Morning Road Trip & Local Tales

Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 5 of 8
“What is that building on top of that far away hill over there?” I pointed out to my left with my hand out of the window of the moving van. The driver, sitting next to me, took a glance out the left window and searched back his memory for what I was asking for. For a man in his sixties with gray hair and beard, this person was quite sharp and strong, and from behind his golden framed spectacles, he shot a firm gaze at the hilltop. Turning his eyes back on the road, he answered me in an assured and knowing way, like a teacher would to a curious student, “That is an old mausoleum! There used to be many adored clerics in these parts long ago, living in the countryside with the villagers. The villagers built a few mausoleums on surrounding hilltops for a few of them over the years.”

A mausoleum on a far away hill top, veiled by the morning mist.

It was just after sunrise, and we were en route to Abbottabad from Rawalpindi. I had met up with a colleague from Rawalpindi at a rendezvous point, and from there we loaded our luggage into a Suzuki Bolan van, before heading for Abbottabad. We were accompanied by a driver, who had been employed at our company for several years. Senior executives as well as juniors all simply called him “uncle”. I never discovered Uncle’s actual name, but he was an interesting fellow. He claimed to be a former army man, ISI agent, cook, butler, trader and taxi driver. My other colleagues who knew him placed enormous trust in him, and over those few days, I also developed great respect for that man. Regardless of his claims, he was a great storyteller and guide. Dressed humbly in traditional shalwar kameez, welcomed me as a guest in that part of the country. A resident of Abbottabad, he knew the route and surrounding areas very well, and his stories through the long drive gave new meaning to every boring street, bridge and building that came in the way.

The journey to Abbottabad that morning was an eye opener to the local tales and points of significance which go ignored on regular road trips. As my colleague fell into a slumber in the backseat, Uncle seemed more than happy to have someone with whom he could share the stories and traditions of his territory. The morning mists were beginning to clear as we left Rawalpindi and entered the surrounding countryside with many hills visible far in the distance. The route we were taking started with the Grand Trunk Road, and then went through Taxila, Haripur, Havelian and on towards Abbottabad.

As the van went through the traffic, Uncle drew my attention to the unusual relief of the hills on our left, “Two to three decades ago, you would have seen a lot more hills over there.” Startled by his weird comment, I searched in the direction of the hills to make sense of it. How the hell can entire hills disappear, or was the old fellow losing his mind? The hills I could see seemed to have gentle slopes on one side and sharp cliffs on other sides. “The government awarded many contracts to companies for mining in these areas,” he continued calmly. “Over the years, some small hills have been excavated and bulldozed almost entirely, and the ones you see have already been mined in places.”

Wide-eyed, I peered at the hills more closely and asked, “What exactly do they mine for here?”

Uncle elaborated further, “A few of the factories located in this area use the stone in making cement, and there are some salt production plants close by as well. But the salt mines are different from these hills on the left.”

He pointed to the many truck depots, shops and small housing districts adjacent to the road and said, “Many of the workers who mine in these hills live in these areas, and these trucking companies have contracts to move the ore to the factories located in the area.”

Soon, we left the GT Road and entered the Taxila area. I really wanted to visit Taxila because of the ancient Gandhara ruins in the area. Dating back more than millennia, the ruins in Taxila are a UNESCO World Heritage Site today. I inquired Uncle where exactly those ruins are situated; he was well aware of what I was talking about. He smiled and said, “Yes, those old ruins have pulled a throng of people from many countries to them over the years, but it’s just a long area covered with old rocks and broken buildings. They just create a hype to draw in people, but I don’t see what is so special about them.”

Some ancient tower we drove past in Taxila

Sensing his indifference to the subject of history, I tried to tell him how old they were and that Buddhists used to live there long before the arrival of Islam in the area. Overtaking a few cars in the busy street, he let out a laugh and pointed at the surrounding shops, “Taxila is really famous for its pottery, stone and clay work.” I followed the area with my eyes, trying to link it to the conversation. We were passing through narrow commercial roads with mostly single story buildings. Many cars, bicycles and pedestrians were going about the busy area, minding their daily business. I noticed that there were indeed a lot of pottery and clay structures on display outside the small, roadside shops. After every few dhabas, kiryana stores and hardware stores, these smiths of pottery dominated the streets.

I turned back to him, and he continued, “Interestingly, this art has been a trade here for generations as well. Recently, many of these cunning wielders of the art started to shape stone idols the like of which were unearthed in the ancient ruins. They saw a business opportunity as many foreigners who flocked the area came to search for souvenirs and ancient artifacts to take back home.” Laughing louder now and cursing the locals, he said, “They used to make statues of their deities and other artifacts, bury them in the ground for many months or maybe a couple of years before unearthing them again and putting them on the shop’s display. It was a famous scam here many years ago, when many excited foreigners fell for some of the well-crafted “pieces of history”. They thought the local populace did not know the true value of what they had unearthed, and eagerly bought the pieces. Later, they discovered that they had been conned.” I started laughing at the entrepreneurial misfits as Uncle finished his tale, “But that used to be several years ago, now everyone knows what goes on and the few foreigners who come here are aware of the scammers and fake artifacts on sale on the streets.”

Shops and early morning traffic on a road in Taxila

“The ruins you speak of and Taxila’s museum are on the other side of Taxila, which unfortunately, is off the direct route to Abbottabad,” explained Uncle. “As we are on a schedule right now, we cannot stop for a look at the moment. But next week, we shall probably pass the same route for Peshawar, so you can plan accordingly and stop for a bit on the way.” His words made sense, and I thought it might be a possibility next week. I did not get to see much of Taxila, but the few streets we went through gave me the impression of a small and busy town, not highly developed but still engaged in its age old arts. I definitely hoped to come back here for a better look.

Soon, we had crossed Taxila behind and crossed a bridge going over a nala, where Uncle took a moment to explain where we were, “This bridge marks the border between the provinces of Punjab and Khyber Pakhtunkhwan”.  I shuffled in my seat, looking around for any markers or changes which would signify this crossing of territory. But the land continued with the same relief and scattered settlements on all sides, wide plains with farmland, livestock, trees and some hills in the distance. “But there is nothing which says we have crossed, how are you so sure?” I asked him.

The bridge that marks the border of Punjab and KPK.

As the van moved to the end of the bridge, he directed my attention to a small sign by the roadside which said something like “Goodbye Punjab”, or “You are now leaving Punjab” (I can’t remember the exact words). With a smile, he began to enlighten me more, “the border crossing seems confusing here for you, but the real gray lines are between the borders of India and Pakistan if you travel to Kashmir. In the Neelum valley, a stream separates the two countries and there is the same village life on both sides. The only difference is the flag on each side of the stream and it is dangerous if you cross the stream over to the other side. Previously, there used to be a lot of military presence there, but it is much better now.”

The livestock and countryside scenes soon gave way to larger cantonments and high-walled complexes. Uncle’s tour guide mode came on once more, “these large walls on the right are military production facilities. Here, they create the artillery and ammunition for the army’s heavy weaponry.” I was struck numb for a moment for I had never actually paused to wonder from exactly where the ammunition used to come from. I was too used to the unlimited ammo of mounted machine guns in video games.

“It is a heavily guarded facility,” Uncle continued, “there is a whole community living inside and the work is dangerous too. I had a cousin who used to work here many years ago, he died in an accident where one of the mortars, unstable after production exploded and set fire to the furnace room where he was working.”

My sense of wonder suddenly evaporated at his story, and I thought how dreadful it must have been to burn to death at work. Uncle went on, “it was terrible, we could not recognize his body because it had been charred black.” I felt terrible for a moment at this man’s loss. But he recovered almost immediately and briefed me about another complex which was coming up on the right. “This one is even more interesting because here they manufacture tanks for the army in collaboration with Chinese technology; a lot of Chinese people live here as well. Once the tanks are complete, they test run them on the hill behind the facility. Here they have a course to drive the tanks as well as fire rounds at the hill slope.”

Villages on the hill slopes with cattle grazing in the foreground

I was still registering these new facts in my mind as our drive took us through the Haripur area, and we started nearing the mountains. To my left, the countryside opened up in graceful beauty with goats and cattle grazing in the foreground and villages located in the shelter of the hill slopes behind them. I started snapping pictures with my camera, and Uncle told me, “wait till you get to Abbottabad, it is a beautiful city; and the mountains that surround it, if you go out to explore, you can even find the places we call heaven on earth.”

As we crossed a bridge connecting two hills with a stream flowing far below us, I felt elated. I asked him about the places to visit in and around Abbottabad. He told me the names of a few places, and the reasons why I should visit them. When I thought of Abbottabad, the thought of the Bin Laden compound also crossed my mind. I asked where it was located and how do the locals feel about the new found fame of Abbottabad. Uncle shook his head with a frown on his face, and said “I really don’t believe all the gibberish about him hiding there.” Surprised, I asked why it was so.

“The presence of the army in Abbottabad is spread all over, and they have knowledge of all that happens in the city. I know this because I received my training in the army back in the day from the main academy in Abbottabad. The compound where he was supposedly hiding lies quite close to the academy, I think it’s a five minute drive.” I listened attentively as he continued to explain, “Then it also happens that I know a friend who lives in the same neighborhood where the compound is situated. I was worried about his safety when the whole incident happened. He told me that the house where the operation took place used to be empty, and nobody used to live there. There were a few guards who resided there, probably caretakers.”

“But he was hiding right? That’s what he might have wanted the outsiders to believe.” I argued, while trying to make sense of what he was saying.

Uncle shook his head again, “then how do you explain that all lights in the house used to be off at night? And my friend also said that the caretakers used to buy nan and other groceries from the neighborhood shops, which was just enough for them only.” He smiled gleefully at the look of disbelief on my face, “And if you talk to other locals in Abbottabad, you will likely get the same kind of response. Most people don’t believe the official story, especially so because his body was never shown.”

Green hills on the outskirts of Abbottabad

I had no idea what exactly to make of his story. He had just given me some food for thought, but food which I would likely never be able to finish. We had nearly reached Abbottabad now, and my colleague at the back had woken up. “Hope you did not get tired through the journey?” he asked me, as the van went up a sloping part of the highway on the hillside.

Uncle and I both started laughing, “He has been enjoying the views, taking photos and getting to know the place better.”

It was true. The road trip to Abbottabad was probably one of the most interesting road trips I had ever taken. It was not simply what I got to see outside the window, but the tales of a local which colored the whole landscape to life in a way that you experience a story through a pop-up book. Every corner, street and field had its own story to tell, and that experience carried a charm which cannot be replaced by simply playing your favorite songs on a highway drive. We went up a steep incline and saw a sign which said “Welcome to Abbottabad”. The road curved and swerved and we finally found ourselves entering a valley surrounded by green hills and pine trees. The road led down into the city, and we could see buildings and houses spread out like a carpet, and dotted in the surrounded hills. Finally, Abbottabad had arrived.