The equipment may be low-tech but the standard of plagiarism is extremely high. Originally confined to making copies of the British Army’s great standby, the Lee Enfield .303, Darra’s retailers now offer brand-name pump-action rifles, revolvers, automatics and quite probably rocket-launchers. One man proudly shows me a James Bond pen that can fire real bullets (he proves this to me by stepping out into the street and loosing it off).
‘Very popular with the tourists,’ he assures me, adding regretfully, ‘Until two years ago.’
Everything in Darra is faintly bizarre, so I’m not entirely surprised when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot an elderly man with a long white beard apparently climbing into a litter bin. Once inside he bobs down out of sight, and the crew think I’ve made the whole thing up until his face reappears over the top of the bin and, rearranging his robe, he steps out and proceeds on his way.
The grey, serrated steel tub that would in Britain be either a bin or a council flower bed turns out to be one of the smallest public lavatories I’ve ever seen. Barely three feet high, it sits astride a narrow concrete culvert along which water flows, though not, I notice, today.
A young man approaches and asks me where I’m from. Yesterday in Peshawar he would have been moved on pretty quickly, but today my police escort is nowhere to be seen. I later learn they’re down the main street having their photo taken by Basil.
The young man speaks English well, but claims he’s the exception. There is a lack of money for education and most men of his age have little option but to leave school early and go straight into the gun-making business. When he hears I’m from the BBC he is complimentary. Everyone listens to their Pashto service in the evenings. They are trusted, but less so after the Iraq war.
I bridle a little. Would he rather Saddam Hussein had remained in power?
He shakes his head vehemently. He hated Saddam Hussein. He hated him because he accepted American help to fight a fellow Islamic country, Iran.
I’m embarrassingly aware how much longer his memory is than mine.
Day Four : Fatehjang
We’ve already had to postpone our trip to see Prince Malik Ata. Mysterious objections from the government seem to centre around a security problem. Something vaguely to do with bombs and the military. As the Prince lives in the middle of agricultural countryside no-one can understand what all the fuss is about, least of all him.
After a volley of phone calls the objections have been withdrawn and he has promised to lay on a special welcome to make up for any inconvenience.
So we find ourselves heading east along the GT Road, crossing the great River Indus, which, along with the Tigris and Euphrates, nourished the first urban civilizations in the world. When Alexander the Great reached this point he ordered a half-mile bridge of boats to be built to carry his 50,000-strong army across. Today, much of the flow has been diverted for irrigation, but the sight of one of the world’s great rivers rolling below the battlements of the old fort at Attock makes the heart beat a little faster.
Once off the Trunk Road we meander along country lanes. Brick kilns are the only signs of industry; otherwise it’s quietly rural. At one point we pass a funeral. A small procession, led by a group of men dressed head to foot in white is carrying the body through the bush. They all appear to be hurrying.
The entrance to Prince Malik’s country estate consists of modest cast-iron gates set between concrete posts. Once through them we follow a long, secretive track through acacia thickets, which, after almost half a mile, opens out onto a rather grand avenue of maples, beneath which a small crowd struggles to control a number of stocky, short-legged bulls wearing scarlet pom-pom hats and garlands round their necks. An open, four-wheeled carriage with a plumed and turbanned rider at the reins stands waiting behind two chestnut palominos. Fifteen elderly men in white shalwars and black-trimmed gold waistcoats are drawn to attention. One or two of them carry rifles. All are having orders barked at them by a figure in a brilliant white cotton shalwar and tight black sleeveless tunic sitting astride a black stallion. Beneath a bulbous turban, a magnificently curled moustache dominates a fleshy face. A pair of watery, aristocratic eyes turns towards us.
‘We must go soon, I cannot hold the bulls much longer.’
Roger steps down from the vehicle, exchanges greetings and begins to explain how he intends to shoot the sequence. But Malik Ata Muhammed Khan, Prince of the Awans, is not the slightest bit interested.
‘You will put Michael in the coach over there!’ he decides. ‘Then I will tell them to begin the procession, and your camera will get a good shot from here.’
There is clearly no point in arguing, and I hurry back down the drive to the waiting carriage.
‘Michael!’ he bawls after me. ‘Walk round the side! Those bulls are dangerous!’
As if to prove his point, one of them breaks free of its restraining rope, snorts, lowers its head and kicks out (maybe in protest at having to wear a scarlet pom-pom hat). Someone goes down.
‘Right! Start now!’
It doesn’t seem to matter that no-one really knows what they’re doing. It all looks absurdly colourful and manically vibrant, like the opening scene of a musical. The bulls are led forward, the veteran guard of honour present whatever arms they can lay their hands on, and my two glorious palominos, who seem to be quietly giggling to each other throughout, set off at a canter that turns into an unstoppable gallop.
Cries of ‘That’s far enough!’ fade into the distance as we hurtle through a set of grand gates, and up garden paths, eventually pulling to a halt at the front of a large white mansion with wide, presidential steps leading up to a towering columned portico.
I’m told it’s modelled on the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, though it reminds me more of a plantation house in Louisiana.
Now that he’s orchestrated the grand welcome the Prince is off his charger and visibly relaxed. He organizes drinks for us. Retainers (probably not the right word, but they behave exactly like retainers) carry trays of Pepsi Cola out into the garden. I suggest to him that a place of this size must be an awful burden to keep up.
‘It is only one,’ Prince Malik replies breezily, ‘I have four others.’
I ask him about the episode with the bulls earlier.
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘Yes,’ he says, rather dismissively, as if it happened all the time. ‘One old fellow had his arm broken. I’ve sent him to the hospital.’
The Prince calls forward one of the faithful fifteen who had mounted the guard of honour for my arrival.
‘Here is a chap you must meet, Michael.’
A slightly stooped, handsome old man with lively eyes and a fine white beard steps out of the line.
‘He fought in the First World War, you know. He’s 104. He was a very big man.’
He turns a little towards me, lowering his voice.
‘Much smaller now of course.’
The Prince seems to have a thing about height. He talks proudly of his great-grandfather, of whom he has a photograph taken at George V’s coronation.
‘He was a big man. Seven foot two.’
He has ordered lunch to be prepared for us. As we go inside he chides Vanessa about the problems we have had getting permission to come here.
‘Always ask the army. It’s the only discipline there is in this country. Did you not get my email?’