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Peshawar - Ayubia
E.Route* : Peshawar - Lahore : ETD 0700 : ETA 1700 : Dist. 272 m.
A.Route : Peshawar - Ayubia : ATD 0855 : ATA 2119 : Dist. 180 m.
- Depart Peshawar 0855
- 1138 - 1141 Bread stop ( Kund ) - abortive.
- 1144 - 1149 Bread stop ( Kund ) - success.
- 1215 - 1220 Bogstop.
- 1404 - 1445 Shopstop etc. Rawalpindi.
- 1514 - 1546 Farcical convoy assembly.
- 1550 - 1555 Farther farcical convoy delay.
- 1630 - 1642 Road toll.
- 1725 - 1735 Water stop.
- 1802 - 1807 Photo and vomit stop.
- Arrive Khanspur-Ayubia (Murree) 2119
Est.A.Spd : 27.2mph.: Gross A.Spd. 14.60 mph. : Net.A.Spd. 20.7 mph
Stop Time : 3:32 hr : Speedo TD 9288.0 : Speedo TA 9468.2
Comment : (*) the alteration in programmed travel, substituting a few days in the hilis for time in Lahore, would have been beneficial to health, as intended, but for the strong laxative qualities of the water at Ayiubia. The farcical convoy was one of Greg's lunatic inventions, with the idea of having a massed convoy filmed driving though Islamabad. Memorable last hour or so on the tight hairpins above Ayiubia, with Durham almost repeating their performance of 1967.
Jim Lindsay's diary:
15 August
The plan for the day was to drive up into the Murree Hills to recuperate after the long
journey and be at our best for the cultural exchanges that would follow. It was a long
memorable day and takes some time to describe.
We did not do a lot during the morning and everything was painfully slow. Some of us went for
a provisions trip into Peshawar. Hardly surprisingly it was crowded and busy and untidy.
Everywhere there were garish adverts and shop signs, reminiscent of Edwardian England but in
fractured English. Back at the College we waited for a posse from Lancaster who were travelling
with us. As had already begun to happen, people were swapping between contingents for a few
days. Ricky and Don Winsford transferred temporarily to Lancaster this morning, and in return
we got no less that four of theirs. I notice that I described one of them in the original diary
as "a large turd" and the others got poor ratings. We had some very good friends on other
coaches but not everyone was wonderful. This transfer ensured that Lancaster joined our
undesirables list along with St Andrews, London, and Cambridge.
It did not help that our new faces were late and unapologetic. Kirsteen was unwell and the
rest of us distinctly uncomfortable. After the desert heat of the previous couple of weeks,
we discovered that in the unfamiliar humidity of the stationary coach every contact with
things or people seemed to generate heat and sweat.
Apart from driving on the left, Pakistan created lots of echoes of home, not least a great
many military bases with neat signposts and men in immaculate uniforms. The Attock Bridge
across the Indus was impressive, with the road running beneath the railway. There were
sentries and right-angled turns at each end, presumably to hinder any enemy troops trying to
invade across it.
There were lots of smaller metal bridges, in Pakistan and as we found out later in India
too. All of the Indian ones carried signs warning travellers strictly against photography,
but were quaintly provided with cast metal plates setting out all their specifications for
the benefits of spies with retentive memories.
We struggled through Rawalpindi, a city of enclaves and precincts harking back to the Raj.
Navigation was difficult and sometimes improvised. According to Don Clarke, as he approached
one roundabout he could hear Johan's voice in his ear saying "left, oh sorry, right. Dammit,
hell man, straight on!"
Between Rawalpindi and Islamabad we were brought to a halt by the roadside and had to wait
interminably to form a convoy for some filming ploy, and then the convoy dragged forward uphill
to our promised rest stop. The journey went on for about four hours, and involved some
interesting stops to water ourselves and the radiators of labouring engines. It was an
exciting trip, though, with lush vegetation and glimpses of light shining on flooded terraces
and iron-roofed villages below us. The road wound ridiculously. Every so often another
contingent would pop up dimly ahead of us pointing in quite a different direction to ours,
then vanish again. The light gradually faded, gave us a brief wonderful sunset, and then left
us in the dark.
Things got tighter, with occasional lights far below confirming our suspicion that we were
edging along a cliff-top road. Then there was a set of tight downward hairpins so bad that
the drivers needed guidance from outside. But just after these was our destination, and our
Oxford buddies had commandeered a room for us to share.
It had certainly been perilous. Durham got so close to the edge on the hairpins that they
abandoned ship and did not collect their coach until the morning, when they got a good view
of just how far it could have fallen.
Back at the site there was a good deal of relief and some horseplay involving a yashmak.
Charpoys, truck art and other things by Liz Y
By now we were accustomed to sleeping on the ground, with or without a groundsheet. We'd slept on a variety
of surfaces - grass, level or otherwise, baked earth likewise, concrete on occasion. At Islamia College we
had the novel luxury of sleeping on charpoys, a light and versatile form of bedstead cum portable couch.
Islamia College was an atmospheric place. It had the feel of an Oxford college, but with graceful domes
instead of a dreaming spire, a harmonious fusion of Mughal and Gothic styles of architecture. We camped
on a grassy quadrangle outside Hardinge Hostel, a student hall of residence. The quadrangle featured an
ornamental fountain and had cloisters to the side. A college caretaker, in white cotton kameez, was on
hand to help with the charpoys and facilities for our stay.
It was hot and humid as we turned in for a sticky and unexpectedly eventful night under open skies. Rain
in the early hours sent us scrambling for cover under the cloisters, charpoys and sleeping bags in tow.
The warm rain was refreshing, but a drooking seemed a bad idea.
We hit the road again in the morning, with just a brief impression of Islamia College and the city of
Peshawar. In 1913, the college had brought higher education within reach of students in the Khyber area.*
It celebrated its centenary in 2013 and has been recognized by UNESCO as an important site of Pakistan's
cultural heritage.
Peshawar itself is the oldest city in Pakistan and capital of the Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, still known
in 1969 as the Northwest Frontier Province. The city dates from over 500 BCE, since when numerous empires
have come and gone, and left their mark. Peshawar became a focal meeting point for merchants on the
East-West trade routes and, as such, a cosmopolitan city.
Back on the road, Cuddles' creamy-beige paintwork and simple lettering looked distinctly conservative in
contrast with the fantastic artwork sported by many fellow road users. Traffic in Pakistan was a kaleidoscope
of colour. The Northwest Frontier Province was the original home of 'truck art'. Beautiful, dreamlike designs
and images were used by lorry owners to convey something about themselves and their places of origin, as they
drove through regions where few people were literate. By 1969, talented truck artists were much in demand,
turning the roads of Pakistan into a moving art gallery.
We proceeded along the Grand Trunk Road towards Rawalpindi. This was the second time in two days that we had
come to a place, whose name was the stuff of legends in the West. Yesterday it had been the Khyber Pass, today
the Indus River. For 3,180 km, the Indus flows from the Himalayas to the Arabian Sea, making it one of the
longest rivers in the world.
The Grand Trunk Road crossed the Indus via the lower tier of the two-tiered Attock Bridge. The bridge had
been built in colonial times and fortified at either end. It became a key strategic road/rail link between the
Northwest Frontier Province and the Punjab. Attock apparently means 'foot of the mountain' in Punjabi.
I guess we all remember events we can't quite place, perhaps small incidents on the bus or things people said.
I remember a day in Pakistan, such as this soporific day on the road when we sweated it out under a midday sun
beating down on the roof of the bus. Eileen had nodded off on a front seat across the aisle, her bare feet
resting on the rail by the steps. From the corner of my eye, I saw what seemed a piece of straw blown onto
her toes from the open door. She stirred and it moved, fell to the floor, vanished towards the door, a stick
insect about six inches long .. harmless.
The name Punjab derives from two words in Persian. It means 'five waters', and refers to the five tributaries
of the Indus, which feed the fertile planes of this region. We weren't far from one of the these 'waters', the
Jhelum River, where Alexander is said to have forded its monsoon-swollen torrent and faced the formidable war
elephants of King Porus.
We reached Rawalpindi in the early afternoon. Some of the group were quite unwell and all of us were struggling
to adjust to the humid, subtropical climate. It was a pity really, because this seemed another interesting old
city. I was curious about the traditional buildings with balconies and upper floors which overhung the streets.
In any case, we didn't have much time. There was a plan for contingents to parade together through Islamabad
about twelve miles further on. The new, purpose-built city of Islamabad had recently replaced Karachi as capital
of Pakistan.
I have only vague memories of that clammy afternoon and all the delays. It was only when we began the ascent to
the Murree Hills that the air felt a little cooler and the heat less oppressive. In the dusky twilight of early
evening, there were spectacular views over valleys and mountains, but as darkness fell there was a sense of
unease as the narrow road zigzagged to left and right on tight hairpin bends, along what seemed to be the edge
of a precipice. All we could see was the patch of road under the arc of the headlights. It was on one of these
bends that Durham foundered and abandoned bus, as a back wheel spun uselessly in a void.
After what seemed an eternity, we reached the small hill town of Khanspur and located the summer campus of the
Punjab University. Other Comexers had already made themselves at home in a low bungalow with a series of
adjacent rooms opening onto a veranda. In one of these room, we laid out our sleeping bags and for a few
nights we slept on a perfectly comfortable bungalow floor, with a roof over our heads and cool mountain air
to breathe.
* Founders of Islamia College
- Nawab Sir Sahibzada Abdul Qayyum Khan, Administrator Khyber Agency, Educationist, Politician
- Sir George Roos Keppel, Chief Commissioner NW Frontier Province, fluent in Pashto
Tribal leaders welcomed the project and donated funds to the college.
