It was a dangerous idea to try to go to Peshawar, but its Siren’s call promised romance, intrigue, and adventure: a legendary Silk Road city of traders, warriors, and poets, a place where a hairy Pashtun might offer you four camels and a carpet for your sister, and then cut off your nose for giving him a funny look.
Atmospheric appeal aside, my quest to Peshawar had a much more concrete purpose—just beyond the city limits, where the rule of government disintegrates into the lawless tribal agencies of Afghania, lies the notorious Smugglers’ Bazaar.
The bazaar was established by smugglers avoiding duty fees by exporting their goods to Afghanistan, stealing them back across the border, and selling them in the lawless tribal agencies. Shoppers are offered a wide array of electronics, clothing, and appliances, as well as machine guns, rocket launchers, and shopping bags full of heroin. Perhaps the most intriguing contraband for sale are the goods stolen from NATO forces in Afghanistan—heartfelt letters and care packages from home, space-age instant military meals, and pilfered Army equipment.
In 2007, Pakistani police trespassed into Khyber Agency to launch a crackdown on the bazaar, and a portion of it was demolished. It was quickly rebuilt however, and the official who ordered the raid was murdered two weeks later.
“You should go,” cheered Amin, lifting his teacup. “I think it is very nice, interesting place for tourists.”
Amin was an exuberant, balding tailor I met in Islamabad, who invited me for tea and insisted I visit his home city of Peshawar.
“I thought foreigners weren’t allowed into the Smugglers’ Bazaar,” I queried. “We get stopped at the checkpoint before entering Khyber Agency. “
Amin grinned. “But you wear beard and salwar and pakol hat, like Pashtun! If you say nothing, you can walk through the checkpoint and the police won’t bother you.”
“And what if the Afghanis find out I’m American and decide to kidnap me?”
“No, Afghania people is Pashtun!” scoffed Amin. “Pashtun people is very, very good people in all of Pakistan.”
I knew Pashtun hospitality wasn’t a myth, but I wondered if I’d receive a warmer welcome from the drug-runners, the arm-dealers, or the bargain hunting terrorists. Perhaps I’d receive the same ‘warm welcome’ as the Chinese tourist who visited a month ago—someone shot her in the face while she was taking pictures in the bazaar.
Troubled with conflicting safety reports, I made the responsible decision to go and assess the situation myself. After a month of unruly neck beard growth, it was time to put my Pashtun disguise to the test.
Atmospheric appeal aside, my quest to Peshawar had a much more concrete purpose—just beyond the city limits, where the rule of government disintegrates into the lawless tribal agencies of Afghania, lies the notorious Smugglers’ Bazaar.
The bazaar was established by smugglers avoiding duty fees by exporting their goods to Afghanistan, stealing them back across the border, and selling them in the lawless tribal agencies. Shoppers are offered a wide array of electronics, clothing, and appliances, as well as machine guns, rocket launchers, and shopping bags full of heroin. Perhaps the most intriguing contraband for sale are the goods stolen from NATO forces in Afghanistan—heartfelt letters and care packages from home, space-age instant military meals, and pilfered Army equipment.
In 2007, Pakistani police trespassed into Khyber Agency to launch a crackdown on the bazaar, and a portion of it was demolished. It was quickly rebuilt however, and the official who ordered the raid was murdered two weeks later.
“You should go,” cheered Amin, lifting his teacup. “I think it is very nice, interesting place for tourists.”
Amin was an exuberant, balding tailor I met in Islamabad, who invited me for tea and insisted I visit his home city of Peshawar.
“I thought foreigners weren’t allowed into the Smugglers’ Bazaar,” I queried. “We get stopped at the checkpoint before entering Khyber Agency. “
Amin grinned. “But you wear beard and salwar and pakol hat, like Pashtun! If you say nothing, you can walk through the checkpoint and the police won’t bother you.”
“And what if the Afghanis find out I’m American and decide to kidnap me?”
“No, Afghania people is Pashtun!” scoffed Amin. “Pashtun people is very, very good people in all of Pakistan.”
I knew Pashtun hospitality wasn’t a myth, but I wondered if I’d receive a warmer welcome from the drug-runners, the arm-dealers, or the bargain hunting terrorists. Perhaps I’d receive the same ‘warm welcome’ as the Chinese tourist who visited a month ago—someone shot her in the face while she was taking pictures in the bazaar.
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