Listless in Lahore
Helen would disagree wholeheartedly, but for me the border crossing to Pakistan was one of the reasons I love travelling like this: It was hot. The guards at the Indian border initially seemed to have little clue as to where we should be registered, though the immigration officer was very helpful and pleasant. We traded thoughts with him on marriage. A quick bus journey to the border proprer, then with rucksacks on we crossed through the gates we’d last seen at the closing ceremony and into Pakistan. It was getting hotter and the wind was whipping up, swirling the dust around us. Even with shades on, the dust was in our eyes and coating us, our bags, the sweat on our faces, everything. Pakistanis queueing in a long line to cross to India greeted us as we filed past, some reaching out to shake our hands or call out words of welcome. It was about a 500m walk to the almost hidden Pakistan immigration office and we had to be led there by officials. Easy formalities, no bag searches. We were asked if we were married or not. Usual nonsense with taxis but we halved our costs by sharing with the only other Westerners crossing (a lovely Dutch couple – our age again ?!?). Taxi driver moaning about how much he hates India (it’s dirty apparently). Just felt very real, with our homes on our backs and feeling glad to be alive.
Lahore is Amritsar’s sister city and at first impression seems to be the more glamorous one. Gulberg, the area where expensive cars, glitzy shops, malls and swanky coffee dens & restaurants abound, is a large part of that impression. Our hotel here however, was exceptional in its modesty (a bit of a shabby s**thole to be honest). It had a birthday venue where endless parties occured, complete with bright fake-flower walls for photos, the incessant playing of a high-pitched and excruciating version of ‘Happy Birthday’, and a breakfast hall where over-keen staff whipped your plate away if you stopped eating for the briefest instant. We did have access to some very fine eateries though, that provided the best meals of our trip so far (ref. Bistro Noir – best sticky toffee pudding (!!) and chocolate fondant this side of heaven).
For once, we indulged in some shopping, on the hunt for a traditional shalwar kameez for Helen. We toured exclusive shops, frequented exclusively by ladies (yours truly exceptioned) and shop-assisted exclusively by young men. She’s wearing the eventual purchase in one of the photos below and, to be fair, looks rather fetching….
Impressions change as you move into the older parts of the city, particularly as you get to the old walled area. Here modernity feels largely absent – crooked lanes, vendors with donkeys and carts, motorbikes, street filth and rats are the norm. Much more my scene.
Our first foray here took us to the magnificent Badshahi masjid – a beautiful red sandstone mosque with exquisite painted ceilings and moulded arches built by Shah Jahan (of Taj Mahal fame and the resemblance to it is clear). In the morning it’s a place of quiet contemplation and near silence. There’s a tiny, dusty museum near the entrance which claims to have not only a hair from the beard of the Prophet Mohammed, but also his turban and other artefacts – all in remarkably good nick and kept in a largely opaque glass case. Nobody buys that of course, but it’s a good excuse to cadge money out of you as you leave.
Badshahi mosque
Badshahi mosque
Badshahi mosque
Up the steps built for royal elephants at Lahore Fort next, to be greeted by a strange man in a skirt with a spear and the start of countless photo calls. This continued in Iqbal Park where we went to see the very pointed and pretty pointless Minar-e-Pakistan, a mini Eiffel Tower that was razor-wired off so you couldn’t get near it. Though our encounters with the locals were great fun and very good natured, the constant requests for pictures and ever increasing heat (it gets very, very hot here) made us retreat to air conditioned relief at the Haveli rooftop restaurant, with its superb view of the mosque and cool drinks. The Haveli is a Lahore institution. You’re greeted at the entrance by a number of dwarves (we counted at least 5) who show you to the lift to the rooftop. One was wearing my old school tie, though he didn’t seem overly impressed at the coincidence. First time in the lift we had a power cut, the lights went out and it stopped between floors. Helen had a mini meltdown. Luckily the outage lasted only 5 minutes, but it felt like an age….. We went there on our last night in the city too, to watch the sun set behind the mosque and see the huge red minarets and ivory bulbous domes slowly illuminate. Evenings are a different affair here. There’s a military style entrance routine, where you state your party number to a couple of bouncers who then use their walkie-talkies to contact their counterparts on the roof. Only when a suitable table is available are you allowed to cautiously ascend to your strictly designated table. Hanging around after eating is actively discouraged, as is getting a dessert apparently, such is the popularity of the place.
Undoubtedly the best of the city, in our opinion, is to be found in the shabby backstreets of the old town. Pakistan is renowned for its friendliness and nowhere is that more evident than here. Rather than pester you for photos, street vendors call out a genuine welcome, ask you where you’re from and give you thumbs up and big smiles when you answer. We were semi-kidnapped by a few fruit sellers who insisted we stop for tea, kindly provided by the vendor next door for free. We were given fruit, biscuits, more fruit, a seat to rest our weary limbs. An enormously entertaining encounter for all, where the lack of a common language seems irrelevant, where meaning and gratitude seems best expressed in gesture alone.
Drum makers, Lahore walled city
Free tea
Lahore walled city
Please photograph my bananas…
A rare moment of peace, Lahore walled city
Helen’s new togs
Bark for cleaning teeth
Sheep’s balls and goat’s heads anyone?
Lungs or goats feet?
Lahore walled city
Novel nerds will appreciate our next stop, a little pilgrimage on my part to a place I’ve wanted to see since I was a kid, as referenced in the opening lines of Rudyard Kipling’s 1901 classic ‘Kim’.
“He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher – The Wonder House, as the Natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that ‘fire breathing dragon’, hold the Punjab; for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot”
The massive cannon is still there, opposite the museum, only now it’s plonked on a mucky marble plinth on the central reservation of a busy multi-laned thoroughfare. Romance lessened somewhat already, it disappeared altogether when my plans for Helen to straddle said gun for a picture were thwarted by a big surrounding ditch (not to mention a strange reluctance on her part to fulfil my little fantasy).
The Zam-Zammah cannon (unbestraddled)
Things brightened up later when we were collared by the local traffic police. At first dubious of their intentions, it seems they only wanted to have a chat to relieve the boredom of standing under a tree on a hot, dusty carriageway. We sat with them for a while, talking about anything and taking each other’s picture. I took a picture of Helen and the guy in the square photo below with his phone. Disturbingly, and the second time this has happened in our Pakistani selfie career, he had a filter on that made us look like we were wearing bright red lipstick. I didn’t know whether to smile or pout. As we left them we noticed their car had ‘Lahore Patrol’ written on it. “Ha, Ha”, we laughed, “it sounds like they’re French kerb crawlers”. You probably had to be there…..
We were getting a little fed up with wilting in the heat, so were glad to move on to Islamabad. Unlike India, it’s not at all easy to get from city to city on local buses, so we travelled by coach. I’d inadvertently booked us into ‘executive class’ which got us seats as big as sofas in a permanent recumbent position. The ceiling of the bus was very nice.
Islamabad is a little dull and has grid-like streets that are split into areas, prosaically called G-111, F-123, D-231 etc. We went for a cheapish hostel situated in the city’s ‘E’-numbers area, E-112 to be precise. E112 is ‘Red Ponceau’, a synthetic dye used in food colouring. We were hoping to stay in ‘Monosodium Glutamate’, but there were no restaurants there.
Rawalpindi however, is Islamabad’s vibrant, workaday and character-full twin-city. Directly adjacent they merge together like chalk and cheese – the contrast from one street to the next is quite incredible. We had the briefest of time here, but made a fascinating stop at a ‘Jingle Truck’ workshop, the subject of our next post…….
Simon (23rd April 2025)
Have to say I’ve read all your posts with great interest. I might not always comment but there’s not been a boring read yet! I felt for Helen in the power cut….I would absolutely had the mother of all melt downs. Gary and I continue to amazed at your travelling pursuits.
Thanks Alison – Helen appreciates your solidarity. She thinks I thought she was being a complete wuss…
Yes Helen looks a treat in her new clothes.
She does – only cost a fiver too