Pomp, Circumstance & Pakistan

The people of Punjab look, act, and feel as different from the Rajasthani as a Vermont ultra liberal might standing next to a Houston oil baroness. To start with the well maintained, hardcore warrior Raj mustache is replaced by the wildly overgrown mop of beard hair adorning most every male old enough to grown it. Second, Punjab is all about the head dressing. Whereas most Raj men wear nothing on their domes every Punjab male rocks a wicked tight turban, and these babies are wrapped so tightly I don’t understand how men aren’t fainting from circulation loss on every corner. I’ll explain it this way: if I was to pool 100 Americans from fly-over country, gave them crayons and paper, and instructed them to draw an Indian I’m willing to bet the iconic turban-wearing Punjab would come on top. Third, the people’s response to this 6’1” ginger was lukewarm to say the least. On the road from Jalandhar to Amritsar every passing car and bike kind of gave me this look, and given the proximity to Pakistan I wasn’t exactly thrilled by it. The Raj people would smile and wave without hesitation. The Punjabis kind of uncomfortably stare without expression change.

I know I’m painting a wonderful picture of the state, so let me add one more visual. I don’t think they have a name for it (“Punjabi Special” would be fitting), but during the train to Jalandhar I counted six grown men squatting alongside our passing train in broad daylight and takin’ care of business. One actually waved at me.

Amritsar is home to the Golden Temple and it’s my understanding the Golden Temple is one of India’s most holy places. I can’t confirm any of this because I did nothing more than walk by its front entrance. I’m templed out and frankly care more about my bike’s wellbeing than seeing another house of worship. Some people count their visit to the Golden Temple as the highlight of their time in Punjab. I’m counting my visit to Amristar’s Royal Enfield dealership as mine.

My bike’s steering was feeling a bit funny and it had been over 900km since its last decent inspection (not to mention a train journey). I set off the morning of the 16th in search of a Bullet mechanic with a vague recommendation from a shop keeper. He circled the general area for mechanics on my torn out Lonely Planet map and sent me packing. Talk about vague. After about forty-five minutes of knocking on doors and chasing leads a gentleman gave me the best news I could have asked for: “there is an Enfield dealership just down the street.” What!? How is it that the dozen other people I sourced for information neglected to pass this along? India.

Within minutes the Silver Tuna was in the Enfield’s mechanic shop surrounded by a fleet of unsold sexy new models. God, where was this place in Jaipur? Listed on the wall in great detail were all the service jobs (and costs) they could perform. For several hundred dollars I could have had the entire beast completely overhauled. After a few adjustments I thanked the staff and headed back to my hotel in the early afternoon.

(“Beautiful bike, sir. Beautiful mustache as well if I may.”)

As far back as Inle Lake, Myanmar, when Roger and Maaike told me about the India-Pakistan border ceremony, I committed myself to knocking on Pakistan’s door. Exactly 30km west of Amristar is the tiny Indian border town of Attari. I didn’t know what I was going to find there but there was no way in hell I was leaving Punjab without investigating. At 3pm I pulled away from my hotel on my motorbike and headed towards Pakistan. (That was a rewarding and pleasurable sentence to just write). The traffic in Amritsar is simply horrible. In addition to the sea of bikes and cars are peddle rickshaws which further complicate everything. These not only take up half the road but they move dreadfully slow, forcing all motorized vehicles to navigate around them. Without question Amritsar has been some of the toughest city riding yet.

After thirty minutes I was outside the city limits and making time. Making time until the roadwork began. There’s nothing quite like riding on infrastructure-in-progress. Smooth pavement suddenly morphs into fist-size rocks and dusty detours. I hate Indian detours almost as much as spiders.

After an hour of driving into the sinking sun the road terminated at a massive parking lot and sea of vendor shops. I ditched the bike and checked my backpack as instructed by multiple warning signs. With that I made off on foot down the 1km road towards the border alongside a growing crowd of spectators.

When I arrived at the actual border I was directed to a special section in the spectator stands for western tourists where I would watch the events unfold over the next two hours. On either side of the border are stands, with the Indian side being much larger. The atmosphere during the pre-ceremony build up was indescribable. It had all the feel of a rock concert or sporting event. Indian and Paki music blaring on respective sides as both stands slowly filled. Special VIPs being lead to their court-side seats. Tourists, Indian and non-Indian alike, snapping photos of everything. It was awesome. I was smiling the entire time.

(Nothing says ‘stable’ like these two flags.)

Things continued to crescendo until “Jai-Ho” come over the speakers and sent the now-capacity crowd into hysteria. Things were curiously a tad less boisterous on the Paki side. These two shots were taken ten seconds apart. Only 200 meters separated, but a world apart.

INDIA – (”Hey Pakistan, Jai this!”)

PAKISTAN

From my observations I would conclude the average Indian male’s height to be somewhere between 5’5” and 5’9”. This being a population of a billion there are clear to be outliers, and I’m pretty sure the recruitment office for border service found the nine tallest Indians and had them shipped here. These guys were NBA worthy.

(Pre-game stretching)

The ceremony commenced with a beautiful display of international showmanship. At exactly the same time one soldier from each country would begin yelling into a microphone in a low “Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh….” Whichever solider lasted the longest before drawing a breath was the victor and sent his country’s crowd into a frenzy (pretty sure Pakistan took every volley). When that was finished the gates were formally opened and the high kicking began. In a beautiful, and clearly choreographed, routine each Indian soldier marched to the border as his Paki counterpart mirrored his every step and move. Pomp and circumstance and then some. It was brilliant.

When that ended each country simultaneously lowered their flag, closed its gate, and called it a day as the sun set over the horizon. With the ceremonies officially concluded the mad rush to have your picture taken in front of the gate began.

I had only turned on my bike’s lone headlight once prior to that evening. The hour ride from the border back to Amristar proved to be one of the most intense yet. Night driving in India…not for the faint of heart. Upon returning home I grabbed a shower, packed, and called it a night…thus concluding my brief courtship with the nation of Pakistan.