There and Back Again: Of Kababs and Culture

Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 8 of 8

The whole story in the past few posts has taken its time; this is my last post which caps off my travels of Pakistan last October. A nomadic experience of a month with work as well as cultural and exploratory experiences in new places left me with loads to choose and write about, hence most of the delay. Just hope the stories are worth the delay. :)

“Pakhair Raghla!” The only thing I managed to learn in Pashto during my stay in Peshawar. The Suzuki Bolan sputtered to a stop at the side of the road and the driver killed the engine. A rich aroma swept into my nostrils as I stepped out into the cool, late October wind. An orange glow from a row of hanging bulbs drew the boundary of the restaurant’s dining area with an aura of light, which faded with distance from the few tables in the area. The sound of loud chatter and laughter came from the occupants of most tables, mixed with the soft chinking and clinking of cutlery. Chefs sat on their knees on an elevated platform, baking nan in the tandoor and grilling other food. Another chef stood next to the platform, frying food in a large pan.

One of the staff members walked toward us from within a thick, white cloud of smoke emanating from the open air kitchen. “Pakhair Raghla!” he said in Pushto, shaking hands with all four of us. One of my colleagues, who knew Pushto as well, conversed with him as we were directed to a table for four. The waiter, upon learning that I had come all the way from Karachi and had stopped for a meal at his restaurant, shook hands with me again more energetically and said, “You are our guest tonight, and we shall treat you to one of our specialties of Peshawar.”

Blending into the culture on the first night in Peshawa

The warm welcome was followed by some really quick service by two new waiters. The plastic table gleamed under the orange light as one of the waiters wiped it clean with a small cloth; the next moment, plates and cutlery were neatly spread over the table by the second waiter with the addition of complimentary salad. I pulled my traditional pakol cap further down on my head to feel more comfortable in the mild, chilly wind and felt a sense of solidarity and warmth among all the laughter and talk surrounding me.

Within a few minutes, our table was laden with chappal kababs, a full pound of greasy, lamb and beef patties, served with some, buttery, Kandahari nan. The aroma that wafted from the cooking area was suddenly more pronounced, and we all gave in to the temptation as it overwhelmed us. Even though I have tasted nan and chappal kababs at home in Karachi, but the ones I tasted in Peshawar were a class apart. The meat was juicy and tender, and the kababs had just the right amount of spice; add to it some crispy, white nan, and I had one of the most unique dinners during my stay on the road.

Following local tradition, my Peshawari colleague suggested a cup of kahwa after dinner referring to its importance in cleansing the throat and helping in digestion especially after a heavy, fried dinner. He eagerly called for the waiter again as I reluctantly agreed to the offer, and ordered four cups of kahwa in Pushto. Although their talk was incomprehensible, a regretful expression on the waiter’s face and the disappointment in my colleague’s voice alerted me to a problem. My colleague turned to me and said, “they do not have kahwa on their menu.”

The waiter looked at me for a moment, then exclaimed to my colleague in Pushto and left with a determined look on his face. As he motioned another waiter to come quickly, I asked my colleague what was happening. In a pleased and proud tone, he replied, “he honors our traditions and has agreed to make kahwa for us especially since you are a guest from outside the city. He just asked someone to get the ingredients for kahwa from outside.”

It was an immense surprise to learn this fact as no restaurant I had ever been to around the world had ever gone so far in providing customer satisfaction. In about fifteen minutes, a transparent, crystal-green tea was served to us in glass cups. The herbs and sweet scent that emanated from it exhibited an extra sense of care and homeliness offered to a traveler. I had held a very apprehensive image of Peshawar before arriving there, and had imagined the people to be sharp, hostile and highly critical of outsiders. Sip after sip of the hot, sweet kahwa spread warmth inside me which opened up my opinions about Peshawar; the traditional pakol cap I was wearing along with my black shalwar kameez helped me feel at ease and at one with the locals. Such unprecedented hospitality, value for traditions and immersion in culture gave me just a glimpse of what Peshawar was about during my first night there.

As I opened up to embrace the city, it started to reveal its many secrets and stories, long neglected and overshadowed by the recent presence of terrorism in the neighboring areas and the more progressive nature of other major cities in Pakistan. Peshawar holds the title of being one of the oldest cities of Asia, and was thriving long before Lahore and Delhi. Akbar the Great formally gave Peshawar its present name, which in Persian means “City on the Frontier.” Peshawar used to be the connecting hub to Central and South Asia along the ancient Silk Road from Persia in ages past.

A market square in Bara Market, Peshawar

The next few days were followed by the pitter patter of rain drops in Peshawar. On a gray Sunday morning, my colleagues took me to visit the famous (or infamous) Karkhano Market, also known as the Bara Market. The well paved city roads eventually gave way to a slightly rougher track which was busy with traffic of huge cargo trucks. Eventually, many market squares started coming up on the right, open spaces covered with shops on three sides and a path on one side which led from square to square. Every market square carried a different category of products: electronics, cosmetics, clothing, dry fruits, groceries, and so on. Many hawkers ushered us to their wares set up in the open plaza close to the main shops.

As we walked on the wet ground after a morning downpour, my colleague told me about the market, “Right now we are close to the city border of Peshawar. The market continues beyond the border but there is a security check post situated near the last plaza within the city boundary. This is recent because of the continued security concerns in Peshawar.”

I jumped over a large, muddy puddle in the way, and then went back all ears to listen more closely. He continued, “This market forms a major trade link between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where many wholesalers and distributors transport goods to Afghanistan. The area of FATA starts just a kilometer or so from here and the famous landmark of Baab-e-Khyber, the archway which marks Khyber Pass is about a fifteen minute drive from where we are. The trucks load up with goods and head that way towards Afghanistan.”

“How far away is the actual border from here?” I asked, my curiosity escalating. We stopped at a shop where one of my other colleagues was looking for a good camera to buy. My Peshawari colleague, distracted for a moment by the camera choices on offer, replied, “From where we are, the actual border is about a forty five minute drive, a place known as Torkham. Between the Baab-e-Khyber and Torkham, there are tribal villages all around, which govern themselves mostly according to traditional laws which have been transcended by their elders over centuries. Many small traders from that area also get their wares from here.”

“Another interesting stop before Torkham in FATA is a border town called Landi Kotal. The town used to be a popular tourist destination until times got bad, and a train also goes there. Landi Kotal is famous for its food, hospitable albeit rugged tribal people, contraband and arms shops,” he explained. Images of a new Wild West floated in front of me with tribal people in 4x4 jeeps with their AK-47s. “It is the highest point of the Khyber Pass from where you can have a view of Afghanistan below you toward the west, just before the road descends into Torkham. Then the nearest Afghan city of Jalalabad is about two more hours from the border. I would have taken you to Landi Kotal but it’s not safe these days.”

A sense of that “it’s-a-small-world” feeling overwhelmed me as I wondered how close I was to a different country and engulfed in their culture. The market was buzzing with scores of people, traders as well as shoppers, who flooded the market around us. An old man with a large, round tray on his head went about selling dry fruit; women in burqas haggled with shopkeepers over their wares and a shop selling audio systems put on Pushto music to give a demo to his customers. Over the din of the loud, lively melody now filling the entire market square, my local colleague pointed out some of the second-hand and counterfeit electronics on display. “One needs to be careful of what they buy here though. This is a market without many regulations, and a lot of goods end up here. Some people find record bargains here, but mostly people end up selling their used electronics in this market, which are put on sale again.” I struggled to hear his voice over the loud beats of the rabab music which was now attracting excited expressions on passing faces, “A lot of goods which are supposed to go to Afghanistan end up back here instead of completing their journey because there are no real checks in FATA.”

“I expected some really good bargains and interesting deals here on things like cameras,” I joked, referring to the mostly below average merchandise on display. My colleague responded in a challenging way, “Alright then, let me take you to another part of this market if you want to see something really interesting.” Intrigued, my other colleagues and I followed behind him through the pathway that joined all the market squares. It started raining once more, and the hawkers lining the pathway adjusted the cloth covers that formed the roofs over their little shops. As I walked, trying to avoid the fresh puddles forming on the ground, orange light bulbs came on in the darkening street. Their glow highlighted the diverse wares behind them which were hidden in shadow due to the darkness of the day. We approached a place filled with the sizzling sound of samosas in a frying pan and the wafting smell of fresh tea, the crowd of shoppers thickened and I struggled to catch sight of our guide ahead.

Breaking through the throng of lively shoppers enjoying a midday tea break, we joined our guide in a new market square. His eyes shone with a secret which he seemed eager to share with us, “You must have often heard on the news that NATO supply trucks get burnt and destroyed on their way to Afghanistan?” he questioned like a teacher who expected an affirmative from their students. We all nodded, and he continued, “Well, haven’t you ever wondered where all the stuff from those trucks ends up?”

We exclaimed and looked about. This market square did not have proper shops, but a lot of hawkers. Lined up on their shop curtains were military grade binoculars, daggers, shades, belts, boots, jackets, shovels, torches, compasses, and other equipment, all with the insignia and make of what seemed like US Marines and NATO. It was certainly not Pakistani. I was awestruck for a moment as I tried to take it all in. Finally, I mustered, “How?”

My colleague smiled at his checkmate move and said, “It’s all set up. The truck drivers are paid to leave the trucks peacefully with their contents when threatened. The stuff is ransacked, sold in this market and the FATA tribal people pay a share to the truck driver so he can keep his mouth shut.” I still could not believe it but the ample military grade equipment on display did not seem like an accident. Copies of the Bible, magazines, comics, and some manuals on battlefield tactics with the U.S Bald Eagle on them also lay in a carton.

Supposed military grade equipment salvaged from destroyed NATO trucks

I went up to a hawker and tried to find something useful. A pair of Oakley shades, complete with extra lenses and a zipper casing, caught my eye. “Rs. 600 for this,” said the boy in charge. My colleague haggled with the boy in Pushto and played the guest-from-Karachi card to get me a discount. He agreed to two pairs of shades for Rs. 800, now that was a bargain, I thought.

Our guide took us a bit further and pointed a few meters ahead; some armed guards patrolled at a check post on the road. “Okay, so right now you are standing on the border of Peshawar and that barrier marks the start of FATA and the road that leads to Khyber Pass and on to Afghanistan.” I looked on in awe as he pointed to the pathway running between the market squares, “As you can see, the market continues beyond the Peshawar city limits.” I nodded after him; “This is the part where the rules of the market change significantly; from this point, everything from heroin, opium, hashish, AK-47s, M-16s, RPGs, Klashnikovs and any other arms and drugs you can think of are on sale freely.” My eyes widened with each item he named and left me grounded to the spot in shock. “But this is as far as we go,” he said, turning back.

But the fact that got to me most was the consistent hospitality offered by strangers, much more pronounced here than in other cities I had traveled to. Acquaintances we met during the day insisted on treating us for dinner and took it as an offence if refused without a valid reason. Over the coming days, we witnessed the pride held by Peshawar in its offer of a range of fulfilling culinary experiences. Stories of drug lords that run FATA’s opium trade told over delicious dinners filled with cheese-garlic nans and handis; and stories of the old and famous Namak Mandi and centuries old Qisa Khwani Bazar over a dinner of namkeen karhai were common.

Throughout the week, Peshawar continued to surprise me with its many such secrets, stories and cultural lore of old. Old fortresses, now used for military purposes and medieval architecture decorate the city. On another rain drenched evening, we were in a market close to the famous Sunehri Masjid. It holds a place in the relatively more recent history of Peshawar because its foundation stone was laid by Pakistan’s founder, Muhammad Ali Jinnah. Being in the vicinity, I decided to visit the landmark.

Inside the prayer hall of Sunehri Masjid, Peshawar

It was dark that evening due to the cloudy sky, a premature dusk was filling into the hustle and bustle of Peshawar’s markets as the downpour ceased. The red stone and marble work on the Masjid walls shone bright in the lights that had been switched on earlier than usual. The Masjid seemed empty upon arrival save for a poor man sitting just inside the Masjid doorway. I went in and offered my Asr prayers in the main hall first before taking a look around. The main hall, empty save for a few worshippers, was dressed in white walls and rugged mats, a portrait of humility. The mihrab or recess in the wall was the exception which carried the signature red stonework of the outer walls, with elaborate white flowers and pillars carved in marble.

A fresh breeze was blowing in the well-lit courtyard as I walked out into the corridor from the main hall. The evening bout of rain had left the red courtyard surface with a glassy layer of water, which painted a clear reflection of the Masjid hallways and pillars on the wet floor. Peshawar’s beauty shone through that reflection, inverted red silhouettes of pillars against the hallway lights; a spectacle both grand as well as humble in nature. The secrets and traditions of the city revealed themselves in the inverted image; like a hidden window which opened up momentarily in a rare evening shower, just in time to offer a fleeting glimpse to a wandering outsider disguised in a traditional pakol cap and shalwar kameez.

Reflection of the Masjid in the wet, glassy surface of the courtyard

The Masjid’s grand façade paid tribute to Peshawar’s age old form of architecture, part of a rich and unique culture often overlooked. The rain drops started pouring again, sending the beautiful reflection in the courtyard floor into a blur; the window closing again on Peshawar as I turned to leave. As I crossed the poor man who was still sitting in the doorway, I half expected him to ask for money but he sat by himself, with his back against the door, staring into the courtyard. Peshawar’s soul seemed lost and forgotten in the recent turmoil afflicting the region, yet its proud heritage, hospitality and rich traditions still stood strong. It's dark secrets also remained hidden in the blur raised by the falling rain drops.

The old man in the Masjid doorway.

“Pakhair Raghla” was the only thing I managed to learn in Pushto during my stay. “Welcome!” They said. A welcome to an extremely hospitable place that challenged my stereotypes to the extreme and gave me an experience that offered multiple perspectives on life. My travels last October in all were a surprising and eye-opening “Pakhair Raghla” on their own, an introduction to my professional career that has me considering the ground impact of decisions in the workplace in a way I never thought I would. Four months from October now, a 360 degree impact of a decision in the workplace for me has taken an entirely new meaning, a meaning never experienced before graduation last summer. It has been an eventful “Pakhair Raghla” for me into the professional world and into the greater heart of Pakistan.

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.