Wagah Mama

I crossed into Pakistan today on foot wearing my salwar kameez, looking the part of a conservative foreign woman. An Indian porter, a proud Sikh from Atari, carried my red suitcase on his head, and when we got to the line that indicates that this is no longer India, he handed my bag to a Pakistani porter who gingerly took it and placed it atop his head. Although he interacts with the Pakistani porters each day, Mr. Singh says, they are not friends. Why, I ask? Because India is a great country. I believe he means for me to deduce the opposite about his neighbor.

Mr. Singh said that while there are 700 porters (I saw about 50), there are only about 20-30 people who cross the border each day. I can’t vouch for these numbers, but it’s fair to say that while the situation between Pakistan and India is tenuous, the border is rather quiet.

This morning, along with me, there was one French photographer, eager to get in, and about 25 18-wheeler trucks pregnant with white sacks of soybeans—food for poultry, I was told. Two Italians and one woman, presumably Indian, were crossing into India. Other than the numerous border guards and unofficial-looking official guys, the border seemed a no man’s land.

In fact, so little action happens at the border each day, that one of the immigration officers on the Indian side was receiving a leg massage when I approached. His masseuse, positioned on the floor in front of his shins, giving them a vigorous rub down, did not stop as the officer—pants rolled up to his knees—looked over my passport and gave his sign off. On the Pakistani side, the intake officer would not look at my passport until he finished his round of prayer beads.

As I walked across the dividing line, an armed, bearded soldier received me and my American passport, with an awkward, “Welcome to Pakistan.” The country doesn’t seem very welcoming judging from the regular violence in the news, but what seems to be a recurring theme already is locals who tell me that the news outside gives an inaccurate reading of what life is like on the inside. The Minster of Trade in Delhi told me that. The News International says that. The lovely gentleman I’m staying with says that. I’m curious to see for myself.

The crossover this morning was much less dramatic than the border scene I witnessed yesterday evening. Here, at Wagah, a dividing line between India and Pakistan, there is a melodramatic performance of pomp and circumstance each evening as the border gates for each respective side are shut. (The border closes at sundown, and only reopens at 10AM.)

Apparently, the dramatic border closing ceremony has been happening ever since partition. It has turned into such a spectacle that each country has build stadium seating for guests to watch the drama. We arrived at 4:30pm and while the Indian side’s rafters were packed, there was not a single spectator on the Pakistani side. Over the course of the next hour and a half, Indians entertained themselves by running up and down the road leading to the border gates carrying the Indian flag, and dancing in the street to the bumpin’ beats of Hindustani music. The message seemed to be, “It’s fun to be Indian.” Meanwhile, women and men slowly started to fill in seats on the Pakistani side—in separate sections, of course. By the start of the ceremony, India’s side probably had 600-700 people. Pakistan had a humble 80-90.

If you only had the ceremony to go on, India would seem a positively rich country compared to Pakistan. The cultural fabric of India felt vibrant and dense. It had more flags, more soldiers, more citizen support, and all the singing and dancing. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the underdog. All Pakistan had going for it was its spot in the shade.

What’s remarkable and odd, is that these two countries, which take their divide very seriously, are able to engage in what has become a very theatrical ceremony. Border guards from each side have a yell off, where they each see who can hold a note the longest—over and over again. Pakistan often won this contest. Then there’s the march up to the gates, where the guards engage in some high kicks that would make a high school color-guard jealous. There’s high stepping, foot stomping, and pugnacious gestures—but at the end of it all, after the crowds go home, I’ve heard that it’s not uncommon for the guards to play cards together.

So, why all the vitriol? Indians tell me that their differences with Pakistan are not personal—they are driven by politics and history. At lunch today, though, my Pakistani host tells me that the evening show-off is disgusting and only promotes hatred. I’m surprised. He explains that while I may see it as theater, the locals who come to watch from either side take it very seriously. It deepens the divide and rubs raw the hatred.

I can see his point. While the show may be dramatic and boisterous, cocky and often playful—winning or losing is serious business.