Mujahideen Shopping Mall
ZOOM OUT is set in 1988/89.
Maybe the world was just as scary back then as it is now, but it was a different kind of scary.
Today I’ll take you to the dusty Pakistani town of Darra Adem Khel.
Back in ’89 foreigners could visit Darra; today it is a battleground
between Taliban and other forces in the untamed Tribal Region.
Darra is famous for one thing, as you will see…
CHAPETER 25
“Okay fellas, let’s go.”
They got in the car without a word and drove back down through the arid hills. Brian saw a
sign that read: Entering Kohat Frontier Region. This tribal area looked like
the other tribal areas: barren and dusty and uninviting. Maybe the Pakistani
government left these people alone because they didn’t have anything worth
troubling about. Occasionally there were crops growing by the roadside, but
this certainly wasn’t a land of plenty. They drove for about half an hour. Many
vehicles plied the road, and there were lots of people walking, carrying things.
No factories or shops were visible, except for an occasional shack serving food
or repairing tires. Brian wondered what all these people did for a living. He
soon found out.
The town of Darra Adam Khel appeared out of nowhere. At first there was no indication that this was Gun City.
It looked rundown, poor and lacklustre. Little shops featured rusting Sprite
signs and dirty glass cabinets with just a few items inside. A lot of people
seemed to be just hanging around, smoking, sitting on steps. The car pulled
over in front of one shop. Through the open window Brian saw a hand-painted
sign with an AK-47 and Arabic writing.
“Darra,” said the driver.
The gunman got out and wandered away. The driver motioned to Brian. They walked past the
AK-47 sign through a narrow courtyard. Brian glanced around. On all sides of
the courtyard were small stalls, about the size of a bedroom. In each one sat
one or two men making pieces of guns. Brian slowed down to watch a man sanding
a rifle butt. In the next stall an old man was cutting pieces of metal on a
foot-powered machine. The driver motioned to Brian to keep walking. The next shop was a little more upscale. It
had glass cabinets in which a wide variety of handguns were displayed. Some
appeared to be collector’s items—ancient and ornate with carvings in the metal.
A grenade rested against a tiny gun with a brightly polished grip.
“Pistol?” the woman behind the counter asked him.
Brian looked up without a response.
“Pen gun?”
The woman was missing most of her teeth, but her clothes were nice. She reached into the
cabinet and took out a bulky ballpoint pen. Deftly opening it, she revealed the
operation of the deadly literary device.
“Bullet here.” She pointed to the end of the pen where the ink tube would normally
go, then screwed the two pieces back together.
“Shoot here.” She clicked the top of the pen. “200 rupees.”
Brian took the pen gun from her hand and looked it over. He clicked it a few times and
looked down the barrel. Then the driver returned, motioning again. The driver
didn’t enjoy speaking when body language could be employed. Brian handed the
weapon back to the woman.
“I already have two at home,” he told her.
Brian figured the driver had a deal with one of the merchants, much like tour guides
elsewhere in Asia had relationships with silk stores or souvenir shops. Except this shop sold firearms.
“Good afternoon,” said a man who looked like a Pakistani Bob Hope. “Would
you like some tea?”
“Um, sure.” Brian liked the mint tea he’d had in Rawalpindi. He would have preferred a beer.
The thought crossed his mind that maybe someone around here sold hash. But he
was already a little too overwhelmed by the contraband on the shelves to
attempt to score hashish.
All around him were rifles: on the walls, stacked against shelves, lying on the ground. The
distinctive AK-47 he could identify, but Brian couldn’t name the others. He had
never been interested in guns. He was actually a gun control advocate, in a
passive way. Brian had never owned a weapon and never intended to. At the
moment it was a little scary being surrounded by so many guns. He assumed they
were unloaded. Bob Hope didn’t try the hard sell approach. He surely knew that
foreigners couldn’t legally purchase guns here. Brian wondered who actually
bought all this stuff. Mujahadeen, probably. Brian spotted an old bazooka or
antitank gun or something in a corner. Now that would be cool. Walk into Henderson’s with that
thing some morning.
“Hi, I’m here to see Chet.”
Rapid gunfire burst from the street, and Brian jumped. Someone was squeezing off about ten
rounds in the space of five seconds. Brian leaned out of the doorway and peered
down the courtyard, but he couldn’t see anything. His heart was racing. The old
man offered him a pen gun, but Brian declined. Despite his moral position on
gun ownership, like any former boy, he was intrigued by all the guns. Want a bazooka? M-16? There were a few other
interesting items in the shop: an old British helmet, various insignia, a
musket about five feet long. Brian didn’t touch any of it. The driver was busy
talking to another man in the shop, so Brian said thank you to Bob Hope and
strolled out. On the other side of the courtyard two boys were putting loose
bullets in boxes. They were big bullets. The kids paid no attention to him. In
the other shops men were assembling guns or examining pieces of metal. He
walked back out to the street. Whoever had been firing the gun had left. Maybe
back to Afghanistan to shoot Russians. Brian walked down the broken sidewalk. More guns. Guns
everywhere. Then a kebab shop. Then more guns. He didn’t want to go too far
away from the perceived safety of the car. Brian wasn’t extremely comfortable
in Darra. But no one seemed interested in the foreigner. They were busy
carrying pieces of metal around, or assembling firing mechanisms. The driver
came out, unsmiling and unspeaking.
“Interesting place,” Brian commented. “But I think I’ve probably seen enough.”
As they drove back out of town he saw a man with a funny cap step out of a shop and point a
rifle at the sky. Shots were still echoing down the street as they reached the Darra city limits.
petermaize 