+ "Paranoid in Peshawar"

27 August, Peshawar
from Marcela Gaviria

After an incredibly hectic day at GHQ and ISPR and many other acronyms within the Pakistani Army, we are finally ready to head out to Peshawar, the capital of Pakistan's Northwest Frontier Province. It's 7 p.m.

The trip lasts three hours on the four-lane highway. Most of the time, I try to keep my eyes shut, just as I do when I see a scary movie. It pays off. One hour into the trip, we witness the hit-and-run death of one man. It is unclear if he has fallen off a Bedford bus or been hit by one. Scott asks our driver Faizal to turn around to help. Faizal simply says, "This is not Europe." An hour later, while everyone else sleeps in the van, I watch another car squash a dog. Forty minutes after that, we finally arrive in Peshawar.

Peshawar, or "Frontier Town" in Urdu, is a bustling dusty town that outrivals Islamabad in every sense. It is bigger, noisier, dirtier, uglier, hotter, poorer, and definitely more charming. I like the place instantly. With its pock-marked streets cramped with auto rickshaws and Bedford buses and horse-drawn tongas, the place is the perfect setting for an Asian-style spaghetti western.

Sadly, we end up in the one hotel that doesn't fit the part. The place is decked with marble floors, mirrors, and even organ music to accompany you while you register.

While the place is a magnet for foreign correspondents, we only bump into one Carl from Sweden and one Phillip from Austria. There is even a convention for pharmaceutical salesmen sponsored by Smith Kline Beecham.

After a long day on the road, the Westerners congregate on the fifth floor, in a room holding a sign that says "Non-Muslim Westerners Only." This is of course a watering hole for journos, spies, agents, and the rare businessman. Only beer is available, but no one complains.

By midnight we make our way back to our floor to find guards (or spies) stationed at every end of the hallway. I feel uncomfortable to find one man standing at attention at my door. He has a key to my room as well, and as soon as I enter it, I bolt the door behind me.

I am awakened by a knock on the door asking me if I need anything. Which is annoying as hell. That is what the telephone is for. 0 for the operator. 4 for the receptionist. 5 for room service. 6 for laundry. Soon, there is another uninvited caller at my door. The man wants to know if he can do my laundry.

Two boys stare into the camera at a market in central Peshawar. (Photo by Marcela Gaviria)

At the business center, the attendant looks over my shoulder as I write a letter to a Brigadier down in Islamabad. At breakfast, waiters hover about closely. We lower our voices to discuss the day's agenda. We soon give up talking about anything of substance. We make our way up to one of the bedrooms, to debrief a source who is willing to take us through some back channels into territory that has thus far been off grounds for journalists. Again, someone knocks on our door to see if we need anything.

Either I am paranoid or someone is very interested in what we are doing.

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