A Bazaar Display of Arms in ‘Rambo’ Land

The pilot announces: “Inshallah, we will soon be landing in Peshawar, capital of Pakistan’s Northwest Frontier province.”

My husband looked at me inquiringly. Inshallah means “God willing,” I explained. He rolled his eyes, retightening his seat belt. I smiled and shrugged. Maybe the best way to approach our visit here is with similar fatalism.

We’d come to research a screenplay but were aware of the difficulties ahead. It was a monsoon-less summer and the crowded streets are fiercely hot, the fighting next door in Afghanistan even hotter.

We’d be a mere 30 miles from the famed Khyber Pass leading to that mountain nation. I wanted to go there for our story, but the pass was rumored to be closed to foreigners due to tribal dissension, smuggling, kidnaping and war.

By the time we taxied from the airport and checked into the Pearl Continental Hotel our apprehensions dimmed. They faded entirely as we were charmed by the energy and humor of everyone we met in the course of our work. We were encouraged to attempt the pass.

Cool and Comfortable

The next morning we hired a car from our hotel’s transportation desk and shook hands with our tall, easygoing driver, Jhan. He wore a loose, long-sleeved tunic and pants. These pajamalike garments are cool and comfortable and worn by most men here.

We were soon driving through the cheerful chaos of Peshawar. Traffic that Saturday morning was hectic after Friday’s Islamic sabbath. Passing us were psychedelically painted trucks, scooters, bicycles, motor rickshaws, horse-driven tongas and bullock-drawn carts, all accompanied by horns beeping and bells ringing.

The population is equally eclectic. For thousands of years this frontier town has been a melting pot as waves of invaders and traders passed en route to the riches of India.

After driving along the green boulevards of the old British district, we headed west on a busy industrial highway. Soon the city was behind us. We saw pearl-gray mountains in the distance as we crossed dusty, golden plains.

In Tribal Territory

Jhan told us we’d entered tribal territory. “In parts of Northwest Frontier province, government controls only main roads,” he explained. “All other land ruled by local chiefs, paid baksheesh to keep peace.”

During their rule here the British began paying baksheesh (bribery) to control the rebellious Pathan tribesmen. The system continues. The turrets and gunholes of the mud compounds we passed illustrate the tribesmen’s defiant independence.

We approached the Jamrud checkpoint. Its two red gates slammed shut. Three armed guards approached us; only the red badges on their dark caps denoted officialdom. We could not pass without “special permission.” Apologetically, they explained that this is a Pakistani rule, not theirs. They are Pathans, tribal police.

We took a few Polaroid snapshots before leaving, and one of the guards, Hassan, cocky and arrogant, selected the best one for himself. We chatted a bit, then Farouk, the quiet leader, invited us to take some food. Unwilling to impose and knowing my husband’s obsession with hygiene, I declined regretfully. Hospitably, he pressed us: “Some tea?”

Reclining Like Pashas

Impulsively I accepted, despite my husband’s raised eyebrows. Perhaps this would be our entree to the Khyber Pass. Farouk sent a boy for tea, then took us to a lean-to attached to the guard shack. He placed bolsters on one of the facing charpoys, wooden frame beds with hemp webbing. Like pashas we reclined, cooled by a gentle breeze.

Our hosts were charming and fascinated by me. In this culture, men view an unveiled Western woman as intriguing yet disturbing. Gallantry and sexuality become inextricably mixed in their behavior.

As Hassan looked at me with his strange grin, I recalled the young Englishwoman kidnaped by just such a grinning tribesman in the 1920s. The British then declared tribal areas off limits for civilians. A sign is still posted just past this checkpoint: “Foreigners are asked not to leave the highway in the Khyber Pass.”

Suddenly I was panic-stricken. Then I came to my senses and realized that these are men honor-bound to protect a guest. We were in no danger here.

The boy returned with a tray bearing four small cups and a cracked blue enamel teapot. Ceremoniously, Farouk poured a little tea from the pot into one cup, swirled it around and poured from that cup into each of the others. The local green tea, gehwa , is mild and delicious. Sugar is a sign of hospitality. The more sugar, the more honor to the guest. Ours was very sweet.

A Jaunty Salute

While we drank, the gates opened continuously for overloaded cars, buses and trucks. Each was decorated more vividly than the last with flowers, animals, mountains and valiant warriors.

One truck pulled up and a young boy hopped out, approaching us with a piece of paper. Farouk studied it, then nodded OK, making a notation in his long gray ledger. The boy returned to the truck and took his seat between the humps of one of the eight camels aboard. He gave us a jaunty salute as it pulls away, and we saw a soaring F-16 painted on the rear panel.

With a smile, Farouk pointed out that even the camels needed “special permission.” He advised us to go to the provincial headquarters to apply for ours. Amid profuse thanks and gracious replies of “Most welcome,” we parted.

Jhan took us to the imposing stone compound of the governor of the Northwest Frontier Province. Two armed guards gave us the once-over twice before letting us enter. At each office we were sent elsewhere. We trekked past patient petitioners waiting for oblivious bureaucrats busy drinking tea.

Eventually, we were sent to the Additional Secretary. His tiny office also houses his three clerks. A massive floor fan stirred the papers. The official, Nawaz Khan, stared at my husband and ignored me. He said, “The pass is closed to foreign tourists for their own protection.”

“But we’re not tourists; we’re here to research a movie.”

He told us that photography is forbidden in the Khyber Pass. We promise to take no photographs. Khan pondered that, then almost grudgingly handed us an application for the trip. After we filled it in he read it carefully, then underlined in red ink our promise to take no pictures. He would send it to his superior, the Home Secretary.

A Mysterious Smile

We explained that we must leave in three days. He said a message will be left at our hotel.

Disappointed, we left. Jhan made a suggestion. He would take us somewhere else very good for our movie. Where? He merely smiled mysteriously and we decided to put our fate into his hands.

The road south of town is lined with neat green and gold plots of rice, wheat and corn, plus rows of willow and poplar trees. The land is majestic and timeless. Behind mud-walled settlements live extended families and their animals.

Leaning out the window, I snapped some photos of the scenery. Jhan stepped on the gas. He said nervously, “We will be shot if men see us take pictures of their women!”

I protested that I saw no women. Still disturbed, he says: “Tribal country,” as if that was warning enough.

Interspersed with the tribal settlements were tented Afghan refugee camps. Children played and animals scavenged while women carried food and water, bright veils held in place by their teeth. We saw no men and recalled the few women in town. Those we did see were concealed under chadors , long body shawls, or burqas , full-length gowns with small latticed openings at eye level. But mostly the women were invisible, sheltered behind the private walls of tradition.

The men of this province are another story. Their powerful physical presence is pervasive. They move with easy confidence and grace, speak with bravado and look you in the eye with a smile. Their heroes are warriors and poets; they see no contradiction between the two. In a land where every man owns a gun, it’s equally common to see two brawny six-footers walking hand in hand. This is truly a man’s world.

An Arms Bazaar

We approached Darra, a dusty village. The single main street is lined with storefronts and tea shops. But we soon realized that this was not a typical Asian bazaar, it’s an arms bazaar.

At the sound of a machine gun firing, we jumped. Jhan laughed. Customers are allowed to sample the merchandise if they pay for the ammunition.

Everywhere the colors are bright, the designs whimsical. It’s like a carnival town--you expect to see popcorn and cotton candy for sale instead of weapons.

We followed Jhan cautiously across the road, trying not to dive for cover. A sign proclaimed: “Gul Akbar and Sons, Arms Dealers” in several languages. The green Pakistani flag rose from a blue globe next to a shiny black automatic.

Jhan introduced us to Sher Akbar, the owner’s brother. His right index finger was missing. Gesturing expansively, he said, “You can buy every weapon here! And not only originals, but authentic local copies at much more reasonable rates. Quality guaranteed!”

This region has specialized in the reproduction of weapons for more than a century. Children learn gun making from their fathers; each home is also a workshop. Pakistan has more than 2,000 gunsmiths. Weapon ownership is taken for granted.

Sher Akbar ordered tea, then showed us his merchandise--rifles, machine guns, rockets, anti-aircraft guns, even a .410 “walking stick.”

He pointed to a captured Kalashnikov gun selling for about $2,000, then proudly displayed its identical copy. He offered to special-order us a grenade launcher, “but that will take a while as they’re quite popular now.”

Offer, Counteroffer

Three young men entered to inspect a steel dagger with carved ivory handle. They tested its sharpness, size and weight. Akbar named a price. The men made a counteroffer. Akbar acted insulted and laughed as the men shrugged and left. They’ll be back, he said with confidence.

Learning that we were from California, he told us he had a friend there and asked us to take him a message. We said we would and asked when he last saw his friend. About 1975, he said, proudly showing us an old business card.

We read the address of a health food store in Los Angeles. He wants his friend to know he’s now a rich man with not one but two houses. “Business is good,” he says, beaming.

We left with Jhan to explore the town and passed the three young men sauntering back to Akbar’s shop.

At each mini-factory, men and boys smiled and proudly displayed their workmanship. We were impressed by the industry around us, but declined offers to test weapons hot off the assembly line. Jhan pulled out his fountain pen, casually removing its top. It’s a .22 caliber. He would take us to buy one for only 140 rupees (about $8 U.S.), he said. We declined politely.

In parting, we took a Polaroid photo of Jhan posing fiercely with the Kalashnikov. The camera drew a large crowd. A teen-age boy pushed his way toward us and asked, “Which country you are from?”

When we replied the United States--California--he smiled, puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders. “Ahhh, Hollywood. Rambo.”

“Rambo,” we replied with a rueful smile, having encountered his popularity all over Asia.

A Deadly Business

Driving away, I reflected on what we’d seen. It’s difficult to reconcile the charm and dignity of Darra’s people with their thriving deadly business. While it’s true that the preoccupation with weapons has a historical, even cultural, basis, it nonetheless saddens me.

Back at the hotel, there was no message from the Additional Secretary. Nor was there word the next morning, so we went to Pakistan Airlines to reconfirm our departure. My husband people-watched at the jewelry bazaar while I bargained for bronze bangles and amber beads.

We waited for Jhan to take us to the airport. His car screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. He jumped out, triumphantly waving a piece of paper--our Khyber Pass permit!

I wanted to hug him and burst into tears at the same time. It was too late. I studied the paper with a long face. It was an impressive document with stamps and many signatures, valid for that day only.

“ Inshallah ,” Jhan said. “We will go together next time.”