When a man’s mind has been changed
by a new experience,
it can never go back to it’s old dimensions
by
T.S. Elliot

I’ve become a prisoner by a benevolent Peshawar host. My every move is monitored. My clothing must pass modesty approval before I can leave the house. My breakfast of chai, hot sweet milk tea and not so hot, but fresh flat slabs of chapati, are brought to me on a tray each morning. I must show sufficient eagerness and gratitude for meals or his disappointment is evident in his posture and voice. If it seems I am not pleased, this signifies that he is not a good host, which is paramount in the Muslim culture. All the outside doors are locked every night, and I cannot go foraging for food when I awake early, or to explore the neighborhood or to photograph; this is for my safety of course.

As exhausted as I am, I’m having difficulty sleeping in the smoky, walled off basement ‘TV’ room. I lie awake long into the night. Years of ground in greasy food particles, stale cigarette odors and dust permeate the hot scratchy velveteen floor cousins, that are now my bed; assaulting my nose, and the constant screeching of the moldering-demented peacocks just outside my door, assaulting my ears and nerves.

Sometimes the price of ‘free’ accommodation is high indeed.

However, this is not new to me; well the demented peacocks are new twist on an old theme. To be a ‘guest’ in a Muslim home, especially as a female, means to surrender my freedom in all things. I have to defer to the host for my comings and goings, (if I’m allowed to go out without the host at all) my eating manors and quantity consumed is monitored, my attire must meet approval. I’m so careful in my dress; if the host feels it is inappropriate, he will have his wife present me with her best shalwar kameez (long tunic and baggy trousers) as a gift. In Lahore, I was presented with fabric and two-shalwar kameez were made for me; not taken off the wife’s back. The family was in the upper class, and refusing was not an option. I wear these frequently, as I know they are ‘Muslim’ approved garments. I have not been in many homes where giving me even one garment wouldn’t be a great hardship.

A home stay is a double edge sward. I don't want to miss lead you into thinking I am c I am ungrateful. Staying with families is the best way to see their culture. To watch family interactions. To ask questions about their culture, to eat and live as they do. However, sometimes I do need my 'own space,' to recharge. To wake up alone, not to children and pets bouncing on my bed, sticky fingers tugging at my hair, rummaging through my backpack hoping to discover some treat I'll part with, to be on-stage all the time, all the while smiling as if my life depends on it. It's even more tedious in Muslim countries where each and every male in the family is entitled to dictate my every move. If they are old enough to walk and talk, they are little dictators in the making and are encouraged to exercise their rights every chance they get. I'm a sitting duck

How had I gotten myself into this predicament?

Still recovering from food poising, the trip south from the Polo Tournament was a blur. I fitfully dozed, when not actively throwing up, through most of the bouncy jeep ride to Chitral and the flight to Peshawar. From the airport, I phoned the Rose Hotel for a room, saying I was ill and requesting a quiet room and tummy quieting green tea. I longed for a hot shower, the cup of green tea waiting me, a bed and quiet.

Not to be!

Prince frequently stalks tourist from this location, and is here when I arrive. The hotel reception has informed him that his friend, Almitra the Photo Gypsy is ill and arriving this day. Prince insists on my moving into his family’s home, taking care of me and helping me get my paperwork sorted for my trip to Afghanistan. I don’t have enough energy to refuse his hospitality. I feel a bit obligated to repay him for his helpfulness at the polo tournament, and I’d promised I’d stay with him sometime, and he’s so buoyant with joy at seeing me again. Too weak to protest, I allowed him to whisk me away to his family’s home.

Whenever foreign tourists gather in Pakistan, there are always ‘Prince,’ stories. Every story, including his own version of how he got to be called ‘Prince’, changes with the telling. Never heard of him? Then you haven't been within 150 miles of Peshawar. He has a bloodhound’s instinct when it comes to tracking down foreign tourist, and he’ll find you. Princes uses the Rose Hotel as an unofficial base to meet and greet tourist, telling them of all the tours only he can take them on. The Lonely Planet Guide alludes to him in their blurb about the Rose Hotel; “one character was offering trips to…”

Prince, in his excitement, drags me down the stairs of the Rose Hotel, stuffs the two of us and my backpack into a tiny tuk-tuk’ (a covered, motorized 3-wheeled contraption, that burps smoke as it cheaply, and more or less safely conveys it’s passengers and often a huge quantity of goods short distances) for the short ride to his home in the old city. In the basement TV room, he speaks to the male relatives lounging in front of a Sylvester Stallone movie. Without a word to me, Prince trails after them. I wait a terminally long time for Prince to return and tell me what is expected of me and where the bathroom is. I managed to turn off the TV with the grossly distorted screen. I plaster a weary smile on my face, when he returns with a tray of food I don't want it’s difficult to keep the milky chai (boiled milky tea, equal parts water, black tea leaves, sugar and milk.) and chapatis from making a reoccurrence.

In the morning, I feel like a new person. Breakfast, chapati, endless cups of my favorite chai and the prospect of meeting Princes’ family put a genuine smile on my not-so-green face. I showered in the basement bathroom, to the serenade of the peacocks, more demented looking by daylight, and dress carefully, as I am to be taken upstairs and where his extended family is waiting.

Prince told me about his 10-bedroom ‘mansion,'’ all those months ago when we met in the eastern city of Lahore. I got the tour. It’s a large square 2-story building, whose front and only door sits right on the sidewalk on a narrow lane. It's configured like a square donut, like the hotel It used to be. Each room, many without doors, opens onto a walkway surrounding the large opening that gives sky light to the 4-car, 6-peacock, street-level garage below. Except for the parent's bedroom by night, family living room by day running the width of the building, each of the other rooms is just a square windowless cement cubical. The meager furnishings depict their use. A bed or two and piles of clothes and children’s things indicated a one couple plus kids bedroom-apartment.

In one room, a woman squatted in front of the open flame of a single burner cooker, connected by flimsy tubing to a large propane tank. A small boy of 3 or 4-years old is stamping his little foot, scowling as he is shouting and pointing at her duppa which has slip so that some of her hair shows; she cowers and continually fidgets with the long ends of her duppa, until he seems satisfied and leaves. I was stunned at her obedience of this miniature tyrant, a behavior he must be Imitating from repeated observation, and at the same time expecting to burst into flames as she hovered over the boiling chai. I gave Prince a sideways glance; he didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. I checked my own duppa. On the floor, dishes, pots and pans, food in baskets and buckets of water lining the walls identifies this room as the ‘squat’ kitchen. The sunny roof, we American’s would use for leisure around the BBQ, is just another functional space, with laundry strung haphazardly on fade lines.

In the middle of a huge room is mom; propped up in bed with her leg in a cast. She is looking quite the matriarch, surrounded by her noisy, doting family. When I entered, a sea of faces turned to me as one. Two brothers and sisters, with their spouses and a gaggle of children, plus various aunts and uncles. They are all living here, under the same roof. Prince, the eldest, is the only one unmarried. I heard dad leave for work in his shinny black SUV, hours ago, and all the other males soon escaped the world of women, leaving females and children in their wake. Only Prince remained behind, the women kept their duppas in place. I was given a chair at mom’s bedside, as more tea and finger foods are served on her bed. My attention is divided between mom, the curious kids tugging at me for attention, the polite women asking questions and Prince, who never stops moving, talking, and shuffling through his prized collection of business cards and endless photo albums.

The balloons I brought caused havoc as the kids noisily ran, wove and dived between us, chanting “Ali, Ali, gypsy, gypsy!” The women don’t seem to notice.

At first, the women are reluctant to have their photos taken, but after seeing the children’s image on the digital camera screen, they are child-like in their eagerness to have their photos taken too.

One teenage cousin, who’s English is far superior to Prince’s, translates when necessary. The women ask many questions about my family, my travels and me. At first, they were troubled and doubtful about my safety. ‘Rape,’ was foremost in their minds, and constantly asked about. I assured them that the men in Pakistan have been very proper in their behavior to me and I have never been at risk in any other country. As the morning advances, several express their fantasy of walking with me, of seeing life outside these walls. Their enthusiasm so genuine. Before the morning was over, we all marched around and around their courtyard, pretending to be walking around-the-world. Mom watching from her bed, now moved her doorway, children chanting and their few remaining balloons bobbing, and Prince tagging along beside me, thrusting one tourist’s photo after another for me to see.

My walk has revealed one universal and consistent difference in attitude between men and women.

Women in every country have said to me,

“I wish I could come with you.” or “I want to come with you,” and many have walked a mile or two, and some have walked a day with me.

Women seem to have an innate sense of adventure, or an overwhelming desire to change their lives, escape. Before I came to Pakistan, never did women even consider the danger factor.

Conversely, men, innately the protector, are always concerned about my safety.

Frequently the first response is, “What weapons do you have, do you carry a gun or knife?” or “It is too dangerous to walk alone, you must stop now!” Alternatively, many insist, as they thrust their weapon of choice upon me, “you must carry a weapon.”

Since I’ve entered Muslim territory, the men also question my father’s sense of responsibility, “how can your father allow you to travel alone?”

Still, I am surprised to hear the familiar words echoed here, where the women are fed fear-mantras every day and live protected lives behind walls; who look to their males for their every need; where, to most women the very idea of freely walking the streets, without a male escort, is most incomprehensible.

I am divided: Part of me is delighted to see that the sprit of these women has not been completely broken. On the other hand, I am saddened that I might be bringing a glimpse of a life that is out of reach for them. Have I awoken ideas of a freedom that they can only dream about? Or have I planted ideas, where none had been before? Have I only brought the seeds of discontent where ignorance had brought them contentment? Alternatively, is it possible that these women, once having been introduced to the idea of equality of the sexes, will fight for a change of attitude from their men for the future of daughters?

The T.S. Elliot at the beginning of this entry keeps going around and around in my head.

It was never my intention to change anyone’s culture. Just to observe, record. I’d hope to bring enlightenment and a change of attitude about the similarities of the people of the world, to replace fear of the unknown with knowledge and understanding; not spread discontentment. I’m deeply concerned about my role in their lives. I know it is my destiny to WALK around-the-world. But just my presence seems to be opening doors and sometimes making a difference I could not have predicted - but for better or for worse? Are these doors to Pandora’s Box, or a better life?

Prince has had enough of women’s talk, and hustles me off without an explanation.

He leads me at a forced-march pace through the thick arch of a disintegrating city wall. I can’t look around for fear of loosing him, so I follow his familiar voice bleating greetings to anything that breaths. I do notice we pass an Internet Café sign pointing down. But no time to pause. The blur of a plaid-scarfed figure ducks through a hole in a chain fence where I ungracefully follow. This is the back entrance of the Ghor Kharti Park, then past a fenced deep hole in the ground, an archeological dig, past heaps of bricks, into a darkened room. It seems lit only by the stray beams of daylight from the open door. I walked right into Prince’s still figure. Apparently, we have arrived.

On the threshold, I stand up from the awkward business of struggling to remove my hiking boots, my eyes have almost grown accustom to the darkness, and seven-pairs of eyes look back at me, from the many cushions that line the floor. I blink and almost miss the rapid introductions to the polite men, then Prince does one of his frequent, unexplained disappearing acts, I see some offered hands and some right hands over the heart, slight bow chanting asalaam aleikum, (peace be with you, equivalent to our hello) from the now standing figures. I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to shake hands with a Muslim man, even if offered; sometimes it is just an innocent Western greeting, often it’s a test to my proper behavior and if I shake hands, their opinion of me, a female, is forever tarnished. Occasionally a hidden finger obscenely rubs my palm. I ignore the proffered hands, and return the right hand-on-heart greeting, asalaam aleikum, with averted eyes. Always a winner.

The men sit. I am left standing.

A long pause.

What am I to do?

Shapes move. A space is made in the middle of the heap of woolen blankets, as the shapes become distinguishable as individual bearded men, the top half bundled in various shades of brown or grey woolen shawls, worn in their individual styles; over the shoulder, or covering hat-head-shoulders, and one, a devout Pashtun, just his bright eyes showing. A hand movement, indicating I should join them.

I am accepted!

I am unsure of what is correct behavior. Like the handshake, it this another test? What will give the least offence, my refusing their offer and sitting to one side, as a proper female or sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in what obviously is the gathering what I think of as ‘the men’s club.’

(In reality, all of Pakistan - so far - is one large 'men's club;' men hanging out together, women excluded, of which I have become a privileged member by default. I am a guest in their country, without any male escort. As one of the pillars of the Quran is absolute hospitality, I cannot be turn away, so must be given an honoree male status to be accepted. The only way around this is to ignore me, pretend I don't exist. Unless I directly ask for shelter, then it must be granted. Also Pakistani men are curious by nature and I am a diversion to a pretty set and boring existence.)

My indecision is made for me, as the small space is widened a bit more, I clamber in place; the blankets are replaced.

I am included!

My eyes adjust and I see the child-like interest of these men, not the interest of men living in a world mainly without women, where even their wives are mysterious beings and almost strangers to them. Most speak a bit of English and we have a lively exchange of words and pantomime, of ideas on almost every subject. There seems to be some basis for Princes boasting. I become aware that possibility Prince does actually know almost everyone in and out of government in Peshawar.

The conversation starts down a predicable path;

"What weapons do you have?"
“None?”
“It's too dangerous, Prince will give you one of these daggers," and he points to the wall of souvenirs.
"How can your father allow…."

But life is wholly unpredictable. There are surprises where least expected.
Here, in this lawless territory, where tourism is discouraged, and the tribesmen are notorious for centuries-long grudges and war, some of these men astonish me, and I forget about the no eye contact rule.

“She is safe here! A Pashtun man would never harm her.”
“She needs no weapons.”
“She is our guest.”

I am shocked, then pleased at this turn of attitude. I like this lawless frontier town and its lawless people more and more.

This theme is expanded upon every time someone new arrives. Since I am, essentially a woman, the debate takes place without need of my input.

I eventually ask if any of them went to the polo tournament. Although none had, this subject got them so excited; they abandoned English, gesturing, and throwing words in Pashtu and Urdu at each other, like verbal volleyball. Sadly, I always forget I have the capability of making small video clips with my camera.

My impression of Muslim men is that of overgrown seven-year olds. Not just for my benefit, have I seen Pakistani men quite mischievously pulling on beards, pinching each other under the blankets, putting ‘V’ shaped fingers behind an unsuspecting friend’s head. They remind me of playful puppies. However, they retain a degree of respect for me and the hairs-breath of personal space that is designated as mine.

Interestingly, these men feel quite at home discussing their wives more private woman’s-health problems with me. They are dying to talk to someone abut these problems. They seem to feel that I, as a Western woman, possess the same knowledge as a medial doctor. I’m in the precarious position of being a woman, but being accepted as an ‘honoree male’ I am both delighted and feel the honor bestowed upon me; but I’m still as nervous as a cat in a den of wolves; afraid I’d do some small thing that will offend.

I try not to make eye contact with any of them, but fail miserably. How can I gage their mood, their reactions, their meanings without body language (all trucked up under blankets) and facial expression, if I do not look at them? I try to make frequent furtive glances and look away in proper attitude. Then forget and stair open eyed at the wonderment of these eager, open, animated ‘children,’ in men’s bodies. (Don’t tell them I referred to them thus.)

I’m extremely hot wrapped in a cocoon of my long-sleeved walking robe over layers of clothes and a two layer dupatta, (long scarf covering head, shoulders and chest) and blankets heaped upon me, but I don’t want to seem too familiar by ‘disrobing,’ or rejecting their blankets. I smile and swelter.

I take a moment to look around. On the walls amongst the many photo images of Prince and foreign tourist, are a jumble of ethic items, I presume for sale for tourist requesting tours. Woven tapestries, ethnic clothes, jewelry, knives, swards and other ‘tourist’ souvenirs. Most look worn, shabby and crudely made enough to be genuinely ethnic.

Prince rushes in and places a large newspaper wrapped bundle of hot naan (elongated, slightly leavened traditional bread) that’s baked in a tandoor (originally clay, now cement, upright tube oven, the opening at top, wood fire below) and several dishes for dipping the bread, on a low table before us. A lovely youth follows with several chipped green enamel pots of tea, one green and one milky chai. The only thing I like more than the chai is hot naan, when it’s fresh from the oven like this, (in my opinion, after 20 minutes it’s best used as a doorstop or third base). It’s impossible to reach into the melee of elbows and hands for the bread or cups of chai without touching the men. Unsure as how to proceed, I just wait. I might be the honoree male, but I am served like a princess. Prince Beams, as though he has successfully presented someone of interest to his friends. He has also visibility relaxed, and he seems to be reassured that I will not do anything outrageous to embarrass him. As he is officially responsible for me, he is also responsible for my behavior.

After the required refreshments, one of the Islamic Pillars is that of hospitality, Prince relates stories about all the items on his wall, with himself as the hero of course. Heavy ethnic hats come out of hiding for us all to ‘clown’ around in, and musical instruments appear. Even the fiercest looking Pakistani, has the heart of a child, and is always ready for fun, music and whimsy.
(See digital camera of image of Prince and I in Ethnic hats.)

I’m in the middle, and not able to move around, as the photographer in me wants to do. Although Prince loves to be photographed, and his friends and staff are quite accustomed to having his camera shoved at them, to take his photo again and again, so I handed my camera over, and they did a remarkably good job.

All the while, the TV is on, in constant competition for attention. Men wander in and out all afternoon and into the night, as if home, is a last resort.

The time has come for me to broach the sensitive subject of ‘where’s the bathroom,’ I’ve been stuck in the ‘middle,’ unable to move more than a few inches for hours, drinking countless cups of chai. Without blinking, the handsome young helper, takes a key off a hook near the door, and escorts me across the park, hands me a flashlight, a roll of toilet paper, and indicates he will wait for me. I try hard not to be completely mortified. I enter a clean, but dead dark room with many squat toilet cubicles.
(See digital camera image of schoolboys at Ghor Khatri Park.)

I take the opportunity of this freedom to dismiss my escort, who is temporally responsible for me and has to ask Prince if I may wander about the park alone. With reluctance, I am allowed this bit of freedom, with many instructions and restrictions. In the Islamic custom, when I am a guest, the head male is completely responsible for me. Once I leave his hospitably, he is no longer responsible, but often turns me over to a relative who takes on the responsibility. Thus, I can be passed from relative to relative, and be completely safe with in this male dominated country. This can be as much of an annoyance to my independent nature as a blessing.

I run explore the grounds, talking to everyone.
(See digital camera of image of old and young visiting at the park.)

The walled park is a former ancient Mughal Caravansersi, (basic accommodation traditionally for camel caravans) then a governor’s mansion, currently a police post. All that remains is an unused rundown Hindu temple under a huge fig tree. At the back of the park is an archeological excavation dig, the findings are housed in an excellent small museum here. There is also a very ancient fire truck, which Prince persuades the keeper-of-the-keys to open the garage and museum. Prince is indeed a use full person to know.
(See digital camera of image of Hindu temple.)

In exchange for taking countless photos of him, he takes one of me.
(See digital camera of image of me at Ghor Khatri Park.)

I now feel comfortable enough to remove my outer layers, and duppa, having just a small head scarf, and stay outside the group so I might move about talking to the different visitors and take photos. I feel I must have passed some test, as I am invited to visit many of their families, and others invited Prince and me on different outings around Peshawar.
(See digital camera of image of the occupants of Prince's 'men's club.')

A couple from Holland appear, talk to Prince about a day trip to Darra Adam Khel, south of Peshawar, the Tribal Areas’ homegrown armaments factory. A century ago, they discovered they seem to have a talent for making working replicas of other people guns. Prince convinces them they could only get into this restricted area with him as a guide; a date is set, they bought a few necklaces.

They joined us outside for green tea before leaving.
(See digital camera of image of Prince's Pashtun tea brewer.)
(See digital camera of image of the outside of Prince's 'men's club.')

Soon a young bearded Spanish man joined us, coming to inquiring about a day trip to the Smuggler’s Bazaar. Although it’s only twenty minutes out of town on the road to Khyber Pass, it’s beyond police rule or their protection. Same story. “Only I, Prince….”

I need more facts to make my own judgment.

Prince asks if he minds sharing a trip with me? The handsome Spaniard is as delighted as I am to have another 'tourist' along. It's not mentioned that I'm not a paying customer.

It's set. Tomorrow afternoon. Prince will take me to the Afghanistan Embassy to check on my VISA. I know the way now, but he insists I need him.

In good English, Hussain, Princes partner in his informal 'tourism company,' informs me,

“Afghan Smugglers sell drugs, weapons and foreign goods under the Tribal Area’s exemption from Pakistani Law. Once at the Afghan boarder, now located just outside the city limits, closer to Peshawar and the buyers.” Also outside police law or and protection"

Thus, rated off limits for foreign tourist, supposedly.

Princes dashes outside to make the necessary arrangements for a car and driver on his cell phone and Hussain joins him.

The helper boy is out getting more tea.

I take advantage of this laps in supervision, and escape. Then I'd discover just through the walled entrance is a naan bakery across the road. I run across, talk to the friendly bakers, who are thrilled to have me visit. This is the dangerous Pashtun town? I love it here. If I have any wait for my Afghan VISA, I resolve to return to the Rose Hotel, so I may explore this delightful frontier town alone. I leave my naan order, dash up the road where they have directed me to purchase little dabs of this and that for dip. No one speaks English, but it matters not at all. I return with an armload of hot naan, and dips, to an anxious group milling about outside at the 'men's club,'

I am chastised for going out without an escort, after all,
' it is dark, it's dangerous and I am a women', bla bla bla!,
It seems I can walk around the world, but not around the block.

Seeing the food, I am chastised again for spending my own money. I am a guest! I am not offered a reimbursement, so it's all to save face

Shortly another round chai is served with the naan. Another tea party ensues. Our fifth? I've lost count.

Most of Prince’s guests have reluctantly gone home for dinner. Prince leads me to his house in a zig zag path buying this and that for our dinner. While I wait for Prince in the TV room, to descend from above, with out dinner nicely arranged on a large metal tray, including more green tea, I’m left alone to reflect on how my plans have changed. First, I was going directly to Afghanistan as soon as possible after arriving in Peshawar, but politics have delayed my departure. So I made the long trip to the polo tournament at Shandur Pass. Then on the return, I was going to make a side trip from Chitral, to the Kailash area. The mountainous village of my friend, Jabeen. He is head staff at Lahore’s Regale Internet Inn. The Kailashians are colorfully clad non-Muslims and proud to be decedents of Alexander the Great. The women can choose their own husbands or dismiss an abusive one. Between food poisonings and discovering Jabeen is still in Lahore, my adventurous spirit wilted. I’m now waiting for political upheavals to settle down. If not soon, I’ll complete my walk on the Karakoram Highway before entering Afghanistan.

Already my family has pointed out that my 8-year trip expanded to, 10-year, and is now guesstamated to be 20-years long. Although I keep saying ‘it’s not a race;’ on the 20-year plan, I’ll be over 70-years old when I return home to San Diego. I have just passed my 11th-year anniversary of this Global Walkabout. So much to see, so little time.