TRAVEL WRITINGS

LAHORE, Pakistan – Well. I made it: Pakistan.

As I embarked on my train leaving for Amritsar – or I should say, as I ran for
it – I was trying to keep in mind that I was going to cross the border between
two countries at war. The Amritsar border is the only border open between the
two countries. Since the start of the tensions all air and land travel has been
blocked between the two countries. There are now only two ways to go to go to
Pakistan from India (or vice-versa): flying from India to Dubai (UAE) to
Karachi, or walking the across the border. I chose the later.

I was in Amritsar just over the weekend. I knew what the border would look like
since I visited it. This particular border has kept the “raising of the flag
show” going through the tensions between the two countries. I saw this show last
week. The border guards approach the border line lifting their feet high in the
air to show off to the enemy, and rush the border before stopping, as the crowds
on each side (Pakistani and Indian) cheer their guards. A friendly encounter,
yet… scary in the present moments. So many times while I was there during the
weekend Indians told me that I would get shot if I crossed. The imaged stuck
with me as I sat in front of a police officer waving his gun around on the
train, playing ‘mr.rough’n’tuff.’

I just decided to pull down my bunk and sleep it off.

6:30 am.

Somebody’s kicking my butt. Yes, quite literally. Ready to give him some of my
morning gentleness, I turn around to find the conductor waving around, “Golden
Temple! Golden Temple! Amritsar.” The anger was gone. Quickly replaced with a
pounding heart. Fear. Shit not already.

So I set off for the border… well that is… after listening to the Morning
Prayer and sharing free chai at the Golden Temple.

So after dealing the autorickshaw… I was off. To where? I didn’t quite know.
Pakistan seemed so far away in a sense. The morning fog barely let us see 15
meters ahead, I was hanging on to my Indian army blanket as hard as I could.
Shivering. Looking off the sides as military camp after military camp flew by.
Eerie. Everyone seemed to have a gun. Except for me.

Then out of the fog a blue panel. Squinting to read. “Niagra Falls.” Squitting
harder. Yup! “Niagrea Falls Family Restaurant” with the Canadian and American
flags up there. Right on the Indo-Pakistan border. Pinching myself… I rolled
out of the rickshaw, half asleep, heart pounding.

A man runs up to the auto waving his hands around in the air. “Restaurant. Come
come. Yes sir. yes sir. You are to have chai and homelette.”

What is this my last meal or something?

“Border opens ten o’clock, you are to be stamped at 10:15” (I love the way they
talk here). It was 8:00am. Shit. It’s cold out here. Niagra Falls was
conveniently closed.Oh well.

10:00 am.

After sitting down for nearly two hours, sipping on chai with my rickshaw driver
(for whom I had to pay, said the restaurant owner). I walked 200 meters to sit
down and wait in the customs office. The restaurant owner told me that there use
to be 500 people (in each direction) coming and going before all the tensions.
This morning, we were four. A Canadian, a Korean, a Pakistani and a Pakistani
doctor relocated in South Africa. As foreigners, as it is everywhere in India,
me and the Korean were put in front of the queu and delt with first. (As a side
note, that is certainly a thing I miss here in China, today I not only have to
cue but FIGHT for my spot as everyone tries to cut in).

The Indian customs officer seemed more interested by why my passport was issued
in the Hague (Holland, answer: I was robbed) and not Ottawa than anything else.
Once that was resolved I was sent out to walk 500 meters to Pakistan. The whole
stretch is 1km long, 500 meters on the Indian side and 500m on the Pakistani
side. I was in no man’s land.

This was probably the weirdest sensation in my life time (still today I think of
it and shake in my pants). Walking on a street. Alone. Totally alone. With 5,000
volt electrified barb wires on both sides (on which I almost electrocuted myself
back at the restaurant when I went to my “Indian bathroom,” before being pulled
away by a guard), and an armed guard every 200 meter with a sniper riffle right
on you.

The Green Mile. Green fields on both sides. flattened of all forest for the
sharp-shooters to get a clearer view. I walked praying to a God with no name.

Just before the border, a table was set-up with four men joking around. I didn’t
even know IF I had to stop… but I did, the guard signed my name in a book. His
only question was: “where did you get that Indian Army blanket?
- In Chandi Chowk, I replied, referring to a well known market in North Delhi.
- Ahhh New Delhi.
- How much did you pay?
- I didn’t get a good deal, I’m ‘gora gora’ (white white)… Rs 140.”

A huge smile came accross his face… he waved me in the direction of the
Pakistan gate. As I walked away I could hear them say “how much” and then bursts
of laughter. It’s weird. In India they will bend over backwards for the white
man, e.g. give him directions, invite him for tea, be nice, almost
subsurvient,… but when it comes to announcing the prices, they triple.

THE WHITE LINE. It stared at me. I had been close to it a week ago on my visit.
The actual white line, divinding countries at war, on the cement. There was not
a single guard in view on the Pakistan border. I stood there for a minute, or
was it hours? it felt like it. The phrase popping in mind: “they will give you a
free AK47 bullet,” had said the Indian man a week ago.

Baby step.

Nothing.

Baby step.

still nothing.

Ahh the hell with it… I’m walking!

“AAAARGH,” a scream! “AAAARGH”

I freeze. Look around.

Two Pakistani officers horsing around hitting each other. My heart was looking
for the closest way out, it seemed to try to rip open my rib cage.

I sit down at the table. I’m still in no man’s land. Not there yet, anything
could happen still. The tone of the conversation is quite different here. “Where
have you been in India? Who did you enteract with? Did you talk to Indians? What
do you think of India? What do you think of Pakistan?” shit shit shit. I answer
what seems to be smart with many “euhhh” in-between.

“Go”

No questions. I walk.

I’m still in no man’s land, on the Pakistan side, and the first thing I see is
CocaCola stands. No comments.(Althought today, I can’t help but laugh at those
signs and at myself) Walk. Just walk.

I finally get to the customs office. Hand out my passport. Hand out a pen. (They
have no pens). The tone here is once again totally different. Relaxed, yet I’m
still 100m from my objective. He looks at me with pleading eyes to ask if he can
keep the pen. In the irony of the moment I let him keep the pen, which has the
following incription: “Canadian Forces.” Sweet. Thank you DND for the free pen,
it was worth the joke.

To the next customs officer. He’s suppose to go through my bag. check for
illigal things. My heart is pounding because of I have cameras, lenses, notes,
documents and a laptop computer, obviously a journalist. Instead, he takes half
an hour to interrogate me on where he can find western women in France. “Do you
have sex with your female friends? How is life in the West? Can you just sleep
with any girl for FREE?? Do you have many girls at the same time?” Geeeeezzzzz.
After half an hour… “oh! do you have liquor? do you have Indian roupees? Are
you in a hurry?”

- I’d like to go to my hotel to sleep.

- You are free to go."

No questions, grab the bag, and go.

Now I seem to face a different reality then the one of when I landed in Delhi. I
realise I now entered a country with a feeling of guilt. Here the people don’t
want to necessarily hurt you, especially not when you traveled all the way
accross the globe, they want you to understand their pain, who they are, and why
they suffer. Inshalah (God willing) you will convey the message to the rest of
the “Americans.” They don’t bend over. Only to God… five times a day. They
will all say: “there are no problems here in Pakistan. Not dangerous.” I want to
believe them, but, then again… I wasn’t born yesterday, just the day before.
- Yes, guaranteed.
- Okay, the Canadian visa is Rs2,475, give me the money… no need for a check, I’ll take care of that."

Usually the passport office takes only checks, so when I gave him Rs2,500, he had no change, obviously. But there came the stamp in my passport, with a soothing resounding “WHAMM.” I checked, it wasn’t a visa extension, just a stamp saying I had “applied for an extension”… I crossed my fingers this would work.

Then it was to the police office, to obtain my exit letter and do the foreigners regitration (which I had to do upon entering the country, I was 4 months late). The police officer looks the stamp in my passport. Looking up to me… this isn’t a visa extension in there and he knows it. I decide to offer him lunch, but he says he won’t go for a few hours… so I simply hand him a 100 Rupee note.

I got the letter two minutes later.

I pack up all my bags in a hurry. I have to make the border for 3pm.

I get to the border at 3pm, I only have 30 minutes to cross to India. Customs wants to check my bag. I look at my watch, nervous.

Shit shit shit

… that thing takes 30 minutes to pack! And it’s filled with pictures of my investigation on working children in the football industry (the memory stick of my digital camera is in my socks). Musharaf says that there are NO child labourers in Pakistan… I don’t think my photos would go over to well.

“I have little time to cross the border, would there be a way to speed up the search?

- Only personal effects?
- Yes, I’m a student.
- No alcohol?
- Of course not.
- Opium… hashish?
- No.
- Did you change your ruppees into Indian money?
- Yes I did, before coming.
- Show me."

As I opened my wallet, Rs300 flew out straight into his pockets. Done. He fumbles around with my bag a little… tells me to leave. Gone, no questions.

I was in India just in time. No problem.

I’ve been in the Subcontinent for almost a year now and I still never quite get used to paying off officials, but it’s the way things seem to work around here, and in emergency situations it seems to be more efficient to go with local culture than to go against it.