The smuggler’s bazaar! Just hearing the name alone was enough to get the adrenaline pumping through my body! Known by locals as the Karkhano market along the Kyber Roadway- just one or two kilometers from the Afghanistan border crossing. In order to blend in with the locals, I took absolutely nothing with me and just put a few rupees in my sock for the bus fare. As I was on my way to this mysterious place, I spoke to quite a few people and one man called me over and said “don’t go there, these are the tribal areas, they are lawless and once they find out you are a not from around here, they will kidnap you and no one will ever find you. Get off this bus and go back. You are dressed like a Pashto but once you speak they will know- don’t open your mouth there,” he said. I thought about his advice for a bit and kept going. Adrenaline got the best of me once again! “As long as I keep my trap shut, I should be okay,” I thought to myself. After soaking up the atmosphere for a few hours at the market that smuggles drugs, guns and stolen items intercepted from the US military to and from Afghanistan, I decided it would probably be in my best interest to go back. Everyone in the area was armed with AK-47’s under their shalwar kameez (traditional clothing) which did not make me feel any more comfortable.

I called one guy I met on the bus and he ended up showing me around all day and even took me to his town, a few kilometers outside of Peshawar. The town, which is governed in a completely autonomous manner independent of the Pakistani government, is headed by his uncle, who took over after his grandfather and great grandfather. He escorted me to the building where everyone gathers for meetings and decision making. I was greeted by many of his neighbors and family, and we all had tea together. At one point an older man came over to me with a very stern look on his face, “I have many things to tell you!” he said as his eyes pierced right through me. “First of all, you must know we are not terrorists! The world does not understand Islam! Do we seem like terrorists to you?” he asked. The elder man said he is working to educate people about Islam and gave me a website address where he is trying to share information on Islam.

I also enjoyed talking to an Afghani refugee who came to Pakistan during the war with the Soviets. He said he can’t ever go back to Afghanistan because there is too much violence and danger. He is a very nice guy with a good sense of humor and had some friendly talks over tea and a plate of fish- outstanding experience!

Korean Skills Come in Handy

Anneong ha sey yo! The following day I left Peshawar, and the day my Korean skills came in handy finally arrived! Riding in a shared car along the Himalaya Mountains of northern Pakistan, I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined I would put my Korean language skills to use. Think again! After traveling for about eight hours that day, security officers halted our vehicle due to tunnel construction along the new roadway. “The tunnel is closed for the day!” bellowed a man in green and black fatigues. Suddenly, an uproar in Pashto exploded in our vehicle as all passengers were in disbelief at the thought of turning back. It was now past 4:30PM, and they had to follow orders from the engineers working for Daewoo, a Korean construction company. We were in the middle of nowhere with no options but to drive in the opposite direction. However, after much debate in Pashto one man riding with us decided it would be a good idea for me to talk to the Korean engineers working in the office. After waiting for about an hour while chatting with some Pakistani construction workers over tea, they finally showed me to the building where a Korean man in his late 50s was sitting at a paper scattered desk. I started shooting off some Korean and much to my surprise, he had absolutely no reaction to the white guy dressed in traditional Pakistani clothing. I offered him some Korean chocolates from the heavily frequented tourist destination Jeju Island as his expression solidified even further. I gave up on trying to build rapport with him and finally explained our situation in his mother tongue as he listened intently. Nonchalantly, he reached for his pen and granted our vehicle permission to pass through the tunnel after daily closing time. As I returned to the car with the permit in hand, everyone was all smiles and we made it to the mountain town of Chitral just after sunset.

The scent of hashish filled the air. The dark, drab theater turned into a male dominated disco party as all spectators jumped out of their cold steel chairs and waved their hands in the air to the pounding rhythm of Lollywood pop music. Shocked by their enthusiasm at mimicking legendary Pashto movie star Shahid Khan’s dance moves, I sat back and observed. “This is the way life is supposed to be! When you feel like dancing, get up and dance! Anywhere! Anytime!” I thought in reflection. Chair pounding ensued as the men howled and yelled at the female actress in a bright red outfit who suddenly revealed her bare shoulder. Khan’s character gently brushes his leathery hands against the actresses’ shoulder and the crowd roars as if their favorite team just won a cricket world championship match. Absolute mayhem ensues after Khan rips the cap off a liquor bottle and takes a few swigs of the prohibited beverage. At that moment I realized that I was thousands of kilometers away from my home country, whose mass media glorifies human carnal lust and desire by exposing all parts of human sexuality and anatomy. Controversy sells tickets all across the globe, especially in ultra conservative Peshawar.

I transformed myself into a spitting image of Shahid Khan. Upon exiting the movie theater, I came across a store with colorful pictures of the Pakistani actor plastered all over the walls. “Your face. Here!” mentioned a man in broken English with a beaming smile as he pointed to a picture of Khan holding an AK-47 in a blood stained shirt. A few minutes later my face was photoshopped onto the canvas and I was in the middle of a fictional gunfight with a Lollywood gangster. What a perfect souvenir I obtained that day!

One Wife? How About Four?

After my outrageous movie theater experience, an old man with a warm smile on his face waved his hands in my direction, signaling me into a tea stall. The man ended up being a 75-year-old poet and university professor who bragged about his ability to recite poetry from memory. He closed his eyes for a few moments and recited some verses that he composed himself and I could feel the passion in his voice tone and facial micro expressions. Experts say communication is over eighty percent non-verbal and upon listening to his poems I could tell he was an expert at his art form.

Next, our conversation topic changed from poetry to women. The professor proudly stated that he had two wives and wants one more for the simple reason of “lust.”  He explained that the Koran says you can have up to four wives, but anything more is not permitted. He said he is a wealthy man as you need to provide economically for each wife equally. I asked him what kind of woman he was looking for to be his third wife and he expressed his interest in having a wife that is 35 years old, beautiful and intelligent. He said 18 years old is too young but 35 seems like a good age.

Upon further investigation of having multiple wives, the Quran states: “marry those that please you of (other) women, two or three or four. But if you fear that you will not be just, then marry only one.” It should also be pointed out that polygamy was practiced in the pre-Islamic Arabia before the revelation of the Quran, but was uncontrolled and without regulation. Islam attempts to limit polygamy to having a maximum of four wives and attaches conditions to each marriage. In reality, it is only less than two percent of the Muslim population that has over one wife as monogamy is prevailing in the contemporary Muslim world.  The option of husband sharing can be a blessing in times of shortage of men, such as after brutal warfare. Also, married couples with medical issues or sterility may consider this option in a positive manner. It is hypocritical of the West to criticize this way of life as society glorifies extramarital relations and sexual promiscuity. It is time to rethink our definition of morality in North America and Europe and seek to understand before criticizing others with varying outlooks on life.

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Where Are The Women?

Clank! The curtain slammed shut as several women covered from head to toe in black cloth walked past me at the local juice stand. The worker gave me a discerning glare as I couldn’t hide the flabbergasted expression on my face. “How can those women see?” I thought to myself as they had several pinholes a few millimeters in diameter poked where their eyes should be. Not even a micrometer of skin was exposed on their bodies, and I had just realized that I had not seen a women’s exposed skin for several days now.  Indeed, this was a great culture shock to me as I am a product of a culture that exploits sex and skin as a means to and promote consumerism and freedom.  However, in this region of the world, women are free to cover themselves as they see fit and only expose their faces in the privacy of their own homes with immediate family members. Perhaps this was a different expression of freedom from what I was used to. From my understanding, the burqa is a choice made by a woman in order to reject superficial judgements which are so common in the Western world based on a woman’s outer appearance. Rather than allow themselves to be gawked at by male strangers, Pakistani females choose to defeat the “male gaze” by hiding behind a piece of cloth. This enables them to be seen as individuals and not as objects of sexual desire. Public display of the body may oppressively marginalize many who physically cannot measure up to the current images of perfection in the media. As long as a woman has free will to choose, I have no problem with them covering themselves up as they see fit.

Murder in the Streets of Lahore

Anti-American protests filled the streets of Peshawar. A local man informed me of the horrific news. The previous day an American ambassador shot two Pakistani men on a motorcycle in Lahore after a perceived threat by the two locals. He said the details about what kind of “threat” occurred was not uncovered by the media. Anyway, there were hoards of people on the street because of the violent undertaking, and the local man suggested getting into a rickshaw together in order to keep a low profile in the midst of all the chaos. We passed the crowds unscathed as I was now extremely happy I invested in local clothing which I used to transform myself into a chameleon in this Pakistani jungle.  I was quickly noticed that things can take a turn for the worse in this unpredictable land before you can finish saying “assalam alaikum.” How lucky I was to meet the man who became my guardian angel in Peshawar’s concrete jungle.

A Humbling Experience With Afghani Refugees

After gulping down my glass of juice and pondering on the mysterious lives of Pakistani women, I wandered into another market district. Along the way, I came across a modest-looking bread shack selling chapatti while a group of twenty women covered from head to toe in burqas were sitting on the ground outside the entrance. A man whispered they are Afghani refugees who were waiting for any kind of food people were willing to donate. I bought about 20 rupees (30cents USD) worth of bread, which got me two piping hot pancake sized pieces of food and started giving handouts to the women. Suddenly, one refugee snatched the bread from my hand and shoved as much as she could into her mouth at lightening speed. The other Afghani women all attacked the daring one like a group of wild vultures competing for prey on the Mongolian steppe. I had to pry open the bread thief’s hands and distributed small pieces to the group in equal rations as best as I could. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the group of women as I have never seen people fight like this for food. It was one of the more humbling experiences I have witnessed in my life.  I can’t even imagine what lives these women have led coming from the war-torn country next door. Their desperate lives as refugees escaping the horrors of war belittle the issues I face in everyday life. From that moment on, I resolved never again to complain about the difficulties of my life full of food, shelter, clothing and love from my family and friends.

Upon further investigation on the refugee crisis in Peshawar, the New York Times reports that about 100,000 Afghani refugees who fled their home country in the 1980s during the war with the Soviets. Approximately sixty percent left home with nothing but the clothes on their backs. I had just come face to face with the sad reality that war brings to the world.

No Trips to Afghanistan This Time Around

The following day I went to the Tribal Affairs Office to inquire about the possibility of going to Kabul by land from Peshawar. Unfortunately, the manager said they are not giving out permits to cross the Kyber Pass (the Kabul-Peshawar border crossing) responding that the situation is currently “too dangerous.” After I offered to pay for an AK-47 armed guard to accompany me the man said that “one guard is nothing and will not help you.” I visited several travel agents that said flights were going for $400USD, so I scratched that idea and check out Afghanistan on another trip. Perhaps this was for the better, as safety should always be my number one concern, and I just took it as a grain of fate that was not meant to happen this time.