DOWN WITH AMERICA and other news

Very intrigued and mildly excited in a sort of sadistic way, I suppose, we decided to jump a taxi northwards to Uri - the center of destruction on the Indian side of the Line of Control from the earthquake a few short months back. Feeling confident as any manner by the people in Srinagar that there still exists the dire situation we imagine (and that we imagine the West still imagines), we dispell feelings that we might be intruding in the name of disaster tourism. We go in the name of knowledge, instead: this is one of the biggest natural disasters in recent history. In fact, let's review for a moment:

Hurricane Katrina: less than 2000 deaths.
Kashmir Earthquake: more than 70,000 deaths.

Now go back and see how long each one lasts on the front pages of the NY Times... This either says a lot about the value placed on lives and fear v. acceptance of death in different cultures; or a lot about which lives the NY Times values.

Any way you look at it, we reached the unexpected military checkpoint a few kilometers short of town and were told that we had no permission, so we had no access to this area at the center of one of the longest raging international conflicts on the modern planet. So we turned back - but not before yet another observation that we are stunned that the nearby town, constructed completely of teetering bricks, did not crash entirely to the ground as well. Many buildings in Kashmir seem like they couldn't withstand a calm breeze.

The trip back to Jammu could well have been the most terrifying drive of my life. Passing on curves over thousand foot ravines without guardrails on a two-lane road is not a good idea. We seemed to be the only ones of the ten passangers that realized this. Quite literally, I almost stopped the driver to get out and walk. We did, however, arrive - whereupon we drank beers in celebration of still being alive, not being freezing, and as a final kiss goodbye to booze for a few months, at least.

Night train to Amritsar lands us in the quiet streets of India which at this hour still provide stark contrast to the Islamic culture of Kashmir. We settle in at the free Pilgrim's quarters at the Golden Temple, the holiest site of the Sikh religion, to sleep a few hours.

The Denver Rescue Mission would cringe at the thought of feeding 30,000 mouths from one mess hall every day, while the Golden Temple doesn't flinch. Rich poor middle alike enjoy take a seat on the floor as the "lunchman" pours rations into each plate. Eat as much as you like, 24 hours a day, not a single question asked. Then go retire in your free room.

The calm, just as in Bodhgaya and all the rest, that overtakes places of worship (with the exception, perhaps, of anything Hindi) again rules the day, and we revel in the magnificence of the 24 hour chanting of the Guru Garant, the Sikh holy book, and the union of humanity in this place. An aboslutely wonderful experience, to which these words have not done justice.

We then head to Attari, grab one last Aloo Paratha on the street as this is the first opportunity to eat this Punjabi food in Punjab (and this time it comes with maybe a literal half cup of butter and the option for more), and jump the border to Pakistan; where we are greeted only with smiling faces and warm hospitality.

A few hours later, we witness the stunning closing of the border. Hundreds of spectators from both countries line their prospective benches to witness a truly amazing spectacle. On a continent where the average height is five foot four inches, the Pakistani Military has managed to find literal giants topping out, maybe, at seven feet to don the fanned hats and stomp their feet in a display of near aggression and sure agitation at their Indian counterparts. Moustaches flail, guns are twisted and turned, and patriotic songs are blasted as the crowd chants and tensions between two sworn enemies are displayed in an intermingling of ceremonial necessity. At the end, the flags are drawn and the gates slammed shut - nothing will pass through the Wagah border until morning. There is no better welcome to Pakistan.

In the meantime, we become again cautious at the word "American," only to find students smiles grow wide, thumbs put up, and the now common phrase "the BEST country" repeatedly uttered. Usama, a businessman, and I laugh at the similarity of his name to that other guy probably in this country as he explains that the tribal areas hit by US bombs the day before only resemble the rest of Pakistan in the sense that a line has been drawn around them. He does, however, express that people are less than enthusiastic that the region is slowly being taken over by force. A justifiable point, it seems, as the scroll at the bottom of the newscast last night was filled with McCain wanting Iran on the Security Council Agenda, Iraqi bombings, and Afghan violence.

We hop a bus with some students from Peshawar who insist on paying our fare. They then direct us to a Rickshaw, where we have a conversation on destination and are soon surrounded by the better part of 20 onlookers offering their help and advice - even after they know we are from the "God of Power," America. We take off in our capsule, feeling like royalty and maveling once again at the beauty of Urdu Script (Urdu is the same, for all intentions, as spoken Hindi. But in a bizzarre twist of linguistic evolution, Hindi is written in Sanskrit letters, while Urdu has taken Arabic.).

Soon, we are completely lost. All it takes to summons help, though, is to flap open the rickshaw side and show our face. A man runs over, asks for the hotel phone number, calls it on his cell phone, discusses the situation with us, hops on his motorcycles, and escorts our Richshaw right up to the door of the Regal Internet Inn. This perfect stranger almost insists on paying for our Rickshaw ride, but we deny him the opportunity and simply thank him profusely instead.

Upstairs, there are no available bed, so we sit on the roof and eat and the owner laughs at all the other Americans that have come through and had unwarranted fear for their safety before we hop in his car to sleep at his house - a favor offered because we are "friends" of the employee at the hotel at the border where we spent about an hour in the afternoon. After joking a while with him and his son, some anti-american protests on TV, and some more home-cooked excellency, sleep comes with ease.

Today's headline on the Pakistani Newspaper, "The News," is "DOWN WITH AMERICA." In fact, the entire newspaper is unsurprisingly filled with articles and opinions at how to stop the United States from bombing the world without consequece. Justified, I think. But already the quest to come to Pakistan to re-analyze previous assumptions of the place is paying off. At home, if someone were to ask "what happened in Pakistan today?" I would have had to answer, "The US bombed it" as that would be all the information I had. However, from my seat within this recepient of aggression, I can say that in Pakistan today people expressed sheer joy at the mention that I am an American. People showed me hospitality I would never expect to receive in the USA. People in Pakistan today cooked me a delicious Paratha for breakfast. In Pakistan today tea was phenomenal. In Pakistan today my clothes got cleaned for the first time in perhaps a month.

And in Pakistan today, I am filled with joy at the beauty of the world. I am filled with joy just for being alive.