For those fleeing, this is a border in name only

War on terrorism: Refugees

For much of the journey, a three-hour drive through the desert of Baluchistan, a shiny red pick-up truck kept pace with us, slipping behind from time to time, only to reappear again in the rear-view mirror on the long flat road. At the Khojak Pass, the gateway to Afghanistan, it took on three passengers, bearded men in white turbans who sat impassively in the open back.

I raised a hand at them as they overtook and, as they waved unsmilingly back, I noticed the flag that fluttered above the cabin. It was a very striking flag – all white, with the most famous verse of the Koran inscribed in black letters in its corner: "Allah is the only God." It is the flag of the Taliban.

We were making this journey – across the wasteland of west Pakistan – to visit a spot that has much preoccupied the world in the past week: the border crossing of Chaman where thousands of Afghans have arrived during the last few weeks, fleeing the bombing of their homes.

Special permission was required from the government of Baluchistan and a detachment of police with rifles accompanied our convoy. But for all the display of formality it became clearer than ever yesterday that the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan was an almost meaningless concept – and the men in the red pick-up truck showed it more clearly than ever.

Throughout the frontier regions, along the roads and at the borders, were tantalising hints of the Taliban presence. None would admit openly to being members of the regime, to a pack of Western journalists at least, although there are many stories of wounded Taliban soldiers slipping into hospitals in the Baluchistan capital Quetta for treatment, and of Taliban funds, and the families of Taliban leaders being trucked over the border for safety. Their presence, or at least influence, is discreetly hinted – a fluttering flag, a hostile glare directed at the foreign faces. It is a slightly spooky feeling – as missiles are rained down upon them, and their regime is excoriated in the West, its foot soldiers pass freely to and fro, for rest, recuperation and family visits.

The border itself was quiet yesterday, surprisingly given the great crowd of 15,000 people or so, which built up there last weekend. The Pakistani authorities are playing a curious two-faced game. "The border is closed," said the grey-shirted policeman at the frontier post. "We have never opened the border, because it is our government's order." And yet, just an hour before, I had encountered an Afghan man named Khudad, trudging along the road with a group of 14 refugees, their belongings stowed in sacks on a pony cart. The border had been open when he crossed it that morning he said; they had just walked across.

The last thing the government of General Pervez Musharraf wants is to issue an open invitation to refugees, and so publicly it maintains a strict position. But – ever since an Englishman named Sir Mortimer Durand marked it out on his charts in 1893 – this has been a border in theory only.

To the Pashtun tribespeople – Kipling's Pathans – who dominate the southern parts of both Afghanistan and the neighbouring regions of Pakistan, it is no more than a bureaucratic inconvenience and even the war will not change that. Twice this week, the border has been closed during the visits of journalists and the United Nations only to open after the foreigners have been taken away in convoys.

It is among the Pashtuns that the Taliban draw their support. Freshly arrived young men in crisp white turbans dawdle on the Pakistani side. Their words are harsh and bellicose although, like most of the Islamic militants I have met in Pakistan, they are more boyishly enthusiastic than spine-chilling. But there is no doubt where their sympathies lie.

"The Taliban will fight for the last drop of blood," says Meer Hamza. "We fought the Soviets for many years and we will do the same with the Americans. I fought then and I will fight again. We have the latest weapons – Kalashnikovs, rockets and bombs."

So why have they come to Pakistan, and how did they cross the border? "It's easy to cross," says Shah Mahmood, who has a shiny silver tooth. "We come here to meet relatives, to rest and then we go back."

Not that all those who cross are so shady – most are genuine fugitives from the bombing and they are arriving in larger and larger numbers. The UN High Commissioner for Refugees now estimates that 60,000 have crossed into the North-West Frontier Province, north of here. Including Baluchistan the number may surpass 100,000. Many are absorbed invisibly into the homes of friends and relatives in the villages and cities, but this week the UNHCR opened its first refugee camp since the bombing began, a few hundred yards inside Pakistan.

A 37-year-old man named Abdullah arrived here on Wednesday with his wife, two children and five nephews. Men of his age usually have larger families, and for this there is an explanation.

Last Saturday afternoon, he said, he saw bombs falling on Madad Chowk, one of the busiest crossings in Kandahar. By the time he got there, there were bodies and injured people everywhere. "I saw a man whose body was cut in two at his waist, and a man with no legs," he said.

Two of his older children and his mother were killed when a rocket struck their house in Kandahar during the civil war of the early 1990s. "I fought myself against the Soviets," he said. "But when they went away I handed in my gun to my commander and said I didn't want to fight anymore. And then my children were killed.

"But when the Taliban came they went to everyone and took away the guns. The Taliban are harsh, but they brought peace to Afghanistan."