Sidetracked in the Subcontinent
By Beau Flemister

May 19, 2008
As a surfer, there are random and infrequent moments when you want, when you need something else. We slip out of the saltwater like some primordial deja vu on our evolutionary path, trudging onto land in search of some new adventure. There are other ways to get your adrenaline pumping other than dropping in to an eight-foot wave at Pipe, and I chose Pakistan.

Sidetracked in the Subcontinent
By Beau Flemister

May 19, 2008
As a surfer, there are random and infrequent moments when you want, when you need something else. We slip out of the saltwater like some primordial deja vu on our evolutionary path, trudging onto land in search of some new adventure. There are other ways to get your adrenaline pumping other than dropping in to an eight-foot wave at Pipe, and I chose Pakistan. Staring us blankly in the face were a few reasons not to go. Pakistan is labeled a breeding ground for Islamic fundamentalists and terrorism because of its lawless and ungovernable Northwest Territory bordering Afghanistan. The travel advisories and warnings flashed red. The country has a continual reputation for black market arms dealing and balances on the brink of war with neighboring India for possession of the disputed Kashmir region. The recent assassination of the hopeful democratic leader Benazir Bhutto also stirs the pot.

But while I was in India I met a few travelers who had been to Pakistan and spoke of a Utopian-like society in the north, a place called the Hunza Valley, a fabled Shangri-la where modern day descendants of Alexander the Great live in a lush land guarded by the Hindu-Kush Himalayas.

I knew a return to the coast was forthcoming, so we left colorful and chaotic India and traveled by bus toward the promise land. People were relentlessly friendly, waving hello to us from motorcycles and welcoming us to their country. And by people I mean men. The country’s strict Islamic code keeps women out of the public eye or covered in full-body burkhas. Every day at dusk, the Muslim calls to prayer sound in a mix of muffled, megaphonic whines and moans. Both eerie and comforting, every sunset was haunted by the wail of a thousand ghosts.

Surprisingly, when politics came up in conversation, most Pakistanis liked to joke about it. When I told them I was Americans, I was commonly asked, “Oh, you are looking for Osama?” followed by bellowing laughter. Besides being a hostage risk, my nationality became a great ice-breaker.

Heading north towards Hunza, we were closer to Kabul or China than we were to India. The landscape turned raw and apocalyptic. In the north of Pakistan there are only three colors that paint the landscape: brown, grey and green. Everything looks paralyzed somewhere between living and dying. I felt safe enough, could country really be a terrorist hotbed.

At a truck-stop bathroom break, as everyone filed out of the bus, I noticed a guy wearing a black turban and traditional cleric garb eyeing me out. I had been told by the only American I knew that had recently been to Pakistan that the Taliban were known for wearing the black turbans and that this was how to recognized them. Slightly panicked, I tried to keep my composure and strayed away from the man in the black turban and his crew. Just my luck, as I walked by them to go to the bathroom, one of them (who spoke English really well) asked if I might join their table to “talk about things.”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, trying not to look nervous. The guy in the black turban had his eyes locked on me.

“Are you a Muslim?” the man in the black turban asked (I had a two month beard and was dressed in their national pajama attire).

“No,” I said.

“Where are you from?” he continued with a furrowed brow.

“America.”

“Really! I live in Houston! What are you doing here, looking for Osama?” he exploded with laughter as we shook hands and sat down for tea.

I think I’d rather have a set at Pipe detonate in front of me than feel like that again. It’s definitely time to get back in the water.