Traveling Through Pakistan With My (Fake) Husband

The author and her “hubby” (Charlie Grosso)

I am traveling in Pakistan with a stranger I met on a layover in Hong Kong. Within minutes of meeting each other, we knew we could travel together. We decided to travel to Pakistan together over lukewarm Tiger Beer sitting on Smurf size chairs in Hanoi. In a conservative Islamic country such as Pakistan, we thought it made sense for us to pretend to be husband and wife. It made sense for us to be anything but single Americans.

We decided to rendezvous in Guangzhou in South China, and then enter Pakistan from Western China, going down the Karakoram Highway. As I stood there waiting, I thought: Do I know what he looks like? I wondered for the briefest moment if I would recognize this man I had met on a layover in Hong Kong four months earlier. I didn’t know anything about and I was about to head deep into Pakistan with this stranger. I slowed my pace and looked at each sleepy-eyed passenger carefully. He was not at the gate. I turned around and saw a scruffy, tall white man in a tan T-shirt tentatively waving at me from a corner. Yes! Hello stranger!

On our flight to Kashgar we worked out our cover story: He would be from Latvia, an environmental science schoolteacher. I was to be Turkmen, Asian enough but not necessarily Chinese, skirting the political tension between China and Pakistan. The new me worked as a secretary for Doctors Without Boarders. My “husband” and I met in Timbuku five years ago and were now living in Riga. A perfect cover, carefully circumventing all possible ideological and political land mines.

Related: I Travel Without My Husband and We’re Both Better Off

In our fake life, we traveled fast and never stayed anywhere for too long. There were too many security concerns, kidnapping and ransom always a threat. The lies and subterfuge turned us into characters in a spy thriller. When we exited China through Tashkurgan, the last town in Xin’jin and didn’t get stamped into Pakistan until Sost, some 120 miles later, we were country-less outlaws on an old Chinese sleeper bus crossing the Khunjerab Pass (15,397 feet) with an strange mish-mash of Pakistanti and Chinese men.

Then in Sost, the first town in Pakistan, a man came over, tapped Matt on the shoulder, and asked him to follow. Ten minutes later, Matt came back and told me Pakistani Intelligence wanted to know if Matt was CIA. We high-tailed it out of there before the real spy had any more questions for us.

Sights along the way (Charlie Grosso)

We never did get to tell our perfect cover story. Instead, the story we told as we traveled changed all the time. We were Canadians unless we had to hand over our passports for security checkpoints or hotel registrations. Sometimes we lived in British Columbia (when I headed up the narrative), sometimes we lived in Ontario or Thunder Bay (when he told the story). We were always teachers, but taught unspecified levels and subject matters. At one point we were unemployed and at another, we were on sabbatical. Most of the time, the curious Pakistanis were less concerned with what I did for a living and more interested in Matt’s fictitious job; after all he is the man.

Even though we said we were married, the reality of our single selves would flash through subliminally like a bright neon sign telegraphing the lack of intimacy between us. The good Pakistanis would ask, “Are you married?” One of us would reply, “Yes” and point at the other. The inquiring Pakistani would suffer an awkward pause of disbelief. The subtleties of couplehood are hard to fake: We stood a little too far away from each other, and he would often hit me on the shoulder as if I was his college buddy. Our factitious marriage eventually spawned a fake child, a three-year-old boy named Marco (after Marco Polo of course). Being an American had become a liability; we told little white lies to protect ourselves from anti-American sentiments. We meant no ill will in our deceit.

Related: Fake It ’Til You Make It: Woman Uses Photoshop to Create Phony Vacation Photos

Traveling through Pakistan (Charlie Grosso)

We quickly traveled through the providence of Gilgit–Baltistan, the land of 8000 peaks, spending only a night at each stop. We always took a single room: We were husband and wife after all.

I was really married once. When we traveled together the things about our natural temperaments and habits that each other at home followed us into every hotel room and hostel bed. My ex always wanted to do things together; it was a cause for a fight if I wanted to do something different, alone, for an afternoon. In Gulmit, Matt went on a trek in the morning and I went around town. No issues. Not even worthy of a discussion or disclaimer. The lack of history between us meant there was no baggage, everything was new and negotiable. This is who you are and I accept you as is. His toothpaste suffered a full-fisted squeeze every morning. Something to notice, nothing to get upset about. His presence made me feel a little safer and being able to divide and conquer on simple tasks — you sort out the bus ticket and I will get the snacks — was welcome change to my perpetual solo travel. The fiercely independent I-can-do-everything-on-my-own me was surprised by how much I loved having him next to me. Our non-stop conversation made everything a little more vivid and kept the chaos of Pakistan at arm’s length. As a couple, we are able to created a tiny protective layer around ourselves in a way I couldn’t have done on my own.

Wanderlust moves them forward (Charlie Grosso)

We hired a driver in Gilgit to take us across the Shandur Pass (12,139 feet) into Chitral, aiming for the remote Kalash Valleys, less than a hundred kilometer from the Afghanistan boarder. I loved the high altitude peaks and crystal blue glacial lakes. Matt got out of the car, took a deep inhale of the freezing air, his love for the mountains reflected in his smile. The sight burned the peaks a little deeper into my memory. Matt wanted to visit the remote Kalash tribe, he has a keen interest in remote native cultures and have seen many in his travels. I wanted to write about them, the smallest religious minority group in Pakistan, Pagans in the land of Muslims. How is it possible for two strangers habits and desires to dovetail each other so perfectly?

We were told all foreign nationals needed armed escorts to enter Islamabad, so we hired men with guns. They drove at break-neck speeds through the Swat Valley, skirting by Peshawar. It was an intense ride. We didn’t stop or break for school children or goats. We had become Bonnie and Clyde.

At night, alone, no longer needing to pretend that we were married, we would go over the day’s events. When we’d finally exhausted what we had to say about the world, conversation would turn to the ultra-personal. There was a longterm, serious girlfriend back in San Diego for Matt, one he thought he should do right by and marry but was hesitating. I entertained him with ridiculous Sex in the City style stories of New York City dating, post-divorce, in-between travels. “You will find someone, someone who loves the road as much as you!” he mumbled just before he drifted off to sleep. I pushed aside the obvious and turn off the lights.

By day, our married lies held up — until we met Imran Khan, Babr Khan, and their entire extended family, a curve ball we could not have anticipated. Having heard through the grapevine of brothers, cousins, and neighbors in the tiny town of Uch Sharif that two foreigners were trying to get to a random corner of Punjab, Irman showed up at the bus depot offering assistance. He said he would take us to Derawer Fort. We wanted to camp under the stars near the old fort there, a change of pace from the intensity of being in Taliban country, so close to the Afghanistan boarder. Imran could not understand the appeal of camping. “Why would you want to sleep outside? I like to sleep inside my house with my wife,” Imran said in disbelief. Instead of trying to explain to Imran why camping is cool, we just kept on telling him that is what we would like to do. It took a while for him to get on board with our plan.

Then he started calling everyone he knew. “It is not safe for you to sleep outside. You need protection.” Imran insisted. Matt and I looked at each other and decided not to ask too many questions. Before long, Babr Khan, Imran’s cousin joined us, with a parcel of food he picked up from Imran’s wife and a blanket. When we arrived at the fort, another friend of Imran’s was there waiting. Unintentionally, we had dragged three strangers into our desert camping plan. They would defend us from the Jinns (evil spirits), they said. It occurred to me that Imran could be a spy, a real proper one, unlike us, but his smile and hospitality won us over.

Dinner with new friends (Charlie Grosso)

Imran giving us a ride turned into two days of adventures, ending at his house for a meal with him and his extended family. By then, we were so far into the lies that there was no way out. Spending hours in the kitchen with grandmothers, aunties, sisters, and cousins, I prayed silently they didn’t ask to see photos of baby Marco.

“Where is your boy now?” they said.

I reached for the simplest answer: “He is with Matt’s mom.”

“Doesn’t he miss you?”

“We want our kid to be very independent.” I replied. They must have thought us to be very irresponsible parents.

Playing cricket on the roof (Charlie Grosso)

Matt deflected all the questions he could not answer with sports. He played cricket on the roof with the men, while I sat in the kitchen with all the sisters lying to them, “No, Matt and I do not use Facebook.”

Our deceit haunted us long after we left. Imran and his family wouldn’t have cared whether we were Americans or Martians. You don’t lie to friends, but there was no way we could’ve known.

It was an intense two weeks in Pakistan with a stranger who became my “husband” and co-conspirator. We hated the lies but we weren’t sure where the truth would have lead us. We got “divorced” at the Jeddha airport. In a holding a pattern in Saudia Arabia, waiting to for my next flight, I was free woman once again.

Matt and I text each other sporadically these days. When I’ve had a good day surfing; when headline news about Iran, Boko Haram, ISIS or Tailban is particular horrifying; when the wanderlust is unbearable. Our fake marriage forged a friendship and connection. Once in a while he calls. Once we get through the wanderlust, where to next for each of us, and work, he’ll ask if I’m seeing anyone. “No one I would travel Pakistan in an arm escort with,” I say.

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