Foreigners' trip to Pakistan - 2011
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What the Chinese guy said:
February 18, 2011:
I entered the departure area nervously looking around for an empty row. This was not the first time that I was traveling alone. I had been living in the chaos of traumatic Singapore since the past two years. I had backpacked and traveled to several countries alone before. I feel more comfortable doing things without a companion: the freedom and the sense of self-determination when you are able to achieve something on your own. But this time I was more excited and anxious than I usually would have been. All because of the destination I was heading off to – Pakistan, a region which was once ruled by Alexander the Great and several ancient empires; a country where some parts are ruled by the Taliban at this moment.
I remembered the moment I received notification of my acceptance to do an internship program in Pakistan. I was sitting in front of my laptop in my room, silently (usually I would sing), trying not to wake my roommate up from his sleep. I opened my mailbox. Several junk mails and one big surprise. I clicked on the one which was sent by the Career Attachment Office, it read ‘Congratulations, you have been selected by the Dawn Media Group (Pakistan) without interview’. Excitement rushed through my body.
My parents were not surprised when I told them I will be leaving for Pakistan one month later. I crawled into their bedroom like the way I used to when I was a child. I woke them up and announced, “Mum, I got the e-mail from school about my internship and I will be leaving for Pakistan……for six months. I will work for a local newspaper company at their website department.” My dad, as usual, remained silent. “Isn’t the country dangerous?”
“No, it is not Palestine (white lie), it’s quite safe, I’ll be staying in the largest city, not the rural area.”
“What about the Taliban? And, the bombings?”
“No, that is Afghanistan. Pakistan is very, very safe (another white lie).”
“Okay, if that is what you want, just do it. But, be careful.”
And just like that, I was in the game!
Friends began organising farewell parties before my departure. To most of them, this may be the last chance to see me in their entire life (I was guessing). To most of us, what we usually saw in the newspapers and television, Pakistan is one of the most dangerous countries amongst the 192 countries listed by the United Nations.
I surveyed my surroundings and examined passengers at the departure area, unaware of a male voice coming from next to me. “Hello, are you going to Karachi?” It came from a bearded, 40-year-old gentleman who was sitting besides me.
“Yes, I’m going there for a university internship program.” I replied, uneasily. Thousands of thoughts popped up in my head: Is this guy a Pakistani? Why did he talk to me? Shall we continue the conversation? He looks…is he a terrorist? Was he carrying a bomb? (Yes, Pakistanis, just the way you like to think that every Chinese knows Kung-Fu, we often think how any Pakistani may be carrying a bomb! That’s how media influences our perception.) Shall I just ignore him?
We continued the conversation. Not that I had a choice. It was wise not to ignore him than make him angry, right? So, for as long as we were talking, I never stopped judging him. This was the first Pakistani man I had ever met in my life. His name was Fahad, a professor from a university in Malaysia. We continued to talk as we walked to the gate after landing. I glanced at the queue in front of us. God, I was the only Chinese in this queue! In fact, I was the only foreigner on the airbus.
“It was a pleasant trip, we hope to see you again…” the loudspeaker repeated its lines in different languages. Unbelievable, I was finally on Pakistani soil! I passed the security gate and checkpoint easily. The security network wasn’t as strict as Changi Airport; I guess, since terrorists who targeted Singapore and the United States won’t have much time to bother Pakistan, it was pointless spending much effort to scan every passenger. With Fahad’s help, I exchanged my money for local currency and got myself a taxi heading to Murtaza’s (the editor of Dawn newspaper’s Magazine supplement) house. I hoped the taxi driver didn’t see my facial expression before I began talking to him. I was frightened by his appearance. I couldn’t help but think how this guy looked exactly like Osama Bin Laden! Although I was sure that he was not Osama, but shock was shock, I couldn’t deny it. He started talking to me in Urdu, obviously which I didn’t understand. He sensed that I didn’t understand what he was saying, so he tried his best to translate his words to English, “Road block…New Year’s eve…die…die.” At the same time, he posed an odd sign with his finger. I didn’t exactly understand what it implied, but it was the same gesture when you used your finger to click the camera button. Five minutes later, he pointed at me with a fatherly gaze, and said “Crazy people, crazy land.” His eyes were sincere. I wasn’t sure if he was saying I was a crazy guy who landed on this crazy land, or was he referring to crazy Pakistanis who were blocking the roads. At that moment, I wasn’t really sure if I could reach Murtaza’s house safely, either.
When our speedy car slowed down, I saw a sign board with ‘DHA’ (Defence Housing Authority) written on it and I knew we were finally reaching Murtaza’s house. I pressed the door bell uncertainly, as I was not sure if the driver really understood where I wanted to go. One minute passed, no one came out. It was the driver who pressed the button now. “Jia Wei, here, behind, nice to meet you!” Murtaza called me from his car. Inside his car, I saw a lady and three kids. So, I had finally reached my destination!
I would be staying at Murtaza’s house before I could find an apartment to settle down. Once inside, Murtaza invited me to have a cup of tea. It was my first cup of tea in Pakistan. “We can go to Japan or Europe anytime we want, as long as you have money and free time but to me Pakistan is not a place where everyone can come. If I missed this chance, I don’t think I would ever have another chance to visit this country,” I told Murtaza and his wife when they asked me why I chose to come to Pakistan. Unlike the driver, they didn’t look like the Pakistanis I saw on television. I wouldn’t have guessed that they were Pakistanis or Muslims if they walked in front of me on the streets in Singapore.
It was a chilly evening, and we were having dinner with four guests, three gentlemen and one lady. That was my first Pakistani dinner. To a typical Chinese, dinner meant three dishes and a bowl of rice. What I had at Murtaza’s house was entirely different. There were naans (local bread) and various kinds of curry and biryani (the most popular rice dish). I was paying more attention on every single dish than on the conversation that was going on. I was glad because I knew I wouldn’t be missing Chinese food in these six months!
When the guests had left, Murtaza’s wife told me “Jia Wei, we’re leaving for a new years eve party now. Get ready!” She must be kidding. A party in Pakistan? Impossible. However, they looked like they were leaving the house, and I remembered Murtaza told me that we would come back quite late this evening, so I assumed what Murtaza’s wife said was right. “Party? Shall I change my clothes?”
“No, you look fine.” About 20 minutes later we were heading to a gathering – what the three Pakistanis called ‘a party.’ I didn’t expect any party (if party meant a dance floor and neon lights) scene in this Islamic country. When I finally got out from the car a strange thing occurred. I heard a Lady Gaga song blaring from one of the houses where there were four security guards standing in front of the house with guns on their shoulders. “What is this scene?” I questioned myself. We entered the house, it was dark, and the music was loud. There was a throng of people dancing over there while I got myself a plate of seafood. I couldn’t believe what I saw. “Young man, don’t be deceived, life is not at all like this!” A lady shouted to me over Lady Gaga’s voice. At that time, I was sure that I would love this country more than I thought I ever would!
I woke up quite late the next day. When I finally walked out of the room and met Murtaza, he asked “Jia Wei, would you like to visit your office?” Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the Dawn office. There were more security guards than I had expected. As we made our way inside Dawn.com, the department where I was supposed to begin my internship, Murtaza introduced me to Qurat ul ain Siddiqui, a.k.a, Annie, my soon to be senior colleague (surprisingly, Pakistani girls don’t cover their face). It was great to visit the office before I started work, but it was making me nervous. I realized that I have not just come here to see Pakistan but also was here for an internship program. I would start work in two days. Murtaza simply sensed my worry and later he said “you have come here to learn.”
That evening, we went to Sea-view beach in Clifton with the three children. Standing in front of the Arabian Sea, I was stunned. Suddenly, I felt as excited as the kids did. I had only heard the name of the Arabian Sea long ago, but I didn’t know it was so stunningly beautiful. Gorgeous, calm, peaceful, serene, were all the words that came to my mind that second.
The Osama look-alike taxi driver, messy traffic, Murtaza’s family, Pakistani food, the Arabian Sea, I saw two completely different pictures of Pakistan. When I wondered how much more this country would make an impact on me, Murtaza said “I am taking the girls to the cinema, you should come with us. We will watch ‘Narnia’ the movie in 3D…”
What? Did he just say 3D movie? I had never ever expected there would be a cinema theatre located in Karachi, and now we were heading to a 3D theatre. Everything in the theatre was excellent, except the part where the electricity was cut off during one of the most stimulating scenes (and I thought there might be a chance that it was cut off due to a terrorist attack before I realized that electricity shortage is part of the daily life in Karachi).
I moved to the YMCA (Hostel of Young Men Christian’s Association) on the fourth day. I checked in to a single room, with a bed, a cupboard, a desk and a chair. Most importantly, it was economical. I was quite excited before moving in, though I was sure (and was warned) that the facilities and atmosphere inside the hostel wouldn’t be as cozy as what I had got at Murtaza’s house. But I didn’t really care as I had come here all the way from Malaysia to experience the real Pakistani life. Forget about the comfortable bed and homely feel. I wanted to get an in-depth experience of Pakistani life.
The room was not as bad as I thought; plain and clean, except the corridor to my room was extremely dark and horrible. I moved all my belongings to the room and told myself, “The adventure has officially begun!” After all the necessary cleaning works, I walked to the shared bathroom to take a shower, and then realized that there was no warm water supply! Isn’t it winter now? Fifteen degrees Celsius, do Pakistanis not feel cold? (The average temperatures in tropical countries are stably around 28-30 degrees Celsius). I was shivering under the shower when I told myself, “You are going to transform into a real man in six months.”
The rickshaw is a common mode of transport in this city and is a good way to explore different areas. I have been taking rickshaws to places like the Bin Qasim Park in Clifton (it was a really huge park), the Mausoleum of Mr Jinnah, the Sunday Bazaar (a weekly apparently cheaply priced mega-market place) and various other areas. Usually, I tried to behave like a local (although I don’t look at all like a Pakistani) instead of being a tourist, but you know you have not succeeded in this part of acting when you buy a pair of socks for double the price at Sunday Bazaar after a big bargain.
Since arriving here, being Chinese, I was always getting too much attention that I didn’t want, especially when I was walking alone without any Pakistani friends. Strangers on the streets always stopped me and greeted me, insisting I should sit beside them to have a cup of tea. (They behaved like old friends – as if we knew each other for a long time). These were friendly Pakistanis, although it could be annoying, sometimes (like when you were not in a mood to talk, or when you were rushing to the office and you were already late). People simply get curious when they see a foreigner in this tourism starved country, regardless where the foreigner comes from. Funny thing was, people always asked me the same questions, and I almost repeated the same answers every time.
Pakistani: Are you from China? Or Japan?
Me: No, I am from Malaysia.
Pakistani: Malaysia? Are you a Muslim? (Well, this is a tough question).
Me: No, I am a Malaysian-born Chinese.
Pakistani: Do you know Kung Fu? Do you use sticks to eat?
However, what I am telling you is not the worst case. There was this one time when I was being followed by a weird man on the street. It was a crowded evening when I walked out from a restaurant next to Zainab Market (a good place to explore the real Pakistan). This person approached me and asked, “Do you want to accept my friendship? Can you be my friend?” (I didn’t even know his name). I tried my best to ignore him until I realized he had been crossing a couple of streets with me. I then stopped, and asked, “Why are you following me?” He finally said, “Friend, I don’t have any money now, do you want to sponsor me some money for the bus fare?”
My neighbours at the YMCA were curious about my presence too. I had a very kind neighbour who gave me Pakistani food daily and walked away quickly after passing the food to me. We hadn’t even had a real conversation yet (this is the most amazing part), I didn’t know his name either and so I named him ‘The neighbour’. It began on a normal evening when I was back from Dawn’s office. The neighbor knocked on my door.
Me: (Opened the door) “Hi, what is this?” (He passed me a cup of ice-cream)
The neighbor: “You are a Malay Chinese, right?”
Me: “Yes, Malaysian-born Chinese.”
The neighbor: “So, this is for you, free!”
Me: “Oh, shukriya! (means thank you in Urdu)”
He must be thinking that I was an Urdu expert, because five minutes later, he knocked on my door again and passed me a plate of dates and beans.
The neighbor: “Jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka”
Me: Huh?
The neighbour: “Jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka”
Then he walked away, leaving me alone in my doorway with the plate of beans.
I received minced-meat with paratha (oil-dripping bread) from him a few days later, and so on. He still talks to me in Urdu.
I started my work at Dawn.com very soon. Murtaza introduced me to Shyema, the supervisor and Deputy Editor, to me on the same Monday when I moved into YMCA. Shyema asked me why I chose Pakistan and the Dawn Media Group for my internship. We had a brief discussion and then I was told to sit beside Umair, a very unruffled colleague from whom I learnt 90 per cent of the Urdu I have picked up so far (basic phrases and curse words). Umair showed me the official website where we publish the news stories and photos. So, I spent about half an hour studying what was happening on the website. It was attention-grabbing, why? Because there was a lot of (in fact, too much) breaking news. Newspapers and news websites in Malaysia and Singapore would never be that interesting. Work at Dawn.com is quite individualized. Everyone works on their own tasks independently, yet colleagues are caring. Hasaan, now my best hang-out-buddy, gave me a workshop about what he wanted me to do on the second day.
The distance between the YMCA and the Dawn office is about a 10 minute walk. With the intention of living like a Pakistani, I walk to the office everyday instead of taking a rickshaw. I enjoy every sight and event that takes place on the streets. People chatting joyfully (although Pakistanis don’t smile much), cars and motorbikes rushing madly like there was no rule on the roads, donkeys resting under trees, the smell of litter and pollution in downtown, and so on. I was totally impressed by this vibrant atmosphere.
One afternoon during my second week, while I was walking to the office, I saw a crowd in the middle of the road. In front of the crowd, someone stood on a lorry and shouted something in Urdu aggressively. I felt curious about what was happening in front of my eyes and without knowing what it was, I began walking towards them. There were around 50 people in the crowd, and they seemed to be moving towards a specific direction. Some of them were holding banners while others were repeating what the leader had shouted. They looked upset. Then I suddenly realized, whoa, is it a protest rally going on? (People don’t protest in Malaysia and Singapore, I had never ever seen any protest rally in my life). I felt anxious and excited as I didn’t know what was going to happen. So, I frantically took a picture with my cell phone, and left the crowd hurriedly before any thing happened to me.
One thing I should really point out (I didn’t notice it before Shyema told me), that ever since I got here, ‘weird things keep on happening.’ Salman Taseer, the governor of the Punjab province was assassinated during the first week (when everything in this country was new and uncertain to me). A 7.2 magnitude earthquake occurred during the second week (miraculously, I didn’t feel it!). A foreigner shot Pakistanis on the street in Lahore (I had not seen more than five foreigners in these four weeks). Lastly, on the day of my 22nd birthday, there was a bomb blast in Karachi which killed two policemen. It happened just before I finished my work, when I was expecting an exciting birthday celebration with my colleagues. Suddenly, Hasaan came up to me and said, “Listen, I don’t want to ruin your birthday plan, but we have to cancel everything due to a bomb blast in the city.” I didn’t get what he meant at first, or the correct way to say is, I didn’t expect what he said before I replied, “I see, that is fine. We can always change to another day. Are you guys going out to cover it?” So my birthday celebration ended up with a dinner with pizzas and desserts which Hasaan bought from a nearby bakery, added with everyone’s laughter. I really admire Pakistani optimism, life is short and bombings could happen anywhere in this country. Pakistanis know how to overlook grief and live happily. Sometimes, we have to let go and my ruined birthday plan was the best example.
Two days later we went to Arena (a recreational club) for bowling (another surprise, there are bowling courts in Pakistan), as a compliment to my spoilt birthday plan. Most of the boys from my office came and we played for around an hour. I was not surprised about being the loser of the game. I was never ever a good bowler. What I was sure about was that everyone enjoyed the game.
Just a few days later I was invited to a ‘Mehndi,’ a pre-wedding ceremony (full of local dancing and sing-alongs). It was Hafsa’s ceremony, one of my senior colleagues at Dawn.com. We didn’t really know each other much as she went on leave for her wedding preparations soon after I joined in. This would be an incredible experience for me, to see a local wedding ceremony and get a chance to savour local cuisine. The only issue was that I was supposed to wear the local dress, a Kurta (the long top) and a shalwaar (the long bottom) to the gathering, but I didn’t have one. So Hasaan, Rishad (another senior colleague) and I rushed to a store called Khaadi, a favourite among locals for their dresses, at a shopping mall where I also bought a pair of sandals for myself (which I was told was the appropriate footwear to match with the clothes).
continued:
» What the Chinese guy said | The Dawn Blog | Pakistan, Cricket, Politics, Terrorism, Satire, Food, Culture and Entertainment
February 18, 2011:
I entered the departure area nervously looking around for an empty row. This was not the first time that I was traveling alone. I had been living in the chaos of traumatic Singapore since the past two years. I had backpacked and traveled to several countries alone before. I feel more comfortable doing things without a companion: the freedom and the sense of self-determination when you are able to achieve something on your own. But this time I was more excited and anxious than I usually would have been. All because of the destination I was heading off to – Pakistan, a region which was once ruled by Alexander the Great and several ancient empires; a country where some parts are ruled by the Taliban at this moment.
I remembered the moment I received notification of my acceptance to do an internship program in Pakistan. I was sitting in front of my laptop in my room, silently (usually I would sing), trying not to wake my roommate up from his sleep. I opened my mailbox. Several junk mails and one big surprise. I clicked on the one which was sent by the Career Attachment Office, it read ‘Congratulations, you have been selected by the Dawn Media Group (Pakistan) without interview’. Excitement rushed through my body.
My parents were not surprised when I told them I will be leaving for Pakistan one month later. I crawled into their bedroom like the way I used to when I was a child. I woke them up and announced, “Mum, I got the e-mail from school about my internship and I will be leaving for Pakistan……for six months. I will work for a local newspaper company at their website department.” My dad, as usual, remained silent. “Isn’t the country dangerous?”
“No, it is not Palestine (white lie), it’s quite safe, I’ll be staying in the largest city, not the rural area.”
“What about the Taliban? And, the bombings?”
“No, that is Afghanistan. Pakistan is very, very safe (another white lie).”
“Okay, if that is what you want, just do it. But, be careful.”
And just like that, I was in the game!
Friends began organising farewell parties before my departure. To most of them, this may be the last chance to see me in their entire life (I was guessing). To most of us, what we usually saw in the newspapers and television, Pakistan is one of the most dangerous countries amongst the 192 countries listed by the United Nations.
I surveyed my surroundings and examined passengers at the departure area, unaware of a male voice coming from next to me. “Hello, are you going to Karachi?” It came from a bearded, 40-year-old gentleman who was sitting besides me.
“Yes, I’m going there for a university internship program.” I replied, uneasily. Thousands of thoughts popped up in my head: Is this guy a Pakistani? Why did he talk to me? Shall we continue the conversation? He looks…is he a terrorist? Was he carrying a bomb? (Yes, Pakistanis, just the way you like to think that every Chinese knows Kung-Fu, we often think how any Pakistani may be carrying a bomb! That’s how media influences our perception.) Shall I just ignore him?
We continued the conversation. Not that I had a choice. It was wise not to ignore him than make him angry, right? So, for as long as we were talking, I never stopped judging him. This was the first Pakistani man I had ever met in my life. His name was Fahad, a professor from a university in Malaysia. We continued to talk as we walked to the gate after landing. I glanced at the queue in front of us. God, I was the only Chinese in this queue! In fact, I was the only foreigner on the airbus.
“It was a pleasant trip, we hope to see you again…” the loudspeaker repeated its lines in different languages. Unbelievable, I was finally on Pakistani soil! I passed the security gate and checkpoint easily. The security network wasn’t as strict as Changi Airport; I guess, since terrorists who targeted Singapore and the United States won’t have much time to bother Pakistan, it was pointless spending much effort to scan every passenger. With Fahad’s help, I exchanged my money for local currency and got myself a taxi heading to Murtaza’s (the editor of Dawn newspaper’s Magazine supplement) house. I hoped the taxi driver didn’t see my facial expression before I began talking to him. I was frightened by his appearance. I couldn’t help but think how this guy looked exactly like Osama Bin Laden! Although I was sure that he was not Osama, but shock was shock, I couldn’t deny it. He started talking to me in Urdu, obviously which I didn’t understand. He sensed that I didn’t understand what he was saying, so he tried his best to translate his words to English, “Road block…New Year’s eve…die…die.” At the same time, he posed an odd sign with his finger. I didn’t exactly understand what it implied, but it was the same gesture when you used your finger to click the camera button. Five minutes later, he pointed at me with a fatherly gaze, and said “Crazy people, crazy land.” His eyes were sincere. I wasn’t sure if he was saying I was a crazy guy who landed on this crazy land, or was he referring to crazy Pakistanis who were blocking the roads. At that moment, I wasn’t really sure if I could reach Murtaza’s house safely, either.
When our speedy car slowed down, I saw a sign board with ‘DHA’ (Defence Housing Authority) written on it and I knew we were finally reaching Murtaza’s house. I pressed the door bell uncertainly, as I was not sure if the driver really understood where I wanted to go. One minute passed, no one came out. It was the driver who pressed the button now. “Jia Wei, here, behind, nice to meet you!” Murtaza called me from his car. Inside his car, I saw a lady and three kids. So, I had finally reached my destination!
I would be staying at Murtaza’s house before I could find an apartment to settle down. Once inside, Murtaza invited me to have a cup of tea. It was my first cup of tea in Pakistan. “We can go to Japan or Europe anytime we want, as long as you have money and free time but to me Pakistan is not a place where everyone can come. If I missed this chance, I don’t think I would ever have another chance to visit this country,” I told Murtaza and his wife when they asked me why I chose to come to Pakistan. Unlike the driver, they didn’t look like the Pakistanis I saw on television. I wouldn’t have guessed that they were Pakistanis or Muslims if they walked in front of me on the streets in Singapore.
It was a chilly evening, and we were having dinner with four guests, three gentlemen and one lady. That was my first Pakistani dinner. To a typical Chinese, dinner meant three dishes and a bowl of rice. What I had at Murtaza’s house was entirely different. There were naans (local bread) and various kinds of curry and biryani (the most popular rice dish). I was paying more attention on every single dish than on the conversation that was going on. I was glad because I knew I wouldn’t be missing Chinese food in these six months!
When the guests had left, Murtaza’s wife told me “Jia Wei, we’re leaving for a new years eve party now. Get ready!” She must be kidding. A party in Pakistan? Impossible. However, they looked like they were leaving the house, and I remembered Murtaza told me that we would come back quite late this evening, so I assumed what Murtaza’s wife said was right. “Party? Shall I change my clothes?”
“No, you look fine.” About 20 minutes later we were heading to a gathering – what the three Pakistanis called ‘a party.’ I didn’t expect any party (if party meant a dance floor and neon lights) scene in this Islamic country. When I finally got out from the car a strange thing occurred. I heard a Lady Gaga song blaring from one of the houses where there were four security guards standing in front of the house with guns on their shoulders. “What is this scene?” I questioned myself. We entered the house, it was dark, and the music was loud. There was a throng of people dancing over there while I got myself a plate of seafood. I couldn’t believe what I saw. “Young man, don’t be deceived, life is not at all like this!” A lady shouted to me over Lady Gaga’s voice. At that time, I was sure that I would love this country more than I thought I ever would!
I woke up quite late the next day. When I finally walked out of the room and met Murtaza, he asked “Jia Wei, would you like to visit your office?” Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to the Dawn office. There were more security guards than I had expected. As we made our way inside Dawn.com, the department where I was supposed to begin my internship, Murtaza introduced me to Qurat ul ain Siddiqui, a.k.a, Annie, my soon to be senior colleague (surprisingly, Pakistani girls don’t cover their face). It was great to visit the office before I started work, but it was making me nervous. I realized that I have not just come here to see Pakistan but also was here for an internship program. I would start work in two days. Murtaza simply sensed my worry and later he said “you have come here to learn.”
That evening, we went to Sea-view beach in Clifton with the three children. Standing in front of the Arabian Sea, I was stunned. Suddenly, I felt as excited as the kids did. I had only heard the name of the Arabian Sea long ago, but I didn’t know it was so stunningly beautiful. Gorgeous, calm, peaceful, serene, were all the words that came to my mind that second.
The Osama look-alike taxi driver, messy traffic, Murtaza’s family, Pakistani food, the Arabian Sea, I saw two completely different pictures of Pakistan. When I wondered how much more this country would make an impact on me, Murtaza said “I am taking the girls to the cinema, you should come with us. We will watch ‘Narnia’ the movie in 3D…”
What? Did he just say 3D movie? I had never ever expected there would be a cinema theatre located in Karachi, and now we were heading to a 3D theatre. Everything in the theatre was excellent, except the part where the electricity was cut off during one of the most stimulating scenes (and I thought there might be a chance that it was cut off due to a terrorist attack before I realized that electricity shortage is part of the daily life in Karachi).
I moved to the YMCA (Hostel of Young Men Christian’s Association) on the fourth day. I checked in to a single room, with a bed, a cupboard, a desk and a chair. Most importantly, it was economical. I was quite excited before moving in, though I was sure (and was warned) that the facilities and atmosphere inside the hostel wouldn’t be as cozy as what I had got at Murtaza’s house. But I didn’t really care as I had come here all the way from Malaysia to experience the real Pakistani life. Forget about the comfortable bed and homely feel. I wanted to get an in-depth experience of Pakistani life.
The room was not as bad as I thought; plain and clean, except the corridor to my room was extremely dark and horrible. I moved all my belongings to the room and told myself, “The adventure has officially begun!” After all the necessary cleaning works, I walked to the shared bathroom to take a shower, and then realized that there was no warm water supply! Isn’t it winter now? Fifteen degrees Celsius, do Pakistanis not feel cold? (The average temperatures in tropical countries are stably around 28-30 degrees Celsius). I was shivering under the shower when I told myself, “You are going to transform into a real man in six months.”
The rickshaw is a common mode of transport in this city and is a good way to explore different areas. I have been taking rickshaws to places like the Bin Qasim Park in Clifton (it was a really huge park), the Mausoleum of Mr Jinnah, the Sunday Bazaar (a weekly apparently cheaply priced mega-market place) and various other areas. Usually, I tried to behave like a local (although I don’t look at all like a Pakistani) instead of being a tourist, but you know you have not succeeded in this part of acting when you buy a pair of socks for double the price at Sunday Bazaar after a big bargain.
Since arriving here, being Chinese, I was always getting too much attention that I didn’t want, especially when I was walking alone without any Pakistani friends. Strangers on the streets always stopped me and greeted me, insisting I should sit beside them to have a cup of tea. (They behaved like old friends – as if we knew each other for a long time). These were friendly Pakistanis, although it could be annoying, sometimes (like when you were not in a mood to talk, or when you were rushing to the office and you were already late). People simply get curious when they see a foreigner in this tourism starved country, regardless where the foreigner comes from. Funny thing was, people always asked me the same questions, and I almost repeated the same answers every time.
Pakistani: Are you from China? Or Japan?
Me: No, I am from Malaysia.
Pakistani: Malaysia? Are you a Muslim? (Well, this is a tough question).
Me: No, I am a Malaysian-born Chinese.
Pakistani: Do you know Kung Fu? Do you use sticks to eat?
However, what I am telling you is not the worst case. There was this one time when I was being followed by a weird man on the street. It was a crowded evening when I walked out from a restaurant next to Zainab Market (a good place to explore the real Pakistan). This person approached me and asked, “Do you want to accept my friendship? Can you be my friend?” (I didn’t even know his name). I tried my best to ignore him until I realized he had been crossing a couple of streets with me. I then stopped, and asked, “Why are you following me?” He finally said, “Friend, I don’t have any money now, do you want to sponsor me some money for the bus fare?”
My neighbours at the YMCA were curious about my presence too. I had a very kind neighbour who gave me Pakistani food daily and walked away quickly after passing the food to me. We hadn’t even had a real conversation yet (this is the most amazing part), I didn’t know his name either and so I named him ‘The neighbour’. It began on a normal evening when I was back from Dawn’s office. The neighbor knocked on my door.
Me: (Opened the door) “Hi, what is this?” (He passed me a cup of ice-cream)
The neighbor: “You are a Malay Chinese, right?”
Me: “Yes, Malaysian-born Chinese.”
The neighbor: “So, this is for you, free!”
Me: “Oh, shukriya! (means thank you in Urdu)”
He must be thinking that I was an Urdu expert, because five minutes later, he knocked on my door again and passed me a plate of dates and beans.
The neighbor: “Jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka”
Me: Huh?
The neighbour: “Jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka-jing-ga-lang-ka”
Then he walked away, leaving me alone in my doorway with the plate of beans.
I received minced-meat with paratha (oil-dripping bread) from him a few days later, and so on. He still talks to me in Urdu.
I started my work at Dawn.com very soon. Murtaza introduced me to Shyema, the supervisor and Deputy Editor, to me on the same Monday when I moved into YMCA. Shyema asked me why I chose Pakistan and the Dawn Media Group for my internship. We had a brief discussion and then I was told to sit beside Umair, a very unruffled colleague from whom I learnt 90 per cent of the Urdu I have picked up so far (basic phrases and curse words). Umair showed me the official website where we publish the news stories and photos. So, I spent about half an hour studying what was happening on the website. It was attention-grabbing, why? Because there was a lot of (in fact, too much) breaking news. Newspapers and news websites in Malaysia and Singapore would never be that interesting. Work at Dawn.com is quite individualized. Everyone works on their own tasks independently, yet colleagues are caring. Hasaan, now my best hang-out-buddy, gave me a workshop about what he wanted me to do on the second day.
The distance between the YMCA and the Dawn office is about a 10 minute walk. With the intention of living like a Pakistani, I walk to the office everyday instead of taking a rickshaw. I enjoy every sight and event that takes place on the streets. People chatting joyfully (although Pakistanis don’t smile much), cars and motorbikes rushing madly like there was no rule on the roads, donkeys resting under trees, the smell of litter and pollution in downtown, and so on. I was totally impressed by this vibrant atmosphere.
One afternoon during my second week, while I was walking to the office, I saw a crowd in the middle of the road. In front of the crowd, someone stood on a lorry and shouted something in Urdu aggressively. I felt curious about what was happening in front of my eyes and without knowing what it was, I began walking towards them. There were around 50 people in the crowd, and they seemed to be moving towards a specific direction. Some of them were holding banners while others were repeating what the leader had shouted. They looked upset. Then I suddenly realized, whoa, is it a protest rally going on? (People don’t protest in Malaysia and Singapore, I had never ever seen any protest rally in my life). I felt anxious and excited as I didn’t know what was going to happen. So, I frantically took a picture with my cell phone, and left the crowd hurriedly before any thing happened to me.
One thing I should really point out (I didn’t notice it before Shyema told me), that ever since I got here, ‘weird things keep on happening.’ Salman Taseer, the governor of the Punjab province was assassinated during the first week (when everything in this country was new and uncertain to me). A 7.2 magnitude earthquake occurred during the second week (miraculously, I didn’t feel it!). A foreigner shot Pakistanis on the street in Lahore (I had not seen more than five foreigners in these four weeks). Lastly, on the day of my 22nd birthday, there was a bomb blast in Karachi which killed two policemen. It happened just before I finished my work, when I was expecting an exciting birthday celebration with my colleagues. Suddenly, Hasaan came up to me and said, “Listen, I don’t want to ruin your birthday plan, but we have to cancel everything due to a bomb blast in the city.” I didn’t get what he meant at first, or the correct way to say is, I didn’t expect what he said before I replied, “I see, that is fine. We can always change to another day. Are you guys going out to cover it?” So my birthday celebration ended up with a dinner with pizzas and desserts which Hasaan bought from a nearby bakery, added with everyone’s laughter. I really admire Pakistani optimism, life is short and bombings could happen anywhere in this country. Pakistanis know how to overlook grief and live happily. Sometimes, we have to let go and my ruined birthday plan was the best example.
Two days later we went to Arena (a recreational club) for bowling (another surprise, there are bowling courts in Pakistan), as a compliment to my spoilt birthday plan. Most of the boys from my office came and we played for around an hour. I was not surprised about being the loser of the game. I was never ever a good bowler. What I was sure about was that everyone enjoyed the game.
Just a few days later I was invited to a ‘Mehndi,’ a pre-wedding ceremony (full of local dancing and sing-alongs). It was Hafsa’s ceremony, one of my senior colleagues at Dawn.com. We didn’t really know each other much as she went on leave for her wedding preparations soon after I joined in. This would be an incredible experience for me, to see a local wedding ceremony and get a chance to savour local cuisine. The only issue was that I was supposed to wear the local dress, a Kurta (the long top) and a shalwaar (the long bottom) to the gathering, but I didn’t have one. So Hasaan, Rishad (another senior colleague) and I rushed to a store called Khaadi, a favourite among locals for their dresses, at a shopping mall where I also bought a pair of sandals for myself (which I was told was the appropriate footwear to match with the clothes).
continued:
» What the Chinese guy said | The Dawn Blog | Pakistan, Cricket, Politics, Terrorism, Satire, Food, Culture and Entertainment
Where the Chinese guy went – Part I
by Jia Wei on June 16th, 2011
So, if you still remember me, I am the Malaysian-born Chinese intern from Dawn.com. I am still alive in Karachi despite the usual chaos in the city (I will elaborate to you later about how hesitant I felt on the historic day when being told that Osama was just one hour away from where I was, though I was braver than that). Since I wrote the blogs ‘What the Chinese guy said’ and ‘For the love of cricket … not the green insect’ earlier this year, I have been staying in my dim gloomy cavern, silently observing this metropolis for nearly five, full months. I would not mind if you define me as a half-Pakistani now, yet my neighborhood would never agree with this idea. They still point and stare at me every day without saying hello or a smile, as if I am a strange creature showing up in front of them, though they have been seeing me since January. They’ll talk to me only when I do those daily, unglamorous things in front of them (for example, brush my teeth in the shared toilets, clean my dirty clothes etc). In that case, my snooping neighbours would come to me and ask, “Chinese (with the funky Pakistani accent, it sounds like “Chai-nis”
also do this?” Nah, I am not complaining. I realized how nice they are after I visited a remote village in central Punjab. Well, what I am trying to say is, can you ever imagine that I have been living alone in this heavily populated city without seeing any Chinese people (or whoever looks like me) and not speaking Mandarin (my mother tongue) for nearly half a year?
“You are not even from China, how can you be a hard-core Chinese?’ Nadir, my colleague said to me while we were having lunch once.
While facing these gigantic ‘culture shocks’, I isolated myself in my lovely home (my friends prefer to use the word ‘haunted’ to describe my hostel), and meditated for hours, with the help of divine beverages and Pakistani herbs. Sometimes, I went out for pleasure weekend-parties and Chinese food cooking parties, living it up with my local friends.
One fine day, while I was going through what they call the ‘self-realisation process,’ a question came to my mind, “Why did you come to Pakistan and what do you really want to do here?”
“Life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend,” John Lennon tried to persuade me through my Sony Walkman, “Imagine all the people, living for today…” He was right. I longed to travel around this country, what was I waiting for?
Subsequently, I made my decision to head out for the long and exhaustive yet exhilarating and adventurous Pakistan travels. After one week of research on the route planning, my Pakistan discovery expedition, kicked off!
Saying goodbye to Karachi was not as painless as I thought it to be initially. It was joy and sadness both mixed up. I felt keyed up about what lay ahead of me as I said my goodbyes to my friends. The Chinese say, “The bitterness of saying goodbyes comes from the sweetness and the warmth contained by the sourness.” Partially it was because that I loved this metropolis too much. As quoted by Nadir, this city is “so alive and chaotic” that everyday can be a new experience. Unlike Singapore…that country is too calm remains the same everyday…not adventurous at all.
On 24 April, my journey officially commenced with the company of my colleague, Farooq, to interior Sindh, meeting our friend, Abib, in Nawabshah. Well, let’s be frank, I was at a farewell party a few hours before my departure. So, you could imagine how exhausted I was when I saw Farooq. I was saying goodbye to my American-desi friend the night before as she was leaving this country after silently helping the Pakistani society for four months, while my friend, Zeeshan, suddenly panicked because he realised that he had lost his car key at three o’clock in the morning. We had no other mode of transport. After a long discussion we found our way to Zeeshan’s house. I slept for a few hours and then woke up with a severe headache. It was a boiling, sun-drenched, long day and now I was sitting in Farooq’s car. The weather was so blistering hot that even the air-conditioner refused to work properly, marking a noteworthy start of my journey.
On my way from Karachi to Hyderabad (while the car was still working smooth). – Photo by author
After dropping Farooq’s mother at his relative’s house in Hyderabad, we headed straight for Nawabshah. Having a glance at the vivacity of one of Pakistan’s primeval towns, I swore to myself that I would come back again and pay a visit to Hyderabad.
Traveling in between the narrow crannies – they were too narrow! – Photo by author
Well, it kind of came true pretty easily as 20 minutes later our car broke down and so we were on our way back to Hyderabad. The car could not stand the Sindhi heat anymore and its engine refused to work. We had no other alternative but to stay a night in Hyderabad.
In Hyderabad, I met Farooq’s friend, Ali Shah, a young Talpur. I did not know how influential the Talpur family was before the colonization period until I left the town, although I overheard a conversation about the feudal system in interior Sindh and I couldn’t believe that landlords still existed in this day and age. That evening, we had dinner together, along with Ali Shah’s friends. Unlike the image of brutal landlords I had in mind, he was a well-mannered and helpful, young man.
We decided to take public transport to Nawabshah; leaving Farooq’s car at Ali Shah’s place for maintenance. On our way to the bus station, Ali Shah said to me, “You should see this place.”
Standing in front of the Talpur family’s tombs…one word: Amazing! – Photo by author
Here we were, standing in front of the Talpur family’s tombs. Hyderabad, being one of the oldest towns in Sindh, was founded in 1768 by the Kalhoros upon the ruins of a fishing village. It was known as “Nerun” at that time. Fifteen years later, in 1783, the Baloch tribe-Talpurs took over power and built the Talpurs dynasty in Sindh. The family settled down in Hyderabad and most of them were later buried in these domed burial chambers.
Located five minutes away from the centre of the town, the navy marble-carved tombs stood out pompously in front of me. Sadly, they were completely ruined, veiled in a congested neighbourhood.
I was extremely surprised. Conservation of country heritage was barely visible in this part of the world. – Photo by author
by Jia Wei on June 16th, 2011
So, if you still remember me, I am the Malaysian-born Chinese intern from Dawn.com. I am still alive in Karachi despite the usual chaos in the city (I will elaborate to you later about how hesitant I felt on the historic day when being told that Osama was just one hour away from where I was, though I was braver than that). Since I wrote the blogs ‘What the Chinese guy said’ and ‘For the love of cricket … not the green insect’ earlier this year, I have been staying in my dim gloomy cavern, silently observing this metropolis for nearly five, full months. I would not mind if you define me as a half-Pakistani now, yet my neighborhood would never agree with this idea. They still point and stare at me every day without saying hello or a smile, as if I am a strange creature showing up in front of them, though they have been seeing me since January. They’ll talk to me only when I do those daily, unglamorous things in front of them (for example, brush my teeth in the shared toilets, clean my dirty clothes etc). In that case, my snooping neighbours would come to me and ask, “Chinese (with the funky Pakistani accent, it sounds like “Chai-nis”
also do this?” Nah, I am not complaining. I realized how nice they are after I visited a remote village in central Punjab. Well, what I am trying to say is, can you ever imagine that I have been living alone in this heavily populated city without seeing any Chinese people (or whoever looks like me) and not speaking Mandarin (my mother tongue) for nearly half a year?“You are not even from China, how can you be a hard-core Chinese?’ Nadir, my colleague said to me while we were having lunch once.
While facing these gigantic ‘culture shocks’, I isolated myself in my lovely home (my friends prefer to use the word ‘haunted’ to describe my hostel), and meditated for hours, with the help of divine beverages and Pakistani herbs. Sometimes, I went out for pleasure weekend-parties and Chinese food cooking parties, living it up with my local friends.
One fine day, while I was going through what they call the ‘self-realisation process,’ a question came to my mind, “Why did you come to Pakistan and what do you really want to do here?”
“Life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend,” John Lennon tried to persuade me through my Sony Walkman, “Imagine all the people, living for today…” He was right. I longed to travel around this country, what was I waiting for?
Subsequently, I made my decision to head out for the long and exhaustive yet exhilarating and adventurous Pakistan travels. After one week of research on the route planning, my Pakistan discovery expedition, kicked off!
Saying goodbye to Karachi was not as painless as I thought it to be initially. It was joy and sadness both mixed up. I felt keyed up about what lay ahead of me as I said my goodbyes to my friends. The Chinese say, “The bitterness of saying goodbyes comes from the sweetness and the warmth contained by the sourness.” Partially it was because that I loved this metropolis too much. As quoted by Nadir, this city is “so alive and chaotic” that everyday can be a new experience. Unlike Singapore…that country is too calm remains the same everyday…not adventurous at all.
On 24 April, my journey officially commenced with the company of my colleague, Farooq, to interior Sindh, meeting our friend, Abib, in Nawabshah. Well, let’s be frank, I was at a farewell party a few hours before my departure. So, you could imagine how exhausted I was when I saw Farooq. I was saying goodbye to my American-desi friend the night before as she was leaving this country after silently helping the Pakistani society for four months, while my friend, Zeeshan, suddenly panicked because he realised that he had lost his car key at three o’clock in the morning. We had no other mode of transport. After a long discussion we found our way to Zeeshan’s house. I slept for a few hours and then woke up with a severe headache. It was a boiling, sun-drenched, long day and now I was sitting in Farooq’s car. The weather was so blistering hot that even the air-conditioner refused to work properly, marking a noteworthy start of my journey.
On my way from Karachi to Hyderabad (while the car was still working smooth). – Photo by author
After dropping Farooq’s mother at his relative’s house in Hyderabad, we headed straight for Nawabshah. Having a glance at the vivacity of one of Pakistan’s primeval towns, I swore to myself that I would come back again and pay a visit to Hyderabad.
Traveling in between the narrow crannies – they were too narrow! – Photo by author
Well, it kind of came true pretty easily as 20 minutes later our car broke down and so we were on our way back to Hyderabad. The car could not stand the Sindhi heat anymore and its engine refused to work. We had no other alternative but to stay a night in Hyderabad.
In Hyderabad, I met Farooq’s friend, Ali Shah, a young Talpur. I did not know how influential the Talpur family was before the colonization period until I left the town, although I overheard a conversation about the feudal system in interior Sindh and I couldn’t believe that landlords still existed in this day and age. That evening, we had dinner together, along with Ali Shah’s friends. Unlike the image of brutal landlords I had in mind, he was a well-mannered and helpful, young man.
We decided to take public transport to Nawabshah; leaving Farooq’s car at Ali Shah’s place for maintenance. On our way to the bus station, Ali Shah said to me, “You should see this place.”
Standing in front of the Talpur family’s tombs…one word: Amazing! – Photo by author
Here we were, standing in front of the Talpur family’s tombs. Hyderabad, being one of the oldest towns in Sindh, was founded in 1768 by the Kalhoros upon the ruins of a fishing village. It was known as “Nerun” at that time. Fifteen years later, in 1783, the Baloch tribe-Talpurs took over power and built the Talpurs dynasty in Sindh. The family settled down in Hyderabad and most of them were later buried in these domed burial chambers.
Located five minutes away from the centre of the town, the navy marble-carved tombs stood out pompously in front of me. Sadly, they were completely ruined, veiled in a congested neighbourhood.
I was extremely surprised. Conservation of country heritage was barely visible in this part of the world. – Photo by author
Not only that, the colours on the decorated walls were fading away and some marble pieces seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. It seemed people had ruined the site by carving their loved ones’ names on the walls leading to permanent damage.
“Why did anyone not protect this site from being defaced?” I asked, with resentment. “I am sure that if it was in Malaysia, or Singapore, it would have been guarded soundly.”
“It is registered under the Department of Archeology, and when they did not get any money from the government, what could they do?” replied Ali Shah. “Now, we are using our family’s power to protect the tombs from being destroyed, but what we can do is limited.
The family’s legends were being narrated by the old Talpurs to the young. – Photo by author
Ali Shah had the key to the heritage, so we went into the tomb to pay our respects to the deceased. It was absolutely quiet inside the room and the temperature turned cool and pleasant, compared to the hot-and-dry weather out in the open. Traditional Islamic paintings covered the walls.
“So, if the money did not go to the tourism industry and the people, where did it go, weapons?” I asked.
There were no replies to my question.
The Talpur dynasty lasted for over 50 years before the British came with the incursion of expanding their colonial map, and their interests in the Punjab region. The Talpurs hence signed a peace agreement after several gory battles. The fort was smashed and thousands were killed. Some of the Talpur family members were banished to Burma and Rangoon, and never got to see Sindh again. The glory of the family lay in damaged ruins and architectural tombs while Hyderabad became a major commercial centre which the British used to call ‘The Bombay Presidency.’
The tombs of the Talpur Mirs are registered under the department of Archaeology, Pakistan. They remain in a dreadful shape. – Photo by author
In Nawabshah, daily life usually meant no-worries.
In Nawabshah, there is nothing to worry about as long as friends are around. – Photo by author
We met Abib in the evening and headed for his swimming pool, immediately after we had lunch, to cool ourselves from the heat wave. I was not a swimmer, so I tried to make myself float on the surface while Abib shouted, “You are a Chinese, how come you can’t swim?”
I knew that it would be a Sindhi speaking night when I noticed that Abib’s friends did not speak proper English. I wondered how the conversation between us would work out. “Sain chahala,” I greeted them in Sindhi (one of the only Sindhi sentences I had learnt). Farooq and Abib were the translators between the Sindhis and I.
I remained silent for the most part of the two-hour conversation, while observing the way the Sindhi language sounded. I was exceptionally amused by the out-of-tune, gigantic laughs during the conversation, which I later observed almost all Sindhi’s typically laughed this way. “Sindhis believe that if you enjoy the conversation, you need to show it to everyone by laughing out loud,” Farooq said trying to explain the custom to me.
Nawabshah is not a tourist attraction. Everything that I captured dealt with their unique mode of living. – Photo by author
We visited several places the next day, surrounded by banana trees and sweltering Sindhi air, it seemed to me that the rest of the world, or even Pakistan, was very far-off. The people looked as if they walked in slow motion, living life their own traditional ways. It looked like there was nothing for them to worry about, despite the poverty written in their sad eyes. Life could be tough, yet simple.
Consequently, people in Nawabshah were more conservative – there were only two civil hospitals in Nawabshah where one was for men and another for women, and men were not allowed to enter the women’s hospital, vice versa. The rationale of it, I am sure most of the readers know well. So, I asked Abib, “If I met a car accident right in front of the women’s hospital and I was about to die, would they send me all the way to the men’s hospital, instead of the nearest hospital?”
“You are a foreigner, maybe a different rule would apply for you. But, for us, yes, to the men’s hospital we would go.”
Waiting for the train to Lahore. – Photo by author
Joyful moments flew past. Before the sun set, I was already standing at the railway station in Nawabshah, waiting for the train heading to Lahore. I would have to say goodbye to the company of Farooq and Abib, and the rest of the journey would be on my own.
“Man, I am very excited and nervous,” I said. Farooq examined my checklist to make sure that I had everything with me before I headed for Lahore unaided.
“Don’t receive food from others, don’t talk to strangers…” reminded Farooq.
“Hey, I am not a child! You are talking like my parents,” I complained. In Pakistan, there is nothing to worry about as long as friends are around. I placed the Sindhi topi and Ajrak gifted by Farooq and Abib at the bottom of my backpack. They claimed that giving gifts was part of the Sindhi custom to show hospitality.
I waved goodbye to my friends, seventeen hours before I would arrive in Lahore, wish me luck!
“Why did anyone not protect this site from being defaced?” I asked, with resentment. “I am sure that if it was in Malaysia, or Singapore, it would have been guarded soundly.”
“It is registered under the Department of Archeology, and when they did not get any money from the government, what could they do?” replied Ali Shah. “Now, we are using our family’s power to protect the tombs from being destroyed, but what we can do is limited.
The family’s legends were being narrated by the old Talpurs to the young. – Photo by author
Ali Shah had the key to the heritage, so we went into the tomb to pay our respects to the deceased. It was absolutely quiet inside the room and the temperature turned cool and pleasant, compared to the hot-and-dry weather out in the open. Traditional Islamic paintings covered the walls.
“So, if the money did not go to the tourism industry and the people, where did it go, weapons?” I asked.
There were no replies to my question.
The Talpur dynasty lasted for over 50 years before the British came with the incursion of expanding their colonial map, and their interests in the Punjab region. The Talpurs hence signed a peace agreement after several gory battles. The fort was smashed and thousands were killed. Some of the Talpur family members were banished to Burma and Rangoon, and never got to see Sindh again. The glory of the family lay in damaged ruins and architectural tombs while Hyderabad became a major commercial centre which the British used to call ‘The Bombay Presidency.’
The tombs of the Talpur Mirs are registered under the department of Archaeology, Pakistan. They remain in a dreadful shape. – Photo by author
In Nawabshah, daily life usually meant no-worries.
In Nawabshah, there is nothing to worry about as long as friends are around. – Photo by author
We met Abib in the evening and headed for his swimming pool, immediately after we had lunch, to cool ourselves from the heat wave. I was not a swimmer, so I tried to make myself float on the surface while Abib shouted, “You are a Chinese, how come you can’t swim?”
I knew that it would be a Sindhi speaking night when I noticed that Abib’s friends did not speak proper English. I wondered how the conversation between us would work out. “Sain chahala,” I greeted them in Sindhi (one of the only Sindhi sentences I had learnt). Farooq and Abib were the translators between the Sindhis and I.
I remained silent for the most part of the two-hour conversation, while observing the way the Sindhi language sounded. I was exceptionally amused by the out-of-tune, gigantic laughs during the conversation, which I later observed almost all Sindhi’s typically laughed this way. “Sindhis believe that if you enjoy the conversation, you need to show it to everyone by laughing out loud,” Farooq said trying to explain the custom to me.
Nawabshah is not a tourist attraction. Everything that I captured dealt with their unique mode of living. – Photo by author
We visited several places the next day, surrounded by banana trees and sweltering Sindhi air, it seemed to me that the rest of the world, or even Pakistan, was very far-off. The people looked as if they walked in slow motion, living life their own traditional ways. It looked like there was nothing for them to worry about, despite the poverty written in their sad eyes. Life could be tough, yet simple.
Consequently, people in Nawabshah were more conservative – there were only two civil hospitals in Nawabshah where one was for men and another for women, and men were not allowed to enter the women’s hospital, vice versa. The rationale of it, I am sure most of the readers know well. So, I asked Abib, “If I met a car accident right in front of the women’s hospital and I was about to die, would they send me all the way to the men’s hospital, instead of the nearest hospital?”
“You are a foreigner, maybe a different rule would apply for you. But, for us, yes, to the men’s hospital we would go.”
Waiting for the train to Lahore. – Photo by author
Joyful moments flew past. Before the sun set, I was already standing at the railway station in Nawabshah, waiting for the train heading to Lahore. I would have to say goodbye to the company of Farooq and Abib, and the rest of the journey would be on my own.
“Man, I am very excited and nervous,” I said. Farooq examined my checklist to make sure that I had everything with me before I headed for Lahore unaided.
“Don’t receive food from others, don’t talk to strangers…” reminded Farooq.
“Hey, I am not a child! You are talking like my parents,” I complained. In Pakistan, there is nothing to worry about as long as friends are around. I placed the Sindhi topi and Ajrak gifted by Farooq and Abib at the bottom of my backpack. They claimed that giving gifts was part of the Sindhi custom to show hospitality.
I waved goodbye to my friends, seventeen hours before I would arrive in Lahore, wish me luck!
Where the Chinese guy went – Part III
BY JIA WEI ON JUNE 25TH, 2011
When I woke up in Islamabad, I could not feel any sense of cheerfulness. Supposedly it was my last day there – and I should have felt excited because I would be heading for Gilgit the day after. My plan was ruined when I was told that Osama Bin Laden had been killed in Abbottabad the night before.
The first few hours after the incident I was quite eager to know what was going on. I posted the breaking news on Facebook (showing off to my friends) by saying, “Osama bin Laden is dead and I was one hour away from him.” I could not believe that I was so close to the world’s focus. I heard that the Natco (Northern Areas Transport Corporation) Bus would make a pit stop in Abbottabad on its way to Gilgit, so I couldn’t wait for more than a second, because I wanted to be there and witness the town filling with correspondents from all over the country. I was walking around ‘The Supermarket’ area in Islamabad and finally decided to treat myself to some ‘Nandos’ food. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. I went into the restaurant. Ten minutes later, I received a phone call from Farooq (the same collegue again).
“Listen, I hope you’ve already been told about what has happened. Osama was killed and the Taliban could take revenge at any point in time. Cancel your plan up north and come back to Karachi as soon as possible,” said Farooq. The words sounded harsh to me.
I finished the Peri-Peri Chicken hurriedly and took a taxi to the hotel. They were right – it was a big loss to the al Qaeda. Yet Islamabad was calm at dusk, people walked on the streets like usual – it seemed so peaceful, how could I convince myself that something bad was about to happen? Part of my mind was persuading me to go ahead. I was stuck between fear and hope.
But wait. Let me begin right from the start. I arrived at the bus interchange in Rawalpindi three days before the Bin Laden episode – the dusty city did not smell good. Naeem, a reporter of a local news agency whom I had met in Karachi – was on his way from Lahore to Islamabad to attend a journalism workshop and so we would travel together. It was always good to have company.
We headed to a hotel immediately after we reached the capital, and had dinner with Naeem’s classmates. I met Irtebal, the station manager of a Kashmiri radio station called ‘Voice of Kashmir’, and learned from him that there was a vast population of Chinese workers living in Kashmir. Later on I was invited by him to the station along with Naeem and Sundus (an amazing, friendly Pakistani girl), and took part in a voice recording session. I said, “Mera naam Jia Wei hai, Pakistan China dosti, Zindabad!” I wished the Chinese workers would have a chance to hear that, though I doubted it.
The next morning, I took out my map and began planning my day. Islamabad was not a big city, so it was possible to take a walking tour. I had tried walking tours before (the most eco-friendly way to visit a city) once when I was exploring New Zealand. Plus, you always miss the chance of seeing a great many things when you travel by car or bus.
A glance at my route plan: Melody Market – Post Office (next to Melody Market) – The Supermarket – Lunch at KFC – Jinnah Supermarket – Faisal Mosque – Daman-e-Koh – Supreme Court and some government building – National Art Gallery. I walked leisurely, observing the serenity in the city. The way Islamabad was designed it looked a lot like Singapore, except it was busier and more crowded in Singapore.
I stopped by a bookshop at Jinnah Supermarket and bought ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ – I needed a book so that I would not feel so lonely while I was traveling. The first time I read it, I was at the age of three (the colourful younger-reading-version was the first book I’d ever read in my life and it somehow could explain the reasons I love to travel so much). It was time to read the book again.
With ‘Gulliver’s Travels’, I entered KFC and ordered my favourite ‘Zinger Burger’ meal, spending another hour at the restaurant starting an illustrated journey with Mr. Gulliver. The old names were coming back to my memory – Lilliput, Brobdingnag, etc. It was fun when you root back to how people traveled a hundred years ago and realised that you were still practicing the same way – using maps, travel guides, backpacks, and trying to learn some local languages to survive.
KFC all round the world smells the same, have you ever noticed? That’s why I always treat myself with a KFC Zinger Burger whenever I miss home.
continued:
Where the Chinese guy went
BY JIA WEI ON JUNE 25TH, 2011
When I woke up in Islamabad, I could not feel any sense of cheerfulness. Supposedly it was my last day there – and I should have felt excited because I would be heading for Gilgit the day after. My plan was ruined when I was told that Osama Bin Laden had been killed in Abbottabad the night before.
The first few hours after the incident I was quite eager to know what was going on. I posted the breaking news on Facebook (showing off to my friends) by saying, “Osama bin Laden is dead and I was one hour away from him.” I could not believe that I was so close to the world’s focus. I heard that the Natco (Northern Areas Transport Corporation) Bus would make a pit stop in Abbottabad on its way to Gilgit, so I couldn’t wait for more than a second, because I wanted to be there and witness the town filling with correspondents from all over the country. I was walking around ‘The Supermarket’ area in Islamabad and finally decided to treat myself to some ‘Nandos’ food. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. I went into the restaurant. Ten minutes later, I received a phone call from Farooq (the same collegue again).
“Listen, I hope you’ve already been told about what has happened. Osama was killed and the Taliban could take revenge at any point in time. Cancel your plan up north and come back to Karachi as soon as possible,” said Farooq. The words sounded harsh to me.
I finished the Peri-Peri Chicken hurriedly and took a taxi to the hotel. They were right – it was a big loss to the al Qaeda. Yet Islamabad was calm at dusk, people walked on the streets like usual – it seemed so peaceful, how could I convince myself that something bad was about to happen? Part of my mind was persuading me to go ahead. I was stuck between fear and hope.
But wait. Let me begin right from the start. I arrived at the bus interchange in Rawalpindi three days before the Bin Laden episode – the dusty city did not smell good. Naeem, a reporter of a local news agency whom I had met in Karachi – was on his way from Lahore to Islamabad to attend a journalism workshop and so we would travel together. It was always good to have company.
We headed to a hotel immediately after we reached the capital, and had dinner with Naeem’s classmates. I met Irtebal, the station manager of a Kashmiri radio station called ‘Voice of Kashmir’, and learned from him that there was a vast population of Chinese workers living in Kashmir. Later on I was invited by him to the station along with Naeem and Sundus (an amazing, friendly Pakistani girl), and took part in a voice recording session. I said, “Mera naam Jia Wei hai, Pakistan China dosti, Zindabad!” I wished the Chinese workers would have a chance to hear that, though I doubted it.
The next morning, I took out my map and began planning my day. Islamabad was not a big city, so it was possible to take a walking tour. I had tried walking tours before (the most eco-friendly way to visit a city) once when I was exploring New Zealand. Plus, you always miss the chance of seeing a great many things when you travel by car or bus.
A glance at my route plan: Melody Market – Post Office (next to Melody Market) – The Supermarket – Lunch at KFC – Jinnah Supermarket – Faisal Mosque – Daman-e-Koh – Supreme Court and some government building – National Art Gallery. I walked leisurely, observing the serenity in the city. The way Islamabad was designed it looked a lot like Singapore, except it was busier and more crowded in Singapore.
I stopped by a bookshop at Jinnah Supermarket and bought ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ – I needed a book so that I would not feel so lonely while I was traveling. The first time I read it, I was at the age of three (the colourful younger-reading-version was the first book I’d ever read in my life and it somehow could explain the reasons I love to travel so much). It was time to read the book again.
With ‘Gulliver’s Travels’, I entered KFC and ordered my favourite ‘Zinger Burger’ meal, spending another hour at the restaurant starting an illustrated journey with Mr. Gulliver. The old names were coming back to my memory – Lilliput, Brobdingnag, etc. It was fun when you root back to how people traveled a hundred years ago and realised that you were still practicing the same way – using maps, travel guides, backpacks, and trying to learn some local languages to survive.
KFC all round the world smells the same, have you ever noticed? That’s why I always treat myself with a KFC Zinger Burger whenever I miss home.
continued:
Where the Chinese guy went
You're very welcome. This thread has made me realize how much I miss Pakistan, being so far away.
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