Polo, Peshawar and police protection
The joys of travelling…. Our pre-booked shared taxi to Chitral turned up one and half hours early, at 6am. It was pure luck we’d decided to get up at 5am. Just caught it, missed breakfast, then two hours bouncing back over the most rubbish road in existence, squashed in with eight other people plus our luggage in a battered old jalopy. Google Maps failed us on the location of our hotel in Chitral and we had to climb about 100m up the steepest, most sh*t strewn steps with full packs to get there. Helen had to stop. I continued the climb, dropped off my bags & came back for hers. Wet through with sweat. The hotel decided it didn’t want to accept my booking as it wasn’t happy with the firm we’d booked it through and wanted full payment there and then. It was already paid for and non-refundable. Big argument with the manager who only backed down after 20 minutes of serious moaning on my part. Went to the bus station to pick up our tickets for Peshawar for the next morning, reserved by our host in the Kalash valley (Engineer Khan). No morning bus exists, we were told, only night buses. Engineer Khan apologised on the phone and confessed he’d booked us on an Islamabad bus anyway. Confusion reigning. The hotel manager made it up to us slightly by reserving places on a bus that actually did go the next morning. A pretty exhausting day…
Still, it got better. We’d wanted to see a polo match in northern Pakistan and only missed out in Skardu due to the unfortunate death of one of the players, so we were pleased when we discovered that there were daily matches going on in Chitral. Although only mid May, these matches are in effect selection trials for players and horses for the highly prestigious Shandur festival in July. We saw teams from the Chitral Scouts, a militia force of the wider Pakistan army. Not exactly polo aficionados, we were a little unsure of the rules but our presence there attracted loads of locals only too willing to explain. Though a true ‘gentleman’s sport’, it’s more than a little rough & ready. A few players fell off their mounts. One broke his arm. It was, in truth, a little hard to follow – the action takes place on a very long and dust-strewn pitch and once the horses are away from you, there’s little chance of seeing what’s going on. Still it was fun, though we were covered in a thick layer of dust for our efforts.
As we left the grounds, a passing car stopped and offered to give us a lift to wherever we wanted to go. Anywhere other than Pakistan we’d have run a mile at a ‘do you want to see some puppies’ request, but here it’s totally fine. A cardiologist was driving his two extremely precocious children around and thought stopping for two foreigners would allow his offspring to practice their English. For a free lift we obliged and humoured the little brats the full 6 miles to a restaurant we were keen to get to. In 2004 a plane crashed at Chitral airport and someone decided to build a diner around the wreckage (obvious really). The plane is still mostly intact and has a mini-school room inside it. We ate a delicious Karahi with rotis under its wing, then hitched back with some young lads who were cousins of the polo player who’d just broken his arm.
Peshawar was our final ‘new’ destination in Pakistan which we reached after another marathon journey (11 hours in a local bus). An ancient city, it has the whiff of the illicit about it. Passed from empire to empire down the ages and located at the door of the strategically vital Khyber Pass through to Afghanistan, its recent history has been mired in a mix of terrorist violence, an influx of Afghan refugees and illegal trading practices. Long gone are the hedonistic days as a hash mecca on the Hippie Trail in the 60s, though there’s still plenty of pungent black balls stuck under the dashboards of many a taxi in the city (I was offered some a few times). Unlike the rest of Pakistan, Peshawar is still very much on the FCO’s ‘don’t go there’ list and foreigners can often be subject to stringent police ‘protection’ whilst in the city.
We were fully expecting to be collared by the security forces on arrival and assigned a guard for protection, but to our surprise no-one materialised. Hotels are obliged to report foreigners to the police, but we saw no evidence of this at ours. We were certainly not complaining though – reports from other travellers suggested your escort goes absolutely everywhere with you and cannot be shaken off for love nor money.
Oblivious to any danger, either real or perceived, we spent a day in the old city, visiting the absolutely marvellous Sethi House, a British Raj era haveli built by a wealthy Central Asian trader in the style of a Bukharan mansion. Made of 70% cedar wood, the house exudes charm and smells, wonderfully, like a Lebanese forest. High ceilings made of glass in sumptuous geometric designs, cool courtyards with ornate fountains, clever roof to ceiling ventilators and a private well add to the character.
The house borders on the Qissa Khwani Bazaar, a vibrant mercantile area with a plethora of tea sellers, carpet makers and street-side eateries. We ambled down an alley where tailors were busy cutting cloth – shoppers buy material from the traders nearby, deposit it with the tailors and a few hours later walk off with several complete outfits. We stopped for a drink with some of them and chatted about the state of the world, watching the artists at work with deft swipes of chalk and precise, deep sounding cuts from heavy & razor sharp scissors. Though they look to be modest operations, one tailor told us he feeds his family of 6 kids from it and that business is thriving, especially with British Pakistanis using his services to produce wedding outfits.
The tailors of Peshawar
Places like these afford the best of travel experiences in my opinion. A wander through the bazaar gave us countless opportunities to chat with wonderfully friendly passers-by, school kids, stall owners – everyone wants to know where you’re from and everyone had something positive to say. Everyone wants to pose for pictures, just for the hell of it. It felt like the friendliess, safest, most welcoming place you could imagine.
Then, randomly, we met a young guy from the Czech Republic, along with his police escort. Presuming we must have had one also, he seemed embarrassed when he realised we didn’t and hastily tried to drag his gun-toting limpet away from us. Too late though. “Where is your protection?”, the nice policeman demanded. “Err”, we stammered. “What hotel?” “Err, oh it’s one near University Town, I think.” “What name?” “Oh, what’s it called, we can’t quite remember.” “What country?” “We’re from England.” “Ah, I have a brother who lives in Manchester! He is very happy there.” “Really, that’s great, Manchester is a lovely city.” “I would like to go there someday too.” “You should, you’d really like it.” All smiles and he allowed himself to be dragged off by his red-faced tourist charge.
We beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction, not believing our luck.
Fleeing from the fuzz…
A visit to the 1936 Taj Soda shop for some much needed refreshment. We were shown to a small family room, Helen being female and not allowed to drink with the men in this most conservative of towns. Another girl came in and we got chatting. Her father followed a few minutes later. “So what do you do?” we asked. “I’m with the police” he said. Groan….. A coincidence? Maybe, but it was starting to feel like our trip to Sudan a few years back where we were detained and chaperoned by the security forces there (we were near the border with Eritrea and they really don’t get on), constantly being followed or intercepted by not very discrete policemen. We politely left with no escort references being made, perhaps as he was off duty, or maybe our birthplace saved us again.
The situation crystallised somewhat on our visit to the Mohabbat Khan mosque, a gleaming white marble emblem of Peshawar. Whereas I was quite welcome to quietly wander around the courtyard and discretely into the mosque itself, Helen was made to feel distinctly unwelcome here and essentially hounded back outside. Suitably dressed women are allowed in the environs but there was clearly a good deal of tension with her presence there and we were glad to leave. Things were clearly not 100% rosy after all and we began to wonder whether an escort might be a good idea.
Mohabbat Khan mosque
We had business in Peshawar too. I’d asked for our visas for Afghanistan to be issued here (it’s much cheaper than anywhere else apparently) and so needed a visit to the Consulate General to finalise our application. Other female travellers had reported that women need to apply separately, wearing a full burkha (a head to toe outfit with a small lattice window for the eyes) but on arrival Helen was allowed to come with me to the front desk with a simple headscarf. We were intercepted on the road outside, where a friendly bearded giant pushed us through a mob of about 60 or 70 men waiting in the hot sun outside. Inside he took us to the front of the queue bypassing 20 or so women (all burkha’d) and within about 20 minutes we’d got our passports back and visas issued. The privilege of being a foreign guest, or the fact that we pay a very Western price of $80 each? Who could say….
Helen was feeling like she needed to relax that afternoon, so I decided to take myself off and see if I could find a jingle truck-stop and take some more photos. Peshawar has some seriously bonkers examples of the form and I think I’ve become mildly obsessed with photographing them. I took a taxi to a busy road, hoping to see a few parked up. What I found, eventually, was a pretty extensive yard down a dirt track off the side of the road with many, many trucks either parked or coming back from a trip. I’m like a small child in situations like this and started snapping away busily. Not surprisingly my activity attracted lots of interest from drivers, mechanics, yard workers etc and I soon had a small following. I was invited for a chai and accepted. Taken to a small and sweltering room, more and more men from the yard were filing in to see what was going on as I waited. I started to feel like an exotic exhibit in a zoo. The chai was nice, but very hot. Conversation was limited. No English was spoken at all so it was all gestures, laughing, larking about taking photos etc. A small, cheeky bloke, about 60 or so, appeared outside the door and beckoned to me. As I went to investigate, a large man picked him up and started twisting him back and forth like a rag-doll, much to everyone’s amusement. More photos, more hilarity. The older guy beckoned me to a further yard a few metres away and asked me to take photos of his co-workers unloading a truck. I obliged and sat down next to another guy who had a little English. He looked at me, pointed at the older man and said “He kidnap”. “What?”, I replied, “What do you mean?” “He kidnap”, he repeated. I had a slightly sinking feeling coming on. “What does he kidnap?” I tried. He shook his head. “He kidnap” was the only response. I decided to get out of there as soon as possible, albeit as jovially and politely as I could. There was no real physical menace, but the smiles had faded and I was glad to make a retreat.
No plates…….
Only afterwards did I realise that the trucks I’d been photographing did not have number plates, a sure sign of smuggling activity. Everything I’d read suggested that taking pictures of stuff like this is likely to get you into hot water. I’m hoping that what was being said to me was connected just to goods smuggling and not a direct reference to my own potential abduction. I think that’s highly likely, but I am surmising. Anyway, no one followed me, so surely there was no ill intentions. At this point though, the only thing going through my head was ‘why don’t I have a police escort ??’….
Footnote: On checking out of our hotel, the security police did finally catch up with us. They phoned reception. “Where are you going?” they asked us through the receptionist. “To Islamabad, in 10 minutes” we said. “Oh, OK”, they apparently said and then hung up.
Simon (14th May 2025)
You certainly get into some tight spots, perhaps you are very lucky. XX
Yep – could have been pushing my luck there a bit….