When Hospitality Ruled the Road

That was a time when the world seemed simpler, more welcoming, and much safer, especially for those wandering the roads, seeking freedom. The hippie culture was just blossoming, and I was merely a child, five or six years old, when I first encountered something unforgettable. I saw buses majestic, luxurious, far more opulent than the ones we had in our country rolling down our roads. These weren’t ordinary buses; they were something out of a dream, beautifully painted, filled with foreign travelers, and radiating an energy that seemed otherworldly. These buses came all the way from Western Europe, filled with adventurers, dreamers, seekers of something more. They traveled through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and into Pakistan, eventually making their way to India. It was a grand journey, all by road, weaving
through lands that are now scarred by war and destruction.

The travelers who boarded these buses came from places like France, Germany, Spain, and Italy. Their journey would begin in Europe and take them through Turkey’s rugged landscapes, then onward through Iran’s ancient cities, crossing into the craggy mountains of Afghanistan, before finally arriving in Pakistan. Each country offered something new, each border crossing another page in the story of their adventure. And what a journey it was, endless roads stretching across deserts, mountains, and cities, with each stop offering something more magical than the last.

In those times, the world felt united by a sense of shared humanity. The foreign travelers, some in couples, others traveling solo, including many women, journeyed with a confidence and security that feels almost unimaginable now. Their lives, their belongings, their very chastity were safe as they moved from one country to the next, passing through regions like Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan without fear. They
weren’t met with suspicion or hostility. Instead, they were welcomed with open arms, with smiles that lit up even the poorest of faces. It wasn’t uncommon for a traveler to be offered a cup of tea from a street vendor who barely made enough to survive, only to have that tea refused when the traveler tried to pay. “You are a guest in our country,” the vendor would say, with a smile that spoke of pride, of honor, of a
generosity that transcended wealth.

Those vibrant, brightly colored buses didn’t just transport people, they transported ideas, cultures, and a spirit of exploration. They turned our roads into a tapestry of colors, sounds, and stories. For those of us living in Pakistan, it was as though the world had come to us. These foreigners didn’t just pass through; they left an imprint. Some learned a few words of Pashto, Punjabi, or Urdu, and when they spoke our language, even a single phrase, the joy it brought to our people was indescribable. It was a kind of bridge-building, where language wasn’t just a tool but a connection, a sign of respect for the land they were in.

Even the most uneducated among us, Tonga drivers with their horse-drawn carts, rickshaw drivers navigating the chaotic streets, street vendors selling chai, learned enough English to engage with these travelers. Business thrived in these interactions, but more than that, there was an exchange of humanity. People connected in ways that were simple yet profound. And it wasn’t just language or tea. The hippie trail brought with it fashion, JEANS, those durable, blue denim pants that seemed so different at the time. They became a sensation, especially among students. These travelers, with their free spirits and unconventional ways, introduced us to more than just a piece of fabric. They showed us a way of life, a way of thinking that was open, curious, and free from fear.

Those were golden times. Times when peace wasn’t just a concept, but a reality. There was security in the air, a shared sense of safety, and foreigners could travel through our lands without worry. They could marvel at the beauty of our country, from the mountains of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to the deserts of Balochistan. They saw a land filled with potential, with warmth, and with a spirit that welcomed the world.

But that world is gone now. Tourism, once a vital source of connection and income, has all but disappeared. Pakistan could pay back every loan from the IMF and World Bank if it could unlock its tourism potential, but tourism requires peace. It requires security, and in a country where even its own citizens fear to travel, where can such a dream live?

Where there was once freedom and safety, there is now fear. Politicians loot the nation while the police stand idly by, corrupt and inept. And worst of all—the mullahs, those self-proclaimed guardians of Islam, have plunged our nation into darkness. These men and their ignorant followers spread hatred, violence, and division, all in the name of a religion they do not even understand. They preach intolerance, their voices booming from mosque loudspeakers, inciting violence in broad daylight. There was a time when these very loudspeakers were deemed haram, when mullahs issued fatwas declaring that anyone who used them was no longer a Muslim. Now they use them to sow hatred, to call for blood, and to declare anyone different—foreigners, minorities, even fellow Muslims who dare to think differently—as enemies of Islam.

These mullahs have created a nation where a woman can no longer walk the streets without fear, where foreigners are seen as targets, not guests, and where any sign of difference is met with violence. They promise heaven to their followers, a heaven filled with 70 untouched women, in exchange for beheading the infidel. And so the streets of our cities run with blood. These same men, funded by the very authorities meant to protect us, have turned Pakistan into a place where even the most basic acts of kindness, once so freely given to foreign travelers, are now acts of courage.

It’s not just Pakistan. Across the world, we see the same story. Countries torn apart by extremism, by the rigid interpretations of religious leaders who fear change more than they fear ignorance. In Afghanistan, a land once filled with those same travelers, where the Buddha statues of Bamiyan stood for centuries as symbols of peace, the Taliban now reigns. The same Taliban that sees education as a threat, that bans
women from schools and shoots little girls who dare to seek knowledge.

And so we are left with the ruins of what could have been. A world once connected by curiosity, by a desire to explore and understand, is now divided by fear and hatred. The roads once traveled by those beautiful buses are now roads filled with checkpoints, bombs, and blood. The smiles that once greeted travelers have been replaced by suspicion. And the chai that was once offered freely is now soaked in
fear.

What happened to us? What happened to that world where a foreigner could travel from France to India, passing through lands now synonymous with war and terror? It was not some outside force that destroyed it. It was us, our leaders, our religious authorities, our silence in the face of their brutality. We let this happen.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. There is still hope, still a chance to reclaim the spirit of hospitality, the spirit of openness that once defined our lands. If only we can silence the hatred, the violence, the ignorance of those who preach division. If only we can remember what it felt like when the world was open, when our roads were filled with the colors of the world, and when the tea flowed freely, shared between strangers who understood, in the simplest of ways, that we are all human.

Tags:

Leave A Comment