Elite Encounters in Pakistan

A backpacker finds himself upgraded to the royal suite for one night only

Feature by Shane Kelleher | 05 Feb 2011

 

“Don’t worry about finding Prince, he will find you.” A casual tip from a fellow traveler that propelled me toward Peshawar, to the Pakistani tribal lands, all the way to the Khyber Pass. 
For foreigners of many stripes in Peshawar, Prince is a man who can get things done: an individual media types would call a fixer. Prince is a fast talker and a hard bargainer, who knows the tribal officials, the government bureaucrats, military men, opium smugglers, weapons dealers, hotel operators, business men, Talibs and more.
As an outsider Prince will get you to the places you want to go. To the tribal lands, to the home-made gun factories and opium bazaars, to the Khyber Pass. To Kabul in Afghanistan if you are willing enough to pay and to trust. Prince will arrange armed guards, SUVs and drivers.  Prince will bribe people who need bribing, and smooth-talk the ones who dont. Prince knows what to say and when to pay. If, as a complete outsider, you want to explore the margins of Peshawar, Prince will find you. And Prince did eventually find me but it was the 24-hour journey from the Kalash Valleys of the Hindu Kush to Peshawar that unexpectedly offered a more personal insight to Pakistan and the lives of its true princes.

“Don’t worry about finding Prince, he will find you.” A casual tip from a fellow traveller that propelled me toward Peshawar, to the Pakistani tribal lands, all the way to the Khyber Pass. 

For foreigners of many stripes in Peshawar, Prince is a man who can get things done: an individual media types would call a fixer. Prince is a fast talker and a hard bargainer who knows the tribal officials, the government bureaucrats, military men, opium smugglers, weapons dealers, hotel operators, business men, Talibs and more.

As an outsider Prince will get you to the places you want to go. To the tribal lands, to the home-made gun factories and opium bazaars, to the Khyber Pass. To Kabul in Afghanistan if you are willing enough to pay and to trust. Prince will arrange armed guards, SUVs and drivers.  Prince will bribe people who need bribing, and smooth-talk the ones who don't. Prince knows what to say and when to pay. If, as a complete outsider, you want to explore the margins of Peshawar, Prince will find you. And Prince did eventually find me but it was the 24-hour journey from the Kalash Valleys of the Hindu Kush to Peshawar that unexpectedly offered a more personal insight to Pakistan and the lives of its true princes.

Unfortunately there was no hop-on, fall-asleep express bus from the Kalash Valleys to Peshawar. The only possibility was a gruelling full-day’s journey of installments, by whatever means available. So I squeezed into over-crowded buses and I hitched lifts – riding pillion on the back of passing motorcycles and catching rickety trucks trailing plumes of thick oily smoke.

The journey was at all times bumpy and at a pace that was out of all relation to traffic and road quality. Drivers seemed to be involved in an undeclared ultra-competitive sport and the standard of the competitors was impaired by Ramadan. A month of days without food or water. A month when men driving rockety trucks on pockety roads rise before dawn to eat Ramadan breakfast, and work a full day of sun-soaked labour without food or water, eating again only once the sun is declared down. A time that is notorious for road accidents.

By afternoon I was wedged into another seat on a sweat-box minibus. Beside me sat a young bearded man, wearing ankle-length, immaculately white robes, seemingly untouched by the dusty world outside. His beard was kempt, his Chitrali hat sitting neatly on his head as though it were obeying formal instructions. He sat quietly amongst us; goat herders, labourers and curiosity Westerner.

When the stranger introduced himself I smiled politely and readied the usual answers. No, not American, not British, Irish. No that’s not the same. Age 30. No, not married. No girlfriend. Not homosexual, no. Just unmarried and 30. Ahmed however spoke fluent English, had studied at university in the UK and was excellent company.

When we arrived in Mardan – two hours and more from Peshawar – it was already after dark. Ahmed unexpectedly offered the hospitality of his family and I quickly accepted, though I was taken aback when he led me through the crowded market toward a large, chauffer-driven SUV with black tinted windows. Waiting for us was Ali: dressed in the western fashion of suit pants and shirt, and sporting a thick black moustache he gave the least impression of Ramadan hardship. After introducing himself politely in English he directed the driver to move off and spoke in Pashto to his cousin. We pushed through crowded streets, foot-traffic giving way, donkeys overtaken, and any intransigent obstacles honked at diligently by our driver. On the streets nearest to the family compound, people raised their hands to the passing SUV in greeting, never knowing if their salutations were noted or ignored through the tinted windows.

Inside the gates of the family home we pulled up beside an island green lawn that had to require a devilish amount of watering. Ali summoned a boy to carry away my backpack and led us inside a large living area that had once been impressively decorated in creams and beiges, with elegant statuettes and foibles, heavy pelmetted curtains and ornate gilt-framed photographs. To one side was an imperious mahogany dining table that would comfortably seat twenty people. Ali waited a short second while I took this in and began to feel ever more out of place; “Nice, yes?”. Yes, it was. Though the grandeur was also faded, the carpets a little worn and frayed, the sofas bearing something of a character of dustiness without obvious dust. A scene in sepia.

A man entered the room and was spoken to as servants are. Offered a drink I requested the customary tea. Ali laughed and wondered if I wouldn’t prefer a whisky. Later he would show me his personal – and illegal – stash; cases and cases of whiskys and other spirits. Dinner was rolled to the dining table by two servants, and each plate uncovered from beneath a silver serving dome. We ate in a small cluster at one end of the table and I surveyed the proudly hung photographs. One included Margaret Thatcher. Another framed Benazir Bhutto, then exiled in London but seeking a return to Pakistan. Each photo included the same olive-skinned, grey coiffed man – Ali’s father. A one-time member of government, an ally and, the cousin said, close associate of Mrs Bhutto – who would be murdered in a suicide bomb attack only a couple of months later.

Ali clearly relished addressing a foreigner, using his clipped English, speaking of his father, his visits to the UK, his political involvement and his family’s wealth and status. Although it seemed his brother was the substantive heir and political princeling, Ali enjoyed being listened to. And as the evening wore on the alcohol promoted his candour. Ali explained that what I didn’t understand about these silly laws – state and religious – was that they were never intended for people like “us”, with a gesture that encompassed us both. They are for the little people he said, his arm sweeping toward the vast conservatory doors at the end of the room and the imagined hobbits far beyond.

Outside these doors lay a vast estate, with rents dutifully paid by farmers, shopkeepers and householders. Every man who owed the family a rent was expected also to owe them a vote. Both Ali and his brother held local political offices but Ali had little time for government. His brother, he said dismissively, liked this kind of thing. He preferred his hobbies, like shooting and he eagerly displayed his trophies: three large cardboard boxes, each brimming with spent shotgun cartridges. For every kill he kept the cartridge. My confession to never having held a gun caused incredulity and led to an offer to head out on a shoot the next morning.
When the evening finally slowed to a whisky induced halt I was shown to a guestroom, my backpack resting by the door. Outside were two wiry young men with what I took to be AK-47s and a bare rope bed. My guards gave taut nods of acknowledgement as I closed the door on a fascinating evening.

In the morning I awoke to muffled brightness, heavy curtains filtering out all but a thin frame of sunlight. The knocking at the door was patient but loud. It was Ahmed. He had to leave on business with his cousin. I was welcome to breakfast, and a driver would take me to Peshawar. My friend gave me his mobile phone number and insisted that if I had any problems anywhere in Pakistan I should call him immediately. I thanked him and decided immediately that this was a phone number worth keeping. A firm handshake and he was gone. I expected I would see Ali somewhere before I left, but like our duck-shoot, it never happened. Maybe he was resting a head as sore as mine. But he never re-appeared and before I knew it I was getting out of a black SUV in Peshawar. Back on the road. A dusty traveller looking for Mr. Prince.