Rawalpindi. Dig out the atlas! Where on earth is it? If I were to conduct one of those high street surveys, asking folk to pinpoint Rawalpindi on a map, the results I fear, would not impress. Many would struggle to even identify the right country! And prior to September 2024, I too, would have struggled. The answer is Punjab, northern Pakistan.
Pakistan has largely been closed to the west since September 11th, 2001 – the date of Al-Qaeda’s horrific terrorist attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York. And since then, several other skirmishes and incidents have re-enforced opinion that Pakistan is a ‘no go’ zone. Even today on ‘Gov.uk’, the “FCDO advises against all travel to parts of Pakistan.” Hardcore travellers have found ways to overcome the many barriers of entry, but it has required effort, guile and determination.
And as with all places which are ‘forbidden’ or difficult to access, an aura has formed breeding curiosity, intrigue and fascination, as well as a little fear.
So, when my son announced his intention to leave his city consulting job of 3 years and head off to the mountains in Pakistan, I was a little taken aback!! In fairness to him, he’d been applying for other positions for over 6 months but without success. London had become intolerably expensive, both rent and living! In fact, several of Tom’s friends were heading back to their family homes in Sussex to clear overdrafts!! ‘Bank of Mum and Dad’ was closed for Tom – we couldn’t afford to buy him a flat and thus relieve him of rental costs. We probably wouldn’t have headed down that route anyway: none of it makes sense to me. Regular graduates earn £30-50k a year, (those not employed by Goldman or PWC or Slaughter & May), yet a two bed flat in Clapham is anything between £600k to £1m! The numbers simply don’t make any sense. Parental input is keeping the market inflated – but that’s another story.
My own career – an aging derivatives broker – was also under duress! It had been for a couple of years but tensions amongst my close colleagues had reached breaking point. In short, it was 3 against one! And the one had had enough of the daily battles and poison. I offered them a settlement to leave, which, after a little toing and froing over three months, was eventually agreed. It was definitely not a golden handshake but it did deposit me in the ‘garden’ for nine months.
The light bulb moment then struck! Where were the England cricket team touring that winter. To my delight, it was Pakistan, and imminently!! I checked flight prices and test match dates. Rawalpindi. The match fell over my mother’s birthday but that could be negotiated! On to Tom. Could he get to Rawalpindi for the dates?
It was a ‘yes’! I then suggested to my wife, Kate, that she should join us, as she too might enjoy parts of Pakistan, although I’m not sure that I really meant it. My very brief research googling Rawalpindi convinced me that for much of the trip she would feel most uncomfortable. Add in Ian Botham’s words from the 1980’s: ‘it’s the sort of place you send your mother-in-law for a month, all expenses paid’, finding the right balance between abject disappointment because my wife would not be joining me, versus fist-pumping elation at not having to worry about anyone else, wasn’t easy. She was adamant that it didn’t feature on her bucket list of countries to visit, so I didn’t push too hard for her to come - it was to be a father and son trip!!
Without further ado, I booked the flight, via Doha, on Qatar Airways.
Next job, a visa! I wasn’t even sure whether one was required - it was! Not only that, but there were a great many hoops through which to jump, to secure one. A rigorous set of online forms initially, consisting of photographs, various forms of identification, employer’s details, financial details etc etc, to download. But the final, tricky part was the ‘Visa Invitation Letter’:
A Visa Invitation Letter is a formal document confirming your intention to visit a foreign country and serves as an invitation from a host or sponsor. In the case of Pakistan, this letter is a valuable component of your visa application.
This was cause for concern - I knew nobody from Pakistan. My path crossed many years ago with a Pakistani gentleman, Abid Hyatt, playing rugby bizarrely, and so I contacted a good school friend of his who was also a friend of mine, hoping this might lead to something! However, Abid had been arrested in Hong Kong for fraud and thus my friend had ‘dropped him’ fearing recriminations! I didn’t delve any deeper but felt snookered – my only lead dead in the water.
It was at this point that Tom, out of the blue, announced that he could help with the visa invitation letter. A good mate of his from school’s father was a diplomat in Pakistan! ‘I’ll sort it for you,’ he said. And he did. Impressed and thrilled, it was ‘Doors to Manual’ – we really were good to go now!
Terminal 4 at Heathrow is not familiar to me. Up the ramp to the drop-off area and to an abundance of Ubers and private taxis. Flustered, fat drivers unloading enormous cases onto the pavement for their ungrateful customers, many of whom seem to think their driver should personally deliver their luggage to the check-in desk. Maybe they should?
On this particular morning, the travellers appeared to be at least 90% Asian, the drivers too. Our ten-year-old Freelander in green, not black, noticeably different. I leapt out, unloaded my case, grabbed my rucksack from the back seat, gave Kate a big hug and embarked into the unknown. She was keen to park up and see me through to security but I blocked it, aware that T4 parking charges would probably have matched the price of the flight.
There were a few travellers checking in at the Qatar desk. I joined the small queue, armed with passport, boarding pass – printed at home, obviously. I’m 55 – and the crucial visa. I was the only white person in the queue. This surprised me a little, after all, England were playing a test match in three days’ time. Surely there would be some die-hard fans or correspondents keen to attend?
Beyond passport control, the waiting area in Terminal 4 can only be described as salubrious! The range of shops was certainly the equal of Sloane Street in Knightsbridge, maybe even Bond Street! The staff lacked the enthusiasm of their counterparts in central London, but it was 8am!
And then the dining options – most bases covered there too. Japanese breakfasts, smoked salmon with champagne, the hearty full English, a pint of Guinness or Moretti, as well as the predictable Pret, Costa, and Starbucks. Overwhelming, frankly. No Stag-dos drinking lager in ‘Spoons dressed as monks – is that Gatwick only? So, despite enjoying a Guinness or two, it was too early for my sensitive palate, and thus it was a flat white at Starbucks. I can’t recall exactly how much it cost but my left eyebrow certainly twitched when payment was due – the airport levy plus two months of not buying coffee in London, I suppose! A levy also liberally applied at motorway service stations. How and why should that be allowed?
People watching is fascinating. People watching at airports even more so. That morning in Terminal 4, it will come as no surprise, bearing in mind the majority of flights are long-haul to the Middle East and Asia, that the travellers looked to be of Middle Eastern or Asian descent. There were no ‘holidaymakers’ or ‘Brits abroad’ in shorts and flip-flops.
Another observation, and this I think is air travel generally, rather than this particular flight to Islamabad, is travellers’ attire. Whilst I appreciate that the golden age of glamorous air travel is long gone; by that, I’m harking back to the 1960’s and 1970’s when long-haul and short-haul too actually, was a rarity. The journey was as much part of the holiday as the destination and travellers dressed accordingly. Gentlemen wore jackets and shoes. Ladies, the equivalent. In fact, the lounges at airports resembled the members’ bars at Surrey Golf Clubs!!! In many ways this raised the standard of behaviour, resulting in air hostesses and those working for the airlines to be treated with respect. I fear that today’s more relaxed dress code, i.e. tracksuits, sliders, hooded tops and the like has somehow also led to a more relaxed approach to conviviality, good manners and respect for airline employees. Formality does somehow encourage higher standards of behaviour.
Anyway, at 8am in Terminal 4, the general standard of dress was disappointing. Those not wearing Asian or Middle Eastern attire, were almost without exception, in tracksuits. It was too much of a coincidence that they had all just emerged from the same gym class, meaning this can only have been their chosen ‘get-up’!
Many of these tracksuits flaunted high-end designer labels and I daresay cost eye-watering sums of money, but I’m afraid they all looked dreadful.
Spectator in hand and a rucksack containing a journal, Larkin’s Collected Poems and last weekend’s FT, slung over my shoulder, I boarded for the first leg of the flight - destination, Doha!
The aircraft was full. The smells reminiscent of a street market in Rawalpindi. (I didn’t know that, then) The sights too. In short, the culture shock had begun.
After a couple of hours, lunch was served and as is the case on scheduled flights, drinks offered, gratis! With Pakistan being a ‘dry’ country, I felt it wise to enjoy Qatar’s hospitality to the full. I went gin and tonic followed by red wine. My hopes weren’t high being at 40,000 feet but I was pleasantly surprised! The red wine in particular- a 2018 merlot dominant claret – was more than acceptable! The chicken curry also exceeded expectations.
Having demolished everything edible, I sat back, allowing the attentive Qatar staff to replenish my glass as regularly as was acceptable!!
My next memory was of being instructed to buckle up for the descent into Doha! I opened the blind and glimpsed out of the window, which having overcome the initial blindness, revealed a desert with some high-rise buildings in the distance. Not dissimilar to Canary Wharf. Whether it had more ‘soul’ than Canary Wharf, I’d like to know – it certainly couldn’t have had any less!
Doha Airport was Heathrow T4 on steroids! It was enormous and appeared to accommodate every designer store on the planet. In fact, many of the designer stores had two or three branches in different sections of the airport. A certain kind of shopper’s dream. I checked the prices in one of the Ralph Lauren stores – it was more expensive than the store on Sloane Square!!
The people watching here took on a whole new meaning! The strangest sight I saw was an Arab, in full thawb, pulling a small wheelie case, across which was laid what looked like a broom handle. On the broom handle, attached by small chains, were two eagles. How the hell was he going to get those on the plane? Even in first class, his fellow passengers aren’t going to feel that comfortable with two eagles perched on the seat beside them, eyeing up their fillet of beef!! Anyway, I was in economy and the gentleman concerned walked straight passed my gate! I did overhear one comment: “they are worth a million dollars each in Saudi”. Who knows?
The final leg to Islamabad went without incident. The flight was full and I sat beside a very smiley Pakistani couple of pension age. Frustratingly, the gentleman was definitely unwell and spent much of the journey sniffing and coughing with the occasional hideous, undescribeable noise thrown in!
The flight touched down in Islamabad on time, at around 1.30 am. Tom had assured me that he would be waiting in Arrivals. He was, but Baggage Control were a little slack and it took an hour to be reunited with my suitcase. On walking through Immigration, I was met by a very smiley Tom Atkin! I gave him a hug and he assured me that the taxi would still be waiting, despite the delay. It wasn’t and thus, my first task would be to hail a cab at Islamabad airport at 2.30am!! “Leave it to me”, said Tom! So, I did, and sure enough, he returned a few minutes later, “got one”!
It wasn’t what I was expecting. It resembled a Lada from the 1970s. No ‘taxi’ signs, rusty, small – the size of a Fiesta - and over thirty years old, I would guess! Anyway, I did as I was told, climbed in for the forty-minute drive to the hotel. The hotel was actually in Rawalpindi, the older and more authentic part of Islamabad. Our driver enjoyed a cigarette during the journey, which I did too, as the windows in the back did not open. One small consolation was that it overwhelmed the other, less pleasant odours, with which my senses were fighting!
At 3am, the roads were empty. Previous experiences of road travel in Asia had not been good, with mopeds, tuk-tuks and buses doing exactly as they please, regardless of who or what was in their way, and justifying everything with the beep of the horn. Not this time, though.
We pulled up outside the Royalton – a hotel which had flashed up on Booking.com and looked “high-end”, although the price worried me. It was extraordinarily cheap. My initial impression wasn’t bad: a little bit corporate but clean. Tom had checked in a few hours earlier and his side of the twin room already resembled his bedroom at home – unmade bed and open bags with stuff spilling out of them!!
Tentatively, I poked my head into the bathroom. There was a proper loo! Beside it, was a small hose to ensure our curried bodies remained spotless and hygienic! The sink and shower were tired but worked and having both been students, Tom and I had encountered worse. I brushed my teeth with the bottled water provided and collapsed into bed for what was left of the night!
Our principal task on Tuesday was to source tickets for the match starting on Thursday. Hotel reception assured us that we would be able to just turn up at the stadium and pay to get in, but having travelled over 5000 miles, a verbal assurance from a very smiley gentleman working in the hotel lobby wasn’t enough! A half hour tuk-tuk ride to the first ticket agency proved fruitless. They did however point us in the right direction with an address of where tickets could be purchased legitimately. A further 20 minutes in a tuk-tuk and ‘bingo’! Tom and I piled in to the small ticket agency, encountering a few other western faces. We bought tickets for the first three days of the test match, very much aware that ‘Bazball’, aka reckless and at times thoughtless cricket, tended to rule out 5 day test matches or any periods of attritional cricket!
They were VIP tickets. That meant, in the shade all day and lunch was included. The cost was 5000 PKR each, per day, or £5 per day. I was expecting the Pakistani Cricket Board to undercut MCC and the other English grounds, but £5 for an entire day at an historic and beautiful ground, watching some of the finest cricketers on the planet, saddened me. Grandstand tickets at Lord’s now have a face value of between £150 - £200, not including lunch! This price disparity does not sit comfortably. They are, of course, the absolute extremes but were I to sit I the Grandstand for three days at Lord’s (if I could get the tickets!!) having lunch, drinks, getting to and from the ground (from Sussex), the cost would be similar to the entire cost, including flight, of my trip to watch England in Rawalpindi! It reflects the ever-increasing wealth divide between the ‘haves’ and ‘have nots’ in wider society. And, as I was discovering, nowhere is that more evident, than Rawalpindi.
With our tickets now safely acquired, we headed back to the Royalton content in the knowledge that the objective of the trip would be achieved.
The following day, we had no plans and so opted to go ‘walkabout’. We stepped out of the air-conditioned hotel lobby and into the noisy humidity that is downtown Rawalpindi. Tuk tuks, mopeds and small, rusty old hatchbacks stopping with great regularity to offer us a lift! “No thank you” was always greeted with a smile or a wave. We spent the next three hours just wandering the streets, soaking up this unfamiliar world. We were watched by the locals, nothing sinister, just our western dress and pale skin catching their eye. The sights were extraordinary. So alien to anything we have in the west. The local butcher: no refrigeration, flies everywhere and two guys squatting, ‘butchering’ chickens with their bare hands. Their smocks blood-stained, they smiled acknowledging our obvious fascination. Next door to this abattoir were wooden cages containing live chickens, skinny live chickens in fact, awaiting their fate!
Around the next corner, there was a butcher’s block on the pavement, with the heads of four goats next to a dangerous looking cleaver! There was nobody ‘selling’ them but presumably they provide a meal for someone or something.
The shops all had their proprietor’s sitting outside watching the frantic world pass them by. Our presence always sparked some interest, particularly if we looked at anything for more than a couple of seconds, but they were all very courteous, happy people. The smells took some getting used to. We were never more than thirty seconds from the rancid smell of drains – powerful enough to make one wretch. We walked for three hours – it felt like half an hour.
Seeing how busy and chaotic the roads were, we decided to get their equivalent of the underground to the cricket stadium, to check how long it takes and ease my fears of being late for start of the match. It was just as well we did. It was an overground system but the stations we needed had been closed for the duration of the test match on security grounds! So, tuk tuk it was!
The entire stadium area had been cordoned off from regular traffic. Pedestrians could wander around but no cars or mopeds and thus it appeared empty and quiet. We stopped for some food opposite the stadium. It was a kitchen with a stainless-steel counter at the front, behind which were a selection of meat and vegetarian dishes. We pointed at those dishes we fancied, or more accurately, those dishes which looked the least ferocious, and sat ourselves down at the stainless-steel tables on the pavement outside. We were thinking that this will be the quiet before the storm. Tomorrow, thousands of Pakistanis would converge on the stadium to see their heroes play England in what was the ‘decider’ in the three-match series. It was beautifully poised.
We made light work of our curries and roti after the morning’s walking. It was 32 degrees. We were very happy to watch the world go by, in this shaded oasis. It was strangely quiet. So quiet in fact that the odd noise from the stadium was audible – the crack of Ben Stokes’ bat in a net session, Tom and I were very excited.
The next morning, we arose and headed to breakfast. Not tempted by the selection of curries on offer, I spotted a sliced, white loaf beside a toaster! Alongside was ‘butter’ – it was margarine – and apple jam. Also, a kettle and some Nescafe! Chai tea is everywhere but this was the first coffee that I had seen. I indulged and enjoyed a western breakfast to try and counterbalance some of the curry! Milk aside, it did the trick and we headed to the Rawalpindi Stadium with ample time to spare in another of Pakistan’s finest taxis!
Security was tight. Bearing in mind a total lack of queues, and the absence of any local support, my rucksack containing a camera, water, a journal, sun cream and a book was checked four times! The soldiers doing the checking were in no way intimidating despite being heavily armed. But they were certainly intrigued, with their eyes appearing to question why on earth we had travelled halfway across the world to come here. And to watch a game of cricket! I would have happily chatted to them and explained that the cricket was a wonderful excuse or the icing on the cake, if you like, for a trip to see and experience life in Pakistan. Stepping out of one’s comfort zone and into the unknown. But I’m not sure they would have understood either the English or grasped the deeper meaning - the enormous contrasts between our two worlds. But how wonderful that cricket is able to draw two such different cultures together. Football does too, I guess, but football lacks the wit and charm of cricket, particularly test cricket. Anyway, Tom and I just smiled politely and walked on towards the stadium! At the next checkpoint, a policeman asked if he could take a ‘selfie’! Quite what he intended to do with it, I really can’t imagine, but it did emphasise how rare it is for westerners to be seen on the streets of Rawalpindi!
We approached our stand with several other westerners. Not that many though. Most were part of sports tours, including several from the official ‘Barmy Army.’ There was also a decent smattering of expats from the Middle East, in particular, Dubai. A short flight for them to watch England play cricket – quicker, cheaper and easier than attending the Lord’s test back home! No beer, mind! Actually, for Lord’s, no beer, rose, gin, Veuve Cliquot, Pimm’s!
Over the last 45 years, I have watched masses of cricket. My first test match was at Lord’s in 1980 with England taking on a formidable West Indies side. Viv Richards scored a fabulous 145 that day, against the likes of Willis, Botham*, Hendrick and Underwood. In fact, even Boycs got a bowl! I’m straying from my point a little here!! I was too young to drink then, but as soon as I could, I attempted to drink my body weight in bitter on a day at the cricket. Sun, cricket, mates, beer resulted overwhelmingly in a cracking day out! Now though, and for the first time since the 1980’s, I would be watching the cricket totally sober! A sobering thought!!
It was clear, having circumnavigated the stadium that there was no little ‘hole in the wall’ where we could discreetly buy some beer. Pakistan took their sobriety seriously!
Despite thinking how lovely it would be to have an ice cold lager in the 35 degree heat, I was actually excited about not boozing. A clear head for as long as the match lasted, avidly watching every ball. Feeling every bump. Every ebb, every flow. In many ways, I thought it would re-ignite my youthful passion for cricket. This, plus serious quality time with my 25 year old son. I felt fortunate, indeed!
So, I climbed the flight of stairs in the Javed Miandad stand to the VIP area. Our seats were at long on for the right hander. Not bad! And in the shade, as promised! There were probably 300 seats in this part of the stand, of which 200 were occupied and of that 200, 150 were Brits from the various sports tours or independents, like us!
We soaked up the atmosphere and pre-match buzz. The main public stands were empty - they were in the sun and the seats were concrete. It did seem strange that they didn’t encourage local support but eventually, by mid-afternoon, a few passionate locals were making themselves heard. Our neighbours, one Mancunian and one home counties, had travelled from Dubai for the weekend. Accessing the necessary visa had proved testing for them too, but they managed it and were now experiencing ‘Pindi and its enormous differences to Dubai!
England won a crucial toss and batted. Perfect! We prepared ourselves for the Barmy Army rendition of Jerusalem. Would it make it to this remote part of Islamabad with the Barmy Army heavily depleted?
We needn’t have worried – of course it did! A choir of around 25 churned out the full two verses. It was still glorious. Hand actions on ‘chariots’ and ‘arrows’ (imitating Luke Littler on the oche). The hairs on the backs of our necks were lifted and the feeling of being a true England fan were very much to the fore.
The cricket was gripping. Not solely because of our sobriety, but they opened the attack with two spinners. They had prepared an absolute ‘bunsen’ and then picked only spinners to complete the bowling duties. I shan’t go into detail about the match, this isn’t a cricket report. The wonderful Atherton of the Times is your man for that. His talent as a cricket correspondent certainly matches his talent as a batsman.
By late afternoon, a few locals had been permitted to enter the ground. They were supremely enthusiastic, helped perhaps by the state of the game and the performance of their talisman and undoubted superstar in Pakistan, Sajid Khan. He involved the crowd whenever he could and certainly raised both the standards, and pulse rates, of his teammates! His reaction to long-off’s attempt at a difficult chance was worthy of a BAFTA. But this ferocity ensured his teammates moved mountains for him. It was good to watch.
During the day, we got wind of the Marriott Hotel in Islamabad having a sports bar on the premises. And, it served beer!! Great news, although that would have to wait as Tom and I were a little bit pooped after day one and so opted to head back to our hotel and eat in one of the local restaurants instead! The Barmy Army lot looked like a thirsty bunch – we would need to be in the peak of condition when joining their throng! ‘Restaurants’ is flattering. Kitchens with seating would be more accurate. However, the food in that evening’s ‘kitchen’ was very tasty. I’d define it as the Pakistani equivalent of fish and chips!! Fresh, local, lake caught fish, deep fried in a curried batter, roti, sauces and chillis! Washed down with Next cola. I’m not sure I saw Pepsi or Coke at any point in my week in Pakistan. It was an historic meal that rounded off a day that I shall never forget.
Throughout our week together in Pakistan, Tom and I ate in a variety of venues. At no point did we see any women eating in any of them. There were women in our stand at the cricket – mainly western women – but in restaurants/ kitchens, whatever you want to call them, there were none. Furthermore, having just ploughed through all the photographs that I took, women do not feature, except in the VIP stand at the cricket. In daily life, be it in shops, tuk tuks, women were not visible. Extraordinary.
Day two at the cricket belonged to Pakistan! The occasion was very similar to day one. Glorious sunshine with a haze masking the beautiful view of the Margalla Hills until about 2pm. And again, no local support to speak of until after lunch. From then, it built gradually and the chants for Sajid grew louder and louder.
Stumps were drawn with Pakistan in the ascendancy – Tom and I were ready for that beer! We exited the ground and headed to the busy, 6 lane carriageway to find a taxi or tuk tuk. It was busy – rush hour presumably – so we would need to be patient! After a few minutes, a white Toyota pulled up. It wasn’t a taxi and looked less than two years old which was pretty unique in these parts! The window rolled down and a smart-looking Pakistani gentleman said: ‘jump in, I’ll take you wherever you need to go’. With my mother’s words ringing in my ears from 50 years ago: ‘never get into a car with strangers’, Tom and I climbed in!
The gentleman introduced himself. His English was good but I didn’t catch his name; he was on his way home from work. I told him that we were headed to the Marriott Hotel. ‘Fine’, he said, ‘I know it’. ‘Thank you’ I said, ‘that’s very kind.’ He explained that the majority of the Pakistani people are unhappy with their image abroad. They feel they are seen as terrorists and that Pakistan is a backward, hostile country. Therefore, any visitors that he encounters, he goes out of his way to ensure they get a true impression of what the people are really like. Since Tom and I had been in Pakistan, we had been treated with great respect and the people overwhelmingly warm, kind and generous. He wasn’t surprised to hear this.
His business was drugs, of the pharmaceutical variety. He sold them from an office in Islamabad and politically he supported Imran Khan. Everyone I spoke to throughout the trip also supported Imran Khan, yet he was in prison. I am way too ignorant to comment on the politics of Pakistan but in the Punjab, where we were, Imran seemed mighty popular.
After 10 minutes, we arrived at the Marriott. I thanked him sincerely and assured him that we would broadcast our experiences of the Pakistani people to everyone we could, on our return to England. Embarrassingly, I then offered to pay him. He dealt with my humiliating offer with great dignity, ‘no – just enjoy the rest of your trip’.
The Marriott was very grand and very western. It fitted in well with this part of Islamabad, with its tree lined avenues and large villas; the contrast could not have been greater to downtown ‘Pindi. Apparently, these were the homes of government officials and diplomats.
We found the sports bar in the basement. It was heavily air-conditioned with memorabilia hanging from the walls, music playing too loudly and large screens showing a Premier League footy match! There were about fifty westerners sitting at tables enjoying beer from cans! There were two beers available, one at 4% alcohol, the other at 5.5%. 4% is more than enough alcohol in a beer for an ageing fossil like me. I ordered two, found a table and sat with Tom looking at the cans!! ‘Murree’ wasn’t a beer brand I knew. Were it in a remote service station or an all-night newsagent, it would not have looked out of place! But at the Marriott, I was expecting a brand I knew - Singha maybe, or Tiger. Anyway, it was cold, so we dived in!! Tom then lit a fag! For 25 years I have bleated on to my children about the virtues of not smoking - so it was lovely to see my eldest ignoring my wisdom, without so much as a flicker of guilt!
The bar was all westerners. We chatted with several, not so much about the cricket, but about their experiences in Pakistan, other tours they had followed and about more mundane stuff too, such as where they were from and that very British question of which football team they support! Football small talk has almost taken over from the weather as the go to conversational ice-breaker. Nasser Hussain and Ian Ward were in there too, more deserving of that beer than us after a day commentating on Shakeel nurdling his way to a century in singles!!
Four beers down, Tom and I headed back to ‘Pindi for some food! Having had curry for lunch as part of the VIP package, we couldn’t face another in a local restaurant and thus dined at our hotel. I had the chicken burger and fries! Not terribly adventurous but bloody hell, it hit the spot. We then headed up to bed very much aware that the test match was likely to end the following day. If a couple of the England players ‘got their heads down’, we might make it to day 4, but the odds were long!
We slept well. Tom’s ‘Rawalpindi belly’ was much improved – those tablets which had been prescribed with such disdain and presented with a roll of the eyes, had done the trick. Breakfast was a conservative affair once more: sliced white toast with apple jam and Nescafe instant coffee. The taxi man from the previous two days was waiting for us. It resembled a routine!
At the stadium, I pulled out the tickets and realised that they were slightly different to those of the previous two days. Javed Miandad Stand, yes, but not the VIP area. The stewards pointed us in the right direction. These seats were at wide mid on and in the sun! And there was no lunch included! We weren’t alone, many of the people from the VIP area were also now with us and frantically applying sun cream to their exposed areas!
Tom and I got talking to two guys each travelling alone. One, a die-hard West Brom fan with a broad Brummie accent, was a seasoned Barmy Army tourist and had been all over the world with them. The other was from Essex and toured when time allowed – he ran a vending machine business, a successful one judging by his watch!! They were lovely guys and welcomed us into the fold, insisting that we must sing our hearts out today because this was likely to be the last day’s cricket of the tour.
Sure enough, once the players were out on the field, we all stood up and bellowed out ‘Jerusalem’, probably for the last time. From then on, Pakistan’s spinners dominated the England batsmen. It was turning square, the Pakistan players were highly animated with Sajid leading the charge, although it was Noman Ali that took most of the wickets. England didn’t seem up for the fight. Joe Root provided some resistance but that really was it. We were skittled for 112, leaving Pakistan 36 to win. The ground was busier than previous days, it was a Saturday, after all, although it was far from full. Those that were there saw the 36 runs required knocked off quickly and the celebrations began!
We hung around for the presentations which concluded hastily with the England players practically running to the airport to catch any flight out of there! I think Pakistan must feel like quite a long tour! As it turns out, their flight was to New Zealand, for another series!!
Tom and I stayed at the ground a little longer chatting to locals who were fascinated by us westerners. We were interviewed several times by budding local cricket correspondents who presumably posted these interviews on social media or more likely, watched them and just pressed ‘delete’!
It was only lunchtime, so we headed into Islamabad for a wander. The temperature was a solid 34 degrees and most of the shops we encountered sold the same stuff. Pashminas, kilims, rugs and homeware. We stumbled across a busy restaurant/kitchen. Plastic chairs and formica tables all under a tarpaulin sheet which kept out the sun. It really didn’t look much but it was mobbed, so we took a seat. The proprietor headed over with two menus and soon realised they weren’t much use to us! He pointed to a counter by the entrance and suggested we chose what we want to eat. There were several very large trays containing assorted curries. We soon got the gist of it. One was chicken, one was meat (not sure what variety), one vegetarian, some lentils – quite a spread all in all. I went chicken, Tom, vegetarian! There was lots of green in the chicken one, chillies presumably, and when it arrived, our host had planted a hard-boiled egg on the top. It came with roti and a bowl of rice. I’m not sure what was in Tom’s but I didn’t like the look of it.
To drink, we had more Next cola and a large bottle of water, each! This place had great authenticity. My chicken curry was superb. Spicey but superb. Tom didn’t give his the 5* rating that I gave mine but it was good, nevertheless. We discussed what we should now do with 2.5 days left until my flight back to England and Tom’s to India!!
It dawned on me that being a member of the East India Club, there was likely to be a reciprocal arrangement with a club in Pakistan. I was picturing some oasis in the heart of the city, away from the smog and chaos where we could enjoy a civilised dinner. I wasn’t too far wrong. The Islamabad Club was in the heart of the City but it was a ‘country club’, with a golf course, grounds for polo, an outdoor swimming pool and tennis courts. Could we blag our way in?
We jumped into a tuktuk and were soon at the high security gates defending the Islamabad Club. I politely negotiated with the security guards, insisting that my East India Club membership allowed us to enjoy the hospitality and facilities of the Islamabad Club. After some walkie-talkieing, we were instructed to head to reception. Unfortunately, I had not packed my membership card meaning the general manager had to call the secretary of the East India in London. These things rarely work out and we were resigned to heading back to the hotel but astonishingly, this could not have worked out better. He spoke to the secretary in London and before I knew it, I was having my photograph taken for a membership card! We could play golf and have lunch but I wasn’t allowed to take a guest to the swimming pool area. Fine! So, we headed to the golf course to explore. We were very pleasantly surprised – the facilities were excellent. A driving range and a golf course consisting of 27 holes, laid out in three 9s. Tom and I couldn’t resist it: we hired clubs and headed to the driving range.
It was very bizarre because we were just 10 minutes in a tuktuk from some of the more squalid parts of ‘Pindi. Founded in 1967, it was not that old and according to their website, “was a place for sports and recreation for government officials and diplomats.” It really was an oasis and had a colonial feel, oozing old world charm despite its relative youth.
We hit a few balls on the range, watched closely by an instructor who was very keen for us to employ him for an hour or two. Overwhelming as the temptation was to ‘hit the ball like Tiger Woods,’ under his tutelage, I assured him that various instructors over the years had failed by some distance in their task of achieving the same objective! He was happy and eventually just sat and watched us thin a few iron shots into the setting sun!
A tee time was reserved for the following morning, allowing us to leave for the Marriott and an ice-cold beer or two, excited at the extraordinary prospect of a game of golf in Pakistan. A beautiful sunset framed a hectic rush hour whilst our tuktuk driver skilfully and effortlessly navigated the chaos. As we walked in, there was a table of six lads enjoying their cans of Muree lager. One of them, as we were walking past, jumped up in front of Tom, thrust out his hand, and said ‘Alright Tom?’ It was a school chum, whose family lived some 3 miles or thereabouts from our home back in Sussex!! After the initial ‘Oh My Gods’, it emerged that several of his mates from university worked in the Middle East and so the test match provided a great opportunity for them to meet up. ‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world’, I can safely say that we really were not expecting to bump into anyone we knew in Islamabad!!
It was a fun night at the Marriott. The Sky team were all there mingling with those of us on tour. Tom had a long conversation with Atherton about his travels up in the mountains, but ‘Ath’ was taking it easy. He had a flight to catch and a piece to write for the Times!!
The big debate for many of us was what to do next! The test match had ended in two and a half days leaving us masses of spare time. The buzz seemed to be, not our round of golf, but a visit to Abbottabad, to see the compound where Osama Bin Laden was eventually shot and killed. We were invited to join the group but politely declined, relishing instead, the opportunity of golf and lunch at the Islamabad Club. Looking back, I think I would make a different decision. I have since seen the film ‘Zero Dark Thirty’. Much of it was set in Islamabad, and particularly the bombing of the Marriott Hotel, killing 60 people! I had no idea of the incident, let alone the location!
It was a very jolly couple of hours despite the result of the test match. In fact, my conversations barely touched on the cricket.
Suitably relaxed after four beers each, Tom and I needed food. Whether or not it was the alcohol that subdued our sense of adventure I really don’t know, but we headed straight back to the hotel and the safety of their house menu! It offered western cuisine such as burgers or wraps with chips which is precisely what out palates demanded! They were duly ordered and devoured without too much chat – we were both exhausted.
Early next morning, we followed our routine and after another unadventurous breakfast, we spotted our man waiting beside his beaten-up taxi, confident that we’d once again require his services. We told him, ‘The Islamabad Club’. He nodded, lit a fag, and off we headed!
The golf exceeded our expectations. There were some beautiful views towards the Margalla Hills which served as a stunning back drop to a number of excellent golf holes. It was in ‘decent nick’ and quiet. Tom and I felt very fortunate. Golf chat is nauseatingly dull, so I shan’t talk you through the 9 footer that lipped out on the last, but please just note that should you find yourself in Islamabad with a few hours to spare, golf is available!! It is ridiculously cheap by western standards, including club hire, and really, rather good. Furthermore, the clubhouse knocked up a mean club sandwich afterwards – no beer though!
Documenting the rest of my trip seems futile. Every second of every minute is worthy of comment, such is the difference between our worlds. We were happy just to wander around this extraordinary city, absorbing its many sights, sounds and smells. There was lots more unfamiliar food and an unguided trek up in the Margalla Hills. Tom’s abilities with ‘Google maps’ proving very classy indeed! We even visited the largest mosque in Pakistan. Financed by the Saudis, it was mightily impressive with a bewitching spiritual calm.
My plans were to head back to an English winter in rural Sussex and attempt to work out what to do for the rest of my life. I had an abundance of ideas but most of them, I would categorise as ‘madcap’, and all, unlikely to prove lucrative. I had hoped Pakistan might inspire a different way of thinking and offer fresh perspectives. The trip had certainly triggered a few thoughts about importing ‘stuff’ to the UK but nothing beyond that.
Tom was heading to India to see his new girlfriend. (Via Doha, of course. No direct flights from Pakistan to India!) And whilst doing that, finding a way to break into the world of sustainable fashion.
Our last supper, near the cricket ground, was not one of the best. ‘Brain Masala’ on the menu should have perhaps raised the alarm! Anyway, we tucked into chicken and lamb (I think) kebabs in a busy restaurant near the cricket stadium. As always, it was only men dining there – we were now very much accustomed to this. There was a melancholic feeling – it had been such a fascinating trip. I mentioned: ‘Every second of every minute is worthy of comment’ two paragraphs ago but that really was the case, so alien was it, to the world from which we had come.
And as with everything in life, the people set the tone, and to a man, they were gentle and warm. They love their country and so did we. We would return without hesitation.
0 comments