TRAFFIC

And just who have been my fellow companions on the road? From camels to black bears chained onto the back of a donkey led cart and distressed goats atop the bus roof, their ears flapping at full speed...I have shared this road with every beast and wheel imaginable.
Tuc-tucs bright with colourful paintings, inside which I can never get over the novelty of the amount of mirrored reflections blending my face with coloured decorations.



Donkeys bright with orange henna, moving slow with heavy loads. Donkeys beaten under wooden sticks, donkeys bedecked with clown like flowers yet their treatment is nothing to smile about...


Men on colourful, flower bedecked bikes, trailing me trying to get my phone number whilst the moped boys cruise alongside staring. Boys with large battery attachments proudly wheel their loud radio bikes down the road.

And the busses....those unbelievable works of art on wheels. Sometimes it is impossible to see what lies beneath this colourful explosion hurtling towards me at full speed. Metal flowers, birds, women and all manner of conceviable decor turn the road into an amusement arcade.

This is how they look.....

and this is how they sound....!

PAKISTAN PESHAWAR

Tea.
Peshawar is all about tea.

Grotty hovels of tea-shops filled with bearded men sweating in the city's heat.
The smooth faces of young boys carrying tea trays through the clogged roads.


Rope charpoi beds to sit on inside instead of seats.
And the tea...green and fresh and surprisingly delicate for this mans world of noise, posturing and pollution.


The old trading route to Afghanistan, Peshawar evokes images of bazaars bustling with men in desert dress, tea-trays carried through narrow winding alleys by small boys whilst bearded men give the city its flavour of dangerous excitement as they negotiate trading deals in shaded corners. Today the city is the heart of the troubled North-West Frontier Provinces and the historical home of the Pashtun tribe who span the borders of both Pakistan and Afghanistan. Outside the cities limits, large settlements of Afghani refugees are signs of the modern troubles in the otherwise timeless atmosphere of the city.






I wonder through small market streets in the shadow of historical buildings-tall and slanted, wooden and carved, black from the grease smoke of the downstairs kebab shops.


An evening's stroll down the busy street warm in the night air, is full of men and meat, meat and men. Always a little intimidating to find yourself the only woman on the streets, I find my camera works magic in these moments providing a neutral way of communicating with people. 'Madam, madam, come, come, photo, photo!'. Soon everyone is smiling and posing for my camera...in exchange for a quick lesson on frying lamb, making chappati, glueing shoes or grinding ice for sweet summer drinks...whatever their profession, my camera acts as an instant VIP pass into their daily lives.

Down through jewellery lane I amble, blinded by the myriad of reflective glass and fairy lights creating the illusion of endless gold.

Down these alleys of glittering gold it is here I find the cities women...gliding past in full Burqua, unsettingly faceless. Yet it is still possible to trace the ghost of a smile under that protective barrier, a smile and the whisper of a giggle at the sight of a foreign women in their midst. And I too am well covered under hijab, veil...and sometimes when the staring is a little too much...I too can understand the attraction of the anonymity of the burqua, the silent unnoticed glide through the male spheres of the streets.


Colourful towers of local sweets try to seduce me whilst streams of school children dive hungrily into the sugered shops.

And in the silence of the old mosque, I find respite from the heat and noise. In shaded corners of subtle light, I sit and watch men at prayer. Despite the always rather garish floral patterns of mosques, the walls emit a sense of peace and stillness that I miss from not having my own rhythm and community of reflection.



And just what is this face of Islam I have encountered in Pakistan so far? Is it the face of hostile, anti-foreigner terrorism that the media would have us believe? No. Despite the hijabs, the burquas and the despairing sexual injustices, I have also come to know and love the face of Islam that still holds women in higher value than I found in Indian society. I have felt the openness of arms greeting the foreigner in their midst and I have felt the warmth of genuine smiles of welcome. In Islam, and especially amongst the native Pashtun tribes of Peshawar, hospitality is a highly valued tradition where guests are given everything the host can provide..and, sometimes, even when they can't provide. I have had meals, journeys, gifts for free on the basis of being an honoured 'meynmer', guest, that shrink me in shame when I think of the treatment of some foreigners and refugees on my native lands of the 'civilised' West.

And I have felt the genuine sadness in the eyes of those who always eventually ask me.....what do you think of Pakistani's? Do people really think we are terrorists? Perhaps one of my most poignant memories from these hospitable lands was when a women shyly asked me if Western people really hated Muslims...

I cannot deny the security threats in Pakistan. I can only ask you to remember the huge divide between people and politics. I can only ask you remember the kindness I have met and the unbelievably hospitality I have encountered. I can only ask you remember this the next time you see a lost looking face of someone from a different land....because I am also that lost looking foreigner and they are also someone's beloved daughter or friend.

I can only ask....