Apparently there was this one guy who lived next door who persistently refused to go away. His English was not too good but he was insisting on talking to me. He was attempting to get 'contacts in England'.
About Dole Fiddling etc - I had been told openly that Pakistani men marry English, Muslim women just so that they can get into the UK. Since 1994 that has become universally well-known and documented. Mohsin Shah himself was an example. He had been rejected for a UK visa it would seem so that they were then about to send his pregnant British born wife back to Bradford so that their child would have British nationality allowing him to make another application for an entry visa.
It was 8.35am and there was, it seems, a guy by the name of Zubair Khan in the room wanting me to write him a letter in English for a job. The whole thing was turning into a sad farce with everyone looking at abusing the system in the UK to their own advantage. In Pakistan, I had written, getting a job is all about who you happened to know. The system is riddled with nepotism and corruption. Mohsin Shah was, so I was told, Pir Mahroof's nephew which explained how he got the job as caretaker at the Pir's residence!
I apparently had a few moments entirely alone since Mobashir had gone for his breakfast but at 8.45 that guy from next door suddenly reappeared and plonked himself down on the setee. He had been attempting to ask inane questions about my wife in the UK.
We must then have gone out in the car since at 10.30 we were pulled over by police who wanted to inspect my bag and check the driver's papers. Thankfully no baksheesh was required that time. My diary tells me that we went, in fact to the shrine of Data Ganj Baksh in fairly heavy rain. I was again attracting lots of stares from people and felt really uncomfortable being 'gawped at' so intensely. On the way out of the shrine there were the usual narrow alleyways flanked by market stands selling sufi devotional paraphernalia. The crowds were intense and I was told repeatedly to keep a close eye on my bag - which I did of course!
I just need to mention that, in relation to sectarian violence, this very sacred shrine was the scene of a terrible suicide bomb attack on July 2nd 2010 killing dozens of people. It was one of the worst attrocities of its kind in modern Pakistani history.
By that time the rain was really belting down as we visited Jahngir's Tomb which was quite out of the way. The monsoon rain spoilt the visit so it was not possible to take many photos either.
On our way back to the Maulana's house our driver had an accident. The road was extremely wet and visibility poor but he drove like an idiot. We were attempting to turn right when a motorbike ploughed right into us. He was hit and thrown off the machine. I started to feel apprehensive about what any police involvement might result in but my diary says, that after checking the rider was OK, we simply carried on. I bet both parties had no insurance?
So we arrived at Faletti's, the hotel where I had booked two night's stay. The receptionists acted as if I wasn't there. Anyway, I eventually got booked in but the guy wouldn't give me a receipt for the 2-night price agreed upon. Essentially he was trying to 'do me out of my change'. This sort of behaviour was happening all over the place in little ways but what kind of morality did there people have I wondered?
I was shown to room number 45 and got myself in. The diary tells me there were more 'suspicious looking guys'. I was hoping for two nights of solitary freedom but I was beginning to feel more afraid than ever. I had read in several places that foreigners sometimes fall victim to drug-planting scams. However Faletti's was a PDTA hotel so I thought it ought to be safe.
My journal says I was feeling as though I was at 'breaking point' and that I would either smash someone in the face or fall to the ground with nervous exhaustion. Everything about being there just felt weird and, all the norms we have in the west, didn't seem to apply there. I was getting the true 'travel experience'!
My next entry places me in the dining room of Faletti's where I had invited Qari Sahib, the Maulana and Mobishir to share a meal which I wanted to pay for. The service was incredibly slooooow. I felt like saying, 'Hello, do you think I could possibly order a meal. This is a restaurant!' in my best Basil Fawlty accent.
I could detect that the Maulana and Qari Sahib did not feel comfortable themselves since they were not in the habit of having meals in 'posh hotels'. Faletti's wasn't posh at all but to them it was. Mobashir informed me the two men were speaking about a land dispute which would be resolved in the usual way, by bribery!
They chose only simple food and the bill for all four of us was RS 500 which I thought was incredibly good value. Qari Sahib and the Maulana thought it was extortionate.
The journal says that, after the meal, we all went back to my room for an hour. Qari Sahib was telling me NOT to leave the room. Mobashir could not seem to tell me why but responded vaguely with reasons such as, so as not to get knocked over on the road. This was yet another of the countless warnings I had been given during this trip. It's no wonder that I was developing a state of paranoia! My diary tells me I did not therefore go out and spent the entire evening cooped up in ther hotel room with the doors and windows locked. The next day was to be my final sight-seeing day in Lahore before flying on back to Karachi.
Is Lahore safe for foreigners any more?
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