New Delhi, India, 01 December 1987:  Namaste (Hello)!  It's amazing the way they clean clothes here in India.  Men called dhobi wallas literally beat the dirt out of them by thrashing them against wet rocks at a river's edge.  Incredibly enough, for about 10 cents an item, my clothes come back from them very clean ... and pressed as well.  Even the handkerchiefs are pressed!

Lahore, Pakistan, 05 December 1987:  Assalam o alaikum (Urdu "Good morning", or more literally, "The peace of Allah be with you!")  Pakistan has already proven to be a very pleasing side excursion from India.  Unlike India, when the locals invite you in for tea here, it is truly to sit and chat rather than to try to hard-sell you something.  They more often seem genuine and giving here and very pleased to meet you.  The people who try to sell things on the street never harass as they do in India (at least in Northern India tourist cities).  It seems strange that Pakistan used to be part of India, when it was dominated by the British.  The cultures seem very different.

There aren't many Westerners here.  I feel as if I'm quite a novelty when I'm walking the streets of the old city.  The educated people (about 16%, I've read) speak English, but many others try hard to do so as well.

I take a night bus this evening to Peshawar, near the Afghanistan border and the now very famous Khyber Pass, an area through which Afghan rebels have been moving shipments of arms into Afghanistan.  Hundreds of thousands of Afghan refugees remain in camps in this area.  Foreigners are not permitted to go to the Pass, but I hope to catch some drift as to what the locals and the Afghanis feel about the situation.

In one week, I head back to New Delhi by bus.  I'll be crossing the Punjab, a region of recent violence by the Sikhs who desire the region to be separate from India.  Busses cross the region in a police escorted convoy on the 2nd, 12th and 22nd of each month, the only days that the border is open.

I sw a Pakistani wedding yesterday.  The bride, completely covered in a brightly colored shawl, is paraded around the streets on a decorated white horse accompanied by crowds of men only and a musical band performing on a variety of unusual instruments.

Pakistani cuisine, while usually quite simple and basic, includes some real treats.  I have been eating a lot of rotisserie roasted and spicy "chiken tikka".

The Salvation Army hostel where I am staying is preparing for a Christmas party.  Other than this, I suspect that I'll be noticing few outward signs of Christmas this year.

Mary, from Melbourne, (who I met in Budapest and) hope to visit in May, says she's disappointed that I didn't receive the first two cards she sent me.  "What will the grandkids think?" she says.

Peshawar, Pakistan, 07 December 1987:  Assalam o alaikum!  (Refering to a postcard showing dancing Pakistani women:)  Generally, you don't see Pakistani women like this.  Generally, you hardly see them at all.  95 percent of the people on the streets (outside of more cosmopolitan cites such as the Pakistan capital, Lahore) are men, and 50 percent of the women that one does see are completely covered (including a cloth mesh over their eyes, while the remaining 50 percent are mostly under wraps as well.  You'd think they'd suffer from a vitamin D deficiency not being exposed to any sunlight.

Today, I went to Darra, a small town near the Khyber Pass and the Afghan border which has become well known for its cottage industry of arms manufacturing and merchandising.  Hundreds of little shops can supply you with everything from pen guns and pistols to machine guns and rocket launchers.  Some shops also have home processed hashish and opium on display in their windows.

Take care,
Omar Maqbul Ahmed Shariff
 

Udaipur, India, 24 December 1987:  Namaste!  While Reagan and Gorbachev were discussing the topic in Washington, I was visiting an Afghan refugee camp near the infamous Khyber Pass.

More recently, it's been nice to take a break from the crowds, intensity and chaos of the rest of India by riding into the Thar Desert on a four-day camal safari.  The Rajasthani camel drivers pampered us well, preparing our meals and singing for us by the campfire as we relaxed under the stars on the sand dunes.  The desert is surprisingly sprinkled with ruins and abandoned cities.

Camels rank high among the silliest looking creatures (like something drawn up by committee)!  They have strange anatomical features, tempermental personalities, and emit the most disgusting odors from both ends.  Still, it is quite easy to become fond of these beasts.  Mine, Boorah, was the biggest, fastest and most handsome of the lot, if it's possible to imagine a handsome camel.

Happy '88,
The Maharaja

Ahmedabad, India, 25 December 1987:  Namaste!  It is Christmas Day, and I am writing to you from Mahatma Gandhi's ashram, where he lived, studied and taught for many years.  It seems a fitting place to be on this day, since he may have been the most Christ-like person (although he was a Hindu) since Christ himself.  Were it not for being here, there would be nothing in my surroundings to remind me that today is indeed Christmas.

Another remotely Christmas-like experience was to spend several days in the desert on camel-back (sort of like the "three kings of orient").  The camel drivers seemed to be able to think like a camel, or perhaps it was vice versa.  Very little physical discipline was required, since the camels responded well to commands and to camel sounds that the drivers used.

Bombay, India, 30 December 1987:  Namaste!  Bombay is a bit of London -- with Westminster-like architecture and double decker busses, a bit like Manhatten, with a concentration of skyscrapers and high prices, and a bit like India, with crowded bazaars and beggers.  I didn't permit myself enough time to explore it since I wanted to see the Ajanta and Ellora caves (famous for ancient Buddhist and Hindu sculpture and paintings) and still make it to the palm tree lined beaches of Goa for New Years Eve.  I didn't make it to the second set of caves because the crowds are so large that even seeing is not believing.  I did, however, manage to get some floor space on the deck of a 22 hour ferry from Bombay to Goa, sailing on the Arabian Sea.  The floor space is such that everybody rubs body parts with somebody.  In spite of this, there is a cheerful mood of anticipation for the celebration in Goa, and in spite of the high cost of Indian beer (relative to other things), people are already getting primed for the good times.

Goa is a tourist mecca (Indian and otherwise) for its white sand beaches and free-spirited lifestyle (nude bathing, etc.).  It was controlled by the Portuguese until given back to India in the 1960s.  Unlike the rest of India, Goa is predominantly Christian.  When the Portuguese first arrived in the 1500s, they were flabbergasted to find that there were already Christians here, and there has been since soon after soon after Christianity began when St. Thomas, the Apostle, arrived in 54 A.D.  The Christians that the Portuguese found hadn't even heard of the Pope!

I have become a bit more militant in my response to the things that tick me off here in India.  Cutting ahead in line is the norm in many parts of the world, and India is among the worst.  I pushed back a couple of Indians who attempted it.  They were startled, but effectively got the message.  I actually punched a young begger child in the chest who had been hanging on me.  There's nothing like India to test the limits of one's tolerance, patience and compassion.

Happy New Year,
Vasco de Gama

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