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The long flight to Pakistan gave me plenty of time to ponder the fierce Pathan code of conduct. 'Nang', the second rule of Pathan Law requires quite a lot of thought. This refers to tribal or family honour, which is fiercely protected. The famous Pathan proverb 'an eye for an eye, a leg for a tooth' illustrates this concept perfectly.
Still at least it took my mind off flying P I A, Pakistan International Airlines or Prayers in the Air as it is otherwise is known. Twenty minutes of in flight worship followed by 40 minutes of in-flight orange juice didn't exactly set me up for the day and I arrived in Islamabad ready to follow the bear into Afghanistan if necessary.
As directed I went downtown to the Excise and Tax Office where, after signing several forms saying I wasn't a Muslim and paying 80p, I was issued with a liquor permit.
This allowed me to enter the only 'bar' in the area, a small outhouse attached to Flashman's Hotel in nearby Rawalpindi and drink Murree beer between 9 am and 4 pm. In the evening I assumed I should rest, which I might need to do if I started the day with scrambled egg and lager.
It wasn't difficult to imagine the rascally Flashman, as depicted in George McDonald Fraser's tales of 19 century debauchery, roaming the city's streets looking for unspeakable delights.
It has horse drawn taxis, rickety wooden houses, old world charm - but crap boozers.
Flashy for one wouldn't enjoy supping ale in a drinking cupboard and neither did I. Instead I went in search of games of chance and rakish company - but got lost in a narrow street full of buckets.
Eventually meandering back to the hotel I fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of manly things like war, Will Carling and those damn buckets. I awoke woolly headed to find my car and driver waiting.
We set off at 7:30 am hoping three hours later we'd be in Peshawar - the last town before the Khyber Pass and Afghanistan.
The Military presence, strong even on the outskirts of Rawalpindi became overwhelming As we carried on up the Khyber I wondered what Hatti Jacques would have made of all those tanks.
There were rows and rows of them, lined up waiting for the next invasion from, I suppose, any direction. India, China, one of the former Soviet republics or Afghanistan, less than 80 kilometres up the road.
Civil war still rages here, with younger Muslims trying to oust their Mujahadeen elders whose brand of fundamentalism lacked the moral strength seen by them to be...well.. fundamental.
This obviously raised the question 'how fundamental should a fundamentalist be?' but fortunately I was unable to dwell on this crucial issue as we'd arrived in downtown Peshawar and needed a permit to proceed further.
Darra Adam Khel is in what the sophisticates of Islamabad fearfully refer to as the 'tribal areas'.
Until last year it was closed to foreigners owing to large scale trafficking of drugs and guns. For example, a large quality of the world's opium is grown in the region.
The associated ebullience of the area made travel arrangements difficult. A Swiss couple I met complained their hotel was without soap for a week.
It's slightly safe now though, local drug dealers no longer display piles of hashish and opium for sale in the street.
Instead its tidied away in cupboards to allow the village to get on with the business of selling guns.
Permits to tribal areas are granted by local political agents who acts as go-between for the north West Frontier regional government and tribal leaders. Everyone, including Pakistanis must have one to enter.
Like the Moghuls, Afghans, Sikhs, Russians and just about everyone else the Pakistanis have failed to overcome the people of these lands - the Parthans.
These were the only people ever to overcome Genghis Khan and, apparently, they even gave Millwall a run for their money.
Experts at exploiting their rugged terrain these renowned fighters thrived on banditry, guerrilla warfare and scaring the shit out of people. This made the area a favourite battleground for macho British colonialists out to win their spurs in the east.
Britain fought and failed to win several 19th Century wars with the lively locals, in the process gaining a healthy respect for their fearsome ability in battle and ironclad, if blood, moral code of honour.
During this period, the frontier grew in strategic importance as did the Pathans, who Britain pragmatically decide would be a useful buffer against Russian expansion.
Wheeler dealing from the Robert Maxwell school of 'getting your own way' kept the Pathans at bay and culminated in the Dursand Line, established in 1893.
This told the pesky Pathans in no uncertain manner where the empire ended and Afghanistan started. Unfortunately it cut a straight swathe through traditional tribal homelands so they ignored it completely and crossed at will using hidden mountain trails.
They continue to do so to this day, keeping supply routes open from the gun factories of Darra to their warring brothers in the north.
The main roads through the tribal areas are guarded by Pakistani government troops - but off them tribal law is rigidly enforced. Based on the Pathan moral code, or Pukhtunwali, it is wise for any traveller to have a basic grasp of it.
Firstly 'Melmastia' will ensure 'hospitality without expectation or reward' is offered and this should be reciprocated, in order to keep on the host's right side.
You can therefore hold anyone's Kalashnikov and have the biggest bowl of soup at tea time, provided you offer an olive branch of friendship back by taking on a Pathan pen-pal.
'Nang' also requires quite a lot of thought. This refers to tribal or family honour, which is fiercely protected. The famous Pathan proverb 'an eye for an eye, a leg for a tooth' illustrates this concept perfectly.
The visitor is most likely to cause offence with a lingering glance or chance conversation with a woman. This is seen to bring dishonour on her family which can only be resolved with the deaths of both people involved.
If all of this sounds lawless, it isn't really at all. Decisions concerning the application of tribal law are made by a council of tribal leaders known as a 'Jirga'. They judge disputes and decide on the appropriate 'badal' or retribution.
This is the third pillar of the Pathan moral code and in the case of a killing, for instance, the obligation to avenge would be the death of a member of the killer's family in return.
This is considered fair by the Jirga - but not necessarily by the families involved who may come to their own arrangements.
Tit for tat killings can go on for years. In extreme cases a 'lashkar' or tribal posse can be assembled to carry out revenge in a more orderly fashion.
Anyone finding themselves in this sort of mess should consider the fourth rule of Pukhtunwali.
'Nanwatai' refers to the absolute submission of the vanquished in a fight or dispute and is similar to the western concept of running away.
So, anyone upsetting a tooled up Pathan should show utter humility, beg for forgiveness, buy him some sweets and hope he doesn't come round at Christmas and kill Uncle Derek.
The political agent for Orakzai, the tribal area in which Darra lies, granted me a permit from his office behind what appeared to be bike sheds and added as I left, "I can't guarantee your safety in the tribal areas, pick up an armed guard at the border."
Half an hour out of Peshawar the border appeared and so did the guard. He looked like a good reason for me to do exactly as I was told.
He introduced himself as Quasim Rashid Khan, distant cousin of Khan Abdul Wali Khan, the ancient but still living patriarch of Pathan nationalism and proud member of the Afridi tribe.
Quasim was a big bloke, who looked like he could hold the Red Army at bay with his beard. After a few minutes in the car he turned and said something about Melmasta to me. In a hazy blue funk I couldn't remember whether this involved being showered with small gifts or having me private parts cut off for being in the same room as his auntie.
I must have looked worried, because he reassured me he was welcoming me to his homeland, by offering me a boiled sweet. As we pulled into the gun capital of a society steeped in violence, banditry and drug trafficking it looked at first like any other village on market day.
But a closer look revealed a street full of nothing but gun shops. There were over a hundred in the one village, mostly on the main street. I spotted the odd vegetable stall, hardware store and a branch of a shop which appeared to be a sort of Scud-U-Like.
But as soon as I opened the car door it was as if I'd stepped into the middle of the Battle of the Bulge as a cacophony of weapons went off around me. From that moment until I left, a couple of hours later, there wasn't a break in the firing longer than 20 seconds, as locals ordered a pound of oranges and a dozen grenades.
The firing was nothing to do with me turning up. Instead it was potential customers testing weapons in a frenzy of unfriendliness.
Shell-shocked I was led through back alleys where the guns and bullets were made. Boys as young as eight used tiny hammers to force the lead tops of small calibre bullets into their cases, while bigger boys made bigger bullets in adjacent larger workshops.
Further up the street, older lads varnished the wooden handles of AK47s, everyone of them seemingly proud of their work and eager to thrust one into your hand.
Through each doorway a different part of the gun makers craft was on display. But in this place dedicated to violent death it was difficult to imagine a friendlier welcome.
Smiles and offers of cups of Chai followed me everywhere, as did my guard, who didn't interfere but never let me out of his sight. On the main street the finished products were being tested - and this where the men hung out.
There were Kalashnikov shops, purveyors of anti-aircraft and outlets specialising in guns disguised as umbrellas, walking sticks, and most frightening of all, a pen-pistol.
Looking like a fountain pen it unscrews in the middle to reveal a chamber ready for a single 2.5 mm round. Screwed up again with the nib and cartridge removed it is cocked by drawing back the pen top a centimetre.
To fire, you press lightly on the pen top's clip. Deadly at 20 metres it costs just £4.00
Alternatively, £90 buys a Kalashnikov, and £7.50 purchases a .22 calibre ladies gun for your girlfriend. To improve home security £300.00 gets you an anti-aircraft gun.
Obviously, with the comprehensive range on view, choosing the gun to suite your exact needs is a bit of headache, as, by this time, was the village itself.
So the best thing to do is walk a couple of hundred yards to test your fire power. You have to pay for the ammunition, but its not expensive. A 20 round Kalashnikov magazine set you back £2.50. It last about five seconds, twice as long as a foot tall missile I found myself preparing to fire for the cut down price of £4.00
Encouraged by a call of 'Enjoy yourself my boy. Deny yourself nothing!' I aimed at a large rock about a hundred yards away. As I pulled the trigger the missile flew in a flat line to the boulder which disintegrated into a thousand pieces.
As pleased with himself as I was with myself the shop owner whispered in my ear. Its also very good against tanks.
Eventually I declined his offer of 'a very good price for the very good shot' - £120.00 before leaving for the village centre - where, my guard assured me, was 'a very nice pastry shop.'
As we sat and drank sweet tea the promised nice pastries appeared and the din of weapons testing continued with single shots burst of automatic fire and the odd earth shattering thump as a missile made mince meat of someone's allotment (hmmmm- the typist).
An array of British Lee Enfields, American M16 assault rifles and Chinese army pistols were paraded before me and my missile salesman turned local historian.
He told me gun making skills came to the village in the 1890s in the form of a Punjabi gunsmith on the run for murder. The Afridis learnt fast and their knowledge passed through generations from father to son, while the British thought it expedient to let the Pathans make their own inferior weapons rather than have their own stolen and used against them.
But the Pathan's guns are in no way inferior. They are, in fact highly accurate copies and a Darra gunsmith can dismantle a weapon he has never seen before, draw templates for every part and, with very basic tools, manufacture one within ten days. Subsequent copies take three days.
In the Darra area there are said to be 40,000 men involved in the gun trade. I haven't a clue if any women are and I didn't see a single one in the village to ask. Just as well probably, bearing in mind the second pillar of the Pathan code of honour and the availability of weapons to carry out the third.
Business, I was told , continues to flourish with the guns going to fuel the civil war to the north, the Kashmir freedom movement to the east and macho middle class Punjabis to the south who view an AK47 as an aid to dating in much the same way as males in Essex look upon the Escort XR3i.
All self respecting Pathans have a weapon - a fact confirmed in the fields around Darra where farmers work their land with their Kalashnikov or Lee Enfield close at hand.
They also find their way to terrorist organisations in - but not my flat - in Notting Hill.
I contented myself with a camouflaged AK47 gun case, ideal for carrying my cricket bat to away games.
