The rivalry between India and Pakistan is bitter but, for tourists at least, occasionally fruitful. Sorcha Hamilton watches locals hurl insults at one another at the border, then enjoys the hospitality of Sikhism's holiest shrine
A fist fight almost breaks out when we get to the border. A crowd of men descends on us, shouting and shoving to get to our bags. Dust rises around the scuffle, and our bags disappear into the centre of it all. When the winner finally emerges, he sets off towards the visa office, balancing the luggage triumphantly on his head. At such a quiet border, locals have to fight for every bit of business - even if carrying bags half a mile to the other side earns them only 70 cent.
We are leaving Pakistan for India, entering the land of Bollywood, Gandhi, the Taj Mahal and the sacred cow. We are crossing a border that marks one of the most contentious and violent moments in the history of the two countries. When the British drew a line between India and the newly formed Pakistan, in 1948, they created a permanent and dangerous rift. Since then the rivalry between the two countries has been played out in various ways: nuclear testing, Hindu-Muslim violence, the disputed territory of Kashmir and, of course, cricket.
Going through the checkpoints, however, it is hard to see any signs of this deep-seated rivalry. The tall Pakistani guards, in jet-black uniforms with red fantails on their turbans, seem rather bored, if not indifferent. In the bare, stuffy office where they check visas, it feels as if we are the only people to want to cross for months. As we walk closer to the Indian side, the guards who inspect our passports seem to do so more out of curiosity than out of duty. Because of restrictions on Pakistanis working or living in India, and vice versa, there is little traffic between the two sides.
In fact, the border seems most popular for its bizarre closing ceremony. When we finally reach Indian territory, hordes of people are rushing to get seats to watch it. We follow them to specially-built stands, where spectators sit in yellow, green and pink turbans and saris. The men hold their fists in the air and the women rattle their bangles as they chant "Hindustan zindabad!", which means "India forever!" The Pakistani side, which we have just left, is jammed full of spectators in single-sex seating. A stone's throw behind the border gate they roar back: "Pakistan zindabad!"
As the exchanges grow louder and more fierce, die-hard enthusiasts move through the isles, rousing supporters and waving huge Indian flags. While the crowd waits for the ceremony to begin, the crackling voice of a woman, singing about her love for India, blasts from a cassette player resting on a window in the immigration office.
The crowd goes quiet when a six-foot Sikh guard, dressed in beige and also with red fantails on his turban, goose-steps his way to the gate, stopping with a dramatic stomp. Three of his colleagues follow suit. The crowd erupts with cheers. We can see guards on the Pakistani side going through the same routine. Then the guards from both sides meet in the middle, briefly and solemnly shaking hands before closing the border.
The crowd erupts with applause again; some of the spectators rush to shake hands or have their photographs taken with the guards. The ceremony, an uncanny display of colonial-style pomp, male bravado and deep national rivalry, has lasted about 15 minutes. It seems to be little more than an excuse for Indians and Pakistanis to shout at each other.
About 40 minutes from the border is the town of Amritsar. We arrive at dusk, the best time to see the magnificent Golden Temple but the worst time to see the city, which feels rather dilapidated. We take a bicycle rickshaw, passing rows of people sleeping under bundles of rags and cardboard at the roadside. Packs of hungry dogs follow us through the dust, fumes and occasional waft of sewage. We pass a skeletal man with wild matted hair and a heavy beard, who is standing in the middle of the traffic, holding out his hand. He is asking for money to feed the monkey hanging on his shoulder.
The Golden Temple makes up for all of Amritsar's dilapidation. It is thrilling, after washing my feet and covering my head, to enter the holiest shrine of Sikhism. Its dome, said to be gilded with 100kg of pure gold, is dazzling, lying at the centre of a sacred pool and surrounded by a marble walkway. It's even more spectacular at night, when it is lit up, the dome's golden reflection shimmering on the water.
As I walk around the temple I pass groups of old white-bearded men sitting and praying, entire families sleeping on thin mats, young men bathing in the sacred water and endless reds, greens, yellows and blues of the women's saris. The mesmerising chants of four priests, who read continuously in Punjabi from the Siri Guru Granth Sahib, Sikhism's holy book, echo around the temple. It is peaceful despite the many visitors flocking around. It is hard to imagine what it was like in June 1983, when about 450 people were killed here after Indira Gandhi, then India's prime minister, ordered the eviction from the temple of extremists who were demanding the establishment of an independent Sikh state. (Five months later she was assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards in revenge.)
Volunteers at the Golden Temple prepare free meals for 30,000 people a day. Groups of men and women sit cross-legged, endlessly peeling garlic and chopping onions, while the clatter of thousands of metal plates being washed in the community kitchens never ceases. Inside, prayers are said before men in yellow tunics and blue turbans walk up and down the rows of people, doling out dhal and chapattis. They even offer seconds.
After eating you can stay in a room, also without charge, in the marble fort surrounding the temple. If all the rooms are all full they'll offer you a mat to sleep on until one becomes available. It's all part of the Sikh sense of goodwill that is extended to all visitors to the temple, regardless of religion.
Back out on the street, the smell of cumin being fried at a food stall wafts over the beeping cars, motorbikes and rickshaws. Groups of men sit at the roadside, sipping tea from tiny cups. Young girls with dirty faces wander around in twos, asking for money, while a bearded old man stands selling faded photos of the Golden Temple. The speeding traffic whips everything into a cloud of dust, including the cow standing in the centre of it all, slowly swinging its tail.
TRAVEL TIPS
PAKISTAN Lahore is the closest town to the border on the Pakistani side. There's plenty to see, especially the Lahore Fort and gardens, the Badshahi mosque or the tomb of Jahangir, emperor of India in the early 17th century. Bear in mind that in most sacred places you are expected to cover your head and take off your shoes. Be sensitive about what you wear: Princess Diana caused a stir when she wore a skirt many considered too short. Gowal Mandi, or "Food Street", is great place to wander.
CROSSING THE BORDER Lahore is about 30 minutes by taxi or bus from the border at Wagah (Attari on the Indian side). The border, which is open between 10am and 4pm, takes about half an hour to cross by foot. The border-closing ceremony usually takes place soon after crossings stop, but it's best to check with the guards for exact times. Go early to ensure you get a good seat to watch all the pomp.
INDIA It's best to take a taxi from the border to Amritsar, about 40 minutes away. There aren't many decent hotels in Amritsar, but you can always ask for a room at the Golden Temple if you'd like a more peaceful resting place. Cycle rickshaws are a fun if slightly hair-raising way to get around; the tiny auto rickshaws are the best bet for getting somewhere in a hurry. It's worth visiting the Jallianwala Bagh garden of remembrance, five minutes from the Golden Temple, which commemorates the 2,000 Indians who were killed or wounded when the British opened fired on a peaceful demonstration in1919.