a VHS cassette tape of primary industry production and, misguidedly enough, comfy chairs.

My mind then springs forward to news of the dispute between Pakistan and its neighbour India over the territory of Kashmir, and the acquisition by both countries of nuclear weapons. My final memory was that of riots in the streets after September 11, 2001 as president Pervez Musharaf voiced his support for George W. Bush in the global fight against terrorism, angering millions of Pakistanis who believed that their president had sold out to the west.

An interesting point to make is that this pre-conceived image of Pakistan has for some time been illuminated by the glow of a comment I read in Ted Simon’s book Jupiter’s Travels, where he describes The country as a relaxing respite after spending some months in India. That sounded good, India was nuts and I needed a respite.

So Pakistan loomed on the horizon as a black hole full of some pretty fanatical and war-affected people who are supposedly not as crazy as Indians, but just like Indians, can name every fast bowler and “master-blaster” that Australia has ever produced. Sounds good eh? But first a disclaimer:

Pakistan Disclaimer

This blog contains images that some people may find offensive. There are areas of Pakistan designated “tribal”, that do not fall under the jurisdiction of the Pakistan government due to their warring nature and proximity to war-affected Afghanistan. I was lucky enough to spend some time in the town of Sarakhot, Swat Valley, and witness the making and sales of firearms that are undoubtedly exported to all kinds of melees and skirmishes around the world. If you don’t think that you’ll be able to read about such naughty things, please skip this blog and read the next one about Iran, where firearms don’t play a large part in the day to day life of the people. Please be assured that I haven’t joined Al-Qaeda and I don’t support terrorism in any form, I do however find cottage industries incredibly fascinating, be it bee-keeping, quilting or manufacturing AK-47s.

Goodby India

As I rode towards the Wagga border at 10km/hr the last of the Indian touts swarmed at me saying

“You want Pepsi?”
“No thanks”
“You want Sprite?”
“No thanks”
“You want Coke?”
“No thanks”
“You want beer? Beer! Last beer until Turkey”
“Oooh! Beer! Hmmm, nah thanks, it’s still morning and I have to ride to Islamabad.”
OH WHAT A MISTAKE!!!!!!!! (I shoulda stocked up)

Islamabad

I crossed the border successfully and in no time was cruisin’ up the highway to Islamabad. The first time I stopped at a petrol station, a man came in and asked me a few questions. When I told him where I was from, his face lit up and he ended up buying me some juice and an iceblock, took me out to meet his kids in the car and offered to take me back to his house and have his wife cook me dinner… What on earth??? I respectfully declined and rode off shaking my head in disbelief. I’d just spent months in countries where people would talk for hours to graft some cash, or use that one word “bakshish” and expect you to go “hmmm, okay, I can’t really see what service you’ve performed but here’s some money just because you said bakshish…” and now I was confronted with genuine kindness and a desire to help my situation… what was this Pakistan place all about?

I rode on towards Islamabad and realised my battery was failing badly. Every time I’d stop the bike, it would complain seriously about starting. My fuse had blown again, I had no headlight, and the trouble needed to change it (remove bags, panniers, top-box, seat) was too much to worry about at the time. I rode on and by about 5:30pm realised I wouldn’t make Islamabad before dark, a frightening prospect given the number of trucks on the road. Have you ever scolded yourself for being lazy? I think the words that went through my mind were “If I had changed the fuse earlier, I wouldn’t be an invisible blob in the middle of this damn mess of high-beams and whizzing masses of metal” live and learn Damo…

Arriving at the Islamabad Tourist Campground at about 9pm to heartfelt greetings from Billy and Trish, was I glad to see them!!! There’s something really good about discovering a small ‘family’ while on the road, especially when you can go for weeks without having a proper conversation in English. We exchanged stories about what we’d seen since we split apart in southern Nepal and we began to lament the lack of beer.

Oh, did I mention that Islamabad has a tourist campground!! You wouldn’t believe it but a proper, leafy, facilitated campground like any that you’d see in Australia or Europe, except surrounded by a massive fence enshrouded with vines, not to mention the presence of maybe 15 soldiers for protection. I was tired, worn out after the long (380km) ride mixed with the border crossing, so I jumped into my tent to go to sleep and what did I hear? Thunder! It was starting to rain, no worries, a bit of rain never hurt anyone. I shut my eyes, breathed a sigh, and then… “AAAAALLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH” WOW!!! What the h*ll was that, it seemed that the imam at the local mosque was putting on a midnight performance. His voice would move from wailing the most intricate harmonies to growling the harshest-sounding religious readings I’d ever heard. I couldn’t understand any of it, but it sounded like he was amassing an army to invade the tents of all newly-arrived motorcycle-riding foreigners… I don’t know how but I slowly drifted off to sleep and awoke the next morning to find I’d been invaded by nothing more than a bunch of mozzies and a few mini-spiders…

The first plan on the agenda in Islamabad was organising a replacement debit card and trying to find a new battery for the bike. Billy, Trish and I headed to the market area and were given the typical run-around by the wallahs. The best way to make something happen in India or Pakistan is to suggest that it is not possible, as long as you phrase the question like “Hello, the battery for my large motorcycle is broken and I need to find a new one in Islamabad, but I don’t think this is possible?” you will almost always be rewarded with the reponse “No, possible.” The person who has just assured you that it is possible generally has no idea specifically what it is you want, they’ve basically just made a verbal agreement to try as hard as possible to organise what the silly westerner wants, even if it requires begging, borrowing, stealing or use of the phrase “No, it fits, look!” WHALLOP!!

Battery successfully whalloped into the bike.

I arranged a new debit card with the National Bank in Australia by telephone “Hello, I have lost my debit card and need a replacement in 4 days, but I don not think this is possible…” reponse “damn right it’s not possible, four days?? You’re dreamin’ mate, whats Pakistan like, isn’t that place like dangerous or somethin’???”

Shah Faisal Mosque, Islamabad

Peshawar

We decided to head west to the border town of Peshawar and take a trip out to the Khyber pass and maybe gun town if possible, depending on the stability of the tribal areas.

We stayed in the Peshawar Youth Hostel, an incredibly difficult to find place in a town west of Peshawar on the border of the tribal area and the khyber bazaar. The building was in the art-deco style and cared-for by a kind old gentleman with a crazy laugh and penchant for talking to himself. We were the only guests, something we came to experience a lot, usually explained away by the words “since September 11, 2001″. Guess what? The YHA card works at the Peshawar Youth Hostel and Trish had hers, Billy and I had to pay double the first night!!

Youth Hostel with our crazy old caretaker!!

We spent a couple of days organising the trips to the Khyber pass and gun town. Exploring the streets of Peshawar was eye-opening and I came to see more of that side of Pakistan, the unlimited hospitality. We were invited into the “shop” of an Afghani man and taken upstairs into a small room filled with old, dusty junk. I immediately noticed the wall covered in beautiful dresses deteriorating into trash after their 25 years of existance. I felt like Pip come to visit Miss Havisham in Satis House! The man explained the dresses were worn by Afghani women before Russia invaded. He showed me a selection of Russian knives and various other antiques removed from Russian soldiers during the war. It all seemed a bit sad, this ageing ex-mujaheddin soldier locked up in his stuffy room making unsuccessful attempts to sell me Bin Laden propaghanda. We scooted and went exploring the town further.

Everyone we ran into was incredibly curious and eager to know about our journey and what we thought of Pakistan. Peshawar really is the home of hospitality and we had our breakfast bought for us by a Pakistani man who had lived in Australia for 30 years but had returned to Peshawar to put his daughters through university. He was ripe with stories and explained how he arrived in Australia illegally, went to work over many years and finally became a citizen with legal residency status. He said that the decision to move back to Pakistan was his daughters’ and they chose to study in Pakistan for moral reasons.

Billy shopping for “tools” i.e. ex-dental equipment… ew!

The fresh banana shakes and apple juices made by this street vendor were fantastic! Once again someone in the store bought our drinks for us.

The local onion boy

A cart selling cold drinks and cordial

The locals buy all of their cooking ingredients from the street markets, this vendor is selling spices. The large orange pile of dust is maybe saffron??

An Afghan boy selling tea

This Peshawar mosque was bombed a week after we left the town, killing 15 people. Two days before, a hotel was targeted by a suicide bomber, killing a guard. The Sunni bombers were targeting Shia muslims during a celebration of the martyrdom of Mohammed’s grandson.

Meanwhile this boy shaves ice off a big block to make slushies!!

The use of child labour in Pakistan is very common. This young boy sews decoration onto a “traditional” dress with expert precision. One can only imagine what his hands and eyes will be like when he’s 20. Until the Pakistan government cracks down and enforces child labour laws, this will keep happening.

An Afghan couple from Kabul in Peshawar for a break. The woman is covered from head to foot, in the middle of summer!! There were two couples, but when I asked the other woman for a photo she responded “I don’t know, probably not” because her husband had left for a walk. I can’t understand these men and why they make their women hide. The situation for women in Pakistan is horrible, especially the Northwest Frontier Provinces around Peshawar, where a man can be killed for looking at a woman’s eyes for too long. There is such a vast contrast between the incredible hospitality shown by Pakistani people, and the horrible oppression of its women, sometimes knowing what to feel is difficult.

And a typical Peshawari bus

The Khyber Pass, Afghan Border

The Khyber Pass is famous for both the saying “up the Khyber Pass”, which everyone knows is rhyming slang for up the bottom, and as the wild-west, gunslinging, bandit-prone frontier between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Billy, Trish and I decided to catch a pickup truck out through the tribal areas to the border town of Landikotal to catch a glimpse of Afghanistan. It took a couple of days organisation and a hundred trips around Peshawar in taxis to finally have the permission, guard and vehicle to make the journey.

In the end the trip wasn’t really that spectacular. The scenery was stark and uninviting and despite the interesting remnants of banditry and fortifications from past wars, the rollercoaster-trained pickup driver and clinically insane guard detracted from the journey somewhat.

A view out of the back of the pickup towards a large fortified home / barracks. We couldn’t really tell what these buildings were and the guard was in no mental state to explain.

The actual pass looking back down into Pakistan.

On the way to the pass a group of schoolkids gathered to demonstrate against the lack of education funding. They threw rocks on the road and blocked our path. The driver and guard wouldn’t let us go in case it turned sour, but after 15 minutes the kids dispersed and we passed through, ducking under a few hurled stones.

This picture was taken on the Pakistan side of the khyber bazaar. The eastern side is policed by Pakistani military and the western (Afghan) side by the tribal chiefs. Needless to say on the good side you buy whitegoods, torches and I even bought a multimeter for my toolkit. On the “bad” side you buy guns, guns and more guns. These fellows worked at the stalls selling whitegoods. Half and half Pakistani and Afghan refugee. One man asked me why I had brown hair and a red beard!!!

Kid gets a lift into Hayatabad from the bazaar.

Sakhakot, Swat Valley – Gun Town

In Peshawar we made enquiries about some of the surrounding tribal towns that have a cottage industry in gun manufacturing. The officials explained to us that the town Darra Adam Khel was definitely out of bounds to foreigners due to recent flare-ups and banditry. It was suggested that if we went there, we could lose our bikes or worse. We were about to give up on the idea when we met a guide at the Greens hotel called Reza. We organised to head to the town of Sakhakot the next day.

Reza was an influential man, explaining his closeness to the local tribal chiefs and explaining that he regularly takes people from National Geographic, UN and CNN etc. out to the local tribal towns. It’s important to have a good guide for these areas.

Unfortunately the day we arrived was a Friday and most of the shops were closed. We were introduced to a couple of brothers with arms shops across the road from each other. They usually deal in AK47s and other assault rifles, however showed us examples of baretta handguns and even their homegrown, touristic “pen gun” that you can take home for $2. Trying to bring one back would be unspeakably stupid so we just smiled and nodded.

Anyway, the deal with these towns is that they make exact replicas of original handguns and rifles using the most basic hand and machining tools. They’ll take a billet of aluminium and using a milling machine will make it look like a firearm. Then they take their hand tools and file, scribe, cut and shape all of the internal mechanisms to turn them into working firearms. Reportedly it takes about a month for them to copy any handgun or rifle and then a week to make each copy after they’ve got all of the templates finished. These towns pump out hundreds of guns a week, which are then sold into places like India, Afghanistan etc.

This man shapes pieces for AK47s.

Putting some touches on a handgun.

The arms dealers, with walls covered in AK47 assault rifles.

Shooting the rifle at the dirt was fun for a go, but I’m still a gun-hater and always will be. I’d prefer to see these people putting their incredible talents to better use like making guitars or something. More wars should be waged with smouldering licks and thumping riffs instead of weapons.

Can you believe this scene, the man’s daughters look on while he goes to work hand-crafting firearms, picture by Billy Gibson

Just like every other town, the kids go to school, joke around and become incredibly curious whenever foreigners arrive. I love engaging them in stupid conversation about cricketers.

So much more to come in Part II, stay tuned for Nature in Pakistan!!!