A few short stories detailing just some of the unbelievable Pakistani hospitality I’ve experienced over the past 2.5 months of travel. 

 If you’ve learned even a little about Pakistan, you might have heard the word hospitality mentioned again and again… and for good reason.

Not only is Pakistan safe for travel, but the experience once you arrive is unlike any other.

Despite Western Media promoting fear, all the rumors are true y’all: from Karachi to Chitral and everywhere in between, Pakistanis are THE most hospitable people on Earth.

Fearful relatives worried that we’d be shunned as tourists… but the reality is that we were treated as nothing less than royalty.

Here are some stories from the past 2.5 months of my Pakistan travel itinerary to show you just how hospitable the people of Pakistan can be.

 

 

Pakistani Hospitality: Stories From the Kindest Country on Earth

A small selection of stories on the amazing hospitality experienced while backpacking in Pakistan.

Unlimited Smoothies & Stitchings

It was a thick, hot morning in Peshawar- Pakistan’s most conservative city near to the Afghan border. We were staying in Muneeb’s guestroom, a local we had met through Couchsurfing.

Muneeb knocked and slowly entered the guestroom-a staple in any Pashtun home- before setting down a large tray on the colorful Afghani carpet that lie on the floor.

We sipped on chais laden with sugar and savored doughy Afghani naans dipped in gobs of honey, swallowing in between laughs and chats.

Hours melted away with talk of everything geopolitical politics to religion – 29 years old and completely fluent in English, Muneeb proved to be an excellent and downright hilarious conversation partner.

During my 4 day visit to Peshawar, we wandered about the Old City, took a trip to the Khyber Pass gate, and relished in the best Pakistani meal I’ve had to date- Charsi Tikka, home to a famous sheep meat dish.

And despite our pleas and insistences, Muneeb absolutely refused to accept payment- for anything.

“You are our guests- a gift from Allah. Guests never pay. Now stop asking!”

A laugh followed his stern request.

 

 

During our 4 nights at his home, Muneeb and his family continued to display all the acts of Pakistani hospitality, and then some.

Having opened a juice and ice cream stand quite recently, Muneeb and his cousin Tahir-who quickly became a 4^th member of our 3 person squad- didn’t hesitate to stuff us with as much mango smoothies, shwarma and cups of ice cream as our hearts desired.

For an ice cream addict like myself, does more rewarding hospitality even exist?

 

 

On our second to last day, Muneeb came in as usual for breakfast, cloth-wrapped naan, chai kettle, and honey in tow. He peered at my bed, taking note of something.

“What happened to this bear’s head?”

Ah, the bright orange matted bear, a stuffed animal I had found left for dead on top of a wardrobe in the room. I had considered that it might belong to one of the dozen of kids in his extended family… though my stuffed animal proclivity had hoped for the best.

Instead of taking it back, he studied the almost decapitated head of the tangerine-colored bear and said simply,

“Give it to me, we will fix it for you.”

Less than one hour later, Muneeb returned with the bear, its head now sitting snugly on his portly stuffed neck.

“Better now?”

…I think I’d say so.

An Unexpected Afternoon Snack

 It was hot, but the good type of hot- a welcoming heat free from humidity, the perfect company for whiling away the day by the river.

We were sitting on the bank of the Swat River on the outskirts of Mingora City in Swat Valley, lazing in the late summer sun and munching on cheap masala-flavored Cheetos.

The section of the river directly in front of us proved shallow enough- shalwar khameez-clad men struggled against the moderate current to get to the more secluded bank on the other side.

Across the way, a herd of albino-faced water buffalos splashed their way across, kept in line by a pair of wiry shepherds.

The grassy bank was mostly empty, save for those meandering across the walkway behind us and the odd group of men crossing or swimming in the Swat.

 

 

Moments later, a stout, middle-aged man approached us.

“Asalam Aleikum!” He exclaimed, shaking Charles’ hand and offering me the customary hand over heart gesture.

Despite a language barrier, pieces of English and Urdu broke through well enough for us learn that Fazal Hadi was a native of Mingora. He had noticed us here the past few days and was keen to learn who we were and where we came from.

“America?! Very nice country.”

Though I didn’t exactly agree, I was happy to have the stereotype that we would be hated as Americans-propagated by ignorant family members- proven wrong yet again.

Our new friend got up and insisted he would be right back… and back he came- but not without some totally unexpected gifts.

 

 

Fazal Hadi’s toothy grin escaped his lips as he gingerly opened up his acquisition: crispy, masala dipped- egg pakora and coal-fire grilled corn on the cobs, accompanied by miniature lemons and a handful of spices for optimal sprinkling, all spread out on a Korean newspaper.

We didn’t even know this man for 10 minutes, heck we didn’t know him at all, and he went well out of his way to load us up with some street food goodies, almost as if he KNEW we were starving from our sad Cheetos “meal.”

 

 

He shared a third corn with us as we showered him with “Shukriyas,” (thank yous) to which he brushed off.

 

 

Flavorful, fresh and local as can be- its safe to say the impromptu snacks hit the spot. Though we tried to pay him back for his kindness, Fazal Hadi would accept no such thing, and even left again, this time with a bag of fluffy handmade chips.

And the only thing he requested was “One photo” as he made sure we got back to the street from the river.

 

 

Sounds a lot like the “terrorists” and “American haters” we had been lectured on, doesn’t it? More like the complete and utter opposite, if you ask me.

Visiting Hours: The park is open from dawn until late into the night

Entrance Fee: Free

 

Read Next: The Ultimate Guide to Shimshal Valley

 

In a Hospitable Trance

Men men and more men: if you want to witness a sausage fest for the record books, Thursday night dhamal at Madhu lal Hussain just might be your best bet. This historical place in Pakistan is one of Lahore’s true hidden gems.

It was my second time at what had easily become my favorite event in Pakistan: Sufi dhamal, where followers of Sufism gather to dance wildly in a trance-like whirl to drum beats as a form of meditation. Many Pakistani festivals revolve around different Sufi saints.

 

 

Though powerful and enticing, the event- like many in Pakistan- was truly a men’s outing. I had seen one Sufi woman the previous week, but alas, tonight there were none.

A foreigner I was attending the event with, chatted with some neighboring men, who were eager to share hashish and conversation. But as time trickled on, the drum beats and dancing just weren’t starting.

Just as I was starting to believe it was cancelled, the familiar thumps exploded out – this time from the other side of the courtyard, some few-hundred feet away. Seeing that my fellow traveler wouldn’t really be able to leave his new friends, I decided to go check out the scene for myself.

Packs of eyeballs blazed through my skin, partly curious, partly confused- local women rarely attended, never mind foreign ones.

I wandered over to the corner of the yard to find that, indeed, the dhamal was proceeding on- hundreds of men of all ages sat facing the dancers, some standing around the circle and others craning their heads to see from a slightly lifted seating area.

 

 

I fumbled to remove my shoes and hoped they’d still be there amongst the dozens upon dozens of chapals strewn underneath the platform.

I kept my eyes locked on the performance, where the dancers were already being spun into their swirling whirls. But suddenly, I noticed some older men sitting in the front row motioning to me with colorful, ring-clad fingers.

I shyly climbed through the mass of bodies sitting atop the platform towards the front, where the ringed men were quickly making a space for me… directly in front of the action.

 

Within a minute, I had a front-row seat, and a joint in my hand that had been passed by another pair of younger men to my left.

Having heard it was best not to not go to dhamal alone… I definitely wasn’t expecting this.

None of these men had even seen the male foreigner I had came with, yet they were still treating me with more respect and kindness than I’d ever seen at an event anywhere. If this were happening in the US, I would have undoubtedly been shoved to the back by now.

I turned to my left and attempted to pass the cigarette joint, to which the man shook his head and insisted it was for me only, before passing me a second one some moments later.

 

Thick, reverberating beats of the drums coupled with the jangling of the dancers’ ankle belts- and perhaps the bit of hashish- made me feel a bit trance-y myself.

At first I had been nervous to even come all the way over here by myself- but what I ACTUALLY experienced couldn’t have been further from such fears.

A front-row seat and hashish without so much as one intrusive or bothersome question?

Pakistani hospitality sure is something.

Want to know a secret? Hunza Valley is one of the most hospitable places in Pakistan. Learn all about it here:

• EPIC Hunza Valley Travel Guide