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+ "On the Road to Chitral" 30 August, Dir Khas
"To Whom It May Concern: This certifies that Ms. Marcela Gaviria, Mr. Scott Anger, and Martin Smith are journalists and have permission to conduct their journalistic activities." The letter does not quite specify where we can "conduct our activities," but it seems to be just the paper we are looking for. And so, permit in hand, we head to Chitral, a town in the Northwestern Frontier of Pakistan, where bin Laden has allegedly been spotted just weeks ago and where there are reports that Al Qaeda's number two, Ayman al-Zawahiri, is operating. The route will take us through the valley of Charshadda and up the mountains of Bat Kheela, Wuch, Wardi Posst, and finally to Chitral. Our contact in Islamabad is very nervous. He does not volunteer to come. We venture north on the advice of General Qureshi, Musharraf's right hand, who says, "It's safe. No problems. Go."
A few miles past Takht Bhai, we hit the first mountains. It's a steep and winding road, that hugs the Panjkora River. It's hard not to want to stop at every corner. The images are stunning. There are little girls in colored veils herding goat. Children playing in the powerful rapids of the Panjkora. Men crossing the river with a pulley and basket. Groups of men praying on mats next to the road. Incredibly, we pass two cricket matches at the foot of the river. We ask to step out of the van and film, but we are not allowed. Our fixer Shameem and driver Faizal, are clearly agitated. Every once in a while there is a sign in Pashto, which reads "Death to America." "We will not accept slaves of America. We will be slaves of our God." "Heaven is reachable through Jihad." We stop in front of one farm house, which sits on the banks of the river. Two cows graze lazily in front of a sign that reads, "Long live Mullah Omar and Osama bin Laden." I think it hits us at that moment. Here we are in a place that feels like Shangri La, but in fact we are at the epicenter of hatred towards America. Back in September, roughly 7,000 jihadists left this area for Afghanistan and never returned. Their families would like to seek revenge for this loss the old fashioned way -- an eye for an eye. I wonder briefly if we will fall in the crossfire. I do not feel the tension, but both Shameem and Faizal seem agitated. I am reminded of something Martin always says when we are stuck in a dicey situation: "In a movie you always know something bad is going to happen because of the music. In real life, it just happens, there are no prompts." We hit the first armed checkpoint at Pimer Gara. Faizal our driver does not want to stop, but we insist. We'd like to film the gated entrance to the tribal areas and ask if the policemen have seen any Arabs moving about. They say they are looking for terrorists, but have not found any.
There is no shaking these Pakistani cops. We are stuck in a relay race, being passed on from escort to escort every time we reach a different checkpoint. It only takes one corrupt cop to rat us out. And suddenly, every police checkpoint for miles knows that three Americans are headed for Chitral.
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home - introduction - mapping the journey photograph ©afp/corbis
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