New Trip to an Old World

I returned to Pakistan in November 1973. 18 months after my disastrous first experience in Afghanistan. The taxi ride through the Kyber Pass is a blur but I recall meeting up with some friends at the bus station in Peshawar. One of these friends was Shapuan Haji Ali, we had met in Rome and traveled together periodically. He was a slight boy with olive complexion and features I could not identify ( Thai, Indian, Philipino) but definitely Asian. When he said he was Malay I wasn’t even sure where Malaysia was. He had gone to Europe overland, from Lahore where he was attending college. I wanted to know everything about him and his culture, including why he had traveled so much. Two things I learned were that Pakistan is a Mecca for higher education and that travel and curiosity are universal. As we climbed into a Tonga the sunset was so intense I had to shade my eyes with my hand. The intense beams formed a corona around the huge lettering above the Park Hotel. I remember the main road was filled with potholes, choked with dust and lined with utility poles strung with wire from every tea stall and chicken coop, more of a giant cats cradle than a grid and all seemed to terminate at the largest building in sight the Park Hotel. Although it was impressive on the outside it was drab and worn on the inside and very expensive, so we chose the nearby Rainbow Guest House. Beside it was already getting dark and we would be leaving for Lahore early the next morning. When we arrived in Lahore there were 6 of us and we were hijacked by an aggressive Tonga driver who had to get down and coax his horse to move. Finally we arrived at the Hotel Shaheen, his choice, and I realized that beside the taxi fare from us, he would get a commission from the hotel for each guest. This is where I met the infamous and outrageous Abdullah no sweat, a Nigerian vagabond who claimed to be traveling for 17 years and besides entertaining us with his tales of travel and adventure he rolled one hell of a joint. From Chitral in the north to Quetta in the south, he seemed to know everyone and everything, with his trademark funky fedora, dress slacks and sandals to his Cheshire grin his charm was undeniable. Before long I came under his spell and agreed to join him on his latest adventure, of which he told me little, only that he was going to visit a friend in Hyderabad, but first he must make a stop in Multan. The rail system in Pakistan is chaotic and corrupt, a sentiment I must extend to every bureaucracy in Asia. There are 3 classes, with many price concessions, complicated bookings, unruly crowds and undependable schedules. Lahore station serves as temporary home for some and permanent home for many others. Hundreds of passengers with their families, livestock, and sometimes all their possessions are barely distinguishable from squatters. All were on their feet as the train approached the station. Before it has stopped, luggage and people are shoved through the windows and there is a free for all for the unreserved lower class and best second-class seats. All this as some passengers try to exit. After fighting our way onto the train we change our mind and decide to wait for a later and less crowded one. The locomotive itself is a thing of beauty, an antique steam engine, the size of a ship with a smokestack billowing a trail of black smoke and ash from one village to the next. At one station a tray is unexpectedly passed thru the window, I don’t remember ordering it but I do remember eating the excellent curry, when a hand returned to retrieve the empty tray I realized we were moving very fast. Later we discovered that Multan was to be the site of a huge student demonstration planned for that week and was probably the cause of the overcrowding. We finally arrive at 6am exhausted after an all night train ride. While Abdullah tends to the business that brought us here, I enjoy a massage and recover from our ordeal. Multan is interesting, a mix of education and industry, but during our stay the demonstrations turn violent, one student is killed and shops close for 3 days. A week after arriving we were back at the station for another overnight train. This time it was to Hyderabad, to visit Abdullah good friends, the Abbassi family, this turned out to be the unexpected highlight of my stay in Pakistan. From the moment we met they opened their hearts and home to me and gave me the most intimate look possible into Muslim family life. There are 4 Abbassi brothers ( Maqbool, Mahmood, Iqbal, Nizar) their wives and extended families. They are middle class and live in a compound of which I saw only 2 rooms, my comfortable bedroom and a sitting room which acted as dining room and parlor. Even though Abdullah left the next day, I spent 10 days there and never met any of the women. I ate most of my meals alone, they would always be brought by the servants occasionally one of the brothers would join me. From Hyderabad I made several memorable side trips. One to Karachi to pick up mail and meet more of the Abbassi family, and friends of Shapaun Hajji Ali. Another time I went to visit a friend of Mahmood at college. I was apprehensive after being invited to join a post exam ritual involving a lesson in plant pathology and a trip to the local bhang shop. Bhang is an intoxicating drink made from marijuana. The cannabis is wrapped in gauze then soaked in water, it sits for a few minutes before all the liquid is squeezed out, and the process is repeated 3 times before drinking. It can be very potent but I declined fearing not the cannabis but the water. A third time I went to the family farm which was in a nasty dispute with a neighbor. When we arrived we were given a kings welcome, by a group loyal to the family and armed to the teeth. There were 10 men in turbans baggy pants and shirts that is the native dress all had guns most had shotguns. We were surrounded by fields, without a house insight, instead there was a tent like structure with walls of woven branches and leaves, with a canvas roof. We stayed only long enough to give moral support, sample the local produce and taste roasted goat they had slaughtered just for us.

Off the Beaten Path

Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe; it is located in a remote mountain range on the island of Crete in the Mediterranean. I first heard of Samaria from a hotel manager in Chania who grew up in the village of Loutro, on the magnificent south coast of Crete, a short distance from the gorge. In 1972 most of the resorts and commerce on crete was confined to the north coast. I desperately wanted to get off the beaten path, so when I heard no road and electricity I decided to go. Instantly I packed my essentials but left most of my luggage with my new friend and departed by bus to the trailhead. The bus left me off south of the town of Omolos near the top of a mountain. The trail descended steeply thru a magnificent lush forest all morning. As I descended off came the jacket then the sweater and out came the water bottle as the temperature rose. After a couple of hours the trail led into a canyon with a trickle of water running down the side. As the afternoon went on and the trail flattened out I came to a clearing maybe 100 feet wide with a rustic hut in the middle. I timidly approached and knocked at the door. Receiving no answer I let my curiosity get the better of me and I entered. It was dark but I could see signs of habitation including some food a bed and a shotgun. I assumed the hut belonged to a hunter and since it was now twilight, I decided to take advantage of the situation and didn’t think he would mind if I spent the night. I ate most of the ham and cheese, bread and wine I had bought, then laid down on the hard mattress and read by candlelight before dosing off. The next morning with rain falling and the river rising I knew I was in trouble. I was warned that the river could quickly become a raging torrent filling the gorge with water and drowning everything in it. Should I turn back? I hesitated before heading into the narrowest part. Before long I was wading knee deep between rock walls rising a thousand feet, only a few yards apart, and the ocean was nowhere in sight All of a sudden 2 hikers appeared from the opposite direction. Just as quickly my spirits rose, realizing that the way must be clear to the coast. Sure enough within an hour I reached the tiny settlement of Agia Roumeli and inhaled the salt air of the Mediterranean. The rain had tapered to a drizzle but I still had 2 concerns, first I had very little food left and second how far was Loutro. The whole settlement consisted of 1 family who were less than friendly and didn’t understand a word of English, but they did manage to explain that no food was available, and then set me on the path with the understanding that Loutro was about 4 hours away. Frustrated I set of in mid afternoon following a narrow footpath climbing gently along the coast to the west. All I had to do was keep the ocean on my right and eventually I would reach my destination. An hour or so later my spirits rose again as I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the rocky cliffs, studded with wild flowers and fragrant herbs were washed by lapis colored waves from North Africa. Then suddenly out of nowhere a man appeared and passed me without saying a word, he moved swiftly, I struggled to keep up but soon lost sight of him. Soon my mood changed again as the pitch increased the footpath disappeared and I found myself up a creek without a paddle. I found myself advancing on all fours following pellets of goat dung. With daylight fading I continued for lack of a better plan. Finally accepting that I was totally lost and alone and in fear of plunging into the sea below my mind and body began to shut down. I dreamed of a cave, which could protect me from the elements, and viola, there it was. Really no more than a flat hollow with a protective ledge above, I made my bed and now would have to sleep in it. I sought out the last morsels of bread and cheese as the wind started to howl and it started to rain, I awoke dreaming of room service (eggs pancakes and coffee) but opened my eyes to find I had nothing to eat or drink but the rain and wind had stopped and the sun was shining. As I gathered my thoughts I heard a tinkle I listened hard and heard it again, I rolled out of my shelter and found myself surrounded by a pack of goats then as if by magic I saw a robust man walking toward me. The hat, boots, moustache and staff the exact image of a Shepard, but to me it was a miracle, He appeared like an angel in my time of need. Contrary to my reception at Roumeli he greeted me with a smile, as if we had an appointment, not at all surprised to see me. Kaleemera we say in unison then he brings his hand to his mouth and lifts his head slightly in a universal gesture, he produces a wet goat skin bladder and takes a drink without touching his lips, then hands it to me and begins to open a neatly wrapped fabric tied to his staff and produces a loaf of course bread a hunk of cheese and some sausage. This simple breakfast does wonders to recharge my body and spirit. With gestures and a few common names we bond in brotherhood. I tell him I am going to Loutro and he nods and holds up 2 fingers, is it 2 hours 2 days or 2 kilometers, who cares, Im not going back. Then he leads me up to a better trail and we depart, realizing that chance brought our worlds together for a brief moment and now it was over. Dripping in sentiment I continue, when he is gone I think of Hansel and Gretel and marking the trail with bread crumbs this time. The new trail is flat and well worn and I make good progress for the next couple of hours, hardly noticing the ruins of chapels, monasteries and numerous military artifacts. I am still hundreds of feet above the Mediterranean, at times it is all I can see because the view is blocked by protruding ridges, then I summit a ridge and dramatically the view opens and there it is half a dozen white washed houses tucked between a rocky hill and a sandy beach in a protected horseshoe cove. I take a deep breath and let it sink in there is no hurry although It is a significant milestone I feel relief above all, no more questions, doubts or fear. I am perched on a point protruding into the sea and it looks like another half hour down to the village. I m determined to soak in as much as possible, ignoring nothing, imagining every stone to be part of something manmade and indeed there are many ruins that would have passed unnoticed in my desperate state just 24 hours ago. I spend four nights in Loutro, I sleep in 4 different houses, I eat and drink with nearly everyone in the village. They are used to guests and are happy to receive them as I learned from other travelers passing thru. Although they do charge a small fee for hospitality I wouldn’t have it any other way. Unfortunately this has all changed as word spread. Today Loutro is crowded with tourists, the lights are on and homes have become hotels and restaurants, there are still no roads but a boat stops there several times a day turning the once remote rustic village into a chic crowded beach resort. Samaria now has a ten dollar entrance fee and the new town of Roumeli is mobbed with day trippers and has carnival atmosphere like a grotesque caricature of all that is Greek.