Home is where the heart is.

How can a country's mood change so swiftly? I felt no threat for my person or my stuff from the people of Pakistan; then I leave for a wedding, a bit of work, and a funeral, Bam! I return to a country where suicide bombing has become fashionable, and extremist fight over the credit, politics are playing a deadly game of political musical-chairs: Military is left standing, two-time X-Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto is permanently out and six-feet under. India's taunting Pakistan by playing war games near its boarder. The USA sends an unmanned drone to annihilate Al Quaeda leaders, and is surprised that their saintly gifts transported to Afghanistan through their territory ends up blown sky-high. Then not having ever heard our children's nursery rhyme,' sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me,' are insulated by Danish News Papers insults to their Prophet Muhammad. All to the background chant of 'Death to Americans.'

Am I having fun yet? You bet!
In reality, people on the streets have rallied around to give me encouragement, offer protection and hospitality. It's the government, radical clerics, and extremist that are out of control. But the people still stand by their honor of hospitality and goodness to strangers.

I continue my walk from Islamabad on the Grand Trunk Road (GTR). The road known to 17th century European travelers as 'the Long Walk', has a rich history and is still by far the busiest, wildest road I've set foot on.

Today it spans Bangladesh, India and Pakistan, a living, bustling diagonal strip stretching 2,600 km across the breadth of the Indian subcontinent.
Some books say it even extends across Afghanistan. Rudyard Kipling, set much of his novel Kim along this very road, I would guess few roads in the world can offer a better observation of a living-breathing strata of society as the Grand Trunk Road

I'd traveled a bit of the GTR in India. It passes through Delhi to the Pakistan Boarder; but I did not pick up the GTR until the city of Amritsar, then following it across the boarder into Pakistan's Lahore and north into Rawalpindi; the capital and Islamabad's twin city. My next part will wind southwest crossing both the Indus River and the North West Frontier Province, top to Peshawar, then head over the renowned Khyber Pass to the Afghanistan border.

Now I'm positively giddy with anticipation of my next step of the 'long walk.' on the GTR.

Leaving before dawn, I take up sunrise vigilance outside the President's residence; a fitting place to say good-bye to Islamabad. I make my way to 'point zero,' a real landmark in the center of town, where a few of my friends are waiting to walk the first kilometre on Shahrah-e Kashmir with me. It's peaceful in the cool morning air, and we walk south west in almost silence. Then a flurry of 'good-byes,' 'I'll e-mail you,' 'see you when you return from walking the Karakoram Highway.' then suddenly it’s just me on the GTR. (Technically this road junctions with the GTR road 14km out of town)

(See digital image of President's House at sunrise.)

It's not long before I'm dodging traffic and choking on diesel fumes, dust billowing from off-road jostling for a better position a few precious feet ahead and sensory-numbing cacophony of horns. My forward progress intercepted constantly by offers of rides from buses, trucks, mini-vans, private vehicles, donkey carts and wandering livestock. A white woman is a rare sight; one walking alone is nothing short of mind-boggling. Some people (men) stopped to say they remember reading about me in the Dawn Newspaper months ago, or they saw my photo on the cover of The Voice Magazine. I've heard that the story was picked by newspapers in Urdu, but I never saw them.

I am the recipient of many stinging drive-by 'high-fives' from the young mini-van touts. I'm not sure if this is proper behavior, but there isn't time to analyze it as they drive by, leaning way out of their vehicle or hanging onto the running board, hand waving in anticipation. I'm sure given time; one of the mullahs (Muslim scholar or religious leader) will find a passage in the Holy Koran pertaining to such behavior. For now are all having a great time.

I wonder what Sher Shah Suri, the 16th century ruler of the Indian sub-continent would think about the changes that have transpired to his brainchild - the GTR during his absence. It literally bound India together for centuries, a link for trade and communication across his empire. With Independence and Partition in 1947, it became a two-way harrowing escape route for 15 million refugees caught between Indian and Pakistani religious divides. Sher Shah Suri would be pleased to see that, again, trade and transport are kings-of-the-road, but at a much greater degree of noise, billowing exhaust fumes, fancier vehicles and speed
It's a hot and dusty, but lively 14 kilometer WALK to the official junction of the GTR coming from India through Rawalpindi. I'm rarely out of arms reach of tea stops, food vendors or vehicles trying rub elbows with me as they whiz by.

Four kilometres and over an hour later, I sat with a hot cup of chai, (sweetened milk tea), cradling my red-tender hand and nursing my shattered nerves from near misses, on the road’s edge, among starring men, donkey carts, men lounging in their autorickshaw. Its location just feet off on the roadside is scarcely safer or more restful that walking. I was entertained by the antics coining from the other rickety wooden shop-stalls squatting in poverty flotsam squalor, selling all manor of goods and services. A barber with a straight razor, squatting to shave a courageous man, a butcher seated Buddha style on his cutting table holding a chunk of bloodied carcass between his feet as he savagely hacks off chunks with a dull knife before dropping them onto the scale, a feast for tonight’s meal.

I'm in Pakistan. Pakistan is a 'man's world:’ A fact I have to live with if I'm to travel here. Chaikhana, tea stalls, are the meeting places for the exclusive 'men's club.' Lingering over my chai as I am starred at by so many eyes, belonging to so many silent men, is not comfortable. It's evident I don’t belong here, and I'm taking up their space in this very busy Chaikhana. I am too tired to take up the challenge. I groaned to myself as I calculate, with the help of the Lonely Planet Guide, it's about 13 more km to Taxila. At 4 km an hour, far less if I'm stopped for offered rides, I still have over 3 hours to walk to the nearest known guest house. I was about to push myself wearily up when:

A man leaned across the grubby wooden plank, serving as a table, and shouted above the hubbub, "Would you like to come with me and meet my family? I can bring you back tomorrow."

I was wearing dark sunglasses and he was backlit, so I could only see a siluette. As he wasn't really looking at me, but in my general direction as everybody had been looking at me from the beginning; but now all was quiet. I only hoped he was addressing me; a stranger he was, but that one sentence said it all. He had a family, there fore trustworthy, he would shelter and fed me, and I wasn't expected to stay long, and I would be returned to this very spot tomorrow. If he trusted me not to molest his family, I could trust him not to molest me. Perfect!

Without the least hesitation, I blindly accepted a complete stranger's generous offer to meet a real Pakistani family and to stay the night. The possibility there is no family, or that this is a Kidnapping never entered my mind. I just thrust my backpack at Iqbah, (I only learned his name hours later, when his when his brother called to him, and he learned mine when I gave it to his auntie) and climbed into the mini van's front seat, reserved for the female species, as he squeezed my bag and himself into the back with the other men. I did not question where we were going, or how long it takes. I was happy to be having an adventure. I paid my own fare before it could be an issue, and obediently disembarked minutes later when told to. I'd not made eye contact, and if he weren’t carrying my backpack, I'd have lost him in the crowd. I didn't even know exactly what he looked like. He wore a beard, so did most of the men, he wore the traditional shalwar kameez (baggy pants and long tunic top) in dusty beige as almost all the other men did.

When Iqbah suddenly stopped at his gate, I almost ran into him. It looks nearly identical to all the others on the narrow dusty lane. Beyond the gate was a wonderland courtyard, cool and inviting. A whole world away from the dusty world outside the walls. With cats underfoot, Iqbad proudly presented me to his 7children, all obediently lined up in chronological order and mysteriously seem to be all under 5-years old. The mystery solved when I met his two wives. I am not sure if he was proud he'd snagged an American to bring home, or proud of his ever expanding family. I am so glad I'd forgotten the 'death to Americans' chant that'd been in my head just days before.

Iqbah's wives are illiterate, a fact he, like other Muslim husbands, seem extremely proud of and enjoy flaunting. Although Muslim men want and need sons, Iqbah is typically charmed by his toddler daughter. He explained his daughter would not be going to school. He has already chosen a husband for her from one of her many cousins. It will be just a few precious years before she too must be dealt with, with the iron rule supposedly dictated by the Quran on the treatment and control of their females. I luckily don't fall in this category. I am a time honored 'guest.' Bottled icy Coke-a-Cola and fruit are presented to me. I hate eating in front of the children, but it's expected. While my feet were soaking in hot water, I sit dwarfed by a clean set of shalwar kameez one of his wives produced for me, as his 6 boys are charming and entertained me with universally childish antics and broken English, while the little doll sat upon her fathers lap, and watched my every move. Only when I produced balloons would she leave the safety of her fathers lap.

This is the first long walk in my new Asolo Hiking Boots. Only my third pair of boots on this long trip. I believe that if the boots fit properly, you don't need to suffer while there are 'broken in'. They fit right from the beginning. I've never had a blister in the whole 10-years of walking, and today I'm more nerve frayed from the choirs of traffic than physically tired I did blow about a pound of road dust and diesel shoot from my nose. The soaking of my feet was Iqbad's idea. It's not my normal procedure, but I truly enjoy it.

A banquet meal was presented, bits and pieces brought by family members that appeared from nowhere. Afterwards I was bombarded by questions, translated by Iqbah and his brothers, while we made the mandatory rounds of the homes of parents, aunties and various cushions. Each home presented chai, fruit and drooling babies to admire. It's a bit confusing to keep every body's relationship straight, as they intermarry, and one person can wear the hat of several different relatives. (The return of birth defects from marrying one's own cousin is appallingly on the rise. On this particular subject, I cannot stay neutral.)

I was given a private sleeping mat, in the formal living room, with Iqbah's neighboring elder sister as a chaperone and companion. Soon the cats snuggled up, quickly followed by nine little wiggly giggling bodies sneaking in the darken room. Where did the extra two come from? After a nearly sleepless night, I drifted off near dawn. I awoke to 26 wide eyes starring at me in awe, as if at an alien creature. The whole family plus neighboring relatives had made a silent appearance, and willed me to wake up. Following my companion's lead, and thankfully I'd slept in all my (barrowed) clothes and headscarf.

I sat up, disheveled, my headscarf askew, and I became aware of my bladder's demands. Before I could politely excuse myself, the wives and aunties came with platters of fresh chapatis (flat bread like thick tortillas) and chai. The chapatis, wrapped in newspaper, were luke warm, so I wonder how long they had waited for me to wake up? It was still dark outside. I'm not sure what the social customs are, but a full bladder trumps a tea party in my book.

Just as the sun was peaking over the buildings, I was left, in my freshly washed and pressed clothes, at the now familiar Chaikhana. Yesterday I was an unwanted intrusion. Today I am greeted by smiles from the owner and his sons, thus followed the other patrons, as if a sister (wait, not true! his sister would never ever be allowed here and live to tell about it; perhaps like a brother!). My hot chai is produced with all gracious smiles and Is It possible a bit of a bow, 3 times. A young boy came running with, my very favorite, piping hot nan (bread baked in a tandoor oven) persuadably form an unseen stall down the ally way. No money would be accepted. I guess if one member of the brother-hood accepts you, your in! Our farewell was more tike a family reunion member robustly departing.

The Margalla Pass is historically important. Sir Olaf Aroe described it as the real division between Central and South Asia. Pretty anti-climatic. Just a gentle roll in the GTR marked by a distictive granite obelisk on the left, a walk up to Niholson's obelisk, erected in 1868, is on a section of the old cobbled road over 2,000 years old. Now I'm impressed.

By noon, I was enjoying a shower at the Shahyar's Motel. Previously Pakistan Tourist Development Corporation; a mouth full, so know to all as PTDC. Well my friend In Islamabad, Mehanban Karim introduced me to Tayyab Nisar Mir PTDC Tourism officer, who referred me to Salman Javed Isamad, Manager Director of PTCD. Voile! I got a letter authorizing them to give me 50% off my stays. I was told, non-officially of course, that I might get a better discount by the individual PTDC manager. Even tough the hotel is no longer PTDC. The manager thought some of my money was better than none, and tourism is way down, so letter and my charm worked. My letter got me 50% off one night stay, and I waggled 3 nights and all the food I can eat, if I eat the same food as the staff.

Taxila town has several derelict Hindu temples and a bazaar and train station. I'd heard that the museum is brilliant. Closed! And seldom open the locals told me as they passed by. Disappointed until I a thought occurred to me, perhaps my friendly PTDC manager knows someone who has the key.

The Taxila excavations of BC Archaemenian site, Bactrian Greeks 2nd century BC and Mohra Moradu monastery. Well it’s as boring to me to look at, as it is to you to read these words. Lots of acreage, but without a storyteller, it's nothing interesting and it's blazing hot!

I was sitting under a tree, trying to will myself not to melt, but I was leaking from every pore anyway. Then contemplating another long cold shower, when a new mini-van pulled up and out stepped several white tourist. English, Belgium, and as I was to discover an obnoxious Australian who kept asking for beer. Karim the tour guide was friendly and in his near perfect English, invited me to join his group around the excavation. He translated the excavation guide’s narrative, and the little grassy knolls and rocky bits of a wall came to life and became fascinating.
(See Digital image of Taxila)

They’d also arranged for the air-conditioned museum to open. It's a fabulous museum. Alternatively, I was just wallowing in the air-conditioning. I joined them for a meal, and noticed their shy driver ate with the hotel staff. I wandered off in the direction of the rest room, and the staff invited me over to their table. They seemed to be having more fun. The driver Mahboob knew a little broken English and we had a good time. He told me of excavations and about his love for his 3rd wife, the one he choose for himself. He said his wife would like me. "I say my wife, Almitra good woman." He showed me the rose garden.

Then he excused himself to pray.
Karim is more casual about prayer time.

When I told Karim and Mahboob of my journey, walking a round the world, and walking In Pakistan: Karim translated to Mahboob, then, looking at me fully forbade me to travel alone; when this didn't dissuade me, he stalked off !, Although Mahboob, eyes averted, showed concern, he realized I was determined, and gave me his well wishes. "in sha Allah (if God wills it) you will be safe." He said he drives tourist all over Pakistan, frequently with Karim; although these days there are not so many, he will watch for me on the road.

More practical, Mahboob tried to teach me a few words. I know in sha Allah and asalaam aleikum. (hello) peace be with you and bus, enough, bus bus, enough is enough; roti, nan, chapati, breads.

Karim, feeling left out, returned from his snit and after a conference with Mahboob, they decided there is one word that can achieve unimaginable depths of communication:
ach’ha’ in its simplest form means, this is good.

They demonstrated how this universal word could be used.
Ach’hah! ok
Ach’ha’ that’s fine with me
Ach’haa-ach’ha’ I understand
Ach’ha ach’haa don’t say any more-I know it anyway
Ach’haa! how wonderful
Aachch’h! well!
Ach’hhaah! I am shocked!
Ach’hha? really?
Ach’hha? that’s all?
Aach’ha! Nothing more to tell, ok then, bye!
Their group had gone with a Taxila guide off for more archaeological sites. I declined. I opted for live-person interaction, to a history of the dead ones.

So for the rest of the afternoon, no mater what they said, I practiced my ach’ha 's. Karim said I might have contributed to the list of accents, but need proactive with the real ones. We got the giggles. I felt good. I felt accepted as a person. I get the feeling that this behavior is reserved for the exclusive 'men's club'. I'm an enigma. As a female, I'm forbidden territory, but as a guest, I'm acceptable; it seems when accepted, accept with out reservations.

It's up to me to not cross any unseen boundaries and become 'female' in any way. It's like waking a tight rope in the dark.

The giggling. That’s the most amazing thing about Pakistani men. They are so very playful with each other. Sitting at a café or park watching them interact, it's like watching a bunch of over grown 7 year olds interacting. Playful and uninhibited When photographed by each other, they wiggle fingers over each other’s heads, they tug at the corner of another ones tunic when unexpected, they switch their empty chai cup with their friends full one. They don’t have full bellied laughs (although, they do proudly display very full bellies) but they freely giggle, like little girls at a tea party with their dolls
.
I asked how to say 'thank-you.' They explained it's not used, since everything comes from Allah, the Merciful.

So farewell.
Karim, who didn't remember my name, gave me all his particulars, e-mail address and his home village name, near the Karakoram Highway. I think he has a very difficult job. He has a foot in two conflicting worlds. To be a good tour guide he is in closer proximity to the females than his religion allows. I don't know his well enough to know how he is coping.
He did tell me, "Mahboob is very strict Muslim and very shy, he never before talk to girl tourist, he is good Muslim man, you can trust him."

Shy Mahboob, not making eye contact gave me a rose, his business card with an e-mail address and said 'in sha Allah, Almitra, I see again you.'
(See digital images of Mahboob, Karim and me)

The bazaar and gardens of Wah Moghul kept me occupied the next day. I stood trying to picture the gardens all in bloom, before the marble that was once everywhere had been pillaged. The Mogul gardens tend to be planned with an almost classical symmetry. Eventually I realized that what my eye was missing in the formal garden layout was the statues, which are forbidden in Islam.

Two days walk to Hasan Abdul, A famous Hindu Sikh pilgrimage center since the 7th century. This is one of just 4 pocket Hindu sights in Pakistan. 2 in Punjab, 1 in NWFP and one in the Thar deserts of Sinhd. I had to be persuasive (without eye contact or flirting) to gain entrance to the Pajj Sahib Gurdawra Sikh temple. It's usually only for Muslims and Sikh's. But as a pilgrim, and having walked through India, I was allowed entrance. I'm a bit too early for their annual Baisakhi Festival for pilgrims from India.

I spent a lovely afternoon outside the Gurdawra Sikh temple walls at a large stone pool. I tempted fate, and took my boots off and cooled my feet in the cool pool. A hot day, the pool was full of children. Hindu I think. They seemed so much freer than their Muslim counter parts. I bought food at the bazaar and we had a picnic.
(See image of children at the pond.)

Attock City is notable because of the fort that dominates the gorge, build on the east bank in 1580, sitting high at the junction of the GTR and the Indus River. The river marks the boundary between Punjab and the NWFP. This wild frontier has been the center of many adventure stories of the wild wild west-Pakistan-Afghan style. It used to be a just a word on a map, a word that was whispered, along with Peshawar, and lawless tribal lands, places marked 'no-man's land' and here I stand, in the middle of the bridge, one foot in on-man's land, and I’ve lived to tell about it.

Tomorrow is a special day. Tomorrow I walk into the forbidden and lawless land of the Pashtun tribesmen. I'm only a few days from Peshawar. The territory. where Afghans and Pashtuns have clashed for centuries. Will I be accepted? How can I be perceived as a pilgrim and not an unruly female in need of punishment or an American spy in need of imprisonment? Although my being an American has been only favorable so far.
NWFT is mostly populated by the proud Pashtun tribal people. I know one word, Meimastia: means showing hospitality to all visitors, even their enemies if requested. I might have to rely upon their traditional custom of goodness to strangers.

Trying to perfect my Ach’hah’s with anyone who looked my way, I made my way through the bazaar. After 10-yers of traveling in ‘developing,’ countries, I am still amazed by all the daily personal grooming, buy US standards, that occur in public. The roadside barber is just one.
(See digital image of Attock’s street barber.)

The only good thing about walking through the bustle of the untidy industrial suburb of Peshawar is that the number of food stalls increase. I love street vendor food. The few times I've gotten food poisoning in the past 10 years on this walk, was from the higher class hotels or restaurants in the slow season. Therefore, the turnover of perishables was slower. Street vendors usually use up their produce each day. The rare occasion that there's anything left over; it goes home for the family. Everything fresh the next day. It's the week-month- possibility much longer oil that'll eventually kill you. I learned to savor the crispy-greasy samosas in Africa, 20 years ago. If the oil is less than a month old, and is slightly less dense than old motor oil, the samosas are delightful. Almost any vegetable or mince with spices wrapped in a special pastry into triangles and deep-fried is always a treat. In Pakistan, when fresh and hot is most delightful. Cold, they can coat the tongue and throat with a nauseating grease that'll last for days. Bhaji + pokora, deep friend battered vegetable fritters, are also a treat.

Grand Trunk Road punctures Peshawar with a road clogging carnival. Colorful vehicles and people, mobile venders selling all sorts of food and souvenirs. Wait! It not a carnival, it’s a bus terminal. Here in the unglamorous dirt is an art-on-wheels display. Pakistan's vintage Bedford buses and trucks are astonishing works of art: mirrored and sequined: painted with poetry. This is done at a huge expense for the owner. This is the source of some of my most hair raising close calls I hope to visit some of the truck-renovation shops, where they are standing still.
(See digital image of art-on-wheels.)

It's getting near dusk, and I don't want to be wandering around a place known as the most lawless city of the world in the dark. One of the friendly bus drivers to got an autorickshaw at what I thought was a good price to take me to the Rose Hotel. It turns out to be just 1 kilometre down the road. I’m not sorry. I'd made a note of this recommenced so long ago in a different country, I can’t even remember from who. The Lonely Planet Guide lists cheaper guesthouses, where the foreigners hangout, on the out skirts of town, but I want to be in the heart of Old Town. I reread the Lonely Planet Guide (PLG) about the Rose Hotel; it’s in Old Town, not far from the Saddar Bazaar, just across the bridge from the Museum and local bus lines run past the front door.
The book also says; "you can arrange trips to the Khyber Pass here; and at least one character was offering guided trips to Darra." (Where they manufacture arms by the thousands).

'Prince' I met in Lahore, (another story), also recommended it. He says only a few tourist go there. However, I needed a second opinion, as I'd realized in the very short time I'd know him, he has a good heart, he says so himself-many times, but his ideas don't necessarily mesh with anybody else’s reality. This time they do. I’m soon to learn that this character mentioned in the LPG, is the one and only Prince

Reception sits on the second floor of a 5 story building around an open central stairwell. I mentioned I was sent by Prince, and was given a nice discount and an offer to phone him for me. "No thank-you, I'll phone Prince later." Once in my room, complementary hot tea and a carafe of water in place, I tested the light switches, the TV, the ceiling fan, the hot water in my bathroom. Now what? It's now fully dark outside as I hang out my window and watch the live show of life pass just 2-floors below my window. At reception, I request coke and ice, and I am pointed to the rooftop. I go up, to the surprise of the staff. Tourist never come up here they say, but serve me each of my 2 cokes with a smile and crushed ice. I hope the water is as safe here as it was in Lahore and Islamabad.

The smell of coal cooked kabobs wafts up to me, and all thought of lawlessness and hostages evaporates. Once I’m in a place, I guess I get a gut feeling about it, and where I fit. Two days ago this was just a name on a map, with big red warning letters, today it’s home.

I tell the manager, who nodes with approval, where I am going. I’m feeling right at home. I'll post pone-phoning Prince until tomorrow, and I walked out onto the street as ff it was my own neighborhood (Note: Much San Diego is not very safe alone in the dark), in search of food. Each vendor friendly and inviting. I eat a 3-course meal, each at a different makeshift-starlit roadside café. I sit on stools just a foot off the pavement, (which easily rob any female of any grace) and thoroughly enjoying myself. The proprietors would shoo away any beggars or men on the roadside that might bother me. I feel quite safe. While drinking hot chai at the 4th café, I looked up to see the kitchen staff from the Rose Hotel watching and watching out for me from the rooftop. I waved back.