Wild Tulip

Gwarikh, or wild tulip, that grows in the valleys around Quetta.

A lot has happened since I last wrote to you. No internet and a lingering stomach ache prevented me from writing earlier. Now that I do feel fit for writing again and have a work station at my disposal, it doesn't come as easy as it normally does. It feels somehow incomplete. When I lived the moments described below, they had more flavour so to speak. There's still a lot of colour to see though, on the photographs, so I hope the entry still stirs your imagination.

Pictures: a market vendour in Quetta and Sefolah, who invited me to come and meet his family in Jacobabad.

The days spent in Quetta were a bit surreal. In short: one bomb attack (the target being a high-ranked policeman; the victims his driver and four of his men) and a cool-blooded assassination of a university professor(!), who seemingly has nothing to do with any of the armed struggles that take place in Pakistan at the moment. Both acts of retaliation, as the police had arrested a minority leader just days before I arrived. When I walked from the train station to the hotel that has been designated to host 'Engelesa's', foreigners, it felt like entering a war zone. Barricaded roads, bunkers made of shot bags on the main crossings (and on top of buildings), a lot of police and security personnel.

(Pictures: two boys selling wild tulips, and Abdul Salaam, one of the first policemen that would escort me on my cycle ride from Quetta to Hyderabad, who has just bought tulips for me.
Like a winning argument comes to you after a discussion has finished, I realised that I could have given a flower to every escort that day (every 10 or so kilometres you enter a new district, where there's another pick-up or motorcycle waiting for you). Frustrating how good actions sometimes aren't manifested because of... I don't know. Lack of creativity, a programmed brain that tells you that gifts shouldn't be given away, or maybe singing heat that shrivels up flowers good ideas.
Abdul was happy to tell me that he made it into the United Nations Police Corps and that he would probably be sent to East Timor or Haiti soon. Both destinations are probably safer for him than the district where he serves at the moment. The next day he would go to the city to fetch his UN passport, something he mentioned proudly to his colleagues when we sat down for chai at the station.)

But why do I say 'surreal', and not 'horrible'? 'Cause apart from the public outrage of the professor's students, I didn't notice anything from the blast or killing myself, though they happened a few blocks away. Together with Arnaud and Thierry, two Frenchmen that cycle back to France (from Bangladesh; very interesting weblog with spotlight interviews of those that cross their path on http://cyclope-trotter.blogspot.com/), and Niklas, a Swede who drives an old Rajasthani jeep back to Lund, I went out for dinner as if it was all serene. Well, that might be an overstatement, as we were escorted back to our hotel as soon as the police caught sight of us, but we were out there.

For Quetta is a really interesting place. Although it's the capital of the Pakistani part of Balochistan, it could just as well be Afghanistan. Or that's what it feels like. It's about 60 kilometres to the border as the crow flies, and about 220 kilometres away from Kandahar. The land is made of dry mountains and valleys where ovens bake stones and chimneys belch out smoke.
One of the evenings we ate in an Afghan restaurant. Around ten there was a public announcement of Hillary Clinton on national television, wishing all Pakistani's a happy Pakistan Day (Independence Day) on behalf of the Obama administration. To wrap up, she said that the American people are with them in the fight against terrorism. You should have seen the faces of the Pashto's in the restaurant. They all looked quietly at the screen, with an expression that said 'why don't you just mind your own business'. That's the difference in interpretation I think, for the Americans the world is their own business.


(Pictures: the Bolan Pass and a police officer with khapol, a hat characteristic for Pashto's living in the northwestern part of Pakistan.)

And then, when I wanted to leave Quetta, I was allowed to cycle to my surprise. The French guys had told me about their experience, and apparently, if you are persistent, you can cycle. The police escorts you on your way. Not the same independent feeling as I had before, but at moments like these you've got to make a virtue out of necessity. All in a sudden I had guides (in Hyderabad they used the megaphone on the roof of the car to give me directions: "Mister, here you go right! Rrright turn!"), a car or motorcycle that would keep me under the lee (not necessary the first days as I had the wind behind me), sirens to clear crowded junctions and spokespersons during lunch breaks. Service of the Pakistani government. All included with a 100 dollar visa.


(Picture: a police officer with beret, a hat characteristic for Pakistani police (and Frenchmen).
When I stayed the night at the police station in Sibi I was given a room of an officer. I couldn't resist.)

As I mentioned, I had tailwind the first days. Like greased lightning I discharged through the Bolan Pass, a wonderful winding road, mostly downhill. Day 1, 160K to Sibi, day 2 another 160 to Jacobabad. There I visited the farm house of Sefolah's family, and in order to stay there for the night I had to deal with at least 5 different security services. Intelligence this, Security that.. One after the other came to ask me the same questions. Name, destination, plans, are you married? Marriage, a very serious security threat.
The first four decided that it was OK for me to sleep with the family, the fifth (arriving at 10 pm) came up with a story that I had to stay in a hotel. The farm house might not have electricity during the night, 'which is very dangerous!'
160 + 160 = tired. I wanted to go to sleep and I did not want to move. So Mister fifth security guy, you have two options. Or you let me stay here, or you arrest me, we go to the station, do all the paperwork and see if I breached any laws. He let me stay, only to barge into the bedroom around 11 o'clock with some of his curious men, to tell me that they had no other choice than to bother me (Koen: "Yes, you do. You can stop bothering me. Leave me Alone!"). Then I had to sign a declaration that I stayed in this place out of my own free will and that I was responsible for what might happen. Furiously I wrote: MY OWN CHOICE on a paper, which I signed. Later I heard that they did the same to my host, telling him that he was responsible for what might happen. They've got no clue what they are doing.
Jacobabad has a US base where soldiers come to take a break from fighting in Afghanistan. Locals hate white people (Azmat, Sefolah's cousin told me: "The colour of your skin is a problem") and security services are off their heads.



The next day I did the last 30 kilometres to Sultankot, where I was to stay with Mr. Agha Sonny Khan, a retired politician and landowning farmer with whom I met in Quetta. Politics and land, the two often go together, especially in the province of Sindh, in which Sultankot is located. When I got there the second phase in belly adjustment was about to kick in, so I stayed in bed most of the time.

Next time more about Sultankot; fascinating place with lovely inhabitants.


(Picture: Pakistani gwarikh ice cream, or that's how I call it.)