‘You are my brother’ Bilal announced, and then he tacked on ‘…and my sister. Pakistanis are having the utmost respect for foreigners. Only your satisfaction matters. Not money. What is your plan for tomorrow, I will take you.’ Bilal really wanted to drive us to our next destination, even though it would be a ten hour return trip for him and we weren’t quite sure that his effusive remarks about hospitality to foreigners extended as far as actually giving us a good deal on the car trip.
But it’s true that Pakistani hospitality is legendary amongst travelers. We’ve been here before and have always been met with kindness and generosity. We got off a bus late one night in Sukker, a town famed (according to the local police) for unspecified danger to foreigners. As we stood around in the chilly darkness in front of a deserted petrol station, another former passenger approached us. He was leaving for the United States in the next couple of days to work on his Master’s degree and in the meantime, he had some gifts for us. He opened his suitcase and gave us a shawl and a hat. ‘You’re most welcome’ he said with a huge smile, when we thanked him. Then he organised a taxi to the guesthouse for us and offered to pay for it, too. That kind of thing happens a lot, and we really appreciate it.
Some people are so keen to help us I get the feeling that they think we are nearly helpless, if left to ourselves. One day I watched from the doorway of our hotel as Oyv headed across the road to an ATM. Crossing a street in a large Asian city: there’s no room for hesitation. You show the drivers who’s boss by holding up your hand and stepping into traffic, even though it might seem as if a swarm of vehicles approaching at high speed is in fact, boss. Large barriers often run down the center of these roads to prevent everyone from otherwise just driving wherever the hell they want to, meaning Oyv needed to climb over this barrier to get to the other side. Suddenly another guest appeared from inside the hotel and rushed down the street. He offered his hand and assisted Oyv in climbing over the barrier. Then he dramatically stopped traffic and escorted Oyv across.
We’d met the volunteer crossing guard at breakfast the previous day. He wanted to take a selfie with Oyv, so Oyv put down his paratha and chai and stood up to take the photo. This is the real peril of traveling in Pakistan: your newfound status as some kind of celebrity, or maybe just as freakishly odd, leading to many people wanting to make your acquaintance and take photos together. The man didn’t speak a word of English but nevertheless he wanted to exchange WhatsApp numbers. That happens a lot, too. We’re currently keeping up with people we met months ago, who reach out just to say hi and ask if we need anything. How they intend to help us out from across a border I don’t know, but it’s a nice thought anyway.
Come to our city! Stay at our house!
That hotel was full of friendly guests. It’s where we met Asma and some of her family members. We struck up a conversation with them in the lobby and within minutes they’d invited us to come visit them at their home in Faisalabad whenever we wanted to. Basically, if someone in Pakistan says to you ‘Come to our city! Stay at our house!’ you should just go. Bonus points if one of their relatives is getting married and you can attend the wedding.
So a few days later, we set off on yet another bus bound for Faisalabad. It should have taken just eight hours, but it turned into thirteen because of another real peril of traveling in Pakistan (in winter anyway) – fog. Thick, rolling, impenetrable fog that forces your bus off the highway and reduces you to creeping along back roads at a snail’s pace, the driver and his associates as lost as you are (or more so, judging from all the stopping and debating and peering in every direction at each grey-blanketed intersection). Of course, in this particular area summer temperatures can easily reach fifty degrees Celsius so most times of year are perilous in one way or another.
Anyway, we called Asma and offered to stay in a hotel but she wouldn’t hear of it, despite the fog delaying our arrival until four in the morning. She let us in and settled us into a big guestroom made up and waiting for us. We spent almost four days in her house and it felt like we were visiting people we actually know, back home – meals cooked, lounging around on the sofa, out to dinner. The only really noticeable differences were no wine, and a buzzer to ring for the household staff.
Then Asma carted us off to a wedding with hundreds of her relatives. She gave me clothes for it, first. I challenge anyone to backpack for seven months and then dress for a wedding, but Asma seemed very surprised that my (admittedly massive) backpack didn’t happen to contain anything remotely suitable. Maybe she had a point. It’s not like we’re the first foreigners to be enthusiastically included in a family event, possibly we should have come to Pakistan better prepared.
When we arrived at the venue she led us into a massive banqueting hall filled with men. It seemed like a disproportionate number of uncles, even for Pakistan. Asma introduced us to a few people, and then we both followed her when she turned to leave. But an uncle (or a cousin, or a brother) stopped Oyv. ‘No no, you stay in here’ he said, and we realized that the wedding guests were segregated and Oyv would be dining here with a crowd of men he’d never seen before in his life, while I went into a second massive banqueting hall to eat with all the female guests. Alright, that was also a noticeable difference.
Pakistanis are aware of their claim to hospitality fame, too. ‘I’ve been to some European weddings’ said one of my dinner companions. ‘Everyone has to sit in their assigned seat and eat, it’s not very hospitable.’ Personally I disagree since at the very least all of our assigned seats are in the same room, but on the other hand a general disinterest in all weddings other than your own seems universal.
And of course, along with all the Whatsapping there’s always room for confusion, too. For days on end our friend the crossing guard sent Oyv a string of messages, but only in Urdu. Then it seemed he got Google Translate working, sort of. His next message was ‘You are fully mental’. Oyv just sent him a thumbs up.
One last night behind the gates
When we left Faisalabad we went straight to Lahore, to enjoy a last few days before crossing the Wagah border into India.
Our last several border crossings had been kind of intense. Leaving Tajikistan, the official in charge didn’t seem to like us much. He hassled us for a while, refusing for no good reason to stamp our passports and let us go. Crossing into Afghanistan – well, we were crossing into Afghanistan, so, yeah. And then there was our arrival over the Torkham border and into Pakistan: we ended up riding through Khyber Pass with an armed guard in the front seat of the taxi. Not to mention, forced to take a polio vaccine on both sides of the same border.
The Wagah border is a different story. The only open border crossing between Pakistan and India, it came into being in 1947 after the British partitioned the subcontinent into two countries. We’ve been back and forth across this border before, and never encountered nasty officials throwing their weight around, armed guards, or enforced vaccinations. What you get here instead, is a dramatic closing time show put on nightly by India’s Border Security Forces and Pakistan’s Rangers in a stadium that straddles the border.
‘Beating a retreat’ involves a lot of amplified screaming, high kicking, stomping, dancing, and fist-shaking across the border. The show is coordinated by both sides and each one has a sort of MC who whips the crowd into a patriotic frenzy shouting ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’ or ‘Hindustan Zindabad!’ (Long live Pakistan/India), depending which side you happen to be watching from. It ends with handshakes all around and lowering the flag on both sides, before slamming the gates shut on another day.
It’s entertaining for sure – although it wouldn’t be as funny if these two nuclear-armed neighbors enacted the same thing on a glacier in Kashmir next to the Line of Control, for example.
We’ve watched this spectacle before, from India’s side. This time we went to watch it from Pakistan’s perspective. The taxi driver said not to worry about the fare, since we were guests after all. When the gates slid closed on the road into India, we turned back to Lahore. We strolled towards the waiting rickshaws with all the happy, patriotic Pakistanis on their way home. Some assumed we had just arrived from India, and welcomed us to their country. We were looking forward to India, it’s true. But we were more than happy to spend one last night on the other side of the gates, first.
Read More
For more of our adventures (and misadventures) as we travel from Cameroon to Japan, check out the rest of my stories from the road.
Or have a look at stories from our previous visits to Pakistan. If you’re planning to cross the Wagah border yourself sometime, take a look at this guide.
