ABSTRACT
Peshawar, capital of the Northwest Frontier Province (NFP), the wildest city on Earth, the borderline between the Middle Ages and the twentieth century. I loved Peshawar the minute I laid eyes on its slim minarets, its bulbously domed palaces, its dark, mysterious souks, and still darker alleyways. Take away the cars and vans that clog the city’s narrow streets, and Peshawar has changed not a whit since the days of Kipling. Dust, incense, car fumes, sweet spices, and the reek of rotting garbage infuse its sultry air. A great din assaults the senses: honking horns, Pathan music, angry disputes, hawkers offering their wares, occasional bursts of gunfire, the muezzin’s call to prayer. Women, veiled from head to toe in black, move like silent wraiths through the raucous crowds.
