Wagah Border

Heading west outside of Lahore, gaps begin to show in the endless alleys of houses and the city gives way to green farmland. Small markets cling to the roadside. A few brick furnaces reach up from the flat ground. And without the razor wire cutting across the fields, it would be almost impossible to tell where one country becomes another. However, the lines drawn into the earth here tell a story of scars, of unity, pride and loss.

This is the Punjab border region, about 23 kilometers away from crowded streets of the city. Through the trading village of Wagah, the road wears its way through the evening sun to where it ends at checkpoints and iron doors. At the Wagah-Attari Border Crossing the story of two countries is played out every evening.

Mostly, when this story is told it is about empires and martyrs, about the forces of gods and governments. But as the grass on the plains that bends to only the will of the winds, it is a story that is told in millions of individual ways by the people and families forever tied to it. For my wife’s grandmother, it is a story that has constantly shaped the world around her; a story that it retold every day, until a new chapter is finished or renewed.

Zarina Anwar was born in the 1930’s, when India was still under the British Empire. She grew up in Lahore when Punjab was still undivided, hearing powerful men talk about “independence,” about creating a new “Muslim nation.” It wasn’t until 1947, when she was already a teenager, that this rift finally opened up. On Aug. 14, Pakistan became its own country, at the time including East and West Pakistan (now Pakistan and Bangladesh). India separated from the empire the next day. Overnight, she was a citizen of a country that had never existed; her city and state divided by religious and cultural violence, as well as a line drawn by men who had never set foot there. As the summer and following months dragged on, she was witness to one of the largest migrations in human history, (many passing through the gates at Wagah-Attari) as Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims fought over rights to land and narrative.

The land became Pakistan. The language became Urdu. The law and custom of the country - Islamic.

The wounds left by this time period never healed and reopened again in 1965, when fighting between India and Pakistan broke out over an argument on control of the land. While most of the fighting and bloodshed was contained to the Northern part of the country known as Kashmir, skirmishes erupted occasionally along large stretches of the relatively fresh border. War had embedded itself as a defining element of life - echos of it coming back again in 1971, when East Pakistan fought to become Bangladesh. Fallout from this time would puncture through later years, as sporadic conflict would break out between rival countries and religious ideologies.

This is the history written between the line that separates Pakistani and Indian Punjab at the Wagah-Attari Border Crossing, where special forces of the two countries play-act the conflict in a theater of the absurd for tourists, children and patriots of either side.

Being tourist - including the our family which had never left the streets of their own city - we had to go. We met up with another relative, a retired high-ranking member of the Pakistani Military, without whom getting to the flag lowering ceremony at the border would have been nearly impossible. Besides his strict sense of military time being able to keep in check the Desi predisposition to a loose interpretation of timeframes and deadlines, his ranking allowed us to pass through security checkpoints clogging the other traffic and tourist vans along the road. Even this border, open since 1959, has seen eruptions of violence from extremists.

As you drive across the plains that provide each country with much of the grains they consume, dust obscures the horizon. A giant flag bearing the white and green moon and crescent arise to break the monotony of the landscape, casting its shadow over everything. It seems out of place until the orange and green of India crest the line of sight, rising above a stadium for thousands made in a style grand and long-since past. At this border national pride is measured in the length of flagpoles; strength measured in crowd sizes; and the conflict contained to stylized kicks, spins and salutes.

Each day, as evening falls setting the sky alight with swirls of blues and reds, members of the Pakistan Rangers and the Indian Border Security Forces lower their respective flags to ceremony and chants from the crowd. Soldiers from each side quickly dart here and there. They kick their legs high above their heads; raise fists into the air; yell; and execute maneuvers with military precision. Each perceived display of machismo is matched and returned. Crowds yell the slogans of their country.

Despite the fact that the ceremonies commemorate a history of conflict, they also point to a different truth about the region. The soldiers selected for this ceremony are elite, chosen specifically for this. They are a picture of the best each country has to offer. And though, when crowds gather, they pretend to mock and argue, at the end of the day these soldiers share sweets and other goods on national holidays. While conflict has defined much of the region and governments still hurl threats at each other, on the ground people live with each other. Farmers and workers cross here each day to trade and tend fields on the other side of a line drawn up less than 100 years ago.

We watched the ceremony together. I waved a plastic flag that I bought for a few rupees. People sang and chanted for the long life of their country. Indians, less than a few hundred of feet away did they same. For us there, it was more of a celebrate of the land than of the forces that conspired to create it.

As we left the ceremony, the sun was setting; the lights of Lahore growing brighter in the distance. The road only goes two directions: back into Pakistan or further into India towards Amritsar. Walking past families, soldiers and others, you could look across the field and see both countries clearly, though separated by wire fences and years of history.

Things to do in Lahore

The call to prayer rises above the Walled City of Lahore, lifting the streets from their rest as past and present converge to meet at daybreak. In this cramped quarter of the city, life begins each day as it always has. Morning light illuminates the detailed painting and stonework on mosques built centuries ago. Market stalls sprout fruits and vegetables. While other shops offer anything from clothes to wheel hubs. The streets swell with people and motorbikes under the shadow of Mughal architecture.

Since the city expanded beyond the walls that once contained it, the vibrancy and vitality of Lahore has only grown, changing from trading post to capitol to cultural center. The forces of history and politics have shaped this land to create the Pakistan of today - a diverse country where the different peoples and beliefs, as varied as the landscape itself, come together through the individuals that call this place “home.” From its time as a stop along the Silk Road, the movement of people through the Punjab region has brought more than economic vitality and conquering armies; the constant swirl of new cultures and new ideas, shaping and remaking the people and communities has made Lahore into a center for art, literature and thought.

There is a saying there: “the one who has not yet seen Lahore has not even been born.”

Mosques: Officially called the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, religion is a defining feature of life in the country. Sharia is incorporated into government law. The passage of days is marked by the prayers which follow the course of the sun. Yet, Lahore is far from an ultra-conservative, repressive place. Mosques are open, just as the love they preach, to all; and like all mosques women should cover their head and shoes should be removed before entering out of respect for the land and the faith.

Wazir Khan Mosque -  Like many famous landmarks in this city, the Wazir Khan Mosque has its foundations rooted in the history of old Lahore. Built in the mid-1600s on the site of Sufi saint Miran Badshah’s tomb, the bricks of the mosque dominate the center of the Walled City; only the minarets towering above surrounding buildings and ancient Afghan-style domes give away the intricacy that resides within. Geometric carvings and frescoes explode in vibrant colors across the walls and ceiling inside, visually mimicking the chaos of the market outside hidden in the quiet stillness and contemplation of the inner courtyard.

Wazir Khan is Lahore. Art and scripture blossom from the walls. The courtyard is shared by those lost in prayer, by locals and by tourists. Adjacent to the entrance are markets and places for religious scholars to preach. The place becomes a part of life with all of its complications and contrasts. (With a questions to the staff and a small bribe, you can also climb to the top of one of the minarets; the Walled City pulling at its borders spread out in all directions.)

Begum Shahi Mosque - Maybe it is lost in the maze of narrow streets and markets in the Walled City or hidden by the shadow of Wazir Khan, but Begum Shahi Mosque offers an intimate perspective of life in Pakistan and its history - both ancient and ever-present. Entering through a small gate in a side alley, you descend a flight of stairs and leave the city behind in a few steps into a courtyard where white marble holds the sound of water coming from the ablution pool at its center. The prayer chamber beyond contrasts this with scripture and art using all of the colors of creation.

The mosque was constructed in 1611-14, and built into its walls are the history of the city, with influences from the Mughals, Pashtuns (Afghanistan region) and Persians. Originally meant for members of the royal court, Begum Shahi was commissioned by Emperor Jahangir, one of the last leaders of the Mughal dynasties, for his mother. In the time since, it was converted into a gunpowder factory before being returned to a place of worship. Unlike other mosques in the area it offers a quieter more intimate experience; steps away from the market center and a whole world away.

Badshahi Mosque - Through the haze and soft-light of late afternoon, the domes of Badshahi Mosque seem almost dream-like in the still air. Made from stone hewn from rough, red rock contrasted with accents of white marble, the place of worship, built in 1673, shows the power religion has here over both society and the individual. The open central courtyard and prayer hall can hold more than 100,000 worshippers surrounded by seemingly endless colonnades and intricate tile work from the peak of Mughal art.

In addition to the impressive space created by shadow and light in the courtyard, the mosque (one of the largest in the world and the second largest in Pakistan) houses a collection of artifacts. From Qurans bound by gold thread to a pair of sandals purported to be from the Prophet Muhammad, the collection showcases divinity in the small details of everyday. The building itself tells a story of Lahore -  the influence of Persian and Southeast Asian combined to construct its walls; destruction and rebirth at the hands of successive rulers and beliefs*; countless moments of life marked by words offered at the qibla.

*In 1799, Sikhs under the leadership of Ranjit Singh took control of the city from the Muslim Mughals. In the following decades, the mosque was used for military purposes. The small rooms where holy men once devoted themselves to study were converted to stables and barracks. The minarets offering strategic placement for light machine guns. The Sikhs also pulled marble from the mosque to build a nearby temple, the Hazuri Bagh Baradari. When the British came took control in 1849, they took notes from the Sikhs, using the mosque as a garrison and depot for weapons and ammunition. Rising tension and anger from the majority Muslim population rose, fed by nearly a century’s worth of subjugation and humiliation. In a few years, the British restored the mosque and handed it back over to the people.

Grand Jamia Mosque - Past the Ring Road, which encircles much of the city in its grasp, lies the neighborhood of Bahria Town. This master-planned community contradicts the rest of Lahore with its wide, sculpture-lined avenues and million-dollar homes. Hidden in this development, between upscale shopping strips and replicas of world heritage sites, is the Grand Jamia Mosque - with a capacity of around 70,000 people it is the 7th largest in the world. Scores of domes blossom from the top of the mosque. In the central courtyard the sounds of fountains play off of the red-brick walls to be carried out over the large minarets.

The mosque is a new one; completed in 2014. Yet, the grandeur in its shape and size ground the building in the history of Islamic tradition. As you enter through intricate arches, the ceiling beneath the main dome expands in shards of white and red that break over the mezzanine containing rare copies of the Quran, art, and other artifacts tracing their story back to the times of the old prophets.

Art/Culture/History: One story told by many voices. The history of Lahore is complex. While there was no such thing as Pakistan before 1947, the cultures found here can trace their roots to the beginning of human civilization and have come to sculpt the landscape as much as any river or mountain. Though any history of a place would be lacking without the language of the people who live there, the museums and cultural landmarks of the city offer deep insight into the past and an understanding of the Pakistan of today.

Fakir Khana Museum - The Fakir Khana Museum on the outskirts of the Old City of Lahore is more than a collection of paintings and artifacts that gather dust on a shelf while foreign tourists file by in quiet lines. This converted multi-story estate has, for generations, served as a repository for the traditions of old and a haven for the up-and-coming; a place where the walls exhale history in bright colors and the story of Lahore is told through canvases and carvings worked into stone.

An appointment is required, but worth it as we were guided by Mr. Khana himself - the 6th generation of his family to look after the collection. He is as much a treasure of the museum as the works that adorn the walls; a man who brings the galleries to life with his passion and care, and one who instills it in each visitor. A number of works from his collection also appear in the wings of the Lahore Museum and Badshahi Mosque.

Lahore Museum - There is no easy way to tell the story of Pakistan -  a land born of conflict and the movement of people, carved by the elemental forces of river and mountains. This push and pull of invasion and immigration, division and unity are brought into context at the Lahore Museum. This is on display the moment you enter the gardens in front of the museum, its edifice, a British interpretation of Muslim design, towers over the low-rise buildings crowding the Mall Road with its detailed domes and masonry that reveal the royal origins of the style. Inside, the many wings of the building give insight into the cultures that has come to shape this country, from the art of the original inhabitants of the Indus Valley to photographs of the formenting of modern Pakistan. The story of this place is given perspective in both the grand and the everyday. Even the history of the building shows to the expanse of its collection, what was once a small exhibit in a market hall has now become one of the largest and most important in Pakistan and all of Southeast Asia.

Minar-e-Pakistan - A tower of white marble gleaming above the rooftops of the city, the Minar-e-Pakistan is a symbol of the country. It is the story of modern Pakistan raised from the hard earth. The pillar blossoms from great stone petals, standing at about 70 meters (230 feet). The idea of this country, now one of the most powerful and populous in the world, sprouted from a simple idea from the chaos of Great Britain's retreat of the subcontinent. In 1940, a group of people met on the site of the Minar to propose a separate country for Muslims as British India began breaking apart. Seven years later that became a reality, when a line was drawn through the fields of Punjab, creating Pakistan (then including Bangladesh, which gained independence in 1971). The development of the country is shown through the monument. The first base of the Minar is of rough-cut stone - a simple idea and hope. The bases become gradually more polished, by the fourth and final base polished marble reflects a country that has risen beyond war, terrorism and corruption to become one of serious economic and human potential.

The Minar-e-Pakistan stands guard near the Badshahi Mosque in a network of parks and fountains, walking paths wander through the greenspace between man-made lakes and ponds. Around the base of the pillar are inscribed excerpts from law, religion and poetry - aspects of life that have been woven into the fabric of society. As dusk falls over the city, the Minar shines white and green, a symbol of where the country came from and all that it can still become.

Shalimar Gardens - A piece of history. A UNESCO-designated world heritage site. A look into the intimate of royals long past. A view of the people and plants that make up the landscape of this country. Behind the red walls of Shalimar Gardens, these are on display in a setting that seems at once both immensely  grand and deeply personal. Shalimar was built in 1642 by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan. While much of the gardens have been demolished due to time, construction and religious conflict, the parts that remain still resound with the initial idea that they were built with - a representation of heavenly utopia on Earth.

Shalimar Gardens are broken up into three terraces, with fountains and walking paths wandering through it. Originally built mainly for royals to entertain guests, the gardens are now a landscape of tranquility, with picnicking families dotting the lawns scattered with fruit trees and earthy fragrance. Though most of the marble used in its construction has been removed by Sikh rulers of the past to build shrines elsewhere, the reflection of Shalimar Garden’s grandeur as a idyllic paradise is still seen in the many colors of the day playing off of the water and rough brick walls. The power of the rulers and of the culture that helped give birth to this nation seen in the small details of carved stone and in the engineering that brought water from the foothills of the Kashmiri Himalayas to the flattened plains of eastern Punjab. (By the way, if the fountains aren’t running, give one of the staff a little “tip,” and they’ll get that working for you.)

Food Street - In Lahore food is everything. It gives and sustains life. It heals emotional and physical wounds. It brings friends and family together. It is almost impossible to meet a Punjabi without being asked to a meal, or at least some snacks with tea. All of this is on display on the food streets of Lahore.

The food street most see in pictures of Pakistan is the newest, the Fort Road Food Street in the shadow of the Badshahi Mosque. A wide boulevard, conversations hanging in the air thick with the smoke from roasting meats in the late-afternoon. The patios of brightly colored houses shading the flowing river of people below as they wander from one stall to the next. This is a place to see and be seen at for both locals and tourists.

“Food street” is simply a designation in Pakistan. Most major cities have at least one; Lahore has three. Like the one on Fort Road, the others in Lahore (Gawalmandi and one in Anarkali) are pedestrian drags where the voices, smells and energy mix together to give a sense of life here. Vendors and their wares call to you from all sides. Food and the ceremony and community surrounding it are intimate parts of relationships and ways of life. To not dive in would be an insult.

Anarkali & Liberty Market - Loud. Chaotic. Festive. In the markets of Lahore a swirling mass of humanity gives life to the streets; smoke and the smell of food heave above; the songs of different vendors compete for attention; and colors burst from every thread and corner. The market is more than just a place to shop in Pakistan. Here is where people meet, hear the news of the neighborhood, spend the afternoon (and, usually, well into the night), and of course shop for anything from clothes and jewelry to car parts and fireworks.

There are two main markets in Lahore - Anarkali and Liberty. A sprawling tangle of alleyways and side streets, Anarkali has been a cornerstone of the city for at least 200 years, supposedly taking its name from the forbidden and exiled lover of a former prince. Her tomb is nearby.

While smaller and more curated to the needs of daily life, Liberty Market is no less exciting. In each of these and other, smaller bazaars of Lahore you will find a similar scene playing out. Markets are sectioned based on what is being sold. Motorbikes weave through endless streams of people walking a street that becomes ever more crowded as vendors and unlicensed shops compete for sidewalk space in front of more stalls. Haggling becomes an art, a way of life or simply just a way to pass the afternoon.

Walled City - This neighborhood is the heart of Lahore. It is the site of many of the city’s landmarks. It is a web of narrow streets filled with all aspects of life. It is the place where the city was born - the rest of the people and buildings spilling from its gates. The neighborhood boasts many of the landmarks and cultural sights found in the city, including the Wazir Khan and Begum Shahi Mosques, Shahi Hammam and a maze of markets and alleyways.

Shahi Hammam - Connected to Wazir Khan through history, through practicality and by a series of stairs outside of the mosque’s main entrance cutting beneath the layers of vendors and stalls in the market of the Walled City, the Shahi Hammam (which translates to “Royal Baths”) stands in an unassuming, earthen brown brick building. A remnant of the things brought and carried as the Mughals made their way across Persia (modern-day Iran), the bath house was constructed in 1635 by the emperor’s physician, Ilam-ud-din Ansari, as a way to raise funds to maintain the adjacent mosque. The hammam’s connection to the place of worship runs as deep as the canals and channels that flow beneath it. In Islam, beyond the threshold of the door, a mosque is held up as holy ground. The days we drag ourselves through leave their stain, and so (wo)man must make themselves clean, both literally and in the eyes of god before entering a house of prayer.

In the destruction left in the decline of the Mughals and in the wake of the Sikh and British empires that followed, Shahi Hammam fell into disrepair as its art and architecture faded as the building passed from dispensary to school to recreation center. With major help from the Swedish Government, restoration began in 2013. The ensuing projects were recognized by UNESCO for their precision and historical accuracy, and the baths were reopened in 2015.

Other:

Bahria Town -  A symbol of wealth and westernization. Like many of the upscale neighborhoods around Lahore, Bahria Town is a gated community outside of the main markets and attractions in the city. Though lacking the history and the intensity of other markets, Bahria is largely a shopping destination. However, mixed in with strip malls with stores that proclaim high-end brands that can be found in any mall or airport terminal, along with companies catering to the small but growing middle and upper classes, Bahria Town does contain some things worth seeing.

Passing through the gates of the neighborhood is a slightly comical trip. Lining the manicured streets of the area are countless sculptures of animals - snails, dolphins and birds - along with replicas of famous landmarks from around the world. Here, the pyramids (or at least one of them) is only a few blocks away from an Eiffel Tower on fire with neon reds, blues and purples. While not a destination for a short stay in the city, Bahria Town does offer a glimpse into the daily life of a portion of the population, the simplicity and normality of the day-to-day, although without some of the facade and salesmanship of some other places frequented by tourists. If for no other reason, a trip outside the Ring Road that ensnares much of the city is worth it to visit the Grand Jamia Mosque, one of the largest in the world that breaks up the monotony of fenced houses with its curved domes, fountains and towering minarets.

Wagah Border Ceremony - If you have the opportunity to go, you should go. Remember though, this is the Pakistani side, not India. Despite being a tourist attraction, the border is heavily militarized as has been exposed in the rising tension between the two nuclear-armed nations. To get to the border on time requires reservations. Background check must be completed and take about three days to process. It’s also important to think about time, even though this half of the world seems to run on a different one. There are three checkpoints on the road leading to the border. Across farmland the two borders look almost identical in the hazy winter afternoon, except for the flags that wave above.

Places we didn’t get to go, but would have liked to:

Lahore Fort - From above, Lahore Fort seems to dominate the land on which it sits, crowding out the low rise buildings that choke this part of the old cit, leaving an open square surrounded by architecture at the peak of (Mughal) empire. This complex of monuments and artistry contains a number of cultural icons, and serves as a symbol, both past and present, of the forces shaping the country. While settlements in Punjab trace their history until the line fades into the past, Lahore Fort marks the city’s ascension to an strategic and economic center, wehn invaders swept in from the barren high-desert of the Central Asian Step and laid the first brick in 1566. From there, Lahore was established as the capital of the empire, the remnants of which can still be seen in the vibrancy of the region’s art and financial scene. A series of rulers, weak and powerful, domestic and foreign followed in the proceeding centuries, growing the fort into a collection of mosques and mausoleums that tell a story of the leaders and the armies they brought with them , fighting for control and influence on the fertile Punjabi plains. It also happens to be a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Tomb of Jahangir - On the other side of the Ravi River sits the Tomb of Jahangir. A red sandstone and white marble rise above the forested Punjabi plains in sloping columns, surrounded by thick, tiered minarets. This rectangular mausoleum for the son of the regarded Mughal emperor was built in the early 17th century. Like many of the landmarks in the city, the tomb has been subject to the forces of nature and history. Numerous floods throughout the centuries, pillaging from subsequent empires, and damage from the industrialization brought by the British have all left their scars on the detailed frescos and the grounds of the garden surrounding the tomb. However, conservation work has helped to restore much of the beauty befitting an emperor, though some of the sight has been encroached upon by the new wealth and elite of Lahore. This still does not diminish the intricate artistry that makes the Tomb of Jahangir the most impressive of the royal crypts that cluster along the western banks of the Ravi.

Chauburji - The remnants of the four towers that give the old gate its name serve as an epitaph to beauty and grandeur once contained within the walls that no longer stand. Once the eclectic gate of a princess’s vast garden, Chauburji gives a visceral portrait of former glory of the Mughal Empire and the way in which the past can be lost in the process of creating the future. Built in 1646, the gardens were likely reclaimed by the Ravi River that cuts down the western side of the city. Later, in 1843, the remaining minarets were damaged in an earthquake. Though while the past has left its scars and bruises on the building, the artistry held in its frescos and architecture still reflect the power and skill of the Mughals.

However, it is the future that may finally raze the vibrant walls that contrast the endless rows of rectangular brownstone houses and businesses. Today, Chauburji rests in at the center of the intersections of Multan and Bahawalpur roads, almost inaccessible and crowded by the sprawl of the city that has sprouted around it. But restoration is in progress. When we were there, most of the building was draped in scaffolding and construction of the railway was diverted in 2016.

The city has been working on creating the first line of a metro system, with the hope that it can relieve some of the congestion on the streets. By the time the rail line made its way to Chauburji, it became clear that the two would be in conflict. However, conservationists and activists in Lahore successfully argued in the courts that local and international law protected the monument*. The tracks, along with a ring of elevated highway, still loom over the building though. The island Chauburji sits on continues to dwindle.

*The future of the Orange Line is in the air as well. Begun by the former Prime Minister, construction on the project was halted by the new opposition government. The reason some believe is that the majority of Lahore voted for the other party. The opening of the line continues to be delayed.

Landing in Lahore

The first person I told we were going was a worker at CVS. We had forgotten to get photos before applying for our visa. As the lady pulled down the dull blue background and messed with the settings on her camera, she made small talk and asked us where we were headed to. My wife and brother-in-law looked at each other.

“Pakistan!” I yelled with a smile.

Her face dropped; her eyes wrestling the thoughts welling inside of her. “Why?” She ended up muttering.

When you bring up Pakistan in Texas, most people tend to think of terrorism, of desert, of violence. Most people think of images briefly flashed on a television screen nearly a decade ago. What is lost from those images is a culture with roots so deep it blossoms in daily life in myriad colors; a landscape that reaches from the Himalayas through forest and grassland to the rugged southern coast; a place where the art is found in the small details of the day. One could spend a lifetime there and still barely scratch the surface.

Ours was a different trip though. For me, it started a few months ago. For my wife, this was something 25 years in the making. She was born to a Pakistani immigrant who found his way to Texas and a mother who found her way there from the Midwest. For her it was a country that shaped her, yet one she knew almost nothing of. When her father passed away last year, another life was opened up. People related by the names they shared, who had spoke only on deaths and weddings, became family and friends. The visit that should have been made years ago was planned, and six months later we were on a flight from Istanbul to Lahore.

The fog weighed heavy over the city as we descended. The lights below simmering beneath us. As we came down on the runway, the cover broke to reveal streetlamps knotted endlessly to the horizon.

It was about 4 a.m. Outside, the air was crisp and smelled leaves and motor oil. We walked under the “Welcome to Pakistan” banner hanging over the door and into the early morning. In an instant my family more than doubled in size. Three generations, four different branches that formed the story of my wife were waiting for us.

My family has never been close beyond the small circle of my parents and brother. Most live more than halfway across the country. I never knew great-grandparents, second and third cousins, or spent summers at family reunions. In Pakistan, family is everything; and despite skin color or geography these people waiting in the cold and quiet hours of late-December were now mine. It was as if the oceans and years separating us never existed.

Lost from most of the talk about Pakistan is love - for family, for fellow man, for country. Instead, coverage focuses on the work of a few who seek violence and death. There is a saying in Pakistan that states something like, “we must all make sacrifices for the country we have created.” There is a real sense of working together, of being a part something that you shape and are shaped by. Pakistan is society that can still sit on a handshake and the power of one’s word. On the streets of Lahore I never once encountered hatred or a situation that made me uncomfortable, only people proud to share their work, their home, the land that has shaped them and their culture.

As the morning light lifted the fog and the city from its sleep, we arrived at the house that, had he stayed, would have belonged to my wife’s father. Being the only son of the family left in the country, the property and responsibility fell to his brother.

The house is a sandy-brown, three-story structure in the Islamia Park neighborhood of northeastern Lahore. Surrounded by a cemetery and down a narrow alley, the area seems quite compared to the markets of New Town and Anarkali. Undetached, the house fills the space between other concrete buildings. Inside, it is filled with three generations of a family.

Like nearly every other day, we sat down here for a breakfast of egg, breads and, of course, tea. Conversation flowed as if it had always been that way. There is a certain obligation amongst family to get along, to love each other. The cards sent on birthdays; the phone calls made on certain holidays. However, the bonds of blood only dictate a vague concept. They do not require you to take two weeks off of work. They do not require you to welcome a stranger into your home as if you have known them all your life. But in Lahore, and I would assume this holds true throughout the country, family means more than kindness and a cup of tea, and even guests are quickly made into members of the family.

A few days later, we took a walk with some cousins and grandma around the neighborhood. Intimate scenes play out in streets. Old women gather at the corner to talk about the newest gossip. A man argues with friends about how best to fix a broken motorbike. Around the corner, a balloon seller announces his arrival with a shrill toy trumpet as the colors of his stock burst into blossom against the muted tan of the bricks and concrete. We are walking with grandma, who though she needs support still makes her rounds of the neighborhood each day, as she tells us the history of each family and the place they inhabit. Born into this land when it still went by another name, she seems as much a part of the neighborhood as the rows of houses and stones on the street. She leads us to a house nearly indistinguishable from the ones that surround it, except for tiled steps leading to the door to meet one of her friends. She smiles as she introduces her three grandchildren, as if the fact that I am only here because I married the right woman does nothing to diminish the fact that I am family. There is a sense of pride in us, in the lives she created and futures she is a part of.

We are greeted with hugs, with cups of tea and plates of food. Flavor does not need a name to taste good. Love does not need words to convey. Despite languages that separate the distance between our chairs, the feelings are not lost. Meaning - "I am happy to meet you;" "welcome to my home; "may God bless you" - is understood, even if the words for it are different. We are not allowed to leave without a promise to return to meet her children and to share a meal soon.

Pakistan, without the mention of the people that make this place, is nothing. And the foundation of its people is family. A quick glance at the news or the State Department's website will give you a number of reasons to be wary of visiting, but these say nothing of the hundreds of millions who believe in the country and who make their way through life, as we all do, the best they can. In this place you will find an equal number of stories, and if you make it here, you will find a people who are willing to make you a part of theirs.

Casablanca: Hassan II Mosque

Breaking forth from rocks jutting out in the harbor, the Hasan II Mosque rises above man and sea, and the rest of the city of Casablanca. On one side, the waves break and crash against an outcropping reclaimed from the depths; on the other, open boulevards lay down in reverence of its shadow.

Started in 1986 as a tribute to the former king, the mosque dominates the skyline of the city. Parts of the place of worship share characteristics with the late Amir, such as the gleaming white tile which reflects into the square that surrounds the mosque. Hassan, the king, was a despot; concerned more with his image and how closely his will was obeyed, rather than the necessities of the souls over which he presided. There is the structural integrity itself, which has been weakened, even since its completion in 1993, due to the constant, steady eroding of wind and salt. Hassan, the man, while using force to make minorities and smaller countries succumb to his will, was no stranger to the stronger forces of human progress, which eventually led to his son having to ceade changes to the population during the Arab Spring Movement in 2011 (the repairs to the mosque, due to its location on the sea have, since its initial completion, cost upwards of €50 million). And, lastly, there is the sheer size and cost of the structure. Boasting the tallest minaret in the world at 210 m. high and coming in at a cost of more than €500 million, mostly funded on the backs of the people, the mosque clearly reflects the thoughts of a royal family out-of-touch with the time and context in which they live. Hassan II was considered one of the harshest rulers of the country, with tens of thousands losing their life because they either proclaimed their independence or simply because they did not bend to the directions of the political winds.

Okay, I’ll stop now. I needed to get that out there (especially since I’m no longer in the country, and can say whatever stupid thoughts come to my head). As Jasmine would tell me, “you’re getting too worked up about that.” “That,” generally meaning politics.

In reality, the mosque reflects more than the rays of the sun off of hand-worked stone, it reflects the vibrancy and creativity of Muslim culture - the best of what the religion has to offer: that of the creativity which gave birth to calligraphy unmatched by any Bible; that of inspiration which gave birth to modern mathematics; that of the hope and desire of people of all types, which allow us to come together to create something larger than ourselves.

Our pilgrimage to the mosque started on a Thursday afternoon, winding down the soft gradient of the southern Borgone neighborhood towards the Atlantic coast. Between ten-lane boulevards and the relentless churn of the sea, the mosque takes its places as the central focus of the city; fitting, since most daily life revolves around the call to prayer and other pillars of the Islamic faith. Entering the plaza itself, white marble and carved granite, is a humbling experience alone. A mixture of old and new; modern engineering techniques to build a time-honored temple, like the city itself the mosque blossoms from the shining ground it stands on, with flashes of green tile accenting the delicate curves of geometric designs and calligraphy scripture verses. The construction of this monument is a testament to man’s ability and the power of faith. It reportedly involved more than 35,000 workers, requiring over 50 million man-hours.

Entering the mosque was another experience, entirely reflective of Moroccan travel. As tourists mill about the front and followers of the faith weave their way between on their way to prayer, the doors open every hour or so to let a group of about 100 in on a tour. As this is a functioning mosque, and not just something to gawk in awe at, some hours are blocked off so as not to disrupt the daily prayers. Thankfully, if you have managed to stay in Morocco, a Muslim country, and have somehow not figure out the times of the daily Adhan (you know, the thing that wakes you up around 5 in the morning?), those times are posted at the door. However, there is not much mentioning the ticket you need to buy to get in. You do need a ticket; there are guided tours only, mostly so that the kafir don’t stumble into where they’re not allowed.

As we pinballed our way across the plaza, from security guard to security guard, we finally found the place to buy a ticket - at the end of the large modern buildings housing the mosque’s museum. I’ll spare you other details and the broken conversations that ensued, but the point is you need cash and you need to know what time you want to go in. We knew when, but lacked the other part. So with about 20 minutes before the last tour of the day (4 pm) and a half a mile hike to the nearest ATM, we tore down the pavement crossing intersections in the local style, without looking and with something like either reckless abandon or sheer determination. First ATM: declined. Mad rush across the street, and up the next block. Second ATM: declined (apparently, even if you tell your bank you are in Morocco, pulling out cash will get you flagged). Finally, with sweat and swear words dropping behind us, we found an ATM that would let us get some cash, and we ran the last few blocks to buy our tickets in time to run across the plaza to catch up with our fanny-pack strapped tour group.

I am not a religious man, but if god resides in us all, it finds its places to reverberate from marble columns and cedar carvings, through a hall made holy if only because of the numbers (25,000 on the inside, and another 80,000 out) will it to be so. While parts of Casablanca and Morocco as a whole can seem a place left for rubble and dust to reclaim, this mosque shows, since beyond the chandeliers and a few other flourishes it is entirely made from Moroccan hand and earth, the way in which man, in harmony with that around him can create something beyond the self, more than the sum of its part; something that reaches in one movement to the soul.

Led by Moses, our tour guide (Yeah, that was his name. I’ll leave my witty commentary to the side and let that be what it is), we walked through the prayer hall, with its high horse-shoed arches reaching 40 m. to a roof that retracts to let the room be illuminated by sun and moon. Down the central nave, flanked by cedar mezzanines for the women to pray unseen by God alone, we moved toward the qibla (the really ornate part that faces Mecca), which draws both eyes and prayers towards itself. Besides the platform at the qibla where the Imam pours prayer and wisdom on the followers, the only other items in the main part of the mosque are small chairs scattered throughout the naves where people can come through the week to hear imams and scholars expound on the words of God and the Prophet. The idea and austerity of it all is kind of a nice contrast from the gaudy and gold-foiled cathedrals of Europe; that in a house of worship man needs to be alone and one with his thoughts and faith, instead of declaring through every painted saint that god could only reside in a place with such power and wealth. Though the main hall and naves are empty of nearly all furniture and comforts, letting the words of the Quran carved into the walls and columns fill the hall, the space invites one’s mind to wander through intricate carvings and pillars to a place where the real meets with the ethereal. You are left to walk the expanse for about 15 minutes after the tour, searching the walls and ceiling for little details and flourishes from craftsmen working from soul to hand.

After the main hall of the mosque, you are taken down to the basement where baths and fountains fill the entirety of the chamber. Here, the faithful on their way to prayer or contemplation wash hands, feet and head in a ritualized cleansing before standing in the presence of God. From there, you walk under the record-breaking minaret, feeling the weight of the towering monument above you.

Beyond being the defining point of the Casablanca skyline, the Hassan II Mosque is representative of the defining aspect of life and culture in North Africa and the Muslim world. The white stone rises above the grit and chaos of the streets. For any making their way through this city, it is something worth braving the chartered tour busses and crowds of tourists looking for selfie-likes to see. It is a place that symbolizes the potential and cultural wealth of the country. It is a place that shows the power and creativity that comes from faith. It is a place that allows your heart and mind to feel at home, at one with the space itself, and just maybe a little closer to the soul of man.  

Americans in the White City

As you step out of the cabin of the transnational railway into the station at Casa Voyager, you are met with Casablanca as it is. Without pretensions. Without falsities. Uncaring of the titles and statuses the passengers of the train place upon themselves. Everybody comes to Ricks, right?

Down from the calmer Northern coast, through low, rugged mountains and arid, forgotten flatland painted rust and stripped bare under the vast empty sky, we dragged out bags onto the platform, greeted by unfinished tiles, exposed wiring and piles of steel rail waiting to be laid for the next line or mile beyond the station. While anywhere else, you would begin to wonder what sort of mishap has left this place, in Casablanca it soon starts to make sense, as if the city were reaching for more; mainlining wire directly into the heart of the earth. It is a place that’s soul seems never quite content to remain static.

Vendors and locals walk across a market square in the Old Medina. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

As you walk out of the station, swarms of taxi drivers squabbling over the next bit of change from tourists, locals and businessmen stand ready. If you are trying to do things easily and cheaply, take the tram that cuts through the center of the city to whichever hotel or bus station you need. If you take the offer for the cab, know the price you are willing to pay and the price you want to pay, and know the difference between the two. If you are looking for an Uber or a Lyft, don’t. They don’t really exist here; most, if not all, have been pushed out of this city by the cab drivers who see their livelihoods threatened.

From the station into a cab (we paid about 10 dirham per kilometer), we speed through the tangled side streets and thoroughfares to our rented room in the Bourgogne neighborhood, as the rush of late afternoon set upon the city. It is much easier to negotiate a price before stepping into the cab, even if it means a verbal tug-of-war with the drivers. 

Due in part to the pull that all things unknown and new have on a person, and to a pretty kickass exchange rate ($1 =about 10 dirham), we had decided to spend a little more than eight days in Casablanca. We found a cheap room to rent in Bourgogne, close to the city center, in the southeastern part of town from a Senegalese lady who makes the best rice of any country. Without google maps or a working knowledge of French and Arabic, Casablanca can be hard to navigate, so either make friends (especially ones who cook amazing things) or stay close to the heart of things, where a twenty minute walk will take you to the city center or the Atlantic coast.

Habbous, Cassablanca (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

While the buildings, markets and gardens of Casablanca seem to stretch to the edge of the horizon, taking over the plains between ragged mountains that city sits in, most main tourist draws can be done in a few days. However, the city seems to take each new day as a challenge in either a personal or sporting way (usually both), even afternoons spent without packed itineraries pass quickly by, before you have a chance to notice they’re gone.

Some of the things that make Casablanca are etched like scars left by the Europeans into the skyline of the city, like the Sacré-Cœur Cathedral (apparently the French are great with coming up with new names), which sits between a row of consular buildings and the Arab League Park, with its sharp, angular gothic-revival style towers and arches. Constructed in 1930 and closed as a place of worship (though not an official one, if you ask the Catholic Church) in 1956, the gleaming, white building stands nearly abandoned and unused; at least until 2019, when renovations are supposed to be completed. If you are trying to check things off your tourist list, you’ll just have to wait.

Casablanca’s Sacré-Cœur Cathedral rises above the Arab League Park. Notice the nice, welcoming sheet-metal fence. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

Finding things closed for renovation, or just because the owner is off to prayer or lunch, or just didn’t feel like showing up that day is not an uncommon theme. As we walked around the city, we found the other cathedral, Notre Dame de Lourdes was closed off, with nice, new high fences and Moroccan military guards with faces made of stone and anger. Also, about half of the cities waterfront, from the high-class shopping district of La Corniche to the Hassan II mosque, is closed. If you are traveling the city, be prepared to be caught up in the life of it, filled with hope, excitement, and sometimes disappointment. Those times and tickets you looked up on the Internet mean nothing.

Notre Dame de Lourdes, Casablanca (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

Like the churches sprinkled throughout the city, other things read like an epitaph to the occupiers of the past, such as the shopping district of La Corniche. A semi-abandoned strip mall with the latest brands from across there Mediterranean and the Atlantic, attached to a smattering of trendy restaurants and night clubs, La Corniche is a stark reminder of the class division in Moroccan society sewn by the Europeans and made worse by royals who see the country in terms of personal gain. On the other hand though, Casawis are proud to point to the Twin Center in the heart of the city as a monument to progress. For what would be normal drink prices in the US or Europe, you can get a drink at the Sky 28 bar, which gives a view of Casablanca with its white buildings covering the plains below, traffic-filled streets reaching toward the edge of every direction.

View from the Sky 28 Bar in the Twin Centers. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

Other things in Casablanca remind you that there was a history here before it was written down in textbooks in countries across the sea and that continues without their intervention. The Old Medina here is not like the ones found in other corners of Morocco. Instead of stalls filled with trinkets, misprinted t-shirts and the same types of souvenirs found from one town to the next, here the market still retains the spirit that gave it life. Piles of produce, harvests from the daily catch, bread - the giver of life, mix with people making their way from one stall to the next, buying the things they need to get through the day. To make it better, most vendors here are not the in-your-face, buy-my-stuff-now-damnit kind of people. If you want what they have, they will be happy to sell it to you. If you don’t want it, then get the hell out of the way, so that someone who does can.

Vendors, locals and a random guy selling jeans walk through a market in the Old Medina. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

Casablanca, like all cities and all people, is a place of contrasts. If you want to stay on the tourist trail, there are rich, American restaurant owners willing to sell you $20 drinks at a cabaret that only existed in the movies; you can walk by palaces that serve mostly to remind you that the king is incredibly wealthy, which you can get a closer view of if you have a tour guide (which will also cost you). Next to them you can find gutted apartments and poverty. However, Casablanca is at its core a international city, ready to hold its own among the other great names. The Arab League Park, rooted in the city since 1916, is home to foliage from across the continent, while also serving as a place for people to retire briefly from the crowded world around them. The city is also host to a number of art museums and small galleries. In my opinion, the best in the city is the Villa des Arts (which is free) - a private collection that promotes artist from the region, typically in eloquently visual and viscerally emotional ways. There is also the Musee (“museum,” for you non-French speakers) Abderrahman Slaoui (30 dirham per ticket), a collection of artifacts from the many peoples who have called this place home, surrounded by walls plastered with he art-nouveau posters of France and Spain calling tourists to the exotic and unknown. The metaphor kind of speaks for itself.

(Above) A piece from artist Rachid Bakhouz in the Villa des Arts in Casablance. (Below) Exterior and courtyard of the Villa des Arts. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

At the end of the day, as it always has, the sun sets on the rough waves of the Atlantic, where fishermen, tourists, locals, and the down and out gather to watch the sun set the evening sky on fire as wave break against it on the horizon’s edge. For the best view of the waves, there is the lighthouse of El Hank. Here, where the luxury restaurant walls meet with those of single-roomed houses, all gather on the cliffs to stare out to where one can imagine what the next day may bring.

The lighthouse at El Hank, where people gather to watch the waves and sunset on the Atlantic coast. (Jasmine Anwer Photography)

Everybody Comes to Casablanca

Where the waves of the Atlantic break untamed against the rocky coast, the buildings of Casablanca rise above the Chawiyan Plains; wide open boulevards ready to take in any wanderer or conquering army that washes up on its shore. Everyone from the Berbers to the Portuguese, the Spanish to the French have tried to claim this place as their own, yet beneath the European-sounding neon lights and Arabic named streets the pounding heart of the city races to a rhythm outside any man knows.

Bury your romantic Hollywood ideals and conceptions of urban life in the sands. This city isn’t here to cater to that; the souks and squares filled with vendors jostling for tourist change in other cities in Morocco seem a far away off.

Despite name changes and different flags casting their shadows on the street below, there is a driving energy found here that pulses through the many people that call this place home. A city of more than 6 million, Casablanca is the epicenter of trade and commerce as it has been since the native Berber people first settled here, drawing cultures from every corner of the globe. The heart and soul of this place belong to the people. On every corner and available space found in either alleyways or even abandoned buildings, you can find someone selling something, making the life from rebarb and rubble, or simply laying the foundations that Casablanca is constantly remaking itself from. One of the largest economies on the continent is there, the population is young and hungry, and the streets reverberate with the fervent belief that something better can be built from hand and faith.

In the past, the Berbers mixed with the Almoravids, calling this place Anfa. Then came the Portuguese, giving it the name that it carries today. After, the Spanish, English and French, each leaving a mark and influence in and still felt on a passing breeze. It wasn’t until 1958 that the land was returned to the sovereignty of Morocco, and the predominate faith and culture of many there. Yet even the lines in the ever-shifting sands fall short of defining the city.

Morocco was also no stranger to the Arab Spring. However, unlike other countries along the North African Coast, the king here was willing to cave and make just enough concessions to stave off protestors and avoid serious change. And though terrorist’s bombs and street demonstrations have both since occasionally exploded on these streets, the people here have and continue to carry on as they have since the Romans first learned the difficulty of imposing faith through force. The thing guiding the compass of this city cannot be swayed by the changing winds  that blow from different directions and lands across the sea.

The Casablanca of today belongs to the youth. With them lies the hunger for knowledge and a hope for a better tomorrow, a healthy questioning of the status quo, and a willingness to test the boundaries of what the state and church say is right and wrong.

At this point, I am probably over thinking it or just being a little too political. If you ask most here, it probably wouldn’t matter what which king sat in some far off city calling the shots. God will bring the sun in the morning, and with its light the struggle begins again.

If you are simply a stranger here or your only knowledge of this place is that the Germans wore gray and Ingrid Bergman wore blue, you could probably get a long without all of this. But in my opinion, if you aren’t going to try to step outside of the places surrounding you; the things you think define you, then why come to another country in the first place?

At the end of the day, Casablanca is a Moroccan city, an African  city. A place that despite modern skyscrapers, traffic-lined streets, and late night clubs filled with the newfound, name brand-wearing upper middle class kids, it’s a place that still runs on handshakes and diesel  generators; a place where the dream still flickers and hums from every street lamp and open apartment window.

Chefchaouen, Morocco - A Break from the Chaos

On the winding road from Tangier through Tetouan and up cliffs burnt rust-red in the high desert sun, we made our way to Chefchaouen, “The Blue Pearl,” welling up from barren mountainside and flowing down ragged hollows carved into the rock from memories of rains past. The houses of this city, painted the color of the late-afternoon sun, sit on the edge of the lower Rif Mountains, overlooking valleys stained green from modern agriculture and ragged ridge lines that cut the horizon in two.

The name itself translates to, “look at the beautiful mountains,” or something like that. At least that’s what we were told by a man who said he has lived here for the past 25 year while sitting on a park bench in the main square as the sun fell below the far ridges. Also, if you are wondering or ever searched why this city is pained bright-blue like an oasis in the red rock of the desert mountains, you’ve probably come across blogs claiming everything from mysteries of the past long forgotten to tales of Jewish refugees covering their homes in silent solidarity. According to our friend, there’s a much simpler answer: about 10 years ago, when the new governor took over, he wanted to make some changes, offering blue paint to residents for free so that the town stood in marked contrast to others in the region, which are bleached white under the glaring sun.

Either way, Chefchaouen is one of those rare places on Earth that can envelop the crowds of international tourists and still retain its soul and sense of character, as if the thing that calls so many to this place were etched into the deep lines of the canyon walls, rather than in names plastered in buildings and roadside stops; a place that’s foundations are planted so firmly into the roots of the mountain that time and people pass without notice. Somehow this place has swallowed thousands without a single Starbucks or McDonald’s sprouting up.

All that being said, Chefchaouen is a small city. Most of the narrow staircases and angled alleyways climbing into the blue lead to dead ends and apartments echoing the sounds and smells of daily life. As the name of this place suggests, probably the best way to waste an afternoon here is to find a bench in the square or a park forgotten behind some corner and watch the light and shadow play with the colors of the rocks and washes on the mountainside as the sun crosses the sky; evening falling heavy at the end of the day.

If you do have more than a day to spend here, there are a few ways to spend the time between the sun passing from one crest to the next (without booze, because you aren’t going to find that here - it’s definitely haram; well, there is one place, but you’ll pay for finding that bit of water in the desert). The center square is the beating heart of this city, with the central part surrounded by cafes and restaurants; music and lights rising above the building walls; small markets and Berber stalls like arteries reaching out into every corner of the valley. Just off the square is the local Kasbah (it means fortress or really any four-walled structure, not just a Clash single) - a mud-brick, brown structure with rectangular turrets reaching above the rooftops to surround gardens. For about 60 dirhams ($6), the place is pretty much yours. Not a bad price considering the local government is using your money to restore the architecture with traditional artisans working in styles passed down through the centuries.

There are apparently other things to do here (I’m sure they’re pretty awesome too), and a quick search on google or TripAdvisor will show you that; however, most are a good hike up the hill or outside the main city limits. If you’ve got the money, hire a cab and tell me about it. If you’re like us, one room’s rent above homeless, there is another option that I haven’t seen show up on an Internet search. Hang a left at the top of the market; wander your way up past clothes-lined terraces and hand painted staircases to the top of the city, where the walls give way to the wilderness. There, remnants of a 15th century fortress return to the broken rocks from which they came on the mountainside.

I would be lying if I said I knew its purpose. However, beyond where the staircases and vendor walls end, the ghosts of the fortress walls rise above the rest of the city, before losing themselves to the edges of the Rif Mountains. Past the shadow of the walls, there’s a cemetery made of broken tile and faded headstones open to the few who make their way up here. The earthen ramparts are free of the barricades usually found in more well-worn places and provide a view of Chefchaouen spilling into the valley, as far peaks fray into the haze of the arid desert sun.

Unlike the soft beauty of the city, leaving Chefchaouen was as rough and unforgiving as the barren landscape around. We had planned to take the morning bus headed west to Casablanca. So, we shuffled and shoved our way into the bus station office (you buy your tickets here, not at the bus station. Because Morocco likes to make things so simple.), and fumbled our way through broken French to ask for a ticket. Turns out the Chefchaouen to Casablanca bus is a popular one, and was booked into the next week. Chefchaouen to Rabat - booked. Chefchaouen to pretty much any major city was booked, and this town isn’t big enough for a trans-national train. After checking trains from any nearby city to Casablanca, it turns out the easiest was from where we started. So Tangier sucked us back in. It’s just what it does.

The next morning, with bags and backpacks haphazardly stuffed (maybe one day I’ll write about our initial packing fiasco), we tripped and stumbled down to the local grand taxi station; haggling one driver to the next, as we made our way down the cab-lined street. Finally, after what I’m sure are a few Arabic expletives, we “negotiated” a price of 500 dirham ($50) to take the 133 kilometer drive back to Tangier. If you are making this same trip, 600 dirham is about the standard price. So, down through nameless villages and forgotten roadside stalls, we made our way back to Tangier to catch the next train to Casablanca.

Oh, Tangier

A city of smoke and grit. The doors of the ferry from Tarifa spill open into the streets of Tangier, which itself seems ready to tumble from the rocks upon which it clings.

You are carried forth by the crowd crushing the customs office. The waves pound on the shore. You are waved on without even a glance at your passport, and the city swallows you in.

Beyond the gates of the port, the chaos of the city waits. Taxi cabs, hucksters and conmen stand just outside. You are a tourist; you are a target. My first piece of advice is to remember that everyone has a hustle here. Tourism is the only thing keeping the economic engine of the city sputtering and coughing up smoke, so you are either a part of it or a parasite on it.

As we stumbled into the sunlight, orienting ourselves in the glare of the new king’s white mosque (he wants you to know whose country you are in), we found our first taste of Tangier. A kid, smooth-talking and babyfaced, asked us if we knew where we were going. We did, but had made the unfortunate decision to walk. He followed. With bullshit stories of studies in America and the same helpful tips you’ll find in any guidebook, he followed us to our rented room. Finally he broke his friendly facade, offering us hash, then telling us we owed him a tip after we turned him down. My tip was that there are other suckers around. Welcome to Tangier.

There’s no other city I have felt this way in, but your hotel room at times feels more like a refuge than anything else. Downstairs, crouching just beyond the door, the streets of the Petit Socco, tangled and wild, lie in wait.

From the gutters to the reborn sticking from the rooftops, this city, built by every culture in history that has conquered land and shore, belongs to no one. Tangier is that dark corner of your heart that calls to the void; embrace it or let it swallow you whole. It is an international city, a creature of our own making, ready for the taking and the right price.

Beneath the crumbling cobblestone, there is beauty to be found. Tangier is a city of contrasts. While one dark alley dead ends in discarded refuse, another breaks into sunlight with views of the bare hillside falling away into the blue of the Mediterranean. One of the best views is from the Bab Al Bahr. From there, the old walls of the old fortress hold the shadows of lush gardens under the immense sky.

Also, check out the Kasbah - a white-washed fortress that reaches from the top of the cliff (there’s only one there, you’ll figure it out). For only about 20 dirham ($2), you can walk the tiled courtyards and look at artifacts from thousands of years ago. While there, make sure you look up; whether it’s the deep blue of the Moroccan sky or the carefully carved scriptures of conquerors past, you will be missing half of the beauty if you don’t.

The main sights of Tangier can be seen in about a day: the typical tourist stops like Old Medina with it’s musical cadence of vendors selling everything from rugs to hammered silver mixing with the smells of fresh produce and spiced olives; the lighthouses of Cap Spartel and Cape Malabata that reach their rugged cliffs out towards where the horizon meets the open sea; or the many mosques scattered around the city, each with their own calls to prayer and ornate architecture which proclaims the glory of the gods we pray to.

Beyond that, you will find that life moves at a different pace here; broken up by the calls to prayer and by coffees and teas sipped slowly on cafe terraces as the afternoon passes by.

The Long Road to Tangier

The Rock of Gibraltar shatters the skyline of this part of the coast, casting its shadow on the sun-bleached cities of Southern Spain. You can see the coast of Africa (and hear that fucking Toto song in your head), so you would assume it would be get there in a place where harbors are crammed into every available piece of shoreline, right? You are wrong! So very, very wrong.

We left Granada planning to make a quick stop in Gibraltar, before sailing to Tangier. That didn’t happen. If you are looking to make this trek, here’s how it goes:

Wake up with a slight hangover in Granada (if you read the last post, you know you get free tapas with every beer. Don’t judge…), dragging bag and backpack down the avenue. Wait for a city bus that never comes. Walk more. Stumble into the main train station of Granada, which actually has no trains. Take the bus towards Algeciras.

I would honestly recommend just going all the way to Algeciras, as it is easier to get a ferry out of; however it is not a city that caters, or even cares to try, to foriegners. Guess what? We went the harder way.

We got off the bus in the middle of the Spanish plains. The wind whipping dust and sand as it came howling and searching off of the cliffs in the distance. A storm choking and coughing tup black on the horizon. For some reason, between lonely highway and fallow farmland, someone thought to build a high-speed rail station here.

From Middle of Nowhere, we caught the train to San Rocio-La Línea -  a town north of Gibraltar. You have to remember, Gibraltar is a British territory (you know how they do), so Spain. Doesn’t really care if you want to get there. All trains, busses and traffic stop at the border on the Spanish side. If you really want to go there, you walk.

So we too the train, meandering through valleys and clinging to cliff-sides in Southern Andalusia. Small villages and farms pass by in a blur from the drunkeness of lack of sleep and the night before.

When we arrived in San Rocio, we stumbled out of the small station and into a cab that took us speeding to the hillside to the shores of La Línea de la Concepción (the Spanish side of the little Gibraltar peninsula). We spent the night here to gather our thoughts and belongings, before jumping into the truly unknown. The town of La Línea is a clutter of cubic apartment blocks squeezed into a narrow strip of land that is battered by the sea on both sides. We spent the evening sipping cheap beer on the docks, while the sounds of hotel-casinos and British tourists echo off of the cliffs of Gibraltar and across the bay.

In the morning, we walked to a bus station that lay in a pile of itself, broken windows and boarded up doors, to wait for the next bus heading to Algeciras. Really, we only caught the right one because some nice, old man made sure the driver took us to the right place.

In Algeciras, we limped to the port, where (would you believe it?) we took another bus to the actual ferry port in Tarifa. Basically, if you want to go to Tangier from Spain, you go to Tarifa. Not La Línea (which has a port), not Algeciras (which has a port), not Gibraltar (which also has a port). You go through Tarifa, period.

From there, passports stamped, we jumped off the edge of Europe (of course the ferry was playing that goddamn Toto song).

Tl;dr:

Granada - Middle of Nowhere (you’ll know when to get off)

*Bus to train

Middle of Nowhere - San Rocio

*Train

*Both of these will cost you about 30 euro.

San Rocio - La Línea de la Concepción (cab)

* 21 euro (20 euro for us. Our guy had mercy on us, since we had no change.)

La Línea - Algeciras (Bus, if you can figure that one out)

*2 euro

Algeciras - Tangier (this means taking a bus from the port of Algeciras to Tarifa + the ferry to Tangier)

*33 euro

Godspeed!

Travel Tip: Alhambra

Alhambra, “the red one,” dominates the cliffs of Granada; its imposing stoneworks proclaiming the power of the generals and royals who built it.

I would love to tell you more about it, but those walls were about all we got to see.

One thing no one tells you about this place is that they only allow about 300 people in at a time, so you have to book a specific time slot. Makes total sense since it was only built to house like entire conquering armies, then later thousands of worshipers from across the region, right? So without a ticket or clue we find ourselves locked outside the gates.

A regular ticket (which, I think includes a tour) will run you about 14 euro per person. Either way, if you want to wander the palaces and halls, book your ticket about 2-3 months in advance. For those who want to live in the moment, I guess you will just have to do that elsewhere.

We were, however, able to snag some 7 euro tickets that let us walk the gardens and a small corner of some sort of palace, under the shame of night. I would be lying didn’t say it isn’t beautiful. The terraces of Cyprus and pine, perfected over centuries rise above the red brick covered in Islamic scriptures. But for 7 euros, you only get as short moment with it.

Another issue we had, which is a little crazy considering it’s you know, like a UNESCO World Heritage Site - something preserved for only like the whole world to enjoy - the tickets we were able to purchase stated our time to sneak in with shame, and under the cover of night was at 8:30.

Pulling ourselves away from free tapas and golden beer from the valley below, we raced up narrow streets and Cliffside’s dodging old people, taxis and tour buses to make it on time.

“We’re closed,” the security guys told us, glancing at the sweat soaking through our shirts and heaving shoulders. “Come back at 10:30”.

If you want proof, I still got the damn ticket. “Be there on time” it says. “You can only be there between 8:30 and 10:30” it says. “Fuck you” it says.

We stumbled across the street (and up even more stairs) to pay for our over priced beers and listen to American tourist compare hotel prices while we waited. Finally, the gods opened the gates to Alhambra to us. Here’s what we saw: (pretty cool, though, huh?)

Bury me in Granada

Painted by sun and shadow, the city of Granada spills from the hills to the valley below. If I die in this place I will have at least done something right. This city has stolen my heart, and I could go on and open with this poetic nonsense, but Jasmine (the one taking all these dope photos) tells me that I must inform you that, “free tapas exist here, like real ones!”

I promise I will get there (and give you the same advice our newfound friend Valentine gave us), but back to the story…

The hills above Granada are dominated by the fort-turned-mosque-turned-palace of Alhambra. It’s red bricks catching sire in the setting sun reflect on the streets below. The entirety of the city seems ready to rise from its foundations and be carried off by the music that breathes from every corner. In the main square, balconies resonate with and reflect the intricacies of nylon strings as some far off voice tumbles down the valley, searching for its lost love.

With souls and bellies hungry we hit the streets. We found satisfaction for the latter in a place called Los Diamantes (Valentine’s suggestion). My only addition to his top would be to order a beer and see what appears before you. The golden batter on fresh anchovies and other things pulled from the sea matches that of the local Alhambra (go figure) local beer. Barely able to pull ourselves away, we found some more substantial snacks at Los Manueles (thanks again Valentine!), which has the best croquettes in Spain. I am totally willing to stand by that statement, if anyone wants to fight about it.

Besides Alhambra, which we’ll post about in a little while, the most important thing to do is make your way to Sacromonte.

Sacromonte - the Gypsy Quarter - a neighborhood literally carved into the rock, built by blood and passion, and legitimized through determination and an enduring love of the land. The caves that the people here call home create the acoustics for what you came all this way to see: Flamenco.

I’ll let Henry Miller say it:

“To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.”

Flamenco is the sound of the soul. Six strings tear at the heart, while the rhythm is pounded out by hand and fist. The sounds bounce off of the cavern walls, which can barely contain the universal language of love and loss, longing and belonging.

Whatever else you do here, pay the 20-25 euro to see one of these shows, I would specifically recommend Zambra Maria la Canastera. She is a badass. You also get a free sangria with the show too. If you are looking for something cheap (go home then), just remember this is how these people make a living. Art is work. Art makes the world a better place. Make sure it stays that way. Also, whatever else you do while at this show, don’t act like you are at a goddamn museum. Let the intoxicating swirl of sound take your soul away to where lost lovers find their way home and the heart converses in the universal language of music.

Semi-drunk on sangria and the night air, we let the streets of Granada lead the way. If you can’t find whatever it is you are looking for here, I don’t know if you ever will.

Last Thoughts on the Grand Mosque of Cordoba

First, some wanderers from the plains laid the roots and rock. Then the Romans came with the crushing weight of “civilization.” Later, the Moorish Muslims, filled with the light of inspiration and inquiry that burns bright on the Andalusian hillsides. Finally, the Christians came to carry the city into the next centuries.

After the rains washed through the aqueducts and the change of centuries carved itself into the walls of the city, we’re left with the Cordoba of today where people the world over clamor over cobblestone to marvel at the works of Jews, Christians, Muslims, Gypsies, and others.

While most of those who built this city came with fire and sword, they must have stayed for some similar reason. Guns, gods and governments didn’t make this place what it is today.

The walls of the Grand Mosque of Cordoba are weighted down with the saints and scriptures of so many. Yet, the principals that make up its foundation - the desire to penetrate into the soul of earth and heaven - resound with light and life in a language all can speak (a rose by any other name, am I right?).

It’s an inspiring place, and a humbling one too. One thing I did  take away from it is that no matter which God we pray to or by what name we call the human soul, we are all more the same than we are different.

I believe that we are inherently good (I have too. The other thought is a little too crushing.). Our hearts are connected to each other and the land that made us. Imagine what we could build together if we tried.

Love you all!

Cordoba

The rolling hills of Andalusia, barren and sun-baked, seem to lie down flat in reverence of the sky, a departure from the cragged mountains of Southern Catalonia. The city of Cordoba sits in the valley, windswept and white , a tangle of cobbled alleyways.

We hopped a train (20 euros a person) in the late afternoon. Outside, the Spanish villages with names I’ll never know pass by. With each tunnel, a new vista of rock and rust. If you are traveling across Spain, , be sure to do some ticket price checking. Depending on where and when you want to go, train, bus or sometimes even place can be cheaper; its just depends on how much of a hurry you are in.

We arrived in Cordoba long after nightfall. With no place to stay, we dragged our belongings down cramped alleyways and floral avenues, looking for a hostel with an open bed.  Finding none, we cut our losses and booked a cheap motel - preferring that to sleeping in the park.

Honestly, if you don’t mind sharing a bathroom (with you’re going to anyway in a hostel) an Airbnb or shitty motel is about the same price. For two people, at least. If you’re on your own, do yo thang.

Cordoba is a city built on the foundation of different cultures, from the Jewish Quarter to the Muslim Moors, the streets echo with these who came here before. You can almost hear the call to prayer echo off the Spanish tile.

Unfortunately, some of the that is now lost in the modern invasion of international tourist and open air strip malls. Cordoba is also a small city, far from the chaotic streets of Barcelona. City buses shuttle people to and from the major draws. Beyond what most probably know - The Grand Mosque, the Roman Bridge and Alcazar de les Reyes Christians - there really isn’t much else.

We spent two nights (really just one and a half, since we wandered the streets for a place to stay) and only one full day in Cordoba; which is really all you need.

Loose yourself in the avenues and alleyways of the Jewish Quarter, with its white-washed walls and terraced roofs; Retrace the history worn into the walls and rocks in the old city walls and Romanesque architecture (the food is cheaper on the other side of the river anyway); and if you do nothing else, see The Grand Mosque of Cordoba.

Now I am not a religious person (sorry mom), but there is something humbling and spiritual about this place. Built in 784 ACE, the painted red and white brick form the foundation of architectural marvels that came later. Inside the space opens to a place where light dances with shadows on the floor, while Saints of the other centuries stand and watch over the poetry of Muslim scripture. If the soul does exist somewhere here, it finds space to expand to the heavens and grounding into the rock and earth from which we came, and one day all return to.

P.S. My friend Parsa, tells me this is the place to get Salmorejo (a tomato paste - thing). Hell, I didn’t know exactly but who cares? I can’t find any issue with this statement. Try it, like it; ups aren’t here for the McDonalds are you?

Goodbye, Barcelona

If you are looking for a guidebook with what to do and when, prices and family-friendly activities, you are in the wrong place. If you really want that, our contact info. is up at the top, feel free to shoot an email. We don’t do the whole guided tour, hop-on-hop-off-the-bus kind of thing. Rick Steves probably already did that better anyways. (Again, someone with money and time. It helps.)

When we travel, we tend to get up at dawn, stay out until about the same time, and do our best to blend into the local culture.

While the main sights in Barcelona are incredible, they are also incredibly expensive. Though the rock of Sagrada Familia (the crazy church, you know.) reaches unfinished towards the heavens, the street below is crowded with tour buses, souvenir shops and hucksters.

At Casa Bastilló, another Gaudi creation (He’s a famous architect, look it up.), lines of people swirl and stumble like the sculpture above as people wait to spend about 25 euros to look at the lobby of someone else’s apartment building.

Even at Park Guell (I guess I’m on a Gaudi thing today), which is mostly worth the trek for the view of the city and the neighborhood that surrounds it, entrance will cost you about 15 euros and a long wait to see; at least the part that you always see pictures of. The part that is free winds through wooded paths with bridges and caves carved into the mountainside, where each view of the city reveals something new. While outside the paid part taxis honk and tourists choke the street for the perfect selfie spot.

The point that I am trying to make, and I think one of our main goals with this trip, is that you do not need money to laugh with loved ones on the beach. Buying momentos and souvenirs will not help you remember the way that they early-autumn night sky felt; just checking off spots and museums on a list will not bring you any closer to the soul of a place. The farther you go, the closer you become to each other.

If you want to see and do those kinds of things, then by all means, please do. (I don’t want to sound like such an asshole). Just remember that the exchange rate doesn’t work in your favor.

My advice for those traveling through Barcelona, or really most other cities around the world, would be to allow yourself to get lost; to step out of whichever place you left behind and for a moment have nowhere to go and nothing to do. The spirit of Barcelona and of the open road lay down crooked alleyways and cramped bars with cheap food and good conversation or in beers shared with new friends and fellow travelers on late-night patios*.

Anyways, we say goodbye to Barcelona and the first leg of our trip tomorrow. This city hold a piece of me always, but goddamn, right now I just can’t afford it. We will be heading to the Andalusia region of Spain, to the cities of Granada and Cordoba. See y’all soon!

*As long as you are not causing a scene, you should be fine to drink a store-bought (i.e. cheaper) bottle of wine  in the park or beach. Yeah, Europeans have the whole drinking thing figured out.

Onward

So… here’s the real part that’s left out of the guidebooks; where we done goofed. When we left Dallas, we were under idyllic impressionism, intoxicated on the draw of the European backpacking lifestyle. Let me tell you, these people have money. The blogs have made it seem as if simply being there and showing a smiling face to the hostel lady who looks weary from the night before would get you a volunteer job in exchange for a night, a week or even a months stay.

I’m not sure if everyone is aware of this, but it seems like Americans think that they are only ones that are the greatest. The government of Spain slightly disagrees.

We spent our first day at the Oficina de Extranjeros, trying to get our NIE (Número de Identificación Fiscal), which is a card that essentially gives you A tax ID and the ability to open a Spanish bank account. If you you want to do it otherwise, just watch out for La Guardia Urbana (the cops); however, busking is pretty common and most buskers are pretty damn good at what they do. The hard part is being in the country and not having the correct documents to open a bank account. No bank account, no NIE; no NIE, no bank account. I’m pretty sure Joseph Heller wrote most of Spain’s laws. But, due to EU laws, it’s pretty hard for an American who hasn’t set something up months in advance. Have your CV ready, learn Spanish, and prepare for rejection. Godspeed!

So, plans change. Ours was never to party our way through the country, but to lose ourselves in the unknown. As I said before, Barcelona is one of the most beautiful cities in the world (if you can afford it); where the mountains blend into the sea at the edge of the horizon. We are still here, breathing it all in, but the road and lack of funds carry us on soon.