Wednesday, March 20, 2002

 
BUS TO PAKISTAN
By Constantin von Hoffmeister

April 25, 1999

I arrive at the Ambedkar Bus Terminal in Old Delhi at 4:30 am. The bus to
Lahore is scheduled to depart at 6 am. This is a historical moment, being
one of the first few white passengers travelling on this revolutionary route
to Pakistan. One can sense danger and suspicion, considering the heavily
armed guards who patrol around the terminal with machine-guns and serious
faces. Every passenger is being thoroughly checked, with bags being opened
and rummaged through and visas examined. I am having a little post-breakfast
chat with two Nepalis that want to study pharmaceutics in Karachi.

Finally, the bus is leaving. I am comfortable in a front seat with a good
view, a cop sitting next to me playing with his waxed moustache. As soon as
the bus leaves the Delhi city limits, it is being guided by an armed police
escort that would change from state to state. The bus driver turs around
(his baseball hat stating, "I love Pakistan.") and tells me, "This is a very
comfortable a/c bus. You want some water? I will play music now." I am not
thirsty, but still obliged to listen to blaring popular Hindi songs blasting
throughout the bus. My mostly sleeping fellow passengers do not seem to be
bothered.

Ten hours later we arrive at the Attari-Wagah border crossing (the only one
between the two countries). The following procedure is one of the most
tedious I ever had the "pleasure" to endure.

All the bags have to be carried off the bus to be checked by the Indian
border officials.

This takes one hour since, as usual in India, people are unable to cope with
the fact that an orderly line is time minimizing and therefore beneficial
for everyone.

After I am through the passport-visa-bag check, I am smoking a cigarette in
the no-man's land between India and Pakistan, admiring the aesthetic beauty
of complicated barbed wire constructions. In Delhi, a fellow reporter told
me that in Pakistan, people smoke cigarettes the other way around. I somehow
have my doubts about that.

While I am exhaling an absurdly shaped cloud of smoke, a fellow passenger
(looks like he is traditionally dressed for an Islamic country) is
approaching me.

He introduces himself as Hassan, an Algerian living in Germany. He asks me
what I am going to Pakistan for.

I tell him for fun only. He tells me that I should come with him to a Muslim
pilgrimage meeting point in a village near Lahore.

I tell him that I would think about it. He exclaims that everyone should
praise Allah. I say that he is probably right (to not offend him).

The bus proceeds to the Pakistani border post. Again, the procedure takes
one hour. But this time an extra dose of ill fortune upsets my empty
stomach.

When the fat Pakistan customs officer opens my bag, he discovers two bottles
of Royal Challenge Premium Whiskey, the best alcohol India has to offer. Of
course, he knows good quality when he sees it, so he says, "Sir, no alcohol
allowed in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan." I say, "I don't believe it.
Prove it." He smiles deviously and points at writings on the wall behind
him. All of it looks quite abstract to me. It must be Urdu. I guess that I
have no choice but to comply with his wish/command. He takes one of the
bottles and quickly disappears with it, not before telling me that he is "a
really nice man" and therefore he is leaving me a bottle. I wish him a lot
of fun with the other one. Another guard compensates me with a cold drink
(Pepsi).

It takes the bus half an hour from the border to Lahore. First impressions
of Pakistan reveal that it looks exactly like the country on the other side
of the border. But what did I expect? I am still in Punjab. The sun is
rising, and people are working on the fields, some of them waving at the bus
as it passes their daily routine. It seems that the bus is creating a lot of
positive attention, both in India and in Pakistan. The visual reactions of
people seem entirely positive.

After the bus comes to a full stop at the terminal, all the Muslims get out,
unfold their prayer mats on the grass, and (for the 5th time today) start
praying. I watch their procedure while eating an apple. Afterwards, I
promise Hassan that I would visit him tomorrow to check out for myself what
he was telling me.

Then I get into a motor-rikshaw and tell the driver to drop me off at my
hotel. I am sweating profusely in the vehicle since it has two small doors
on either side, thereby compressing the heat and making it impossible to
breath anything but stale breath and my own exhaled oxygen.

The driver turns around and asks me where I am from. I tell him that I am
from Germany. He says that I must be a Catholic then. I confirm his
statement. He yells, "Hallelujah!" I ask him if he is also Christian. He
says yes and tells me that his name is Joseph. He explains to me that he
cannot tell any Muslim that he is Christian because that might cost him his
job. "There is a lot of prejudice against Christians in Pakistan, but we
have a lot of nice churches," Joseph says proudly and bitterly at the same
time. To avoid such complications, his official name is Yussuf. Outside,
dust is whirling and traffic is honking.

After I check in my room at the Farelli's hotel (a government-run
organization), I am stunned by the size of the cockroaches that inhabit my
room. I have never seen a species of cockroaches that exceptionally large.
They look like mutated survivors of a nuclear holocaust. I crush two of them
with my sandals after I walk in and one with a metal ashtray as it was
trying to escape through a hole in the smelly carpet. The next morning I
would discover, while reading the daily newspaper DAWN (main themes being
the cricket match between India and Pakistan and the Chinese state visit) on
the toilet, that two live cockroaches were indulging in a food orgy that
consisted of the carcass of their comrade.

Getting hungry, I decide to check out the local McDonald's. Since it was
only recently inaugurated, the fast food haven looks completely sterile and
smells extremely fresh and artificial. The menu is quite different than the
one offered at the Indian branch. Since Muslims have no problems digesting
the meat of cows, beef ("100%") is the main ingredient in most dishes. I eat
a Beefburger with Cheese and drink a coke. I also participate in a lottery
to see if I am the lucky winner of a flight from Lahore to Singapore. I
loose and leave.

The next day, I decide to visit Hassan at the Muslim pilgrimage place. I
take a local bus to Reiwend, a small village some 50 km outside of Lahore.
The way is paved with the obligatory sights of small and dusty villages with
villagers working hard in the fields. In Pakistan, for obvious reasons,
there is no abundance of cows aimlessly roaming the streets.

When I arrive at the Tabliquhi Jamaat, a market turned into a mosque and
convention center, Hassan, who is waiting for me at the main gate, greets
me. We walk inside one of the giant halls, and I can see hundreds of
Muslims, all traditionally dressed, eating grapes, reading the Koran or
simply conversing in a multitude of languages.

"This is the hall that is reserved for all the foreigners," Hassan tells me.
"because the Pakistanis try to be good hosts, they gave the best spot for
the guests of their country." I am sitting down on a straw mat, and
immediately I am seized by five of Hassan's friends who stare at me
curiously. They offer me some unfiltered water, and I am reluctant in
drinking it. "No problem with the water here. This is holy place," Hassan
says. I drink because the desert winds made me thirsty, and I eat Pakistani
sweets. Everything is quite tasty.

A young Spaniard approaches me in broken English. He has a long and groomed
beard, wears thick glasses and with a big smile asks me, "So, have you
converted to Islam yet?" I tell him not quite, but - to not offend his
honest convictions - I was considering it. The Spaniard then relates to me
the story of his conversion three years ago in a small village in Chile. He
was very lonely, and got acquainted with a Turkish businessman there. The
Turk introduced him to the values of Islam, and the Spaniard had a vision in
the local Mosque, seeing angels and suddenly realizing that the Koran's soft
words were true.

About one hour later, it is time for the prayer meeting. Hassan asks me to
follow him. We walk through endless corridors with a colourful mix of people
sitting against the walls, on their knees praying or humming to themselves.
Finally we reach the bathroom, where - as Hassan tells me - all the Muslims
have to wash themselves before proceeding to the Mosque. Hassan sticks his
feet in the sink and rubs them gently with soap. Then he washes his hands
and face. He also wets his cap before putting it back on. "Because of the
enormous heat," he says.

There are about 50,000 people in the Mosque, and I really stick out since it
seems that I am the only non-Muslim present. The praying starts and all
people kneel down to bow their heads. I am standing in between, feeling like
sitting on a lonely rock in the middle of a vast ocean, observing the scene
with elevated vision. Two hours later, I am back at my hotel, contemplating
missed opportunities and fresh insights into religious matters.

The next morning, I decide it is about time for an all-day sightseeing trip
of Lahore. My first destination is the Old City where I meet a
self-appointed guide who - against my will - decides to take me around
(undoubtedly, not without some monetary compensation in his mind). He
reveals his name as Nadir and tells me that he is a student of journalism at
the Lahore University. He also tells me that his mother is extremely wary of
his career choice. "Being a journalist is an extremely dangerous profession
these days in Pakistan," Nadir says, "if certain people in power don't like
what you write, they might just get rid of you."

I nod in disbelief while we are entering the Shahi Hammam, the royal bath
that was built during the period of Emperor Sha Jehan. The bath has been
beautifully restored, but it now contains a cheesy antique shop with
expensive replicas of so-called "ancient treasures." I refuse to buy
anything, thereby defying the salesman who vehemently implores me to
purchase "anything special for my mother."

On the way to the Lahore Fort (definitely the city's main attraction and
tourist magnet), I ask Nadir what he thinks about the relations between
India and Pakistan. He seems insulted and says with a stern voice, "You know
people of Pakistan are the same as the ones in India.
Like most of my fellow countrymen, I am for the unification of the two
countries because we (Pakistanis and Indians) are all brothers. And brothers
shouldn't fight with each other. Unfortunately, the politicians think
differently."

When we reach the Fort, I have to face the fact - to my utter dismay - that
it is closed for the common man because some Chinese politician wants to
visit it the same day. I guess mu visit was not meant to be. I ask Nadir why
all the motor-rikshaws have doors in Lahore. He tells me it is because of
the women. They are not supposed to be stared at while they are being carted
around the streets. "That would make them defenseless and easy targets for
harassment," he says.

At night, I am by myself, eating roasted Afghani chicken at a road-stall. It
is red, obscenely spicy, but quite delicious. I contemplate the street
scenery that is invading my senses. It seems very dark. There are hardly any
neon-signs, and there is not as much traffic as in Delhi. But the stale heat
is just as trifling. Architecturally, it seems more oriental and exotic to
me than Old Delhi does. Somehow, one can tell that this is an Islamic
metropolis, the cries of the muezzins in countless mosques all around
confirming deeper thoughts on the topic.

On the way back two days later, it takes me three hours to cross the border.
A historical event becomes an obstacle for me. For the first time in about
fifty years, 300 Sikhs from Pakistan are allowed to cross the border. They
are eager to go to Amritsar to participate in the tricentennary celebrations
of Sikhism there. They are leaving one Punjab to enter another.