Zero Point

A dragonfly was here. Like it, I too stripped of my old dress in Taftan, border town between Iran and Pakistan. Away with the long pants and shirt, welcome to the shalwar qameez, "beautiful Pakistani culture: easy wear!", as Shakeel, my security detail on the train told me.




Taftan, a dusty little town. There's not much to be found here. Taftan has customs, a big parking lot to clear goods coming from and going to Iran, a lot of sand, a lot of security and a lot of men. There's no mobile telephone network, switched off by the Pakistani government to hinder the smugglers, who happily switch to their Iranian SIM's that do work here. There are no women. During three days I have seen one, an old lady begging at the gate of the 'Custom House' (a refugee from Afghanistan). People that live in Taftan do so because of work. Border work is men's work.
And Taftan has electricity, as it is linked to Iran where things work. The rest of Pakistan is constantly suffering from black-outs. "At 18:00 o'clock we have light, insh'Allah."


(Pictures: guys carrying out goods from trailers to have them weighed by the custom inspectors. Like this they take samples to see if the goods correspond with the packing papers, and to see if the weight is within the margins of the law.)


(Pictures: carriers)

Taftan is the only legal border crossing point for foreigners. One or two trickle through each day. If they don't have their own vehicle, they mostly take a bus to Quetta, capital of Balochistan (Pakistan's part of Greater Baluchistan). There's also a train connection, but this train, dating back to the time of the second world war (not much upkeep ever since), when it was built to supply armies, leaves at erratic times. Two times a month, on the 3rd and the 17th, and only if you are lucky. Another one of those 'insh'Allah'-cases.
I decided to wait. I got to Taftan on the 15th, the 17th was close. The train was more than 24 hours delayed, and left at the 18th around noon. But for the first time since Kazakhstan, I've got time. And I was received by the guys at Custom House as their guest.


(Picture: having dinner in the bungalow used by the custom officials.)


(Pictures: As much as I was a guest to customs and police alike, these guys were treated as enemies. They have tried to cross the border illegally, and were intercepted by Iranian authorities, who sent them back to Pakistan. In Taftan they were awaiting deportation to one of the cities were they will be put on trial. A hefty fine awaits them, and possible imprisonment (up to three months). Then they are released, facing the same bleak prospects as before. Although without chance, I would not be surprised if they make another attempt.
They try to reach Europe and pay a good deal of money to networks that traffic people. An estimated 5 percent makes it through Iran and Turkey to Greece. Of that 5 percent a marginal percentage will find some work that enables them to send money home.
Seeing these pictures gives me mixed feelings. There was something devilishly cruel about the situation in which I took them. I had just arrived to Pakistan, and the border police didn't know where to take me. They brought me to the station, were they put me on a chair. Just when I had sat down, these guys were shepherded out of the station, like animals, only to stand eye-to-eye with someone that epitomizes the idea of Europe: a rich, blond tourist who's treated à tous les égards.)


(Picture: one of the many decorations to be found on Pakistani trucks. This is the 2010 model. The drivers are proud as a peacock to drive their work of art.)


(Picture: not only paint decorates these trucks. At night, when shone at, hundreds of reflectors draw up the silhouettes of these transport juggernauts.)

So besides being a legal crossing point, the area around Taftan, and the entire border between Iran and Pakistan for that matter, sees also a lot of illegal trade. Smuggling business (one of busiest drug routes on earth, mainly so because of the situation in Afghanistan), but also innocent trade of locals that happen to have family or friends on the other side of the border. They can trade their goods with one another without going through the lengthy clearance process of the Custom House, and do this at 'zero point'. When Cami told me about zero point in Shabahar (the seas being emptied of fish), I didn't know I was actually heading for a place that is in fact called zero point. It's a strange thought, after 15000 kilometres, I've reached zero point at GMT+5, 797 metres above sea level. If I'd known that I was standing at -15000 kilometres point, when I left 8 months ago (GMT+1, a little bit below sea level), I would have had weak knees.

(Picture: three of the reasons why foreigners are treated as precious goods in Pakistan: Brahamdagh Bughti, Balach Mari and Dr. Abdul Malik Baloch (why Mr. Osman of the customs who gave me these names added the title to the latter is a mystery to me, but this is what he said). They are the chieftains of the Balochi clans that have teamed up to fight for the independence of Balochistan. The man to the left initiated this 'freedom fight', as his grandfather was killed by government forces, one of the reasons to start the armed struggle. One of their strategies is to kidnap people, in order to use them as trading material for imprisoned clan members.

Surprisingly, the security forces I've met describe them as 'freedom fighters', which implicates that they themselves are suppressors. I think they don't feel this way as they are Balochi too, and see their service in the government as something distinctively different. Besides, one has to make a living, which is hard enough.)

On one of my escorted visits to Taftan bazaar, I met with Syed, the Assistant Commanding Officer of Taftan, simply put the highest officer in town. Zyed (30) visibly suffers from his posting in this dust bowl. Like me, his conclusion after 6 months is: there's nothing here, but electricity. He misses his friends, the conversations he used to have with them and the forest (he started his career as a forest ward in the north of the country). And Taftan is pretty darn far from woody.
He invited me for chai after my visit to the bazaar and when I got to his office he told me at length about zero point. His jurisdiction starts 5K out of town (till then it's the regular police doing the patrolling), where he deals mainly with tribal chiefs to secure the safety of 'B-area', as it's called in jargon. There's a lot of jargon in Taftan, at the customs, the police, the ACO's.. Pakistani's, like their Indian neighbours, love abbreviations and titles. As an outsider it's sometimes difficult to follow Pakistani officials, but as I intended to study this place and its practice, I did my utmost.

While we were having our chat and chai, he signed countless so-called 'coolie cards', identification cards that were to be distributed among the informal traders of the border, the coolies. During my days in Taftan, I saw masses of coolies waiting outside Syed's office, waiting for their card, for only with this card, they could start their business again.

That evening I would dine with him, and the night after with his right hand. This man, Mohammad, who confused me with a tattooed swastika on his left hand that he didn't seem to have because of Hindu, Jain or Buddhist believes, had a really soft and kind nature. He was the heir of this rank in the police force; his father and grandfather had succeeded him. Mohammad is of a certain family of a certain clan. Syed ensured me this was the only 'levie', or post, that was filled on the basis of name instead of merit.

Mohammad decided that night around 11 o'clock that he would give me a shalwar qameez. We drove to the bazaar in his jeep, where we found the tailor and draper still open, not only to my surprise. 11 am the next morning, it would be ready. I was afraid that the train might have already left by then, but the ACO and his men assured me that they would make the train wait.

Having the police to keep the train waiting for a tailor to finish your suit, that's given to you by them, is something that is only possible in Pakistan I think.

(Picture: the train from Zahedan to Quetta, which I boarded in Taftan.)

(Picture: children in one of the villages that we crossed the first day, Nok Kundi if I'm correct)

(Picture: Shakeel, who cooked a good dhal, or lentils dish, in the train. )

The train then was an adventure in itself. More staff members than passengers, wonderfully shaped, deserted land as far as the eye can see, massive sand dunes, black mountains, and in all this unlivable landscape, here and there human settlements. You'd almost start to believe that some people can survive on sand alone.

I renamed the train 'Chars Express', as most of my fellow travellers where smoking non-stop. From the soldier to the chaiwallah. The windows open, a wash of sulfur, chars, cooking oil, onion, massala and gas presenting itself to your nostrils, only to be blown away by the hot dry desert air blowing from left to right.

I felt like a king, the way they treated me. They invited me for food, smoke, chai, and at one point to the train driver's cockpit. This is where I formally came to the throne. In the passenger seat, right of the driver, with the chaiwallah, guard, and charspusher squatted down next to me, we drove into the night. They opened the door in front of me. A warm nightly breeze blew through my shalwar qameez (it's like wearing a single dress shirt all over your body); I felt intensely happy.

And then I got sick. The rise and fall of a foreign sovereign in Pakistan. Ever since Aralsk in Kazakhstan I didn't have a single stomach ache, now, four days in Pakistan I had motions as never before. But all this adds up to what an arrival to Pakistan should be: overwhelming friendliness and a terrified belly.

Friendly eyes


This soldier, who was on guard on the train station of Taftan, came to meet me in my carriage to say hello. "You are most welcome", he told me. Than he sang me this song (unfortunately the microphone of my camera only switched on after a few seconds).
It's in Pashto, a language spoken mainly in Afghanistan. Another passenger, a man called 'Mama' by the soldiers around me, who spoke Pashto as well as Urdu, translated it for me:

"This is life

Friendly eyes

Don't take tension"

It's probably not 100 percent correct, as it went through two rather limited translation filters, but the meaning is clear. This Pashto song is about meeting strangers with friendly eyes.

P.s. For those of you who wonder, you are not allowed to cycle between Zahedan and Quetta. In fact, I'm a bit anxious I won't be able to cycle a great deal in Pakistan under the present conditions. The police is really cautious and doesn't risk the slightest possibility of a foreigner being injured or kidnapped. I go along with it, and prepare to make my time in Pakistan worthwhile with different type of experiences.