One Muslim country and two Muslim weddings are not enough for a single trip, so my friend Ferakh's wedding in Pakistan was perfectly timed. (Well, except for the
massive internet breakdown that afflicted the country for most of my visit.) Perhaps not the most representative introduction to the subcontinent, but enough to whet my appetite for more!
Arrival. Contrasts with the secular, modern, European slice of Turkey I'd seen abounded from my first moments at the Karachi airport. I had barely heard the call to prayer in the last few days in Turkey; but in Pakistan on the way to baggage claim I passed departure lounges full of people doing their morning prayers. In Turkey I had generally been able to fade into the crowd of Turks and tourists in all their diversity; in Pakistan, the long (but surprisingly orderly) lines of people at immigration were a sea of
shalwar kemeez (long tunic over pants) and
dupatta (scarves), and I felt slightly underdressed and very foreign even in my Desi-wannabe camouflage. I was also woefully unprepared to make even a courtesy attempt at Urdu -- I'd focused on Turkish on the assumption that everyone in Karachi would speak English, but the hubbub of Urdu around me was not very reassuring as I emerged into the arrivals hall to another sea, this one much more unruly, and scanned the throngs uncertainly for a placard being my name. Before long I found my driver and was whisked off to the super-luxurious
Pearl Continental Hotel.
My first glimpses of the country were comfortingly reminiscent of my arrival in Beijing so many years ago, and rife with the familiar developing-world juxtapositions of old and new, luxury and destitution, chaos and rigor. I guess I prefer my countries a little rough around the edges; I could see that my thirst for urban life
and grime, unquenched during our relatively cush tour of Turkey, would be well slaked here. One salient difference from China: the public buses, whose cacophony of colors stood out against the dust and grey of the concrete blocks lining the road. More bursts of color were provided by tented pavilions that I was told were wedding sites -- only then did I start to understand the scale of Pakistani weddings!!
As we pulled up to the PC and the security guards checked our car for bombs, I realized that I probably ought to tip my driver -- but I didn't know how much would be appropriate; I'd forgotten the exchange rate and had only a hazy sense of how much I'd changed at the airport; and I'd been too busy lapping up the urban landscape to familiarize myself with the currency. Oh, and I was still sick, and now also exhausted by my long journey from Kusadasi. Upshot: I choked. After some physical and mental fumbling, I randomly pulled out a 10-rupee note, while sputtering an apology for my cluelessness. The driver helpfully pointed out my error: "Ahem, madam, that is not even a nickel!" -- so I tried again with a 100-rupee note, which seemed more to his satisfaction.
I was led in dazed relief through the metal detector, past the turbaned doorman and into the plush world of the PC. Disconcertingly, everyone at the front desk knew my name ("Hello Miss Nancy! Good morning Miss Nancy!"), insisted I was famous and, upon receiving my registration form, proclaimed: "That is not a signature; it is an
autograph!" They would not, of course, permit me to carry my bag to my room, so I was too distracted by renewed tip calculations (clearly I am not a quick study) to enjoy the ride up the glass elevator (direct to the executive floors!) or appreciate the elegantly appointed hallway leading to my room. Finally, I tiptoed in, hoping not to wake Ruxana and Ferakh, and found myself in a totally luxurious and totally disheveled room! The fluffy king-sized bed was rumpled; the executive desk was covered with papers; clothes were strewn everywhere and practically bursting out of the closet; every surface of the bathroom was crowded with toiletries. And nobody was there. Mystified but too exhausted to investigate, and overwhelmed at this point by the surreality of it all, I could do nothing but climb into bed and succumb to sleep.
Everything made sense by the full light of day, when I was reunited with Ferakh: Ruxana had gone to Islamabad; Ferakh had switched to another room to get a good night's sleep; and "my" room was full of everything Ferakh had brought from Dubai for the wedding (and married life). My bumpy arrival behind me, I quickly adapted to the life of (temporary) luxury -- the superb breakfast buffet (everything from my Turkish breakfast days and more! omelets to order! halva! oatmeal! yogurt!), drivers at our beck and call, much-needed spa treatments at a hip Western-style beauty parlor ($3 pedicure!), the perquisites due to inhabitants of the
executive floors (an
executive lounge serving us snacks and drinks all day, an
executive services desk for anything else). (I couldn't help giggling at the thought of me and my
executive backpack!)
Festivities (and frustrations). Wedding events and their preliminaries dominated our next few days. As Ferakh's friends trickled in, mostly from the UK and Dubai, we ventured on a series of truly exhausting expeditions into the city. Forgive me as I indulge my inner World Traveler to complain; but not about braving the stifling heat and wandering the dusty backroads of a foreign capital -- heavens no! I live for that stuff. The far greater challenge, to my patience at least: dress-shopping overload in upscale Western-style boutiques. At least it was a bonding experience with my fellow shoppers, and I managed to negotiate the prices down somewhat.
The wedding festivities -- including the traditional festive
mehndi (henna-and-dancing pre-wedding party), the more solemn
shadi (the main ceremonial event and banquet) and the informal
walima (post-wedding dinner) -- went roughly as described
here -- but with more chaos! I loved it all: wedding finery everywhere, shimmering tents lined with air conditioners, overflowing buffet tables (the Pakistanis really know their meat!). Despite our general cluelessness about what to do where and when (and how!), we managed to form protective shields around the bride at the appropriate times and didn't embarrass ourselves too much (I hope). But best of all, I
finally got to meet Murtaza, the groom, and was delighted (but not at all surprised, based on the twinkle in his eye in their engagement photo) to give him my 100% (unsolicited) approval -- even if he does seem to have a knack for teasing me.
I squeezed in one day of playing tourist with the Brits (David, Allison and Joanne). Finally: heat and dust -- and ruins! We first visited Banbhore, a once-thriving 8th-century fortress-city on a hill, now just dusty foundations atop an impressive plateau. The whole place was refreshingly spare -- barely any tourists, nothing but tickets for sale, minimal signage. (I was reminded once more of some of the smaller outposts in western China, and not just because the cases included pottery of my people, evidence of Silk Road commerce!) The air was thick with heat as we approached the mound, exposed to the full glare of the midday sun without any A/C respite (and sadly bereft of my trusty sun hat, which I'd lost in Turkey), and I began to understand why July in Karachi is labeled as causing
"extreme" discomfort from heat and humidity. Fortunately, the breeze on top made it bearable, even pleasant -- those Banbhorians picked a good spot! Just before leaving we also met a local family who generously offered us some of their biriyani and even invited us to join them for a picnic! Unfortunately, we barely had enough time to visit the (very cool) carved sandstone Chaukhundi tombs before getting back for the
walima.
Crazy Sunday (or, how I got vertigo). I won't attempt to document the full nuttiness of my (intended) last day in Karachi, but the movie version will have 3 scenes:
The Sunday market. Our last shopping hurrah, and this weekly seaside market was exactly what I hoped it would be: vast, dusty, all-encompassing. We passed through row upon row of produce, clothes, shoes, bags, books, housewares, textiles -- and dyed chicks. No other tourists, yet we didn't attract too much attention, and the merchants didn't jack up the prices for us foreigners. Bargaining heaven!
- Mother of all traffic jams. We barely made it back to the PC in time to catch a ride to the post-nuptial beach party. Somehow we crammed seven people into a very small car -- with five in the back seat! After being crushed from various directions by various appendages, I ended up wedged along the car floor, which I figured would be tolerable for a short ride. But then the road started to clog, and we could see cars at a standstill just ahead, and here began the craziness. The driver turned our car around and headed back (against traffic!) to an opening in the divider, crossed
over to the other side, and continued toward the beach unimpeded -- except, of course, by oncoming traffic! (Silver lining to my compromised perspective: I was spared the most unnerving views of our near-collisions.) Eventually, that side of the highway also got crowded, and before long we found ourselves in an impassable and intractable snarl -- cars heading every which way, and a remarkable amount of collective motion relative to our complete immobility. Somehow, amid all the yelling and maneuvering and chaos, I drifted into impotent half-consciousness -- which was surprisingly comfortable, until Ferakh elbowed me in the face. Thank heavens for air conditioning!!! Never before have I seen a jam remotely this bad; apparently it was extreme even for Karachi. But at long last, we managed to free ourselves from the mess and arrived at the beach, exhausted and ravenous. I did suffer one final blow to the face by Ferakh's elbow, but after two hours on the floor I was just happy to stretch my legs and follow my nose to the tandoor.
- Assaulted by the Arabian Sea -- twice! The party took place in a "beach hut" opening under a dramatically overcast sky onto the rugged shore of the Arabian Sea. From the hut we could see the swirling, churning surf and hear it pounding the rocks, beckoning us to climb down for a closer look. I perched myself carefully on the rocks (we were told that someone had drowned the night before) and exulted in the ocean spray. A sudden mighty wave sent a wall of water crashing upon us, and over the next several seconds I registered, in order: relief that I hadn't lost my footing; panic that one of Murtaza's friends had been knocked down; relief that he was fine; shock to find myself drenched; delight at how warm the water was; mortification as I realized that my white linen shirt was not an ideal wardrobe choice for this circumstance (especially in Pakistan); and gratitude as one of my companions gallantly offered his T-shirt. It is no easy task, I discovered, to wring one's clothes dry while wearing them -- but these efforts turned out to be in vain. After a camel-ride to a nearby sandy beach, I couldn't resist wading by the light of the just-risen moon -- or rather, planting my feet in the sand to fight for my balance against the tide; I lost. Another mega-wave knocked me under and I found myself drenched yet again. But the water was wonderfully warm, fireworks exploded from a distant hut, and I gladly surrendered to the playful-ferocious onslaught of the sea. And that, dear reader, is how I got an earful (or two) of genuine Pakistani sand, which in the ensuing chaos (rushing back to the PC, trying to change ticket to stay an extra day, etc.) I didn't quite manage to extricate.
Departure. One final adventure awaited me the next day at the airport. Although I'd successfully delayed my ticket by a day, I got slapped with a ridiculous no-show fee at check-in -- which was much worse than a mere nuisance, since I had gone to some trouble to use up all my rupees, and they didn't take credit cards. No problem, the ticket agent assured me -- he had a friend in the duty-free shops who would give me cash for credit. So I found myself being led hither and yon around the airport (echoes of Izmir!), passing blithely through security to the duty-free shops in search of my contact (not there), and wandering futilely from store to store, credit card at the ready. Then it was back through security, back to the ticket agent, outside the airport to the money changers (I'd scrounged up a few dollars and pounds, but I was still short), back through security to the stores for a second begging round, and once more roundly denied. Just as I began to despair, one merchant relented -- and then it was back out through security to finish checking in, back in through security (for reals this time!), and a last browse at the bookstand before I realized my flight was boarding and scooted myself to the gate just in time. All in all, a fittingly chaotic end to my visit.
Postscript. On the way home I stopped for a recuperative few days in London (which, apart from the closure of certain transport lines, seemed remarkably normal despite the bombings just days earlier). I managed to reunite with friends from every phase of the trip, and even met up with a honeymoon-bound Ferakh and Murtaza. Unfortunately, my Cappadocian cough proved resilient, and by the time I flew home the mild discomfort in my right ear had blossomed into a full-fledged earache, which in turn caused the severe bout of
vertigo that plagued me intermittently over the next few weeks and occasioned the previously reported amazement of my doctor ("Wow! That's a lot of sand!"). (Note: this was more than a week after the beach outing. I am reminded of an animé subtitle from years ago: "Damn you the sea!") So, to my mother's delight, I was condemned to an excruciatingly boring few days in Sunnyvale dosing up on antibiotics and trying not to move my head too abruptly -- a pitiful conclusion to my multi-week misadventures. Next time I'll wash my ears more carefully.
