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journey Temptations
of the sin city
journey Chitarwata, a border town
located at the vertex of Punjab, Balochistan and Fata, is a place you would
want to see to soothe your wild side. From the vestiges of an
empire that once ruled a quarter of the known world to wildernesses
unexplored before, this place is like a jewel in the rough. Four years ago I got a
chance to see the place myself. Since then, despite the insatiable urge to go
back there once again, I could never make it. It was only this fall that a
chance finally materialised. And so here I was, once again, on the road to
the wild lands west of Dera Ghazi Khan. Chitarwata is about
half-a-day away from Tibbi Qaisrani or at least had become since we
couldn’t manage the faster Toyota pickups to get there. On bike, it took
Rashid and me, a few hours to manoeuvre the low hills. We spent as much time
in meandering our way through the Vehowa stream on foot in pitch dark.
Fearing vipers and kraits while frightening creepy nightjars escorted us till
Chitarwata was finally discovered ahead, discernible by the flashes of
lanterns and ringing of bells tied to the necks of animals. What Chitarwata had to
offer presently, I cared least. There would be people of varying ethnicities,
wildlife would abound in the surrounding scrubs and a majestic fortress-like
Border Military Post oversees the village — but I was aching for the
emerald green waters of the Vehowa stream a few kilometres to the northwest. It was here that I informed
Rashid of my ill intentions. I was not here for the fair or the wildlife or
the magnificent post. My destination was Diwal — a gorge in the north-west
where the Vehowa River transitions from middle course to upper course
landforms. And for that he was now to arrange company for me. Fairs are rare occasions in
the hills. What I was demanding from Rashid was to find me a man willing to
sacrifice his rare chance of enjoyment for the same old routine of hill
walking. True to his repute, Rashid
managed the task. Early next morning, me and
my travel buddy Sher were off to Diwal. With time Chitarwata was replaced by
Lashkrala, which then turned into Bitar, the last settlement before Diwal
itself. Bitar is a small valley in
the Vehowa River bed, having sparse inhabitants of Eisot Pashtuns. Not all
hamlets are alive, and the reason for that is hard to comprehend. Excellent
land worth a crop lies bare with no one to fend for it. Here were found two
young Pashtun lads from Guzai, a minute settlement slightly to the north.
While their herd grazed the surrounding fields, they were on a break, and
with them we sat for a while. All four of us settled under a Tamarix. Walking in this rugged
country calls for occasional breathers on the way, including tea stops,
though the taste of what is offered can vary tremendously. In a while we took to our
feet again, only to find a group of Pashtun tribesmen, this time a colourful
mix of various ages sitting next to a graveyard and pondering with serious
concern over some issue. The only item of interest I could notice in that
company was a freshly slaughtered goat. A ritual sacrifice had been made, and
pretty evidently a healthy protein rich meal was in the offing or so it
seemed. But that was not what brought me here and so with a heavy heart we
bade farewell to the poor goat remains and made a go for Diwal. Forty-five minutes post-Bitar
the wide bed of the Vehowa River started to cramp into a narrow gorge. The
river swirled down a bend, while the walls of the surrounding hills rained
down dirt and rock intermittently. Continual pounding by massive waves,
created when the Vehowa River flows, ensure that these hills get no respite
to settle in peace. To get west of the bend, we
would have to climb a hillock. While the proposition was not so difficult,
having been walking for the last three hours made this last climb seem
impossible. After much persistent effort the bend was bypassed and we were
atop a plateau, itself bordered on three sides by a thousand feet high ridge.
Before me stood my destination — the great green pool in the Vehowa River,
where the river emerges from a fifteen feet gape in the hills signalling the
end of middle course landforms. Towards west, the river is
younger, active and more beautiful. From here on they say, the real beauty of
the river begins. The real mountains begin now. A short break was all we
could afford. We were past mid-day. Little knowledge had we of the hills we
were traversing, but back to Chitarwata was going to be another twelve
kilometres down the rocks. However, something more
important than enjoying the sights of wilderness was on Sher’s mind. He
would hint at it again and again. He was eyeing the lunch cooking at the
graveyard cum slaughterhouse — and Bitar being another hour’s journey
back, reaching there on time seemed an improbable deal to me. Sher, being smart, left me
to care for myself and made a solo go for the goat-roasting fields of Bitar.
Despite the explicit words of Rashid instructing him to be with me at all
moments, presently, all I could see was Sher surfing away on the rocks at a
speed unmatchable in all human capability, while I kept dragging my poor self
behind on the rocks hoping that I’d be able to make it back to Chitarwata
by nightfall. At last I made it to the
graveyard in Bitar. Lo and behold, here was a smiling Sher with a handful of
roasted goat remains perched amongst a party of two dozen or so inspectoral
Pashtuns, waving to my lazy self. As I made greetings,
suddenly all conversation ceased, and once it started again, one could hear
nothing but various versions of what could actually be the ill intention
which brought a city lad such as I roaming in their hills with a camera.
Quietly I observed as hypotheses became theories linking me to everything
from drones to geology. Eventually, sense prevailed
thanks to one old Pashtun who narrated tales of a place called Murree, where
he had lived in the 1980s. From there he knew tourism, and as per him, I
could be one mindless lad who forgot the direction towards Murree, ending up
traversing the hills in Musa Khel district in Balochistan. I guess a few
years down the road these people would remember the Qaisrani lad who they had
a hearty laugh on. From Bitar, back to
Chitarwata was another milestone I had to make. Presently, I had started
resenting the moment I decided to walk my way to Diwal for another two hours
on the feet seemed endless. Eventually, Chitarwata was made by nightfall, and
another resplendent day in the hills came to pass. While night’s sleep was the most beautiful gift I could imagine at this moment of tiredness, my troubles were nevertheless not over yet. Tomorrow was to be back to Tibbi Qaisrani, and for that a four hour walk was still in the books. God, why did I ever want to come here was all I could think of at this last moment of the day.
Temptations
of the sin city After living in one of the coldest city, Syracuse in central New York, where depression comes naturally and not because of any health disorder but mostly due to the weather, where temperatures in winters can fall to –25C, I decided to move to the warmer waters of the Atlantic Ocean — 300 miles south of central New York. I moved close to the boardwalk empire of Atlantic City in New Jersey after I found job with a French multinational company. Atlantic City is a miniature version of Las Vegas. It is located on the south eastern part of New Jersey, which is approximately two-and-a-half hour drive from NYC and has a small population of roughly 40,000, mostly because the land area is a mere 12 square miles. It is located on a beach with sprawling casinos and hotel resorts far from the hustle bustle of Northern New Jersey. Since I arrived here, I
have been absorbing the sunshine and soaking in the nightlife. On the weekend
summer mornings, I walk the boardwalk next to the beach when there is no
dearth of people and the atmosphere is wonderful. There are lots of
restaurants and shops on the boardwalk too. The outlet mall in the
city-centre has stores with brands like Coach, Michael Kors and Armani
Exchange, a place where your wife would go bananas and, if you are
metrosexual and enjoy shopping, then it is the perfect place in terms of
prices, variety and brands. For the young Casanova, there is lot of eye candy with an abundance of beautiful women. There are other casinos and resorts such as the Tropicana Casino themed after a tropical paradise, the Taj Mahal which has no similarity to the real Taj Mahal in Agra, and Bally’s which is decorated like the wild west where one can walk around and watch enthusiastic gamblers spend thousands of dollars on games like roulette, black jack and poker among the artificial cactus. Spas and relaxing massages will takeaway all your stress after a hectic weekend. These expensive spas are located in the casinos with cheaper ones on the boardwalk in case your muscles cramp opening your wallet. There is also a carnival and mini golf that you can enjoy in summer if you appreciate outdoor activities and, yes, as I mentioned, there is a white sandy beach where you can take a swim in the cool waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The fact that surprised me the most about Atlantic City and its suburbs is presence of the Muslim population, including Pakistanis. A few days ago I was lost in a labyrinth inside one of the casinos called Harrahs and I came across a guard who looked of Indian origin. I approached him and asked him in English the way to the parking lot and he smiled back, and to my absolute delight, gave me the directions in Hindi. Amid all the glitz and glamour there is also a lot of poverty in Atlantic City, which has increased recently because it is hit hard by the recession. A few blocks from the casinos lay empty houses and crumbling neighbourhoods among crime-ridden areas. Recently, an Indian couple were robbed and the husband shot in the wee hours of the morning because due to their better lack of judgment they were driving around the city with over hundred and fifty thousands dollars in cash. It is always better to stay away from such places at certain times of the day and if you have won a lottery or are a high roller then it is better to take all the necessary precautions. Did I also mention the gambling, gentlemen clubs, drinking and rave parties that one should avoid for all obvious and sensible reasons? Yes! Obviously sin city has all those temptations too. One should shop, walk around and enjoy the sandy beaches of Atlantic City with your family. For me it has been a place where I can find a mosque, eat halal food and mix with people from the community — I am glad I found my way to the warm Jersey shores. |
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