Smuggler’s paradise

I am on assignment. The agreement says I have to cover ‘the cultural landscape’ of Balochistan. I am also told that I have to cover a lot of ground in 15-20 days as Balochistan is a huge place. It is no Sindh or Punjab — it is Pakistan’s largest province and is also the most contentious. I am also on assignment to photograph the historical architecture of the Raj. So, as part and parcel of the deal I am travelling to Chaman, that most oxymoronic name that any town in the country could have been given. Chaman means ‘garden’ in Urdu. And, as I will soon witness, there isn’t much in the way of gardens out there. The people of Chaman don’t like gardens. They like smuggling.

For the US, Chaman is one of the most important places in the world. Along with Peshawar, it is the main supply route for troops stationed in Afghanistan. Goods worth billions of dollars pass through this town monthly — of which some is stolen by the locals to compensate for the grief of aiding infidels in the war against fellow Muslims.

Partly to witness the smuggling drama and partly to sate my curiosity about the border region, I travelled to Chaman along with my friend, Danial — who was actually the one who masterminded the trip.

The main highway which connects Quetta with Chaman is being remade completely and will be perhaps the most outstanding road in the country, along with the Karakoram Highway. This road passes through the famous Khojak pass top. When you peer over the edge of the road, you can see one of the marvels of British construction, the Khojak railway tunnel, the longest in Pakistan, stretching some five kilometres in length and producing strange sounds and a very strong breeze. The Khojak pass is around 22 kilometres from Chaman town. At the end of the journey, it is quite a shock to descend into the scorching, smoggy plains of Chaman after the relative cool and freshness of Khojak.

Reaching Chaman is not romantic, in case you were expecting something dramatic to happen. What I mean is, the landscape isn’t phenomenal. It is plain, very plain. And it is so dusty that as soon as you open your car door you are engulfed by dust and smog. But when the dust has settled the romance of the border begins to settle in your heart. There is a huge gate at the border called ‘Friendship Gate’. I’m not sure why, because Afghanistan has never accepted Pakistan as a sovereign country and in any case they say that the entire Fata region belongs to them. So much for friendship.

Another thing you see in Chaman is literally thousands of Pashtuns and Afghans of all shapes and sizes scurrying across the border without submitting to checking. Colas from the UAE, soaps from Iran, shampoos from God knows where, tyres from Japan and Taliban from Afghanistan are all passing through the border as are 40-feet high, heavily loaded trucks — carrying Humvees, sensors, and other military equipment for Isaf. The activity is so brisk it befuddles you. You stand there, beneath that ugly Friendship Gate, and watch as hundreds and thousands of people pass through this border. They all look the same. You can’t see any difference between a poor loader and his overlord.

As for security, Pakistani FC personnel stand guard on this side of the border, weapons in hand. Border guards sitting in an air-conditioned room check the necessary documents. The customs people check only the big trucks. They don’t bother with people carrying trolleys. This has to be the only border in the world where so much smuggling happens right in front of the border guards. Intrigued by such a sight I enquired about the reason for allowing such an open smuggling route. The official posted there informed me that if the army stops these people from smuggling, they will simply falls into the Taliban’s hands. Because, he informed me, everyone has to have a way to earn a living.

Either you allow them to carry on their businesses or you turn them into terrorists. Well, great logic, but Pakistan loses hundreds of thousands of dollars daily in taxes as a result. This smuggling has made the Pashtuns  of Chaman some of the richest men in our country with offices in Singapore, London, New York and Kabul. And all these smugglers, with their immense tummies and immense black or grey turbans sit among their wares and haggle over prices.

They are not afraid of the law. But they fight too much amongst themselves and eat a lot of cherries. They also love chai.

As I sat pondering these issues, the Afghan war, and how much all this affects my life in Karachi, the FC personnel invited me over to climb the Friendship Gate and have a look at the scene from above. Surely such opportunities are only God-sent and I wasn’t going to miss it. From the top of the gate one could see in perspective the whole landscape and the people. You can also see, on one corner of the border, a box-shaped building with sensors and cameras and all decorating it. On enquiry, I was told that it belongs to the US Army and that they scan their wares coming from the Pakistan border. Just in case there happens to be an Al Qaeda operative hiding inside one of the containers, you know.

I wanted to stay on top. Partly, as I told Danial, due to the fact that I had never seen so many smugglers jammed into one place. I was loving it but I had to leave eventually. But before that I took some portraits on the border. I also got permission to shoot the Afghan forces. I mean, with a camera.

These so called Allied Forces didn’t appear to be soldiers to me at all. In fact, they looked like haggard teenagers on a boring family trip. I was thoroughly disappointed. No wonder they have been unable to stem the flow of the Taliban. And without American help they would be finished off within days. That was the feeling I got when I looked at these soldiers. On our side of the border, on the other hand, the FC looked classy and alert. Just the type of men who should be posted on borders. One of them stood guard over the border with the Pakistani flag fluttering in high cross winds behind him. It was a classic moment, one I shall never ever forget. And I instantly shot him. Later, we had lunch and the most famous chai anywhere in the country — for most of the Pashtun  chaiwallas across Pakistan come from Chaman. Later we wandered around into the smuggler’s bazaar, full of Japanese tape and DVD recorders. I bought some cheap shampoos and a cream for my wife and sisters. I also got a Hugo Boss cologne for my brother.

And so I became, unconsciously, part of the smuggler’s den much to the resentment of my friend, Danial, who opposed my desire to buy stuff from the market. (Later in Karachi he would tell me that he regretted not buying anything!)

I personally recommend that instead of everyone heading towards Murree and Nathiagali and Swat, some of you should go and see Chaman. It is such an interesting — and awkward  —  place to be.

Ameer Hamza is a businessman who travels for fun not business. He is now collecting Travel Safari Vests, Travel Backpacks and all the travel books written in English anywhere in the world. For this end, he has greatly disturbed the peace of his wife and annoyed his friends.

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, May 1^st, 2011