10 million people live in Lahore. In London, there are around 7 million, so this doesn't seem like such a huge number. I've always found London crowded but bearable. Like any Londoner, I have spent too many mornings and evenings, with my head pressed up against somebody's smelly armpit on the tube, not being able to breathe or move.
Or so I thought, until I came to Lahore. A couple of days ago, I was able to visit central Lahore for the first time. Before this, I had been confined to the leafy suburbs, where space exists between the buildings and the traffic is only half crazy.
The purpose of my city centre trip was to see Badshahi mosque, which is on the edge of the ancient walled city of Lahore, referred to as the 'old city'. I'd been told by lots of people here how beautiful it was and I wanted to see it for myself.
As we reached the centre of the city, the traffic departed from its previous 'half-crazy' state and entered full-on mania. In Lahore, cars, motorbikes, rickshaws, donkey karts, men leading horses and sometimes even men leading monkeys, share the road. And when I say share, I mean all go as fast as they can and, as far as I can tell, do not adhere to any rules at all. Apart from perhaps that every single manoeuvre is fine, providing the horn is beeped at the same time. A friend said to me that the only way to drive here is 'as though you are part of a shoal of fish'. And I can think of no better explanation. At crossroads or junctions, people carry straight on into the moving traffic. And somehow, miraculously, with great screeching of brakes and hooting of horns, they become swallowed up in the new shoal.
One of my favourite things to see is couples travelling by motorbike. The man always drives, whilst the woman always rides 'side-saddle' on the back. Driving down a road in Lahore is like driving amidst a rainbow of billowing colourful sheets, as the women's beautiful shalwar kameez are blown in the wind.
Of course, motorcycle travel is not restricted to couples. Whole families also use this mode of transport. So far, the largest number of people I've counted on a single motorbike is 6. Up front is the biggest child, then the father driving, then come two more middle-sized children, and then the mother, clutching the smallest child and somehow still staying on. The skill involved is remarkable. I feel I am witnessing some great feat of humankind.
So, it wasn't until we were in the heart of the city that I became fully aware of the people. At first they were just at the side of road, and then they started to become more thick and fast, walking freely among the cars. As the cars hooted and revved, all I could see was people. My host and guide said that we couldn't get out and walk, as I was the only white person in sight (in fact I have not seen a single other white person all day) and that I would be mobbed. Not necessarily in a hostile way, but in a friendly, over-enthusiastic way. I imagined being swallowed up by this immense sea of over-enthusiasm and I was inclined reluctantly to agree with him. So we inched forward in the car, beeping, naturally, and trying not to kill people.
It took about an hour of inching to cover the distance of about 100 metres to the mosque. A mist hung in the air, which seemed to be caused by a combination of people, pollution and the penetrating heat. To add to the complexity of Lahore, once inside the main gate of the mosque, the atmosphere was serene and peaceful. I was still an oddity and an attraction, but children were hit around the head for looking at me too long.
What struck me most about the Mughal architecture of the mosque was its perfection. It looked as though it had been built five, not 400, years ago. It's a huge structure, but when you stand close to it, it seems quite elegantly petite. And it's not until you stand back that you realise again the immenseness of it.
The visit was finished off with food on the roof of an old favela building, overlooking the lit-up mosque. As I ate the delicious food and breathed in the fresher air, I felt certain that on this day alone, I had seen the 10 million people of Lahore.
Or so I thought, until I came to Lahore. A couple of days ago, I was able to visit central Lahore for the first time. Before this, I had been confined to the leafy suburbs, where space exists between the buildings and the traffic is only half crazy.
The purpose of my city centre trip was to see Badshahi mosque, which is on the edge of the ancient walled city of Lahore, referred to as the 'old city'. I'd been told by lots of people here how beautiful it was and I wanted to see it for myself.
As we reached the centre of the city, the traffic departed from its previous 'half-crazy' state and entered full-on mania. In Lahore, cars, motorbikes, rickshaws, donkey karts, men leading horses and sometimes even men leading monkeys, share the road. And when I say share, I mean all go as fast as they can and, as far as I can tell, do not adhere to any rules at all. Apart from perhaps that every single manoeuvre is fine, providing the horn is beeped at the same time. A friend said to me that the only way to drive here is 'as though you are part of a shoal of fish'. And I can think of no better explanation. At crossroads or junctions, people carry straight on into the moving traffic. And somehow, miraculously, with great screeching of brakes and hooting of horns, they become swallowed up in the new shoal.
One of my favourite things to see is couples travelling by motorbike. The man always drives, whilst the woman always rides 'side-saddle' on the back. Driving down a road in Lahore is like driving amidst a rainbow of billowing colourful sheets, as the women's beautiful shalwar kameez are blown in the wind.
Of course, motorcycle travel is not restricted to couples. Whole families also use this mode of transport. So far, the largest number of people I've counted on a single motorbike is 6. Up front is the biggest child, then the father driving, then come two more middle-sized children, and then the mother, clutching the smallest child and somehow still staying on. The skill involved is remarkable. I feel I am witnessing some great feat of humankind.
So, it wasn't until we were in the heart of the city that I became fully aware of the people. At first they were just at the side of road, and then they started to become more thick and fast, walking freely among the cars. As the cars hooted and revved, all I could see was people. My host and guide said that we couldn't get out and walk, as I was the only white person in sight (in fact I have not seen a single other white person all day) and that I would be mobbed. Not necessarily in a hostile way, but in a friendly, over-enthusiastic way. I imagined being swallowed up by this immense sea of over-enthusiasm and I was inclined reluctantly to agree with him. So we inched forward in the car, beeping, naturally, and trying not to kill people.
It took about an hour of inching to cover the distance of about 100 metres to the mosque. A mist hung in the air, which seemed to be caused by a combination of people, pollution and the penetrating heat. To add to the complexity of Lahore, once inside the main gate of the mosque, the atmosphere was serene and peaceful. I was still an oddity and an attraction, but children were hit around the head for looking at me too long.
What struck me most about the Mughal architecture of the mosque was its perfection. It looked as though it had been built five, not 400, years ago. It's a huge structure, but when you stand close to it, it seems quite elegantly petite. And it's not until you stand back that you realise again the immenseness of it.
The visit was finished off with food on the roof of an old favela building, overlooking the lit-up mosque. As I ate the delicious food and breathed in the fresher air, I felt certain that on this day alone, I had seen the 10 million people of Lahore.
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