Trifter

The 7/7 bombings, crowds of angry, fist-waving protestors in Islamabad, and exchanges between Blair and Musharraf with mutual accusations of harbouring terrorists, meant that   in July 2005, Pakistan was not shaping up as an ideal holiday destination.

Although trekking to K2 was our objective, we had left ample time for sightseeing on our itinerary, our priority being the wonderful Faisal Mosque, which was to be one of the highlights of the trip. It now looked as if we would be cooped up in our hotel, fearful of arousing the wrath of the local populace.

The long flight to Islamabad was uneventful and we arrived safely at the hotel in Rawalpindi, with just a brief stop for a bomb check, done with a mirror on a long pole pushed under the minibus. There were very few foreigners, and virtually all the guests looked richer and better dressed than us; the women being particularly glamorous, with tight-fitting shalwar kameez in beautiful richly coloured silks, cottons and chiffons with elaborate embroidery, some with cutwork and beads, filmy scarves and very glitzy high heels. Even the more soberly dressed women had fancy shoes peeping cheekily from under dark robes.

Our travel company, Nazir Sabir Expeditions, is owned by handsome Nazir Sabir, the only Pakistani to have climbed Everest. It was at their office that we met Mansoor, a small, stocky, bearded man.  We shook hands.

‘Hello sir, madam.’

‘Call us Rose and Paul.’

‘Ah no, sir and madam.’

And that was how we remained although he sometimes daringly referred to Paul as ‘Mr Paul.’  He spoke very good English with a heavy accent.

‘I will take you sightseeing tomorrow?’

‘Will it be safe?’ we enquired.

‘Of course,’ he replied, and to be fair, rabid mobs wanting to kill us were not much in evidence so far. 

The next morning we piled onto the minibus with Mansoor and driver Ali, leaving via the smooth driveway flanked with luxurious grass, shady trees and exotic plants, into the dusty noisy street leading from Rawalpindi to Islamabad.  Very roughly built houses and small businesses flanked the road, and there were large numbers of adverts, many written in English. There were also incredible conglomerations of wires supported by tall metal ladders including boxes and objects resembling giant air filters. There were men everywhere, mostly dressed in light coloured shalwar kameez, all with facial hair.

Some older men sported startlingly dyed hair and beards; they must have used henna, which on white hair goes a bright orange colour.  There were very few women apart from beggars who approached the minibus at traffic lights; and who, when money was given, asked for more, a thin hand extended through the window, palm up pleadingly.  There were also lots of public information signs by the roadside such as  ‘Smile, you look better’ and ‘NHA, committed to excellence, better late than never.’  A sentiment not shared by any driver we saw including our own; they all drove manically with much blaring of horns. There was also a surprising bus shelter named ‘Chairing cross,’ and an even more surprising bright pink church, which we discovered later, is a bazaar.

The Faisal Mosque, with the low, darkly wooded Margalla hills behind, is visible for miles around.  It was a present from King Faisal of Saudi Arabia to the People of Pakistan and named in his memory.  It is overwhelmingly large and modern with vast swathes of marble flooring so hot that carpet is laid along walkways to make it bearable for bare feet, shoes having been deposited at the entrance. There are no domes, instead, slim spire-like minarets flank the main prayer hall and support its weight. This beautiful building which can accommodate 10,000 worshippers is constructed of white marble, and reminiscent of a Bedouin tent with elegantly decorated glazed tiles, a giant golden crescent and a huge 1000 bulb central chandelier weighing 7.5 tons.  Paul, Mansoor and Ali went into the men’s section and I donned my scarf and visited the women’s gallery, rare for a mosque as Muslim women usually pray at home.  Outside, there were many families taking photographs despite the notices forbidding photography and the fact that many of the women were covered from head to toe, including faces.

 Because of the heat, we were drinking a lot and I found myself in need of a toilet.  These were situated near the east entrance where shoes are deposited, and were guarded by some fearsome attendants.  I was given a temporary pair of shoes to wear, and toilet paper was doled out carefully in sheets.  I realised to my consternation that large tips were probably expected, but unfortunately was carrying only large-denomination notes, so, shame-facedly I offered them pound coins.  They looked at me fiercely, held out their hands and demanded ‘rupees.’  I said no and apologised my way out of the toilet with an ingratiating smile and hoped I looked better. 

We visited every part of this immense light and airy building, and even did a circuit of the outside on the parched and dusty grass. The day was cloudy, making the heat and humidity more intense.  We stopped for a last look before turning reluctantly away to leave this holy place.

At the exit, we were stopped by a small group of men.  The man at the front, tall and ubiquitously bearded, greeted us.

‘Hello, and where are you from?’

‘We are from England.’

‘And how are you enjoying your stay?’

‘Very much, although we have been only here a day.’

‘’Enjoy your visit, goodbye.’

We looked at Mansoor, he shrugged.

‘They are interested. You are the only foreigners here.’

And enjoy our stay we did. We met nothing but kindness and friendliness from the people of Pakistan (omitting frightening toilet attendants).  They were interested in us and as shocked at the bombings as decent people were everywhere.  We had many more wonderful experiences on the trek to K2 but that is another story.