In search of the bus
Yesterday, after a morning completing the longest sleep since... (Andy pauses to consider) Easter, we set out for Taxila - a world heritage site west of Rawalpindi, which was a hugely curious mix of Greek and Persian ruins with Buddist Temples. Soon perloined by the museum gaurds as western business men, we were rescued by Salman, a religious researcher visiting for the day. He became our host, translator and friend.
Today, it was off to find bus tickets to head north. Making to the bus station by bedazzling suzuki minibus and motor rickshaw. The wheels kicked up dust from streets that had seen no morning rain for the first time since our arrival. The driver seemed to get a little lost on the way, slowing down and surupticiously asking for directions.
He got a hunch and we made it, but once there finding the booking office was a harder task. "N-A-T-C-O" we spelt out. bus to Gilgit? Waved arm gesture after waved arm gesture. We were walking round in circles and picking up beggars. A glimpse of the company logo - no, this was just the repair depot. More asking - we seemed to have the internation completely wrong - more hands. The office lay in prime position, a wrong turn early on had lead us on a grand tour.
Our complex plans of stops along the way had to be dropped. This is a fourteen to seventeen hour ordeal - take it or leave it. Tomorrow will be fun. We wandered to the hotel past streets lined with stalls - melons, salt, watches, mangoes, unknown vegetables, bananas, exhaust pipes, microwaves, dates.
We stopped at a truck repair site where they disguise Bedford trucks as if for carnaval, the proud workmen keen for photos. The streets were packed - apprentices carrying tea. Where did all these people actually live? Cutting through a half finished municipal park that had already seen better days we stumbled on the answer. Empty residential streets, bar a truck loading man-sized blocks of ice.
Time to get packing, early start tomorrow. Next stop Gilgit.
Today, it was off to find bus tickets to head north. Making to the bus station by bedazzling suzuki minibus and motor rickshaw. The wheels kicked up dust from streets that had seen no morning rain for the first time since our arrival. The driver seemed to get a little lost on the way, slowing down and surupticiously asking for directions.
He got a hunch and we made it, but once there finding the booking office was a harder task. "N-A-T-C-O" we spelt out. bus to Gilgit? Waved arm gesture after waved arm gesture. We were walking round in circles and picking up beggars. A glimpse of the company logo - no, this was just the repair depot. More asking - we seemed to have the internation completely wrong - more hands. The office lay in prime position, a wrong turn early on had lead us on a grand tour.
Our complex plans of stops along the way had to be dropped. This is a fourteen to seventeen hour ordeal - take it or leave it. Tomorrow will be fun. We wandered to the hotel past streets lined with stalls - melons, salt, watches, mangoes, unknown vegetables, bananas, exhaust pipes, microwaves, dates.
We stopped at a truck repair site where they disguise Bedford trucks as if for carnaval, the proud workmen keen for photos. The streets were packed - apprentices carrying tea. Where did all these people actually live? Cutting through a half finished municipal park that had already seen better days we stumbled on the answer. Empty residential streets, bar a truck loading man-sized blocks of ice.
Time to get packing, early start tomorrow. Next stop Gilgit.
posted by Pete @ 1:03 pm
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