Last week I made several interesting discoveries. I am writing this listening to an instrumental version of ‘Abide with me’ gently pervading its way through an air conditioned café, and at the same time happily imbibing a chocolate milkshake. Yes, I have found a barista café quite close to where I live, and it is currently using up a significant proportion of my allowance. There are four different types of hot chocolate on the menu, and innumerable wonderful milkshakes. And they don’t make me sick. Bonus. But, on the other hand, one milkshake costs about the same as the average daily wage that people earn in the slums, so it is difficult justifying wasting so much money. Hence I am going through a difficult internal struggle, and may have to sadly reduce my daily chocolate milkshake intake, and keep it as a luxury….
And last week I finally ventured into the ‘big city’ all by myself, to go to church. I was able to go to the same church that I went to when I was here four years ago – it is run by Emmanuel Ministries, with whom I volunteered. They run many amazing projects, including informal education for slum children, several children’s homes, and work with HIV positive women. It was wonderful walking into the church again and being greeted by so many beautiful smiles, and hearing that the work is going from strength to strength. I volunteered in an informal education project in a slum, and apparently, about 80 % of the children now attend formal school, and so they may be able to bring the project to a close in a little while – fantastic! And I was able to meet some other ex-pats, so no longer feel as alone in this big city.
And my final discovery was a different side of India, one that I had never experienced before. On Wednesday evening I and Judith (the other volunteer) were invited out for dinner with an investment banker and his wife. Their house was in central Kolkata, and to describe it as ‘rather large’ is quite an understatement. His wife runs an art gallery, so the air conditioned rooms were stuffed full of wonderful paintings and sculptures. When we went into dinner there were four different dishes, and the servants were summoned by a little bell to bring us the food. Wow. Both the husband and the wife were incredibly welcoming, and so friendly – it really was a great example of Bengali hospitality. But during the taxi journey home we drove past rows and rows of men sleeping on the streets, some in huge pipes that were being laid as part of a new sewerage system. Apparently some Bengalis get frustrated with the abiding way that the image of Kolkata is linked with abject poverty; many say that it is the cultural capital of India. And indeed it has a rich cultural history and a current thriving cultural scene. Maybe its poverty now is no worse than the poverty of Mumbai, or Delhi, or Karachi. But that doesn’t make the daily confrontation with such suffering and exclusion any easier, or any less unjust.
Since writing the above I have made another, very unfortunate discovery. Last night on a trip to my bathroom a rat was staring up at me from the drain. On my birthday!! I can cope with many things but rats are definitely not one of them. Help! There is a possibility that I may be able to move in a couple of weeks, so really hoping that works out….
Monday, 19 April 2010
Monday, 12 April 2010
Around and about in Kolkata
Thousands of people work and sleep in the area where I live: not only are small houses squeezed on to every available inch of land, but many also sleep on the streets. And everyone knows that I am here: Judith and I are the only westerners in this area, so to say that we stand out is a slight understatement. But not so many people have talked to me yet, apart from the children, although I’m trying to say ‘namaste’ to all I catch staring at me, and to smile at the women. Unfortunately most people seem to speak Bengali rather than Hindi, and when they do speak Hindi I am sure that they mix many Bengali words in, which is definitely the reason I am finding it so difficult to understand!
My accommodation is down a little alleyway off a rather busy road. At the head of the alleyway is a pond where the locals wash their clothes, themselves, and where the children happily splash around: a haven of peace in the otherwise frenetic city.
The road is like any other road in Kolkata – an overpowering mixture of dogs, children playing, street vendors, men pushing cartloads of fruit, bicycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, cars and buses. There are no traffic rules here – each is for their own. That means that people drive as fast as they can through the narrowest of gaps, and there is no concept of hazard awareness or planning ahead, so they drive straight up to a hazard and then beep their horn. Riding a bike or motorbike down the road must be like playing dodgems, swerving to miss a pedestrian here, a dog there and a cartload of fruit here. It is impossible to walk on the pavements as they are taken up by dogs sleeping, open drains, and the small stalls, so walking down the road entails looking behind every so often. 
There are dozens of little vendors very close to my accommodation which is great for buying bottled water. I bought some bananas the other day, though, and there were strange hard black stones in them, which rather successfully put me off from doing that again. But to buy anything more than this I need to go into the centre of this area. To get there we have to catch an auto rickshaw, which entails standing on the edge of the road in the blazing sun, wincing at the frequent near misses and waving at all the auto rickshaws until one stops and you can clamber in. We then go careering dangerously down the road, overtaking slower vehicles with absolutely no regard for any traffic that may be coming in the opposite direction, until the intensity of the traffic and people incredibly increases, and we have reached the market centre. This is a little more upmarket than where I am staying, as there are larger shops as well as the road side stalls. It is a major junction, which is almost impossible to cross unless you step boldly forward and hold your hand out firmly as if to say: watch out you crazy drivers, pedestrian here. The pavements are full of mangy dogs, children playing, men washing, men working, women sitting and chatting, open drains: the streets really are the centre of life (and death and decomposition given the amount of rubbish.)
A couple of minutes up the street is a large supermarket, and it may be a cliché, but stepping in really is like stepping in to another world. It is air conditioned, it sells any number of western goods, and all items are marked in price: there is no haggling here. There is a restaurant and it is possible to get fish and chips and pizza; this may become my haven when the heat and frenetic activity all get too much.
And this is as far as I have ventured so far – the centre of Kolkata is about a 45 minutes to 1 hour journey away in blistering temperatures and crazy traffic. I have yet to experience that particular pleasure.
Apart from the pond at the head of my alley, I can’t think of any open space in the vicinity where I work and live. Every conceivable bit of land is filled with street stalls, houses, and plastic covered shacks. It is a funny thought that I am surrounded by so many thousands of people who have such different lives to mine: the women who run roadside stalls and who pack up their wares and move on every single day; the men who have to cycle people in their rickshaws in this blistering heat; the men who push cartloads of their wares down the middle of the street being narrowly missed by taxis and motorcycles; the women who sort through rubbish separating the paper from the rest, day after day. Even sitting in my bug filled and basic accommodation, I am immensely privileged, and it is not fair. Yesterday a boy came up begging: we started talking and he asked me where I was from. When I replied London, he got very excited and said ‘tomorrow I go in a plane’, and zoomed off down the street pretending to be a plane. For me, flying is normal. For him, it is but a dream.
My accommodation is down a little alleyway off a rather busy road. At the head of the alleyway is a pond where the locals wash their clothes, themselves, and where the children happily splash around: a haven of peace in the otherwise frenetic city.
The road is like any other road in Kolkata – an overpowering mixture of dogs, children playing, street vendors, men pushing cartloads of fruit, bicycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, cars and buses. There are no traffic rules here – each is for their own. That means that people drive as fast as they can through the narrowest of gaps, and there is no concept of hazard awareness or planning ahead, so they drive straight up to a hazard and then beep their horn. Riding a bike or motorbike down the road must be like playing dodgems, swerving to miss a pedestrian here, a dog there and a cartload of fruit here. It is impossible to walk on the pavements as they are taken up by dogs sleeping, open drains, and the small stalls, so walking down the road entails looking behind every so often. There are dozens of little vendors very close to my accommodation which is great for buying bottled water. I bought some bananas the other day, though, and there were strange hard black stones in them, which rather successfully put me off from doing that again. But to buy anything more than this I need to go into the centre of this area. To get there we have to catch an auto rickshaw, which entails standing on the edge of the road in the blazing sun, wincing at the frequent near misses and waving at all the auto rickshaws until one stops and you can clamber in. We then go careering dangerously down the road, overtaking slower vehicles with absolutely no regard for any traffic that may be coming in the opposite direction, until the intensity of the traffic and people incredibly increases, and we have reached the market centre. This is a little more upmarket than where I am staying, as there are larger shops as well as the road side stalls. It is a major junction, which is almost impossible to cross unless you step boldly forward and hold your hand out firmly as if to say: watch out you crazy drivers, pedestrian here. The pavements are full of mangy dogs, children playing, men washing, men working, women sitting and chatting, open drains: the streets really are the centre of life (and death and decomposition given the amount of rubbish.)
A couple of minutes up the street is a large supermarket, and it may be a cliché, but stepping in really is like stepping in to another world. It is air conditioned, it sells any number of western goods, and all items are marked in price: there is no haggling here. There is a restaurant and it is possible to get fish and chips and pizza; this may become my haven when the heat and frenetic activity all get too much.
And this is as far as I have ventured so far – the centre of Kolkata is about a 45 minutes to 1 hour journey away in blistering temperatures and crazy traffic. I have yet to experience that particular pleasure.
Apart from the pond at the head of my alley, I can’t think of any open space in the vicinity where I work and live. Every conceivable bit of land is filled with street stalls, houses, and plastic covered shacks. It is a funny thought that I am surrounded by so many thousands of people who have such different lives to mine: the women who run roadside stalls and who pack up their wares and move on every single day; the men who have to cycle people in their rickshaws in this blistering heat; the men who push cartloads of their wares down the middle of the street being narrowly missed by taxis and motorcycles; the women who sort through rubbish separating the paper from the rest, day after day. Even sitting in my bug filled and basic accommodation, I am immensely privileged, and it is not fair. Yesterday a boy came up begging: we started talking and he asked me where I was from. When I replied London, he got very excited and said ‘tomorrow I go in a plane’, and zoomed off down the street pretending to be a plane. For me, flying is normal. For him, it is but a dream.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
VSO Part the Second: India. The first week
So, ladies, I have discovered a foolproof, albeit fairly painful, way to a flat stomach – simply visit India for a short time in summer. Or it doesn’t even have to be summer – today’s balmy spring temperature in Kolkata reached 37 degrees, and a mere 29 at night. This means that, a) it is too hot to eat, b) you are too exhausted to contemplate either cooking or going outside to forage for food, and c) if you do manage to eat more than a simple banana you are likely to get sick. Don’t get me wrong, I am very happy to be back in the craziness of Kolkata, but it has been much more of a shock than I was expecting, mainly due to the heat (and being slightly ill).
I spent a mere two days in Delhi after arriving, supposedly for in country training and orientation, but myself and another volunteer actually arrived in time for the new volunteers farewell party. A new batch of volunteers had arrived at the beginning of March, and they were just ending their four week training – as a short term volunteer VSO let me come out later, and initially I thought it quite funny that we arrived for the farewell party. I have now realised that it wasn’t such a good idea – two days hasn’t given me enough time to acclimatise and adjust or to get all the necessary information and advice from VSO. I didn’t want to spend longer in Delhi though as I preferred to have the company of two other volunteers on the 20 hour train journey to Kolkata.
There followed the second strangest Easter weekend I have ever had (the first being in Islamabad, when I went on visits with new volunteers to sites relating to all major world religions except Christianity (a Sikh gurudwara, the Buddhist remains at Taxila, a Hindu temple and a Mosque). Anyway, this Good Friday we caught the train from Delhi to Kolkata. Travelling on Indian trains is no doubt one of the great un-missable Indian experiences, but while I can now wear the T-shirt I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to repeat the experience. We’ll fastforward through the craziness of Delhi traffic and arrive at the point of lugging 6 months worth of (previously considered indispensible) items in an incredibly painful rucksack up a steep flight of stairs. The crowds of people made Waterloo rush hour seem like a walk in the park, and the sauna levels of heat did not make this unwanted physical exertion any easier. It was necessary to keep a tight grip on handbag and laptop, and an eye on the volunteers in front of me – I felt that if I lost them I would disappear in this swamp of seething and sweating humanity. But, once having reached the right platform, and vowing to bring nothing but a change of underwear next time, things looked a little brighter. We could collapse in the midst of our mountains of luggage and observe the thousands of others scurrying about their business. In the half an hour we were waiting on the platform there were announcements for two other trains to Kolkata – the mind boggles at the number of people who want to brave the 20 hour train journey that they have to lay on three trains within one hour. Half an hour before our train was due to depart it chugged into the station. Before it had even stopped the thousands sat waiting on the platform jumped up and started jostling for position, trying to find their carriage. The train is so long that, as we were sat in the middle of the platform, we couldn’t see it’s either end.
Once the enterprising passenger has pushed and shoved their way to their correct carriage there is the subsequent jostling for seats (or berths) within the limited space of the train corridor. As most people seem to have a lot of luggage, and there are six people in each small compartment, the overwhelming impression is one of claustrophobia. When at last I found my berth there was a row of Indian men sitting on it. The thought that I would have to share this tiny compartment with strange Indian men overnight was not pleasant, but thankfully some of them left, and an Indian family remained with me. Unusually they were very quiet, and didn’t try to make conversation with me at all, which to my frazzled brain was initially quite welcome. I managed to squeeze in my luggage under the berth, and locked it with my padlock (other volunteers had emphasised to be very careful with luggage, and keep all valuables with me at all times, which entailed the happy experience of taking my laptop to the toilet with me.)
Notwithstanding the confusion and chaos that boarding the train entailed, it departed on the dot of 5 o’clock, its scheduled time, and soon after departure a guard came round with a snack for all passengers. And later on in the evening a hot three course meal came round for everyone – no mean feat when there must have been thousands of people on the train.
Unfortunately I wasn’t able to see out of the window so soon retired to my top bunk and escaped from the claustrophobia of the small compartment and the stares of the Indian family into a Phillippa Gregory book. Sleeping was interesting, as I was wedged in between a highly inadequate rail preventing me from falling out, my handbag and my laptop, and the train often gave jarring shakes. Unfortunately the Indian man below me snored rather loudly, a problem the other volunteers had said was rather common, but out came the earplugs, and actually I didn’t sleep too badly given the air conditioning.
The friendly guard came around at 6.30 am with chai, and then at 7.30 with breakfast. Needless to say I slept through both – the point of getting up so hideously early when the train didn’t arrive till 12.40 was beyond me. The morning actually went by quite quickly, as I struggled down the narrow corridor (complete with laptop and handbag) to see the other two volunteers who were sleeping in a compartment a little way down from me. I also went outside the carriage to have a look at the scenery of Bihar – the state through which we were travelling and one of the poorest in India. It was very dry, but there were a large number of electricity pylons.
Impressively we arrived into Howrah station 10 minutes early. I waited until most others had got off before heaving my rucksack onto my back and stepping out into Kolkata and the heat. Lost is the best way to describe how I felt standing on the platform with hundreds of Indians pushing past in both directions. I didn’t even know which way to go to the exit as both the train and the platform were so long it was impossible to see either end. Thankfully the other volunteers appeared out of nowhere, and then Judith, the volunteer who is currently working at my organisation, came to meet us.
Apparently 1 million people pass through Howrah station in one day, which I can easily believe. The heat, sheer numbers of people, announcements and frenetic activity do not make it a place for the fainthearted. Getting a taxi wasn’t easy either, and involved stringent bargaining from Judith, before I sank happily back into the relative comfort of an air conditioned cab.
Judith took me to the office to meet the Director of the organisation for which I will be working, and I managed to smile weakly and shake her hand, but it was clearly evident to all that I was in severe need of a shower and a sit down, so Judith then took me to my accommodation.
The most diplomatic way of describing my accommodation is ‘basic’ and ‘close to nature’. It is clearly in a fairly poor part of Calcutta, that looks little different to a slum, and I have one room with a bed (and a garden table and chairs), and a separate kitchen and bathroom. The floor is concrete plus dirt around the edges, and the doors don’t close properly. I have to go down a hallway to get to the bathroom and kitchen. Don’t visualise a UK style carpeted corridor hung with pretty pictures though, this one has an open waste water drain, concrete floor, and hundreds of cobwebs. The bathroom also has its fair share of dirt and cobwebs, although I do have a shower, and the kitchen again is not of the most modern variety.
I spent a mere two days in Delhi after arriving, supposedly for in country training and orientation, but myself and another volunteer actually arrived in time for the new volunteers farewell party. A new batch of volunteers had arrived at the beginning of March, and they were just ending their four week training – as a short term volunteer VSO let me come out later, and initially I thought it quite funny that we arrived for the farewell party. I have now realised that it wasn’t such a good idea – two days hasn’t given me enough time to acclimatise and adjust or to get all the necessary information and advice from VSO. I didn’t want to spend longer in Delhi though as I preferred to have the company of two other volunteers on the 20 hour train journey to Kolkata.
There followed the second strangest Easter weekend I have ever had (the first being in Islamabad, when I went on visits with new volunteers to sites relating to all major world religions except Christianity (a Sikh gurudwara, the Buddhist remains at Taxila, a Hindu temple and a Mosque). Anyway, this Good Friday we caught the train from Delhi to Kolkata. Travelling on Indian trains is no doubt one of the great un-missable Indian experiences, but while I can now wear the T-shirt I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to repeat the experience. We’ll fastforward through the craziness of Delhi traffic and arrive at the point of lugging 6 months worth of (previously considered indispensible) items in an incredibly painful rucksack up a steep flight of stairs. The crowds of people made Waterloo rush hour seem like a walk in the park, and the sauna levels of heat did not make this unwanted physical exertion any easier. It was necessary to keep a tight grip on handbag and laptop, and an eye on the volunteers in front of me – I felt that if I lost them I would disappear in this swamp of seething and sweating humanity. But, once having reached the right platform, and vowing to bring nothing but a change of underwear next time, things looked a little brighter. We could collapse in the midst of our mountains of luggage and observe the thousands of others scurrying about their business. In the half an hour we were waiting on the platform there were announcements for two other trains to Kolkata – the mind boggles at the number of people who want to brave the 20 hour train journey that they have to lay on three trains within one hour. Half an hour before our train was due to depart it chugged into the station. Before it had even stopped the thousands sat waiting on the platform jumped up and started jostling for position, trying to find their carriage. The train is so long that, as we were sat in the middle of the platform, we couldn’t see it’s either end.
Once the enterprising passenger has pushed and shoved their way to their correct carriage there is the subsequent jostling for seats (or berths) within the limited space of the train corridor. As most people seem to have a lot of luggage, and there are six people in each small compartment, the overwhelming impression is one of claustrophobia. When at last I found my berth there was a row of Indian men sitting on it. The thought that I would have to share this tiny compartment with strange Indian men overnight was not pleasant, but thankfully some of them left, and an Indian family remained with me. Unusually they were very quiet, and didn’t try to make conversation with me at all, which to my frazzled brain was initially quite welcome. I managed to squeeze in my luggage under the berth, and locked it with my padlock (other volunteers had emphasised to be very careful with luggage, and keep all valuables with me at all times, which entailed the happy experience of taking my laptop to the toilet with me.)
Notwithstanding the confusion and chaos that boarding the train entailed, it departed on the dot of 5 o’clock, its scheduled time, and soon after departure a guard came round with a snack for all passengers. And later on in the evening a hot three course meal came round for everyone – no mean feat when there must have been thousands of people on the train.
Unfortunately I wasn’t able to see out of the window so soon retired to my top bunk and escaped from the claustrophobia of the small compartment and the stares of the Indian family into a Phillippa Gregory book. Sleeping was interesting, as I was wedged in between a highly inadequate rail preventing me from falling out, my handbag and my laptop, and the train often gave jarring shakes. Unfortunately the Indian man below me snored rather loudly, a problem the other volunteers had said was rather common, but out came the earplugs, and actually I didn’t sleep too badly given the air conditioning.
The friendly guard came around at 6.30 am with chai, and then at 7.30 with breakfast. Needless to say I slept through both – the point of getting up so hideously early when the train didn’t arrive till 12.40 was beyond me. The morning actually went by quite quickly, as I struggled down the narrow corridor (complete with laptop and handbag) to see the other two volunteers who were sleeping in a compartment a little way down from me. I also went outside the carriage to have a look at the scenery of Bihar – the state through which we were travelling and one of the poorest in India. It was very dry, but there were a large number of electricity pylons.
Impressively we arrived into Howrah station 10 minutes early. I waited until most others had got off before heaving my rucksack onto my back and stepping out into Kolkata and the heat. Lost is the best way to describe how I felt standing on the platform with hundreds of Indians pushing past in both directions. I didn’t even know which way to go to the exit as both the train and the platform were so long it was impossible to see either end. Thankfully the other volunteers appeared out of nowhere, and then Judith, the volunteer who is currently working at my organisation, came to meet us.
Apparently 1 million people pass through Howrah station in one day, which I can easily believe. The heat, sheer numbers of people, announcements and frenetic activity do not make it a place for the fainthearted. Getting a taxi wasn’t easy either, and involved stringent bargaining from Judith, before I sank happily back into the relative comfort of an air conditioned cab.
Judith took me to the office to meet the Director of the organisation for which I will be working, and I managed to smile weakly and shake her hand, but it was clearly evident to all that I was in severe need of a shower and a sit down, so Judith then took me to my accommodation.
The most diplomatic way of describing my accommodation is ‘basic’ and ‘close to nature’. It is clearly in a fairly poor part of Calcutta, that looks little different to a slum, and I have one room with a bed (and a garden table and chairs), and a separate kitchen and bathroom. The floor is concrete plus dirt around the edges, and the doors don’t close properly. I have to go down a hallway to get to the bathroom and kitchen. Don’t visualise a UK style carpeted corridor hung with pretty pictures though, this one has an open waste water drain, concrete floor, and hundreds of cobwebs. The bathroom also has its fair share of dirt and cobwebs, although I do have a shower, and the kitchen again is not of the most modern variety.
But, having said all this, I do have a fridge which is a life saver – being able to store food and cold drinks is absolutely necessary in this heat. I also have a clean cupboard to put my clothes which can be locked to prevent ants and other creepy crawlies from entering, and a new gas stove and cutlery. So, in conclusion I have to be thankful for what I have got.
The bathroom unfortunately has dark and cobwebby corners, with who knows what is lurking there.
The next morning as I was taking a shower the largest spider I have ever seen (the size of a dinner plate, no exaggeration) scuttled from somewhere. I screamed, grabbed my towel and ran, but then gathered all my courage together to get rid of it. And the day after, as a preliminary to a proper cleaning, I heaved some water at the corners. This was a mistake. It unearthed a large family of cockroaches, complete from small children to monstrous grandparents, which all came scuttling out. I spent the evening running after them with poison, turning my hallway into death alley. I didn’t use the bathroom at all that night, and only gathered my courage to sweep away the corpses the next morning. Now, when using the bathroom, I cautiously open the door and peer into all the corners with my torch, and have the bottle of poison ready. At the weekend I think I am going to have to take my courage into my hands and give it a proper clean, but who knows what I am going to unearth…. The same will have to be done for the kitchen, I haven’t even tried cooking yet due to the dirt, being ill and being exhausted. So I am currently surviving off coca cola, which is an ideal diet given that it is cool, not going to make me sick, rehydrates me, and has enough sugar and caffeine in to keep me going through the day.
The bathroom unfortunately has dark and cobwebby corners, with who knows what is lurking there.
The next morning as I was taking a shower the largest spider I have ever seen (the size of a dinner plate, no exaggeration) scuttled from somewhere. I screamed, grabbed my towel and ran, but then gathered all my courage together to get rid of it. And the day after, as a preliminary to a proper cleaning, I heaved some water at the corners. This was a mistake. It unearthed a large family of cockroaches, complete from small children to monstrous grandparents, which all came scuttling out. I spent the evening running after them with poison, turning my hallway into death alley. I didn’t use the bathroom at all that night, and only gathered my courage to sweep away the corpses the next morning. Now, when using the bathroom, I cautiously open the door and peer into all the corners with my torch, and have the bottle of poison ready. At the weekend I think I am going to have to take my courage into my hands and give it a proper clean, but who knows what I am going to unearth…. The same will have to be done for the kitchen, I haven’t even tried cooking yet due to the dirt, being ill and being exhausted. So I am currently surviving off coca cola, which is an ideal diet given that it is cool, not going to make me sick, rehydrates me, and has enough sugar and caffeine in to keep me going through the day.Sunday, 21 March 2010
Which way?
A few old articles I wrote about Pakistan:
Which way? A twelve hour car journey up the valley of the Indus through bandit country, or a 12 hour car journey over 13,000 foot pass on an uncompleted road, described as ‘risky’. It was five o’clock in the morning, I was sitting in a car in Mansehra, a town in the North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, and my companions expected me to decide our route to Gilgit. At that time of the morning, either going up the Karakoram Highway through Indus Kohistan or crossing the 13,000 ft pass seemed not much short of a death wish.
‘If we go by the Karakoram Highway we should hide you under the luggage through the areas close to Swat’.
Also unable at that time of the morning to discern a joke, and a joke too close to the truth for comfort, I therefore plumped for the ‘risky’ route, over the 13,000 foot Babassur pass.
Gilgit is divided from Islamabad by several obstacles: the physical barriers consisting mainly of the gargantuan granite mountains surrounding the valley of the Indus. This has been surmounted by the Karakoram Highway, otherwise known as the Pakistan-China friendship highway stretching all the way from Islamabad in the south to Kashgar in China. However, there are certain social obstacles meaning that the Foreign Office website currently advises against the Mansehra – Gilgit section. Battagram: scene of armed attacks against aid workers, Shangla: next to Swat of Taliban fame, Indus Kohistan: bandits, and finally Chilas: tribal country. Not your average Sunday trip out. The intrepid traveller should not give up hope though, there are two other ways to reach Gilgit from Islamabad, the easiest is flying. The mere 45 minute flight takes you sailing over the dangers. However, it is dependent on weather conditions. On one memorable occasion my colleague took a flight, flew all the way up to Gilgit, circled the city and then flew all the way back, unable to land because of weather. He rang me at that point, when I couldn’t desist from laughter. However, the next time I heard from him was three and a half days later after a journey consisting of landslides, flat tyres, and driving rain, and my sympathy was more forthcoming.
The third option, then, was the Babassur pass route. In theory, this should be a lot quicker than going up the KKH as it is more direct, straight up rather than following the rather circular valley of the Indus. And in a year or so I am sure that it will be quicker. When we took it, however, it was still in the process of being built, the majority of the road surface therefore consisting of some combination of mud, rock and water. However, the beauty of the places we drove through amply compensated for the length and discomfort of the journey.
We hit the mountain roads a little after dawn, almost quite literally as soon there was a landslide covering the road. This didn’t daunt either of my trusty companions who jumped out of the car with unreasonable energy for that time in the morning, flexed their muscles, and shifted a few big rocks. While I was more than willing to help I discovered that moving rocks while keeping a scarf wrapped over ones head is next to impossible, so I took the role of photographer and shouter of encouragement. There were a few tense minutes when the 4x4 tried to climb over the rocks that remained but that was successfully achieved and we were soon on our way again, passing through Balakot. This area had previously been a centre for tourism given the lush green hills and lakes, but then the 2005 earthquake had struck. The evidence was all around us in the NGO signs proudly stating the projects they were implementing, in the collapsed buildings still visible, the tents, and the poor state of the road which was fighting a loosing battle against continued landslides and massive puddles.
Although the supposedly stunning views of the Kaghan valley were dampened by insistent rain, I felt much more optimistic about the journey after breakfast of fresh fried trout by a mountain stream. Unfortunately we didn’t have any fishing rods, but we stopped at a usefully placed tent by the side of the road which doubled up as a café, a bedroom for two boys, and inadequate shelter from the howling gale outside.
There was one tense moment when we were stopped due to a landslide in process. We could see rocks scattered across the road and rivers of dust marking their recent journey high up the mountain. However, after a quick ‘bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim’ (In the name of God, the merciful, the almighty) the driver revved the engine, careered around the rocks in the road, and we waved cheerfully goodbye to the other cars patiently queuing up in a most un-Pakistani like manner.
We had a lunch at Naran, a well known tourist spot famous for glaciers, green hills and a so-called lake of fairies. On the map a proper road was marked up to Naran, after that it was just a dotted track. Given the states of the roads we had been on, I wasn’t particularly sanguine about what was to follow. But happy surprise – there was a proper road for quite a few kilometres. After that, things went steadily downhill (while travelling uphill). In places there was no road at all and we had to pick our way around mud and boulders, and work out which general direction we should be heading, difficult as we were often the only vehicle on the ‘road’. We were reliant on the memory of one of my companions who had travelled that route three years previously, and nomads out wandering with their cattle. We gradually climbed to 4000 m, and passed cattle with coats on, and houses made out of stone, the women’s shalwar kameez flutering in the breeze being the only splashes of colour in an otherwise grey and green landscape. We had to negotiate ‘bridges’ consisting of bits of metal balanced precariously on the edge of the bank. I preferred to get out and walk, unsure of whether a) the bridge would take the weight of the car, b) whether the driver could avoid driving off the edge, or c) whether the whole thing would just slide of into the river. Such obstacles successfully surmounted, we reached the top of the pass, overtaking huge great road making lorries incongruent in the otherwise deserted landscape. The top of the pass was cloudy, freezing and grey, lightened by some of mum’s amazing chocolate brownie.
The descent into Chilas was marked by views of stone houses perched on the edge of the mountain dotted in between tiny fields built into the mountain side. Chilas is a conservative and tribal area. People openly carry guns – we drove past someone with a Kalashnikov, as well as gun towers. My companions reassured me that conflict in this area was limited to inter-tribal warfare rather than attacking random strangers. I took their assurances at face value, the blueness of the skies after the grey of the pass making acts of violence unimaginable in my mind.
While over the pass I had been dressed in two jumpers, a fleece and a heavy shawl, and a Starbucks hot chocolate wouldn’t have gone amiss. However, once down in the forty degree heat of Chilas we were back to drinking car –warmed bottled water. Chilas seemed to look exactly the same as how I remembered Gilgit – the grey mountains rising steeply decorated with slopes of scree. However, appearances can be deceptive; I was warned not to remove my headscarf and to keep a low profile given that this area was that much more conservative than Gilgit, even though they were just a two hour drive from that city. The road between Chilas and Gilgit is marked by hot springs, Buddhist carvings, the place where the Karakoram, Himalayas and Hindu Kush meet, and a sign saying ‘warning – ambushes possible’ chalked on rock. We stopped at three of the above places, the fourth I think I was the only person to see and didn’t insist on closer inspection.
I was pretty shattered by the time we reached Gilgit, so I don’t know how the driver felt. Although he probably didn’t have a license (I didn’t quite like to enquire) he was one of the most accomplished members of his profession who I have ever had the privilege to meet.
Which way? A twelve hour car journey up the valley of the Indus through bandit country, or a 12 hour car journey over 13,000 foot pass on an uncompleted road, described as ‘risky’. It was five o’clock in the morning, I was sitting in a car in Mansehra, a town in the North-West Frontier Province of Pakistan, and my companions expected me to decide our route to Gilgit. At that time of the morning, either going up the Karakoram Highway through Indus Kohistan or crossing the 13,000 ft pass seemed not much short of a death wish.
‘If we go by the Karakoram Highway we should hide you under the luggage through the areas close to Swat’.
Also unable at that time of the morning to discern a joke, and a joke too close to the truth for comfort, I therefore plumped for the ‘risky’ route, over the 13,000 foot Babassur pass.
Gilgit is divided from Islamabad by several obstacles: the physical barriers consisting mainly of the gargantuan granite mountains surrounding the valley of the Indus. This has been surmounted by the Karakoram Highway, otherwise known as the Pakistan-China friendship highway stretching all the way from Islamabad in the south to Kashgar in China. However, there are certain social obstacles meaning that the Foreign Office website currently advises against the Mansehra – Gilgit section. Battagram: scene of armed attacks against aid workers, Shangla: next to Swat of Taliban fame, Indus Kohistan: bandits, and finally Chilas: tribal country. Not your average Sunday trip out. The intrepid traveller should not give up hope though, there are two other ways to reach Gilgit from Islamabad, the easiest is flying. The mere 45 minute flight takes you sailing over the dangers. However, it is dependent on weather conditions. On one memorable occasion my colleague took a flight, flew all the way up to Gilgit, circled the city and then flew all the way back, unable to land because of weather. He rang me at that point, when I couldn’t desist from laughter. However, the next time I heard from him was three and a half days later after a journey consisting of landslides, flat tyres, and driving rain, and my sympathy was more forthcoming.
The third option, then, was the Babassur pass route. In theory, this should be a lot quicker than going up the KKH as it is more direct, straight up rather than following the rather circular valley of the Indus. And in a year or so I am sure that it will be quicker. When we took it, however, it was still in the process of being built, the majority of the road surface therefore consisting of some combination of mud, rock and water. However, the beauty of the places we drove through amply compensated for the length and discomfort of the journey.
We hit the mountain roads a little after dawn, almost quite literally as soon there was a landslide covering the road. This didn’t daunt either of my trusty companions who jumped out of the car with unreasonable energy for that time in the morning, flexed their muscles, and shifted a few big rocks. While I was more than willing to help I discovered that moving rocks while keeping a scarf wrapped over ones head is next to impossible, so I took the role of photographer and shouter of encouragement. There were a few tense minutes when the 4x4 tried to climb over the rocks that remained but that was successfully achieved and we were soon on our way again, passing through Balakot. This area had previously been a centre for tourism given the lush green hills and lakes, but then the 2005 earthquake had struck. The evidence was all around us in the NGO signs proudly stating the projects they were implementing, in the collapsed buildings still visible, the tents, and the poor state of the road which was fighting a loosing battle against continued landslides and massive puddles.
Although the supposedly stunning views of the Kaghan valley were dampened by insistent rain, I felt much more optimistic about the journey after breakfast of fresh fried trout by a mountain stream. Unfortunately we didn’t have any fishing rods, but we stopped at a usefully placed tent by the side of the road which doubled up as a café, a bedroom for two boys, and inadequate shelter from the howling gale outside.
There was one tense moment when we were stopped due to a landslide in process. We could see rocks scattered across the road and rivers of dust marking their recent journey high up the mountain. However, after a quick ‘bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim’ (In the name of God, the merciful, the almighty) the driver revved the engine, careered around the rocks in the road, and we waved cheerfully goodbye to the other cars patiently queuing up in a most un-Pakistani like manner.
We had a lunch at Naran, a well known tourist spot famous for glaciers, green hills and a so-called lake of fairies. On the map a proper road was marked up to Naran, after that it was just a dotted track. Given the states of the roads we had been on, I wasn’t particularly sanguine about what was to follow. But happy surprise – there was a proper road for quite a few kilometres. After that, things went steadily downhill (while travelling uphill). In places there was no road at all and we had to pick our way around mud and boulders, and work out which general direction we should be heading, difficult as we were often the only vehicle on the ‘road’. We were reliant on the memory of one of my companions who had travelled that route three years previously, and nomads out wandering with their cattle. We gradually climbed to 4000 m, and passed cattle with coats on, and houses made out of stone, the women’s shalwar kameez flutering in the breeze being the only splashes of colour in an otherwise grey and green landscape. We had to negotiate ‘bridges’ consisting of bits of metal balanced precariously on the edge of the bank. I preferred to get out and walk, unsure of whether a) the bridge would take the weight of the car, b) whether the driver could avoid driving off the edge, or c) whether the whole thing would just slide of into the river. Such obstacles successfully surmounted, we reached the top of the pass, overtaking huge great road making lorries incongruent in the otherwise deserted landscape. The top of the pass was cloudy, freezing and grey, lightened by some of mum’s amazing chocolate brownie.
The descent into Chilas was marked by views of stone houses perched on the edge of the mountain dotted in between tiny fields built into the mountain side. Chilas is a conservative and tribal area. People openly carry guns – we drove past someone with a Kalashnikov, as well as gun towers. My companions reassured me that conflict in this area was limited to inter-tribal warfare rather than attacking random strangers. I took their assurances at face value, the blueness of the skies after the grey of the pass making acts of violence unimaginable in my mind.
While over the pass I had been dressed in two jumpers, a fleece and a heavy shawl, and a Starbucks hot chocolate wouldn’t have gone amiss. However, once down in the forty degree heat of Chilas we were back to drinking car –warmed bottled water. Chilas seemed to look exactly the same as how I remembered Gilgit – the grey mountains rising steeply decorated with slopes of scree. However, appearances can be deceptive; I was warned not to remove my headscarf and to keep a low profile given that this area was that much more conservative than Gilgit, even though they were just a two hour drive from that city. The road between Chilas and Gilgit is marked by hot springs, Buddhist carvings, the place where the Karakoram, Himalayas and Hindu Kush meet, and a sign saying ‘warning – ambushes possible’ chalked on rock. We stopped at three of the above places, the fourth I think I was the only person to see and didn’t insist on closer inspection.
I was pretty shattered by the time we reached Gilgit, so I don’t know how the driver felt. Although he probably didn’t have a license (I didn’t quite like to enquire) he was one of the most accomplished members of his profession who I have ever had the privilege to meet.
A future brighter than an orange?
With a skip and a jump the little girl came panting up, pointed to her bare feet, and in voluble Punjabi and with expansive signs explained she had run down the litter strewn and muddy street to say hello, or rather ‘a salaam a leikum’. My relationship with the street children in our local bazaar in Islamabad had definitely progressed from the time I had bought a group some oranges, precipitating an unfortunate free-for-all by the side of a speeding highway.
Street children are not usually the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Islamabad. Described as ‘twenty minutes outside Pakistan’, Islamabad is a city of big houses, dual carriage-ways and expensive shops. But Islamabad’s planners of the 1960s ignored the possibility of any urban poor, so squeezed in-between the central bazaars are the katchi-abadies, the slums. A five minute walk separates the expensive boutiques of ‘Supermarket’ from the narrow unpaved streets, open drains, cats cradle of electricity wires and litter strewn channels of 100 Quarters. Irreconcilably divided by money and power, yet the two worlds meet on the streets of the bazaars where children run around shouting and begging. The worlds also meet in the city schools. None of the katchi-abadies have their own schools; children attend general government schools. But in a country with among the worst educational records in Asia (female literacy stands at 36%), children from the katchi-abadies are at a high risk from the vicious cycle of dropping out of school, working on the streets, drug abuse and unemployment.
‘We didn’t get support from home so couldn’t keep up with the standard of the class’. A conversation with a group of older boys throws some light on the reasons for the high number of children dropping out of school here. And a comment which came up time and again in conversation with community members: ‘because we are not educated, our children are not educated’, and ‘we are uneducated so our children cannot survive in schools’. These community members have put their finger on the heart of the problem. If adults are aware of the importance of education they can prevent their children from begging, ensure they attend school, and support them in their school work. Dropping-out due the expense of uniforms or books, because children have no legal papers, because they need to look after younger siblings or their families need money all come down to the root issue that parents are unaware of the pivotal role that education plays in kicking a downward spiral of poverty.
This recognition from within these communities that they need to encourage their children’s education is a significant first step. The Mountain Institute for Educational Development (MIED), a local charity, runs Non-Formal Education (NFE) centres in the slums, helping children who have dropped out to regain a standard sufficient to re-enter formal schools. MIED’s NFE teachers, themselves from the communities, work tirelessly walking from door to door talking to parents, exploring with them their concerns about education and encouraging them to enrol their children in the centres. Just a few people from within a community can be a catalyst for change: last year more than 200 children graduated from the NFE centres into formal schools.
So, for children who live with their families but may work or beg on the streets, adult awareness-raising is crucial. But as in most developing countries, many boys leave their rural homes to earn money in the cities, and end up living 24/7 on the streets. There are no reliable statistics available for the number of children living on the streets in Pakistan, although some estimates put the number as high as 1.2 million. Nadeem works in a car workshop in a town in the North West Frontier Province. The death of his father left him the family’s main wage earner, forcing him to leave home and an education for work. He now earns a meagre 30Rs (30p) for each punishing 14 hour day. Rural government primary schools do little to attract boys like Nadeem to the opportunities of an education in their home villages. Rural schools are sinking under the combined challenges of teacher absenteeism, collapsing buildings, rote learning, corporal punishment and no resources.
But there are glimmers of hope. A community member in a village in Chakwal in the Punjab said proudly that all children from his village attend the local school: ‘education is good whether it is for males or females. The real thing is consciousness – it should be in everybody’. Such a view is the result of three years community mobilisation work by the field staff of MIED. And deep in the Karakoram mountains, five hours by treacherous road to the nearest city and subject to perishing cold winters, was a flourishing school. With a computer lab, museum, and science lab it could rival schools in the developed world. Run by the community rather than the government, families routinely spend a significant proportion of their annual income on education. What is the secret of their success? The Agha Khan Education Services has been promoting the cause of education in this village since 1946. Change hasn’t occurred overnight.
Except a few smiles and free oranges I could do little to help the little girl in the bazaar in Islamabad or Nadeem directly. There is no quick answer to the educational challenges for street children; any comprehensive solution cannot be divorced from the wider situation. Adult education and improving schools in rural areas will have an immeasurable impact addressing the root causes, albeit in the longer term. Change is possible: we need to take the current plight of street children as a kick-start for action.
Street children are not usually the first thing that comes to mind when thinking of Islamabad. Described as ‘twenty minutes outside Pakistan’, Islamabad is a city of big houses, dual carriage-ways and expensive shops. But Islamabad’s planners of the 1960s ignored the possibility of any urban poor, so squeezed in-between the central bazaars are the katchi-abadies, the slums. A five minute walk separates the expensive boutiques of ‘Supermarket’ from the narrow unpaved streets, open drains, cats cradle of electricity wires and litter strewn channels of 100 Quarters. Irreconcilably divided by money and power, yet the two worlds meet on the streets of the bazaars where children run around shouting and begging. The worlds also meet in the city schools. None of the katchi-abadies have their own schools; children attend general government schools. But in a country with among the worst educational records in Asia (female literacy stands at 36%), children from the katchi-abadies are at a high risk from the vicious cycle of dropping out of school, working on the streets, drug abuse and unemployment.
‘We didn’t get support from home so couldn’t keep up with the standard of the class’. A conversation with a group of older boys throws some light on the reasons for the high number of children dropping out of school here. And a comment which came up time and again in conversation with community members: ‘because we are not educated, our children are not educated’, and ‘we are uneducated so our children cannot survive in schools’. These community members have put their finger on the heart of the problem. If adults are aware of the importance of education they can prevent their children from begging, ensure they attend school, and support them in their school work. Dropping-out due the expense of uniforms or books, because children have no legal papers, because they need to look after younger siblings or their families need money all come down to the root issue that parents are unaware of the pivotal role that education plays in kicking a downward spiral of poverty.
This recognition from within these communities that they need to encourage their children’s education is a significant first step. The Mountain Institute for Educational Development (MIED), a local charity, runs Non-Formal Education (NFE) centres in the slums, helping children who have dropped out to regain a standard sufficient to re-enter formal schools. MIED’s NFE teachers, themselves from the communities, work tirelessly walking from door to door talking to parents, exploring with them their concerns about education and encouraging them to enrol their children in the centres. Just a few people from within a community can be a catalyst for change: last year more than 200 children graduated from the NFE centres into formal schools.
So, for children who live with their families but may work or beg on the streets, adult awareness-raising is crucial. But as in most developing countries, many boys leave their rural homes to earn money in the cities, and end up living 24/7 on the streets. There are no reliable statistics available for the number of children living on the streets in Pakistan, although some estimates put the number as high as 1.2 million. Nadeem works in a car workshop in a town in the North West Frontier Province. The death of his father left him the family’s main wage earner, forcing him to leave home and an education for work. He now earns a meagre 30Rs (30p) for each punishing 14 hour day. Rural government primary schools do little to attract boys like Nadeem to the opportunities of an education in their home villages. Rural schools are sinking under the combined challenges of teacher absenteeism, collapsing buildings, rote learning, corporal punishment and no resources.
But there are glimmers of hope. A community member in a village in Chakwal in the Punjab said proudly that all children from his village attend the local school: ‘education is good whether it is for males or females. The real thing is consciousness – it should be in everybody’. Such a view is the result of three years community mobilisation work by the field staff of MIED. And deep in the Karakoram mountains, five hours by treacherous road to the nearest city and subject to perishing cold winters, was a flourishing school. With a computer lab, museum, and science lab it could rival schools in the developed world. Run by the community rather than the government, families routinely spend a significant proportion of their annual income on education. What is the secret of their success? The Agha Khan Education Services has been promoting the cause of education in this village since 1946. Change hasn’t occurred overnight.
Except a few smiles and free oranges I could do little to help the little girl in the bazaar in Islamabad or Nadeem directly. There is no quick answer to the educational challenges for street children; any comprehensive solution cannot be divorced from the wider situation. Adult education and improving schools in rural areas will have an immeasurable impact addressing the root causes, albeit in the longer term. Change is possible: we need to take the current plight of street children as a kick-start for action.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Notes on reintegration in western society
'Emotional rollercoaster' aptly describes the journey I have been experiencing these two weeks back in the UK. Laughing and crying over the cheeses at the local supermarket, admitting to an unsympathetic till person at a newsagent that I had completely forgotten how to put money on my phone, and sitting with my head in my hands at Epsom station listening to the same lady repeating the same announcements that I hoped I had forever escaped from. The list goes on. But first let me explain about the cheese counter - all I wanted was some plain English cheddar but the sheer number of cheeses available completely bamboozled me, and then in desperation I reached out to whatever was nearest and grabbed crunchy cheese'. Well, I don't know who in their right mind would want to eat crunchy cheese, but I guess there must be some market for it from the broad range of palates in Epsom.
Reintegration back into UK society requires remembering the following concepts:
(a) punctuality: trains leave on time, particularly when you are late (conversely, arriving particularly early for a train will almost certainly ensure that it will be late). Pakistani notions of time and punctuality need to be quickly forgotten in these circumstances.
(b) friendship between the sexes: hugging a male friend outside does not require you to sheepishly look over both shoulders to ensure that such outrageous behaviour has not been seen by any passers by.
(c) individualism and conformity: reconfigure your ideas of western individualism by standing in any town high street and counting the number of people wearing blue jeans and black coats
(d) western technology: having spent a year reminiscing about how great English technology is, it can be a bit of a shock to realise that reminiscences may have clouded reality. For example, central heating may be great, but its expense precludes its frequent use. Therefore, the use of several jumpers and fleeces inside the house is as necessary in the UK as it is in Pakistan, where gas heaters may be less heat efficient but at least they are cheap and easy to use, and therefore used.
(e) language: the frequent use of 'Inshallah' is unnecessary and not really understood by the general British public. And a quick return to the English vernacular is recommended to avoid confusion ('text' instead of 'sms', 'toilet' instead of 'washroom', 'study tour' instead of 'exposure visit'....'
(f) gentlemanly behaviour: there is a need to realise as quickly as possible that men do not always offer to carry ladies bags here, therefore building up arm muscles again is a must. That way it is possible to avoid embarrassing situations like struggling down Oxford high street with two heavy bags and being overtaken by old ladies with zimmer frames.
And finally, there is a need to realise that some things about British culture may never be understood. Why some girls think it is a good idea to wear tiny tiny skirts with tights in temperatures below freezing will forever escape me.
Reintegration back into UK society requires remembering the following concepts:
(a) punctuality: trains leave on time, particularly when you are late (conversely, arriving particularly early for a train will almost certainly ensure that it will be late). Pakistani notions of time and punctuality need to be quickly forgotten in these circumstances.
(b) friendship between the sexes: hugging a male friend outside does not require you to sheepishly look over both shoulders to ensure that such outrageous behaviour has not been seen by any passers by.
(c) individualism and conformity: reconfigure your ideas of western individualism by standing in any town high street and counting the number of people wearing blue jeans and black coats
(d) western technology: having spent a year reminiscing about how great English technology is, it can be a bit of a shock to realise that reminiscences may have clouded reality. For example, central heating may be great, but its expense precludes its frequent use. Therefore, the use of several jumpers and fleeces inside the house is as necessary in the UK as it is in Pakistan, where gas heaters may be less heat efficient but at least they are cheap and easy to use, and therefore used.
(e) language: the frequent use of 'Inshallah' is unnecessary and not really understood by the general British public. And a quick return to the English vernacular is recommended to avoid confusion ('text' instead of 'sms', 'toilet' instead of 'washroom', 'study tour' instead of 'exposure visit'....'
(f) gentlemanly behaviour: there is a need to realise as quickly as possible that men do not always offer to carry ladies bags here, therefore building up arm muscles again is a must. That way it is possible to avoid embarrassing situations like struggling down Oxford high street with two heavy bags and being overtaken by old ladies with zimmer frames.
And finally, there is a need to realise that some things about British culture may never be understood. Why some girls think it is a good idea to wear tiny tiny skirts with tights in temperatures below freezing will forever escape me.
Monday, 8 December 2008
A bundle of anecdotes
I have made the momentous decision to leave Pakistan, and will be back in the UK in time for Christmas. It was a very difficult decision to make, and I will miss everyone here a huge amount (particularly all the wonderful people at MIED). But I won't say any more about that now or I will start crying (again). (Although I am very much looking forward to seeing everyone back home!)
So now I know I am leaving soon I am becoming nostalgic and seeing things differently. Here follow a few anecdotes that have struck me recently. The main themes about these anecdotes are goats and travelling (puzzled?!) Read on
I travelled by Pakistani bus between Chakwal and Islamabad the other week. It was an experience, to say the least. When I first got on I really didn't see how we could fit as I had to squeeze past quite a few Pakistani men and then was confronted with a whole bus load of bearded men staring up at me. But as I was a woman and clearly a foreigner I was given a seat at the front. Five minutes later we stopped again and I thought it must be to drop people off - no more people could fit. But I severely underestimated the capacity of Pakistani men to squeeze (and the bus to expand?). More and more people got on until the men standing around me formed a little tent above me - it was rather claustrophobic and if I hadn't been sat close to a window I would have had a full blown panic attack. As it was, it seemed that the bus was a legacy from the British and coupled with thoughts about crazy driving and drivers on drugs I was almost ready to clamber out of the window to freedom. But I forced myself to carry on sitting down (albeit with dire thoughts about my own funeral.) Every time we stopped more luggage was thrown on the roof - they can't have had time to tie it down, gravity must work differently here. As soon as the luggage had been thrown up the bus started moving and the luggage guy clambered down the outside of the window, along the side of the bus and inside the door. The whole experience became even more surreal when there were shouts of 'bakra aa raha hai'. I know what bakra means but it didn't twig what it actually meant until a goat squeezed past me. Then jingle bells started playing on someone's mobile phone and I had to pinch myself to make sure I was still awake.
All in all it was a relief when we got to the bus station in Islamabad. It can be quite a performance entering Islamabad by road now, there are many police with guns standing behind barricades and a large majority of vehicles are stopped and searched. Often there are travellers praying by the side of the road right next to the gun towers.
Back on the subject of goats, it was Eid a couple of days ago, and there were many goats and cows tethered outside peoples houses in Islamabad. (This Eid is when Muslims celebrate the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice Ishmael). When I walked into the kitchen on the morning before Eid there was a rather large goat peering around the kitchen door. Again had to pinch myself, not something you expect to encounter bleery eyed and half asleep.
And then that night there were two more goats tethered outside my bedroom window. The next morning I was playing hide and seek with the kids and hid behind my curtain. I looked outside and there was a goats head staring back at me. But I really enjoyed Eid, it was wonderful celebrating it with the Director's family, it was like Christmas with kids running around excitedly and loads of food!
And on that happy note I will end for the moment.
So now I know I am leaving soon I am becoming nostalgic and seeing things differently. Here follow a few anecdotes that have struck me recently. The main themes about these anecdotes are goats and travelling (puzzled?!) Read on
I travelled by Pakistani bus between Chakwal and Islamabad the other week. It was an experience, to say the least. When I first got on I really didn't see how we could fit as I had to squeeze past quite a few Pakistani men and then was confronted with a whole bus load of bearded men staring up at me. But as I was a woman and clearly a foreigner I was given a seat at the front. Five minutes later we stopped again and I thought it must be to drop people off - no more people could fit. But I severely underestimated the capacity of Pakistani men to squeeze (and the bus to expand?). More and more people got on until the men standing around me formed a little tent above me - it was rather claustrophobic and if I hadn't been sat close to a window I would have had a full blown panic attack. As it was, it seemed that the bus was a legacy from the British and coupled with thoughts about crazy driving and drivers on drugs I was almost ready to clamber out of the window to freedom. But I forced myself to carry on sitting down (albeit with dire thoughts about my own funeral.) Every time we stopped more luggage was thrown on the roof - they can't have had time to tie it down, gravity must work differently here. As soon as the luggage had been thrown up the bus started moving and the luggage guy clambered down the outside of the window, along the side of the bus and inside the door. The whole experience became even more surreal when there were shouts of 'bakra aa raha hai'. I know what bakra means but it didn't twig what it actually meant until a goat squeezed past me. Then jingle bells started playing on someone's mobile phone and I had to pinch myself to make sure I was still awake.
All in all it was a relief when we got to the bus station in Islamabad. It can be quite a performance entering Islamabad by road now, there are many police with guns standing behind barricades and a large majority of vehicles are stopped and searched. Often there are travellers praying by the side of the road right next to the gun towers.
Back on the subject of goats, it was Eid a couple of days ago, and there were many goats and cows tethered outside peoples houses in Islamabad. (This Eid is when Muslims celebrate the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice Ishmael). When I walked into the kitchen on the morning before Eid there was a rather large goat peering around the kitchen door. Again had to pinch myself, not something you expect to encounter bleery eyed and half asleep.
And then that night there were two more goats tethered outside my bedroom window. The next morning I was playing hide and seek with the kids and hid behind my curtain. I looked outside and there was a goats head staring back at me. But I really enjoyed Eid, it was wonderful celebrating it with the Director's family, it was like Christmas with kids running around excitedly and loads of food!And on that happy note I will end for the moment.
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