Despite the power and sway of Islam here in the bleached desert, the desperate-looking backdrop to the southern Pakistan-Afghanistan border, other devotions prevail on emergent occasions. This is an ancient tribal area, infused with the myth and magic of thousands of years of civilization. Here is one: when dust storms descend it means people are dying somewhere.
There were dust storms here yesterday, enshrouding the region in what would seem to be a misty fog but for the searing dryness that sandpapers your skin and constricts your throat. Visibility was maybe 50 metres. More than one person passed the comment: "Look at the dust today: people are dying in Afghanistan."
Without subscribing to the superstition, one had to listen carefully to the tales of the refugees who crossed over the border today. Many came from Kandahar, the spiritual home of the Taliban and focus of the most intense night of air strikes on Wednesday night. A Taliban spokesman said 115 people were killed that night. A refugee from Kandahar claimed 75 people were killed in his city.
Either claim was impossible to verify as the Taliban has forbidden journalists to travel inside Afghanistan. But the activity at the border crossing in Chaman was the most intense in the last three weeks. Officially, the border is closed to Afghan refugees, say Pakistani authorities. These same authorities do their utmost to make sure journalists have limited access to Chaman.
But according to two Pakistani journalists who have been stationed in Chaman day and night for the last 20 days and nights, the border is open - to any Afghan refugee who can afford the proper bribe.
"The flow is heaviest at seven in the morning and the last two days have been the busiest," one observer said.
The Pakistani authorities attempted to slow the flow of refugees for an hour or two yesterday as western journalists arrived. But two hours proved too much for the waiting families on the Afghanistan side, and despite nervous authorities placing their hands over television camera lenses as well as kicking a few reporters, what was happening was evident. Slowly they came, and then more quickly in a sudden rush: donkey-drawn carts filled with all their wealth, scraps of sheet metal, suitcases tied with string, bulging pillow cases.
"The bombs were too much. It is getting worse," said one man as his wife, invisible in a blue burqa, trailed behind him. In fact, the US Defence Department in Washington confirmed that the targets of the Wednesday night strikes had shifted from air defence sites, command centres and airfields to "bivouac areas, maintenance sites and troop-type facilities" of the Taliban's ground forces. In real language, the bombs were now aimed at Taliban ground forces themselves. The body count would inevitably grow.
Others coming through spoke glowingly of the Taliban. One group of men rode through with a Taliban flag hoisted above their vehicle. Why they were coming to Quetta instead of fighting jihad on their home soil was unclear.
As usual, the border was crowded with hundreds of young men who seem only to be hanging around. They shed their indifference of the last few weeks and replaced it with hostility, shouting at westerners and acting menacingly. Anger towards the US for the bombing? Certainly. But hopelessness and boredom seemed to play an equal role.
Returning to Quetta, a three- hour drive, it was evident that security outside the city was heightened, with Frontier Corp soldiers present and ready. Friday is a day of preaching in the mosques, and often, demonstrations in the streets. As the war against Afghanistan continues, the atmosphere of Muslim Pakistan simmers.