A soldier stops me. “Are you alone?” “Are you OK?” “Do you need a cold drink?” “Let me know if you need help.”
Such has not always been the reception of Peshawar, the capital and the largest city of the Pakistani province of Khyber Pakhtunkwa. A frontier town close to the border with Afghanistan, Peshawar has long had a reputation of lawlessness. Indeed, at present, there is a UK FCDO red warning advising against travel to Peshawar.
Yet Pakistan’s general security situation is much improved, the tribal areas are under government control and extremist issues have all but faded away. I found Peshawar to be full of history and hospitality.
Peshawar’s recorded history dates back to the sixth century BC, making it one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in South Asia. It is easy to see why in the Peshawar Museum, where the number of sculptures on display is staggering and testament to the power of the Ghandaran kingdom that would have stretched into what is now Pakistan and Afghanistan. So too their quality, not just in the craftsmanship but the detail that the sculptures show. Yes, the bulk of the sculptures are religious, from monks with begging bowls – which you see today in the likes of Laos on an everyday basis – to the different meditation poses and preaching styles of the Buddha.
For me, the real charm of the statues and reliefs is the insight they give us to life, from wrestling to scenes of drinking wine, from the Hellenistic robes to the turbans of the people of the Indus Valley, from birth to death and mourning and cremation.
Peshawar lay on one of the great southern arteries of the Silk Road, where caravans from Afghanistan and Central Asia converged with traders coming north from India. Their meeting place was the Qisa Khawani Bazaar – the ‘Storytellers’ Market’ – so named for the merchants who sold their wares while recounting tales from distant lands. The British once called it the ‘Piccadilly of Central Asia’. Yet unlike London, where courtesy might prevail, here the press of people allows no pause. In the crush of the bazaar, I make the mistake of stepping aside to let someone pass and quickly learn that in this place, it is not politeness but purpose that rules.
People do look but most do not see or at least are not as interested in me as I might think (not that I have an inflated ego but in terms of the fact that I stand out). Where eyes meet, I smile, nod my head and raise my right hand to my left breast. The gesture is always returned with sincerity, warmth and a smile.
I walk through jewellers – the shop named Safi stands out as safi means pure – tea houses, bakers, poultry shops and fishmongers.
Zia the fishmonger, unlike his Asterix counterpart, is smiling and engaging. “Where are you from?” “How long have you been in Pakistan?” “Do you like Pakistan?” “Where do you like most?” The questions are non-stop.
In the midst of the bazaar is one of the great landmarks of Peshawar, the Mahabat Khan Mosque, which was built in 1630 by the eponymous Governor of Peshawar. Built in red sandstone, it is the mosque’s white marble façade that makes it stand out, not least from the bustling bazaar in which it sits.
There were three other stand outs for me: calligraphy, those in the mosque and feet etiquette.
Calligraphy: the intricate floral motifs and geometric patterns are divine, no pun intended.
Those in the mosque: I loved the juxtaposition of the solitary figures kneeling in silent prayer against the clamour of a group of men trying to fish carp out of the blue-tiled ablution pool, much to the excitement and laughter of the young boys.
Feet etiquette: I took my shoes off but placed them on the floor of the mosque when they should have been placed side by side on the ground. So too my faux pas of wearing socks with holes in them…
In spite of my poor etiquette, a young man and his friend ask where I am from. I tell them. His reply with unblinking eyes was, “Do you want a cold drink?” I decline. “Do you want to eat something?” was his next response. Such is Pashtun hospitality.
