If the prophet Belinda Carlisle is to be believed, heaven is a place on earth. This revelation, though cryptic in its vaguity, almost certainly alludes to a scrap of the Himalayan foothills tucked between south-west China and northern Afghanistan: the gravely named North West Frontier Province of Pakistan.
The rugged slopes of the NWFP and neighbouring Afghanistan are home to the Pathans (or Pashtuns) - the world's largest group of tribesmen (around 30 million). The Pathans are Aryan in descent (some tribes claim lineage from Alexander the Great), speak the Pashtu language, and follow the honour code of Pashtunwali, the central tenets of which are:
i) Hospitality and asylum to all guests seeking help.
ii) Justice: The law of lex talionis (‘an eye for an eye…’)
iii) Defence of 'Zan, Zar and Zameen' (Women/Family, Treasury and Property).
iv) Personal Independence: Pashtuns are fiercely independent, and internal competition is fierce.
Matters of justice, defence and independence are invariably resolved with arms, and there is no shortage of these. Weaponry ranging from AK-47s to tanks is available at open markets throughout the region (along with hashish and opium by the kilo), and in the absence of law, or rather the presence of tribal law, disputes are solved with the utmost of haste and bloodshed. If, for example, a young man and woman are found fraternising outside of wedlock, then according to Pashtunwali both parties must be slain at the hands of their own family (father or brother for her; uncle or father for him).
Strangely, the NWFP is one of safest places to travel in Asia. Pashtun hospitality is insane. Upon arrival in a tribal area visitors are immediately offered accommodation and provided with food and hashish in unlimited quantities. Failure to do so is punishable by death. (In the nine days I travelled in the NWFP I spent less than $5!). And should anyone offend you or, worse still, commit a crime against you, their death is a certainty.
As one might expect, the constant talk of murder and revenge can grow tiresome. Fortunately, other topics of conversation do exist, including: guns; Al-Qaeda; Taliban; Ayman El Zawahri; George W. Bush; media portayals of Pakistanis/Muslims as terrorists; and cricket. Yes, Andrew Flintoff is a good player, yes, a very good player. All such discourse is conducted in front of an audience of at least twenty individuals, all male, or varying age and sanity. The woman are, umm, somewhere else.
Despite the militant subtext, the invisible women and the visible weapons, it all seems somehow very civilized: the extended family structure is enviably solid - kids respect their elders and so on - ensuring everyone is provided for; the rustic agrarian existence is sufficiently lucrative; and, critically, the finely balanced moral code keeps people (for the most part) from massacring each other. The stunning mountain backdrop against which this magico-realist-medieval drama is played out ensures a healthy respect for land and livestock, long lost in the West.