Ripples Following Ripples ~ UP THE
FABLED SILK-ROAD
The
next day, getting a visa for Pakistan was not as lengthy
and complicated as I expected ~ and nothing like getting
an Indian visa! At the window for foreigners at the
High Commission, I was told I first needed to get
a ‘letter of introduction’ from the nearby
Aussie High Comm, for which I was charged A$30! With
this, I went back to apply for the visa and was told
to collect my passport the next day; easy. Then, I
made a reservation on the next night’s train
to Amritsar, and the following morning ~ April 1st
~ got a bus to the border. It doesn’t open until
10 a.m., however, and it’s the only crossing-point
between India and Pakistan (or was, until one in Kashmir
opened recently, as a trial, and only for Kashmiris)
I had to wait, therefore, and then crossed without
much hassle; it took 30 minutes, which was unusually
fast, as there are various offices and desks to pass.
Then I got a bus into Lahore, an hour inside Pakistan,
and here, the usual search for a hotel began. I wanted
to be near the railway-station, but most hotels in
that area were asking Rs400 – Rs500 for a single
room (US$1 = 60 Pakistan Rupees), and looked for quite
a while until I got one for Rs200. While searching,
I fell into conversation with a young guy who was
appalled to learn that I wasn’t the
slightest bit interested in cricket. “How can
this be?” he said, bewildered. I replied, “Must
I be like others? Am I not allowed a mind of my own?”
Many Indians and Pakistanis are so devoted to cricket,
that it is tantamount to being a religion; they’re
fanatical about it!
The next day, I walked the 6 kms to Shalimar
Bagh, the Mughal Gardens laid out in 1637 by
Shah Jehan of Taj Mahal fame. Upon reaching there,
however, I was disappointed to find them closed for
renovations. I’d been there during my last visit
to Paki-stan in 1998, which is why I wanted to see
them again; they are the best-maintained of the Mughal
Gardens, either in India or Pakistan. The Moghuls,
who came from Central Asia, had a pas-sion for gardens
with fountains and streams; the culture they de-veloped
in India was distinctive and influential. The Brits
adopted their architectural-style and used it in other
parts of their empire.
That afternoon, after wandering around the 2nd-hand
book-market near the museum, and while looking for
a cyber-café, an elderly man asked if I needed
some assistance. When I told him where I wanted to
go, he offered to show me; my experience from my last
visit of Pakistanis as hospitable and friendly was
rapidly being confirmed. On the way, he told me he
was a communist, and was happily surprised when I
told him I am a Buddhist; he said he was, too. A
communist Buddhist, in Pakistan? Most unusual!
He invited me for tea, and as we sat drinking it others
joined us; he seemed to be regarded as something of
a sage. After some time, he invited me for lunch,
and when I said I was vegetarian, he said so was he.
So off we went, and had lunch of naan, dahl
and vegetables ~ alright, but very oily. He took me
to his place, and we sat talking for about two hours
until I broke away and went for email. At first, the
connection seemed okay, but soon became bad, so I
ended up sending a “To Everyone” message,
and got off with an hour. In the evening, because
my new friend had urged me to come to meet other people
there, I went to his place again, and got a clearer
idea of his teachings, but didn’t agree with
some of the things he said, although his story was
remarkable. He was apparently already well-known as
an advocate, but hit the news when he wrote and published
a book explaining his ideas, which were so radical
for his time and place that he was almost stoned by
a mob on the street! Surrounded by people urged on
by mullahs calling for his death, he calmly
sat cross-legged, prepared to meet his end, but was
‘saved’ and arrested by the police who
put him in jail. He was tried for heresy and apostasy
~ things that carry the death-sentence in fundamentalist
Pakistan. He languished there, his life ticking away,
until protests from around the world resulted in him
being freed.
Many times, he requested me to stay at his place,
saying I should treat it as my home, but I didn’t
accept, as I need my own space. Finally, one of his
supporters, a doctor, offered to drive me back. I
didn’t see him again, although I will if I’m
back that way again.
I spent a few days in history-rich Lahore, going out
to Jehangir’s Tomb, only to find that
the entrance-fees for such places had in-creased ten-fold
since my last visit, just as in India. Nor did I feel
as I’d felt there before, probably because I’d
gone with expecta-tions, unlike the first time, when
it was new and a surprise. It was so at other places
I revisited, like the great mosque constructed by
Aurangzeb, the fort that had been rebuilt and enlarged
by Mughal emperors from Akbar on, and the museum,
where the exhibit I mostly wanted to see again was
that of the Fasting Siddhartha. But I was
surprised; it was less than life-sized and not as
I remembered it, and yet, it was the same. My perception
playing tricks again!
Although there are very few Sikhs in Pakistan
now (most of them fled to India when Punjab, their
state, was cut in two by a line drawn on paper by
the last Viceroy, resulting in massacres of hundreds-of-thousands
of Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus and others who found themselves
on the ‘wrong’ side), the main Sikh temple
in Lahore is still operated by a few families who
chose to remain, at great risk, and the traditional
‘free kitchen’ is maintained. I had lunch
of dahl and chapatties there. Because of a thaw in
relations between India and Pakistan in the last few
years, people from both sides are able to get visas
to visit; let’s hope this continues and improves
further, and won’t regress to what it was.
At the Tourist Office, after getting some brochures
and informa-tion, I had a Dharmic conversation with
two people there; I gave the lady a stone, and the
man ~ Saheed ~ a bookmark (“We look, but we
do not see….”). I could see that I’d
touched them, and af-ter a cup of tea, I left with
a light step.
My next stop, after Lahore, was Jhelum, to
the north. I wanted to see a fort near there, and
had to take several rides to reach it. Many people
were kind and helped me, including auto-rickshaw drivers
who refused to charge me. The immense fort was built
to control the route that invaders from the northwest
had used, but alas, it was much too late; India had
been over-run and subdued centuries earlier by the
ancestors of those who built it.
The bus from Jhelum to Peshawar later that day was
slow and took almost 5 hours, but fortunately, it
was air-conditioned. When I got there, I found that
the hotel I’d stayed in last time was no longer
taking foreigners, so I had a long search for an alternative,
and eventually found one ~ helped by a kind person
who accom-panied me for an hour ~ not far away, for
just Rs100. Of course, it was very basic, but good
enough, except that the room had no power-point, so
I was unable to cook or boil water. I lived mainly
on naan, tomatoes, cucumbers, and beans ready-cooked
from stalls on the streets, which were very tasty;
I sufficed with cold coffee, such as I’d done
on my treks in the mountains.
Peshawar is now very congested and polluted, but I
enjoyed it anyway, wandering back and forth through
the bazaars, visiting several friends from last time;
everywhere, people were friendly, and called out greetings.
The internet-connections here were even worse than
in Lahore ~ in fact, all over Pakistan, they were
slow and unreliable. A tour-guide calling himself
Prince tried to persuade me to take trips;
he was so persistent, going as far as to take me in
a car to his office for tea; I had some misgivings,
and thoughts of being kidnapped ran through my mind.
Finally, he sent me back by auto-rickshaw, but had
ascertained where I was staying, and visited me there
another day, intent on getting me to sign up to go
up the Khyber Pass, but I was adamant, and he finally
gave up hope.
I visited an old British cemetery, an overgrown place
of not just dead people but dead trees, standing with
jutting branches like fleshless arms. I went on to
Islamia College, built at the beginning of
the 20th century in Indo-Saracenic style, and one
of Pakistan’s most prestigious; I walked around
a bit but without meeting any-one. Checking my email,
I was surprised to receive one from Jack; I didn’t
think he’d have the audacity to write to me,
and I’d not had his address, but now that I
did, I wrote to him a few days later and clarified
a few things.
Ascertaining from the Tourist Office that the pass
into Chitral had just opened, I got a mini-bus
to Timagarha, where, while waiting for another
one to Dir, an old man tried to convert me;
although his English was quite good, he was wasting
his time. I spent that night in Dir, as it was too
late to cross the pass by the time I got there. I
found the people not as friendly as I’d become
used to.
The next day was a long one. First, I got an early
mini-bus bound for Chitral, but we’d not gone
far when there was the smell of something electrical
burning. We turned back to get it fixed, then started
again, but soon there was the same smell, and I was
ap-prehensive. We kept going, uphill; the road was
unsealed and muddy, and two hours out, we pulled up
suddenly and everyone hastily scrambled out; smoke
was pouring from the hood; the brakes had failed.
The driver got a ride back to get help, leaving us
waiting for two hours; it was cold and windy, halfway
up the pass. Eventually, the driver returned, just
as an empty van came down the road. Our fares were
returned, the baggage was trans-ferred, and we all
got in, paying just 40/- for the ride back down. By
this time, I’d given up my idea of going to
Chitral, and decided to go to Mingora instead,
back the way I had come. While waiting for the bus
to leave Dir, a middle-aged guy with very long dread-locks,
some of his hair red near the scalp, also got in.
From Oz, of Lebanese stock, he was a friendly enough
chap, and talked a lot once he started. Of course,
everyone regarded him curiously, and attention was
diverted from me. It was over three hours to Chakdara,
where we waited quite a while for a van to Mingora.
I met a young teacher there who accompanied us; he
was nice to talk to, and I gave him one of my remaining
stones; he was very pleased, and insisted on paying
our fares. Coming into Mingora, we had to register
in the police-book, and in the town, the van stopped
and everyone got out, although it was at a gas-station,
not the bus-station. A large police-van with several
fully-armed cops was waiting there ~ for us,
I was told. Concerned for the safety of tourists,
they would take us wherever we wanted to go; I was
very surprised, but it was as they said: they took
us to my chosen hotel ~ the Rainbow ~ and
left us there to check in. The bathroom of the room
I got for Rs150 was dirty, but I was tired, and it
was 7:30, so I didn’t make a fuss. I went out
and ate keer ~ rice-pudding, the same as
what Sakyamuni ate just before his enlightenment ~
and bought bread and beans, to bring back to eat.
The water smelled unpleasant, and my coffee tasted
awful.
In and around Mingora and its older twin-city, Saidu
Sharif, there are the remains of numerous Buddhist
sites, as this is the Swat Valley green, fertile,
and said to be the most-beautiful valley in Pakistan
~ where the Tang dynasty pilgrim-monk, Hsuan Tsang,
noted over 1,400 abandoned or destroyed monasteries
in 630 AD. Buddhism in this area never recovered from
the ravages of a people known as the White Huns, who
originated from some-where near Mongolia, and like
the later Mongols under Genghiz Khan, burst out of
their steppelands in the 5th century, conquering everyone
in their path. Raging through Central Asia, Persia
and Afghanistan, they came down through the Khyber
Pass, and pro-ceeded to lay everything to waste. Buddhism
came in for especial persecution. Overthrowing the
Kushan Empire of the North-West, they moved relentlessly
onto the Gangetic plain, slaughtering all before them.
The capital of the Gupta Empire, Pataliputra (mod-ern-day
Patna), was reduced to rubble, its population decimated.
Although the destruction had been complete, there
was still a lin-gering feeling of peace around the
several stupa-sites I visited. The caretaker of one
site, though not a Buddhist himself, had studied Buddhism
in Peshawar University, and didn’t charge me
the entrance-fee; he later made tea for me and we
sat and talked.
Then to the museum, where I refused to pay the entrance-fee
of Rs200 as too high. I spoke with the curator, who
agreed with me, and offered to let me in for 100,
but I didn’t accept, having been there before.
Down the road, I told the man at the Tourist Office,
who also agreed with me and advised me to write to
the Ministry of Tourism, as other people had complained.
Alexander the Great had crossed the river not far
from Mingora; near the end of his conquests eastward,
and fought a desperate battle on the other bank. A
watchman led me to a fort high above ~ strange place
for a fort, so isolated and waterless! ~ where I sat
for a while contemplating the vista. The watchman
was pleased with what I gave him and didn’t
ask for more; this was so different than in India,
where no matter what you give is never enough.
In the bazaar at Mingora I met a man who quietly told
me he was a Sikh. I wouldn’t have known otherwise,
as he was not wearing the distinctive Sikh turban
because it was advisable not to stand out there. So,
too, I’d met a Christian in Lahore, who felt
free enough to confide in me. It is often hard to
belong to a minority. Fundamentalists feel threatened
by anyone different ~ verily, signs of insecurity
and uncertainty. Compare and contrast how Buddhism
says there are 84,000 Dharma doors or paths. Confi-dent
and unafraid to be challenged, it can afford to be
tolerant.
Feeling very tired and unwell, I came down with fever
that night. I’d wake up, look at my watch, drop
off to sleep, and wake again, only to find that it
was only one or two minutes on. I had to get up many
times to the toilet, and felt unsteady, so decided
to stay an-other day rather than moving on. Later,
I didn’t feel like eating, and slept again,
to wake several hours later with the towel on my pillow
sweaty-wet; the fever had broken, and I felt better.
I had some good periods of meditation.
While waiting for the bus to start on the next stage
of my journey, I saw a man without hands, begging;
amputations like this were punishment for theft, according
to the Syariah law; people were sympathetic
and responded to his pleas. The road to Besham
over the 2350 mt Shangla Pass was bad, and
we were delayed for two hours by road-works/landslides.
At Besham, we joined the KKH ~ short for Karakoram
Highway ~ an engineering marvel tracing the old silk
road from Pakistan into China, and the highest paved
international road in the world, opened in 1986. It
connects China and Pakistan across
the Karakoram mountain range. I got a minibus
to Dasu, and was thrilled to ride high above
the mighty silt-laden Indus river; the winding road
was precipitous and scary. At Dasu, I looked for a
hotel, but was deterred by the rates and also by some
kids who followed me, tugging and pinching. Just then,
a van came along going to Shatial, so I jumped
in; it was 4:30, and by the time we got there, almost
dark, only to find there was nothing going further.
A policeman advised me to wait in a chai-khana
~ tea-house ~ until a bus came along; I had tea and
bread, was inspired to write something and sat for
a while; I was re-signed to sleeping on a charpoy
there, but after some time was summoned for the bus.
We joined a convoy headed by a police-car with flashing
lights ~ there was danger on the roads, so they said,
though I was unable to ascertain its nature. I was
dropped outside the town of Chilas, where
I managed to prevail upon some policemen to drive
me to the hotel I’d read of in the guide-book
~ Diamond Peak. They stayed with me until
I’d got a room ~ dirty, smelly, and nothing
diamantine about it, but I couldn’t back out
now ~ and negotiated the rate down from 150/- to 120/-,
then left me. There was no running water in the bathroom,
only a bucketful, but I made tea anyway, and wrote
my notes and slept without the dirty covers at 12:30.
Since my fever, I didn’t sleep much, but wasn’t
tired, and felt very well; my thoughts were also clear.
Waking at 5, I got up to find no power as well as
no water. I went to the toilet and then the light
came on, so I boiled water for a shave and hot coffee.
Near Chilas, are petroglyphs ~ images of
the Buddha and stupas pecked out on rocks near the
river that I wished to see, so made my way down the
road, but the people I met weren’t friendly,
and hardly muttered a response to my greeting of salaam-a-laekum.
Kids, like yesterday, were positively rude, and I
felt lucky not to have stones thrown at me!
At the river, I was joined by a young guy who insisted
on showing me some of the glyphs; I’m rather
suspicious of people like that, having been conned
before, but I think he was genuine. Because of my
negative impressions of Chilas, I saw only a few glyphs
and took few photos, then came back, catching a free
ride up to the bazaar. Quickly, I got my stuff and
caught a minibus to Gilgit, and after being stopped
three times for road-clearing ~ landslides are very
common ~ who should I see at the bus-station but Dread-locky,
Ahmed Ali? He’d been moving fast, and was on
his way down the highway, while I was going up. We
spoke for some time, and I got a photo with him before
getting a minibus into town, alighting near a hotel
where I intended to stay, run by a Japanese woman
who’d come here years before and had never left.
I was soon to learn that Gilgit had a severe problem
with electricity, with one day on and the next day
off. And even with the power on, internet connections
there were very slow and er-ratic; it was frustrating
trying to write and send mail.
I explored the town during the two days I stayed there,
but there wasn’t a great deal to see; it was
a polyglot place, where people of various tribes had
settled, but I understood nothing of their tongues.
In an old British cemetery, I saw a grave inscribed
with words from “The Light of Asia”
on it: “Perfect service rendered, duties
done in charity, soft speech and stainless days. These
riches shall not fade away in life, nor any death
dispraise”.
The next day being a power-on day, I had a hot shower
before leaving Gilgit. My next stop ~ and the furthest
I would go up the KKH ~ would be Karimabad.
I had to wait for the minibus to fill up, and fell
into conversation with my seat-companion, someone
named Sherbaz, the principal of a college
in Karimabad, cultured and educated; we talked all
the way, so the time soon passed; the only drawback
was that, although I was next to the window, I didn’t
see much, and the views were really great ~ best so
far. The weather was good, too, so the mountains were
clear and sharp. By the time we got there, he had
invited me for dinner the next night; I made sure
he knew I was vegetarian.
Reaching Karimabad, I found the hotel that Dreadlocky
had rec-ommended ~ Old Hunza Inn ~ where
I took a room, pleasant, clean and cheap at Rs150.
After washing some clothes and hanging them out, I
made coffee and ate some biscuits, then sat outside
until the sun went down. It was so beautiful there,
and I knew I would stay for a few days.
Karimabad, at 2440 m, is the capital of Hunza,
a remote region which may have inspired James Hilton
to write "Lost Horizons." The Hunzakots
were renowned for their longevity, but alas, the KKH
was a mixed-blessing and transformed their lifestyle;
their long-lives are now just a legend. Because of
their fair-skins and blue-green eyes, they are considered
to be descendants of some of Alexander's soldiers
who remained instead of returning home to Greece.
The beauty of Hunza is matchless; from the soft blos-soms
of the apricot trees to the lovely ice-covered mountain
of Rakaposhi (7788 m.)
Beginning my explorations the next day, I went up
to the old fort overlooking the town, then decided
to walk to Aliabad, 10 kms away, to get something
for my cracked heels, which were quite sore. The friendly
owner of the pharmacy I found recommended Vaseline,
and served me tea. Outside, looking for somewhere
to eat, I met some teachers who took me into a small
restaurant where I got naan and curry, and sat talking
with them for over an hour, during which others came
in; it seemed to be their regular ‘watering-hole.’
We spoke of many things; one of them was very sympathetic
towards Buddhism and had read “Siddhartha”.
Back at the hotel, I met a German and his Chinese
girlfriend who were waiting for the Kunjerab
Pass to open; it’s an all-weather road, but
foreigners are allowed to cross it into China only
from May 1st.
When Sherbaz hadn’t come at the stated time,
I walked up the road a way, thinking to meet him as
he came down, but at 7, there was no sign of him,
so I went back, to find him waiting for me; somehow,
we’d missed each other. He led me to his home,
where his family were awaiting us, and his wife, Nilam,
was pre-paring dinner of several kinds of bread. They
were Ismaili Muslims, who do not worship in mosques
but meeting-houses, where men and women are not segregated.
The head of their sect is the Aga Khan, an
international figure who stresses the importance of
education and the need to modernize. The food was
tasty, with lassi and tea, and I enjoyed
the evening. Nilam invited me to stay overnight there,
but I declined, saying I’d not brought my comb;
they all laughed, especially the third of their four
sons, who rolled on the floor! I gave Sherbaz a stone,
which they appreciated so much. Before I left, Nilam,
gave me some walnuts and fried bread to take back,
and the second son accompanied me, as the way was
dark; Sherbaz also asked this son to take me to Eagle’s
Nest ~ a rocky point high above the valley ~
the next day.
In the morning, I met the second son and a friend
on their way for me, and we retraced our footsteps
to the path that led to Eagle’s Nest, which
we reached after a 2-hours’ climb on dusty tracks.
There were great views from the summit, and I could
see where I’d like to go over the following
days. I took some photos and would like to have stayed
longer, but had to consider their time, so after ½
an hour, we began our descent; it took just over an
hour to the town, where we parted; I appreciated their
assistance.
The following day, I walked down to and crossed the
river ~ no longer the Indus, but a tributary ~ and
up the highway some way to a place of more petroglyphs
that included Buddhist-texts among the figures. Then
I took a dusty track up a bluff and climbed for another
hour until I’d had enough; there were great
views from here, too, although I wasn’t as high
as yesterday, but alas, I had forgotten to bring my
camera!
Energised by my previous days’ walks, I set
off with the aim of reaching a valley on the opposite
side of the river that had in-trigued me since I arrived,
but didn’t know how to get there. My ignorance
cost me quite a bit of time, but I eventually found
a path that led along the cliffs and brought me to
a village at the bottom of the valley. It was a steep
climb on a dusty and rocky track, and after an hour,
I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do,
so turned back and descended the way I’d come.
There were no vehicles running from the village to
the Highway ~ not unless I was prepared to pay Rs800
~ so I walked the 8 kms, and was pretty tired by the
time I reached the footbridge over the river. Climbing
to the highway, I waited only five minutes for a ride
to Aliabad, where I got another back to Karimabad.
I must have walked at least 30 kms that day, but felt
good, even though I was somewhat dehydrated from sweating
so much.
My sojourn in this pleasant place had to come to an
end sooner or later, and with fond memories, I left
and got a minibus back to Gilgit. There, at 8:15,
I caught a bus ~ and the buses of Pakistan are so
much better than in India, air-conditioned and very
com-fortable. I was making good time, and calculated
that, at that rate, we would reach Besham by 6 pm,
where I intended to spend the night. But alas, an
hour out of Gilgit, we were halted, as Pres. Musharraf
was visiting somewhere down the road, and nothing
was allowed to run. While waiting, I got talking to
another pas-senger, and the time passed. When it became
too hot to sit in the bus waiting, I got out and stood
in the shade of a barber’s shop, until they
invited me to sit inside; this became the source of
some jokes. 3:30, and still no sign that we would
be allowed to go. A man approached me and asked, point-blank,
“What is the level of your education?”
A bit surprised by his abruptness, I thought for a
moment, then said, “I can read and write ~ A
to Z ~ and can count from one to ten.” He then
told me he was a teacher of mathematics, and I said,
“That’s good; maybe you can teach me to
count from ten to twenty”. His next question
was, “What is your religion?” a question
that should never be asked, as religion is a most
personal and private matter. I would usually answer
this cryptically, in order to lead the questioner
to see the error of ask-ing, but decided, for the
sake of simplicity, to say, “Buddhism”.
At this, he said, “Well, I’m sorry to
tell you, sir, but it’s wrong.”
“That is your opinion,” I said, “and
you are entitled to it; but I am a guest in your country,
and it is rather rude of you to say this. Tell me,
though, what do you know about Buddhism?” What
he told me ~ though I forget what it was ~ revealed
his ignorance, and I told him so.
“But I am an educated man,” he said, somewhat
indignantly.
I replied, “You are educated in a particular
area, but in others, you are quite ignorant”.
“So are you”, he retorted.
“Yes, I know”, I said, “but then,
I didn’t claim to be an educated man, did I?”,
and went on to say that if he’d been born in
Japan or Thailand instead of in Pakistan, he would
probably call himself ‘Buddhist’, or ‘Christian’
if he’d been born in the U.S. “It will
never happen that everyone in the world would embrace
your religion and become Muslims, any more than everyone
would become Buddhists or Hindus or Christians, so
we must learn to accept the existence of other religions,
and live with them”.
By this time, a small crowd had gathered around us,
and he said something I didn’t understand, so
I decided it would be unwise to reason with him further,
and walked away. Not long after this, we were allowed
to proceed, nine hours after we’d been halted.
Two hours down the road, we halted at Chilas, and
my new friend, Mohd Sharif Butt, invited me for dinner
of naan and curry. I gratefully accepted, then told
him that I would spend the night there rather than
go on and get to Besham at 2 or 3 am, so took my bags
from the bus, but it was only with some difficulty
that I got a refund on my fare; the conductor had
taken my money without giving me a ticket. Two policemen
escorted me to a grotty hotel where they tried to
charge me Rs200 and only came down to Rs150 when I
was walking out. In the room, however ~ noisy, as
it was above the highway ~ I discovered there was
a water-problem ~ just as in Diamond Peak ~ only a
trickle. I went down to complain, and a boy came and
filled the bucket. Just then, the power went off,
and I resigned myself to spending a powerless night,
but after a while, it came on again, so I was able
to use the fan ~ it was quite warm ~ and boil water.
As soon as I could, the next morning, I got a van
to Shatrial, and from there, another going through
to Besham, reaching there at 2 pm. Again, I enjoyed
the ride down the KKH, reaching Besham around 2 am,
and getting a connecting bus to Abbotabad.
My seat-companion was a friendly young man who had
memorized the whole Koran, and who pressed me to stay
at his home. I de-clined his invitation, however,
as I need my own space. I found a hotel in Abbotabad,
and slept well, tired after the long journey.
When I awoke, there was no power, but I managed to
pack my stuff and leave, and got a bus to Peshawar,
three hours away. It was much hotter since I was last
there. I checked into the same hotel, then went out
to eat keer and check my email. The sky turned
a funny colour; something was imminent, but I wasn’t
sure what; I even thought it might presage an earthquake!
That night, there was a dust-storm which lasted over
two hours, with dust in-filtrating everywhere. On
top of this, there was a power-cut, so it was a hot,
long and uncomfortable night, with many mozzies. I
didn’t sleep much, waiting for the dawn.
Because I needed a new visa for India, I had to go
to Islamabad, so caught a bus to Rawalpindi, the old
city which is the transport-hub for the capital; I
then made my way to Islamabad and found a hotel not
too far from the diplomatic enclave, ready for an
early start on Monday, the next day. Islamabad is
a new city, and was officially declared the capital
in 1967. It is well laid-out, with broad boulevards
and open spaces.
Expecting to find long lines of people outside the
Indian High Commission, as in Kathmandu, I left the
hotel while it was still dark to walk there, but upon
reaching the diplomatic enclave, dis-covered that
I could not just go inside, but had to go to a nearby
shuttle-bus station to get in line for a ride in.
There were already many people ahead of me, and we
had to wait over an hour for the ticket-counters to
open. Finally, we boarded buses, to be dropped at
various embassies inside the compound. At the Indian
place, there was another wait, as it doesn’t
open until 10, and was tardy about that, too. But
I was surprised to find a special window for foreigners
like myself, and I was first in line, with a Frenchmen
who I met outside. I filled in the application-form
and paid the fee of RS3,300, and was told to come
back the next Monday ~ a whole week later! What to
do with this time? I didn’t want to stay in
new and historically-sterile Islamabad, so decided
to return to Lahore.
Consequently, I got a bus early the next day, and
found myself sitting beside a young guy for the 5
hours’ ride. Before long, he struck up a conversation
with me and said he was a professor in a university.
It soon became clear, however, that he was hopeful
of converting me, but he had no more success in this
than the old man of some weeks earlier. I told him
what Islam had done in preserving the science, astronomy,
medicine and philosophy of the Greeks and Romans during
the Dark Ages when Christianity had discarded them,
and later made them available to others; we must give
credit where credit is due. But I resent efforts to
convert me. I do not try to convert others to Buddhism,
not wanting that; I want to help others discover what
it means to be human, not change one name-and-form
for another. Efforts to convert others to one’s
point-of-view require contempt or even hatred for
their ways, often with no knowledge or understanding
of them. It is ex-tremely arrogant!
It was overcast as we came into Lahore, and it tried
to rain, but gave up. I got a room in the same hotel
I’d stayed in before, but it had no window,
and was very warm; the fan only succeeded in stirring
up the hot air! I had to find somewhere else, and
made that my priority the next day. Eventually, I
got a room nearby ~ much bigger and better, and only
Rs50 more expensive.
By then, the temperature had soared, and reached 49º
during the time I was there. It was hard to take,
and the fans in my room ~ one stand-fan and the other
on the ceiling ~ were practically use-less. I also
came down with amoebic-dysentery, such as I’d
had in Kathmandu in ’74. Fortunately, I’ve
always had pretty good control over my stomach, so
didn’t suffer any mishaps while I was out ~
and I needed to go out for things like medicine and
to check my mail. I lost my appetite, and even the
thought of food put me off. I started to lose weight,
and although I’m always happy when that happens,
I don’t like to fall sick to do it. I carried
on anyway, because what else could I do? There was
no-one to take care of me and do what needed to be
done.
I felt better in the morning, chanting my new mantra,
“Owa-Tana-Siam”, and returned
to Rawalpindi by train; the ride was smooth and uneventful,
in a/c carriage. I got my passport, and together with
the French guy I’d met the week before, caught
another train back to Lahore that evening. The a/c
carriages were already full, so we had to go economy-class,
but this was fine, as the train was so modern and
good, I could hardly believe it. It left on time,
and later, we were served refreshments! Halfway, we
were hit by a dust-storm, which was unpleasant, as
the dust poured in. We reached Lahore just after 10,
and the wind was still quite strong; there was thick
dust everywhere, including my room.
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