If there is a Couchsurfing destination par excellence, it is Pakistan. I can’t think of a nation more welcoming, its people more willing to share their last with a stranger. It takes just one short message for me to find a host in Lahore, and after that, I let the trip organise itself. It unfolds organically with little participation from my side, and all I need to do is turn up and embrace the surreal reality.
My host Hassan is a substantially-bearded, emaciated artist with deep, intelligent eyes, a genius of the ancient art of miniature painting. He is as stimulating a company as Lahore is a city, with eleven million people and even more goats, horses, and donkeys populating its intoxicating streets. All the chaos that exists in the world is here in high concentration: tuk-tuks push past roadside barber stalls, innocent street market forages morph into thrilling adventures, and traffic may come to a standstill because bras sell like hotcakes from a cart parked in the middle of the road.
In the midst of the mayhem lies the meditatively peaceful Lahore Fort. Dozens of eagles circle above our heads as Hassan and I skip down the lofty steps built for royal elephants, past the tubs designed to hold perfume, and into luxurious quarters where thousands of mirrors used to shine like stars in candlelight. Hassan has dug up some long-lost relatives, pulled a few strings, and produced the keys to the dungeons. Off-limits to the general public, these subterranean tunnels are a maze of dark hallways and secret passageways, adorned with piles of bird feathers and other indiscernible but equally pungent organic matter. The Indiana Jones in me is overjoyed; the clean freak in me is grossed out and nauseated.
Opposite the fort is the striking Badshahi mosque. Here, not only flocks of teenagers, but also respectable families follow me around trying to cajole me into taking selfies with them. My modest garb and headscarf have done nothing to boost my inconspicuousness.
At the end of this blockbuster day, I linger over Hassan’s painstaking work in his studio. The wonders of the royal courts of the Mughal Empire are painted into photographed landscapes, joined by figures from the present, transplanted into the modern world by his brush. “It’s a dialogue between the past and the present,” Hassan explains. Miniature painting re-invented.
“How long does one of these take you?” I point at his minute masterpieces.
“About four to six weeks, if I work five hours each day.”
I knew it would be something incomprehensible. This kind of patience is quite unknown to me. And not just me – to the fast-paced, instant-gratification culture I hail from. Hats off, my amazing new friend. I hope your art lives on.
Talk about fast-paced. I have only five days in the country and was planning to spend all of them in Lahore. Then, on the second day, a quick glance at the Couchsurfing Events page reveals a post from a group of members who plan to drive from Faisalabad to Islamabad. Everyone is invited! A loyal fan of impromptu affairs, I pack a small bag and hop on a bus.
Two hours later, I find myself in the heart of Faisalabad, Pakistan’s third-largest city, with no idea how to find my future Couchsurfing friends. I’ve messaged them, yes, and got an excited reply and a number, but with no internet access or roaming on my mobile, I’ve landed like a pigeon in Antarctica.
Scanning my perimeter, I get nothing but the Allied Hospital, a huge, overflowing affair. Rows of roller beds line the yard. Intravenous drips are administered in the car park. I walk right in and start asking questions in languages no-one understands, waving a scrap of paper with a number on it. The crowd around me intensifies in size and poundage of opinions, until a phone call is made and I’m escorted to a rickshaw, where my predicament is relayed to the wildly gesticulating driver.
And so I begin a slow trudge through this spirited city, accompanied by a crash course in Urdu from the driver. A group of men in swimming trunks, bathing in a puddle of muddy water on a dividing lane of the traffic-chocked highway, wave me off with bursts of giggles. A truckload of women in bright dresses spot me inside the rickshaw and stop the flow of cars to exchange handshakes. No longer a pigeon, I’m now more like a rock-star penguin making my way up the red carpet.
Eventually arriving at Couchsurfer Faisal’s home, the day continues in the spirit of spectacular welcomes. Apart from Faisal, the Islamabad expedition members are here: the driver Abdul and a Dutch couple, Anna and Tim. They have all read my Couchsurfing profile, memorised some facts of my biography and prepared a myriad of questions. Over multiple pots of tea and plates of cooked spinach, we share our life stories late into the afternoon. We have 320 kilometres to cover, but no one is in a rush, and we decide to swing by for coffee with a couple of other Couchsurfers before leaving the city.
Pakistan is one of those rare countries where over-the-top hospitality is coupled with a very low Couchsurfing traveller-to-host ratio. Having foreigners around is an exciting event, the news of which is instantly relayed through the community. The coffee drinking session lasts for hours, and it’s already dark when we leave Faisalabad, speeding down a modern highway to the nearest petrol station. Here we take a break and fill up on another lot of delicious curries. Abdul reminisces on his travels in Russia. He’s met a lot of good people there. In turn, I’m stoked to have met him and the others, and to share this precious evening with them, although something tells me we won’t make it to Islamabad tonight.
The trip is juicy fun until, after an hour on the highway, our car makes a desperate screeching noise, shakes wildly, and comes to a halt. Bursts of lunatic laughter erupt until we finally get that this is serious. After a number of stop-starts, mechanics come to mess around with the engine, police come to mess with our heads, but nothing can make our rocket to adventure move another inch. The temperature outside drops below freezing, and we keep ourselves warm with trance music and scary stories. A few precious moments of heavy oblivion come around the time most people would be getting up to go to work.
In peak-hour morning traffic, we roll into Islamabad perched on the back of a tow truck. Not even Islamabad proper, but nearby Taxila, home to Abdul’s humble pad. My friends picturesquely pass out on assorted couches, but I’m pressed for time and have a new idea to chase. Abdul said there were mountains nearby, and I’ve suddenly grown fixated on seeing the snow. I leave a ”Thank you” note and tip-toe back into the Great Unknown.
It takes four hours of bus rides to reach Nathia Gali, a hill station of sorts. The first patches of snow as we start climbing the Galyat range are of the dirty glazed-over variety, framed by faded plastic flower arrangements (small business, Pakistani style: for a modest fee, these ghastly contraptions can be used as photo backdrops). Closer to Nathia Gali, the snow is white and presided over by well-fed rhesus macaques. A satisfied grin spreads across my tired visage and stays there until I learn a minor detail: There’s no bus to take me back down. There was one, but it left some hours ago.
After getting my snow fix, I head down on foot, hoping to hitch a ride along the way. I’m not dressed for the mountains, the walk soon becomes quite uncomfortable, and I stop to defrost at a roadside tea house. Having paid for my curry, I’m ready once again to brave the elements when the manager blocks my way: “Excuse me, Miss. Special services want a copy of your passport.”
What services are they, and how do they know I’m here? Why do they care? Why does the tea house face the rubbish dump when we’re surrounded by mountains? My mouth is full of questions, but now is not the time for whys. I still have thirty kilometres to the bus station in Murree, and the day is getting old. I hand over my passport.
I haven’t even quite regained my cool when three merry tourists from Karachi offer me a ride, and I take my chances. They don’t look like the kidnapping types. Just happy chaps out for a day of selfies in the snow. We don’t share a common language, but sheer goodwill makes it work. I feature prominently in their photos, and we exchange ceremonial gifts before we part: a toy kangaroo from me, a pair of warm socks from my saviours. I gratefully pull them over my iced toes.
Last night’s adventures are starting to take their toll, but my route bedwards is a long one. I’ve secured a stay with one of the most respected members of the Islamabad Couchsurfing community, but I arrive to find his apartment empty. Harris, my host, is there. Elijah, his best friend, is there. But there isn’t a single piece of furniture or anything else that would make the place liveable.
It turns out that Harris is just moving into his new apartment. Today. This evening, to be precise. This, of course, was no reason to reject my request and miss an opportunity to shelter a wary traveller. My host has all his bases covered: now, I will drink coffee and explore the city with Elijah, and by the time we get back, my room will be ready. I’m barely functional, and would rather just crash on the floor this very minute, but the hospitality of these people melts my heart.
Elijah is one of the most charitable souls I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. Normally, if someone was trying so hard to make me happy, I’d suspect some sort of agenda. Not in Pakistan. After Elijah shouts me coffee and delicious cakes, drives me to see the city lights from a nearby hill, and helps me stock up on gifts for my family, he makes a video call to his girlfriend. She is studying in London, and my new friend wants to tell her of the great time we’re having; and for me to meet her, even if on the screen.
Meanwhile at Harris’s apartment, a bed materialises. Brand new towels and bars of soap appear in the shower. Windows are covered with newspapers. A pillow is inserted in a crispy pillowcase and arranged on the bed along with a warm blanket. My hosts are still wide awake, discussing the next day’s plans, as I drift off to sleep wondering what this marvellous Pakistan has in store for me tomorrow. One thing for sure, it will be off the hook.
Photos Courtesy of Janie Borisov
