Llew Wanders the World

Pakistan has something of a bad reputation at the moment. It is an Islamic Republic, though at the time of my visit it was under military rule. In addition to these factors (which many westerners would find disturbing enough) is the fact that several foreigners have been kidnapped and ransomed or killed in the southern city of Karachi.

Despite all of this, my research had led me to the conclusion that it WOULD be safe to visit, so long as I knew where I was going. The Islamic fundamentalist terrorists were confined to the southern parts of the country, and while there were many areas of the north prone to banditry and outside government control, the extents of these were well known and avoiding them wouldn’t be a problem.

So, I was all set, and very excited to visit the culturally fascinating (in addition to the Islamic nature of the state, Pakistan has long been the meeting point of south and central Asia), topographically spectacular (12 of the worlds top 30 peaks, and 5 of the 14 8000m summits are in northern Pakistan) and extraordinarily welcoming (from what I’d heard) country.

I woke up and headed down the street towards the bus park. It promised to be a bit of a hike, but 1/2 way there, I heard a bus conductor shouting “Attari! Attari!” which happened to be my destination. I hauled myself aboard the bus (which, in typical Indian fashion never slowed down.)
Instead of the “thump on the side of the bus” method of navigation employed elsewhere in the country this conductor actually had a whistle to indicate things to the driver (though as with the thump on the side of the bus method, the a single whistle could indicate stop, go, turn, or any one of several other commands.

The ride to Attari, the final Indian town before the border, took about one hour. Upon arriving I had a quick breakfast and then grabbed a rickshaw (there were so many unoccupied that the drivers only requested 50% over the standard price, instead of the usual two or three hundred percent.) The air was just a bit warm, and the trees lining the road on the way to the border made it a very pleasant trip.

Upon arriving I had little trouble signing myself out at the Indian immigration office (though I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t gone back to Raniganj to pick up my departure card.) I walked towards the Pakistan border post, along with dozens of blue-clad porters who were also making the journey. The porters weren’t just there to help out lazy tourists, but also because the Indian and Pakistani border posts are 1000m apart, and vehciles that haven’t cleared customs aren’t allowed to drive between them. Due to this, most goods being trucked between the two countries are carried on human backs for that one kilometre.

Between the two borders is a bizarre sort of grandstand, with one half on each side. These seats are used by tourists (both sub-continental and foreign) who come to watch the nightly border closing ceremony. I was far too early for it then, and I plan to watch it on my return to India, so I’ll leave the further explanation of the ceremony and its popularity for that time.

My first official contact in Pakistan was with a policeman who copied down my document details and chatted with me very amiably, only seeming a bit disappointed when I explained I couldn’t stay for the full two months of my visa. After a few more similar interactions at the immigration and customs buildings, I was sent on my way, ready to explore an exciting new country.

There wasn’t much on the Pakistan side of the border, just a few snack and (soft, of course) drink shops and a bus stand. I confirmed that the bus waiting there would take me to Lahore, and climbed aboard.

The bus trip gave me a very clear sign that I was not in Canada, or, indeed, even India anymore. At the front of the bus was a separate section, split off by a sheet metal barrier for unaccompanied women. Another small, odd addition was the fact that the horns of buses in Lahore seemed designed to mimic human whistles.

The bus was empty to start, but quickly picked up more and more passengers and soon I had to hoist my heavy pack rather uncomfortably up onto my lap. As a result I didn’t see too much on the ride in, save for the fact that it didn’t take long to reach the edge of busy, sprawling Lahore.

Upon arriving at the bus station (we travelled almost all the way through town) I climbed down and was immediately faced with something of a dilemma. I’d read about a great budget hotel in Lahore, but knew it only by name. The taxi drivers all seemed a bit confused about this, but finally I found one who said he knew where it was. I climbed in and we set off, but before long it became clear that he’d not been entirely honest. On a couple of occaisions we stopped so that he could ask other drivers where it was. It soon became clear that he had no hope of finding the place on his own, so I suggested I run into an internet cafe and try to find the adress. Somehow I managed, and though it had taken a while, he delivered me there.

Unfortunately, all I found was a series of doors being repainted hand having room numbers removed from their frames. Apparently the place had closed up or at least moved. No matter. I still had a second choice. With the help of a nearby shopkeeper, I grabbed a rickshaw and tried to make my way there. The driver claimed to know the location (and this time the shopkeeper even confirmed it) but once again, the hotel was nowhere to be found.

By this time, I was getting frustrated with the situation, and with busy, polluted Lahore in general. As such, I did what I’d done in other situations when I’d arrived in a town I didn’t take an immediate shine to. I left. The rickshaw dropped me at the train station, and I confirmed that I could get a ticket to Peshawar for that night (though I’d have to come back at 19:00 to pick it up.)

Good enough. My plan settled, I went to grab a bite to eat, as well as a couple of big glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice (5 rupees ($C0.10) with ice or 10 without.) Although it tasted a bit salty (despite assurances that there was no salt added) it was still really good.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a nearby bazaar, and it was there my opinion of Pakistan started its metioric rise. I spent a while trying to order some battered french fry like things from a street cart, and when the vendor finally realized that I wanted to actually try some, he gave a big smile, presented me with a bagful and positively refused payment.

I wandered a bit further into the market and sat down in a PCO (public call office, basically a pay phone-shop) where I’d been beckoned in and invited to tea. The two young men inside were wonderfully friendly, and kept introducing me to more and more of their relatives who wandered past. One of them explained to me that he, his father and grandfather had all been born in that bazaar. In turn I told him that I, my father and grandfather had all been born in different countries! One of the people they introduced me to was a young gay Pakistani. At first I thought they were simply teasing him when they’d said he was gay (especially given Pakistan’s status as an Islamic nation) but no, it turned out to be entirely true and I had to spend a couple of minutes politely declining his advances before he went back to simple conversation. By the time I headed back to the train station, I’d met perhaps a dozen family members and had two cups of tea, two soft drinks, a plate of rice pulao, some biscuits and a piece of cake. I practically rolled over to the station!

I was there a bit early and sat down on top of my pack. After a few minutes a very dark skinned man (he turned out to be Nigerian) approached me, and we started to talk. He asked a bit about me, and when I said I was in Pakistan simply as a tourist he replied “oh… Are you sure you aren’t LOOKING for SOMETHING here?” I almost expected him to follow this up with “nudge nudge, wink wink, knowhatimean?” He said he was in the country “on business” but refused to elaborate. Given Pakistan’s reputation as a centre for drugs and weapons manufacture I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of business he was up to…

I went to the window to pick up my ticket at 18:58 but was informed that I’d need to come back at 21:00. Okay…

While I’d been in line, I’d started chatting with a young Pakistani man named Mubeen, who invited me back to have a seat with he and his family. He introduced me to his mother (Sabia), cousin (Jamil), and aunt (Khalda), all of whom seemed genuinely delighted to make my acquaintance. They were all quite pleased that I was headed to Peshawar (their home) and within a few minutes Khalda suggested (indeed, practically insisted) that I be their guest while I was in town. After a second or two of internal debate, I happily accepted.

Their hospitality began even before we reached Peshawar, as they insisted that they pay for my train ticket as well! Tickets in hand, we all moved out on the platform (they’d been in Lahore shopping, and while they had tons to carry it took a lot of convincing for them to let me take anything for them.)

The Lahore train station was quite different from the Indian ones I’d visited, in that it was enclosed, instead of open air, and immaculately tidy, instead of generally grubby (also, much to my surprise, it had a McDonalds inside.)

There was a bit of excitement when the train arrived and it was realized that we had tickets, but not reserved seats. Somehow or other we managed to get ourselves and the voluminous cargo aboard, and sat down wherever we could. This situation wasn’t very comfortable, especially for the first hour until a lot of people got off, though by then I’d experienced far, far worse, and handled it pretty well.

Even after the departure of many passengers, it was still crowded, and I didn’t get much sleep. I talked with everyone nearby, all of them seeming fascinated to meet me, especially one man who asked such broad questions about Canadian, Indian and Pakistani society that I eventually had to say that if I really knew the FULL answers I’d have PhDs in history, sociology, anthropology, languages and a host of other studies besides.

Finally, around 03:45 enough people had cleared out that I was able to get a bed (there were only 2 for every ten or twelve seated passengers [and my hosts made sure I got one as soon as it became available.]) I got about 1.5 hours sleep before finally the train arrived in Peshawar. It had been a long night, but if I’d been alone the same problems would have arisen and I’d have been in a much worse position to deal with them.

We were the last ones off, taking several minutes to unload the baggage, but we still managed to find transport outside (firts a horse cart, then, after we realized we wouldn’t all fit in it, a small truck.) I was put up in the front seat, and did my best to memorize the twisting, turning path to their home.

We arrived, unloaded the truck and knocked on the door were we were gleefully received by the remainder of the family. Everyone was up and very busy, despite it still being before 07:00. After introductions and apologies were made (they had just moved into the house and were in the middle of renovations) I was sat down in the kitchen and treated to a fabulous breakfast of sweetened hot milk with cardamom, omlette and fresh roti (flat bread.) The food we ate during my stay was all wonderful, but particularly memorable were the supremely flavourful chutney (described below), the delicious hot from the oven/grill rotis (breads), and the hot drinks (milk tea, green tea, hot milk, all served warm and sweet with delicious spicing.)

After breakfast I was getting quite tired. This was noticed and at 09:30 I ended up laying down for a quick nap. Unsurprisingly, given the events of the precious night, the big meal and the hot milk, I didn’t wake up until 14:00. When we finally awoke (I’d been joined in my snooze by Mubeen and Jamil) it was time to see a bit of the city.

Jamil, Mubeen and I headed out into the city on foot (though not before Khalda warned me to tell anyone who asked that I was “a guest of Mubeen” and nothing more, for fear of arousing gossip amongst disapproving neighbours who might wonder what a strange western man was doing staying in a Muslim household contianing seven women.

Our walk took us through narrow, winding laneways, then into wider streets with canals beside, and finally to Shahi Bagh (King’s Park) the meeting place of Peshawar. I was fortunate to have arrived on a Sunday so I could see the place at its best. I was surprised that Sunday should be the weekly holiday, and not Friday, the usual Muslim holy day, but so it was (instituted, I was told, by the last civillian president of Pakistan.)

Shahi Bagh was crammed with people socializing, walking, but more than anything else playing games. And more than any other game, they were playing cricket. There were dozens of games going on at any time, with the wickets lined up just 15m or so away from one another, and fielders from any game allowed to participate in any other whose ball came their way. It was really exciting to see such a truly public space. This really was where the city came to meet. There were no organized leagues, no government sponsored events, just a place where the people of Peshawar all got together on a Sunday afternoon.

After Shahi Bagh we stopped briefly at the nearby fun park (which featured most of the same rides and very similar food to those in Canada) before heading into the Old City. On the way there we headed along several major streets, all choked with traffic and exhaust fumes. The air wasn’t a pretty sight, but the vehicles themselves, especially the trucks were spectacularly decorated.

We walked under the railway bridge and beside the Peshawar fort before turning into the maze of the bazaars. At one of these we came to the Mahabat Khan mosque, a beautiful 500 year old structure with lovely multicoloured tilework on the entrance archway. We couldn’t go past the courtyard, since prayer time was approaching, but another young man showed us the way up to a nearby rooftop from which we got a lovely view of the place. I couldn’t politely declne the fellow’s offer of tea which, as it turned out, led to us spending 40 minutes sitting in his souvenier shop looking at (my guides told me later) fake antiques.

After finally extricating ourselves, we carried on through the bazaars. While they were interesting, they still didn’t strike me as being quite as wonderful as some others I’d seen. Perhaps I’d been spoiled by southeast asia, and, especially, by Kathmandu?

It was getting dark, so we returned home via a few more, slightly busier bazaars, and then by Shahi Bagh. Upon arriving we were sat down to dinner. I’d been asked what I wanted to eat, and it took a bit of work to convince my hosts that I really would be happiest with “whatever you normally have.” What they normally had turned out to be absolutely delicious: fried vegetables, with okra, tomatoes and onion, spicy mutton curry, absolutley wonderuful homemade roti, and best of all, a “chutney” made from curd (yogurt) mint, garlic, chillies, and other spices. Such was my delight at this last that it was produced for almost every meal I ate at their home from then on.

We sat, ate and talked for most of the evening and to my complete lack of surprise, I did have to answer the expected “what is your religon,” question (for the first of many, many times in Pakistan.) I thought that it would be sensible to say I was Christian, which, while not really TRUE, is no more un-true than most other answers. It’s a good answer because, while Christians have failed to recognize Muhammed as a true prophet of Allah, at least they recognize that “there is no God but God.” This puts them in agreement with half of the Muslim creed anyway, and makes them “people of the book,” and worthy of some respect in Islamic eyes.

During our late dinner that evening sharp cracks could be heard from outside, some coming in rapid succession. “Someone has just had a baby… A son,” explaind Khalda, “they don’t shoot when it’s a daughter.” I was pleased that we were inside a concrete building with nice thick walls.

As it got still later, I was led downstairs to my bed, where, despite my earlier nap I had a nice long rest. I ended up feeling guiltily lazy when I woke the next morning at 08:45 when everyone else had already been up for hours! Despite this, in a pattern that would be repeated in later days, a delicious breakfast somehow appeared for me, complete with fresh roti and tea. (Somehow or other I never did end up eating breakfast with the family… Every single other meal, yes, but not even one breakfast.)

That day Mubeen and Jamil were planning on studying for their upcoming exams, so I happily set about some administrative work and exploration of my own. Mubeen walked out to a main road with me and put me in a rickshaw bound for the General Post Office.

After a bit of milling about with the rest of the crowd, I found the window I wanted. Unfortunately I also found that it would be no cheaper to mail my package home from Peshawar than from India. I really wanted to be rid of it for a while, but I certainly wasn’t going to spend $50 mailing $40 worth of goods home.

As I left the post office I met a young man who invited me up to his shop for tea. I happily complied, but found the combination tour company/NGO (grandly named the World Welfare Organization) a bit odd, verging on creepy. My sit with him did, however, give me time to think up an idea of how to deal with my package. It wasn’t so much that I needed the stuff to be back in Canada. Rather I just didn’t want to carry it around Pakistan with me. Thus, I mailed it to myself Poste Restante (i.e. to be picked up at the post office) in Lahore, where I’d be stopping just before leaving the country. (This makes it sound easier than it was really… It took quite a bit of explaining, and finally the helpful guy who had packed my parcel for me took me around behind the counter where I finally found an official who knew what “poste restante” meant, and didn’t just tell me that the address was incomplete.)

Following my post office adventures, I headed through the busy commercial centre of Peshawar, Sadar Bazaar to the nearby Pakistan Tourism Development Office. Once there, I had my plans for my visit to the country more or less trashed. I’d planned on heading from Peshawar to Chitral by bus (no dice… the pass was closed by snow) or perhaps by plane (still possible) and then taking the rough jeep road to Gilgit (not possible. Snow again, much to everyone’s surprise.) Before heading there, I’d wanted to spend a day at Darra Adam Khel, a town famous for its inhabitants who manufacture all types of firearms from automatic rifles to pen-guns using only simple machine tools. This was impossible too, as Darra was currently closed to foreigners.

After a short shopping trip to pick up a few ingrdients for the dinner I’d promised my hosts, I spent the remainder of the afternoon at an internet cafe before grabbing a rickshaw back to their place at the north end of town to get started with my cooking. I was attempting to make a Thai green curry, along with a Mango salad. Due to the limited availability of some things in Peshawar, I’d had to make a few subsitutions: mint for basil, lime zest for lime leaves, and guava for mango.

By the time I’d arrived back, Khalda had completed the shopping, and I’d getted started with cooking, it was already getting a little late. Thankfully the family were habitually late eaters. In addition to the ingredient substitutions, I also had to make my coconut cream by hand! This was very labour intensive and time consuming, but it actually turned out really well. It was fortunate that all of the younger members of the household took on the role of sous chefs, and helped with the preparatory work. Even with all this, the late start, labour intensive preparation and some confusion about who was cooking rice meant that we didn’t eat until 23:00.

When it was all ready, everyone praised both dishes (save for the three vegetarians that I hadn’t known about, who praised only one.) I wasn’t thrilled myself, with the curry being too salty and except for the coconut flavour, rather bland. Thankfully the salad worked out well and was enjoyed by all (the guava was a fine substitute for mango.)

On my third day in peshawar I did exactly the same thing as almost everyone else in Pakistan: sat around and watched cricket. Pakistanis are mad for the game (perhaps even moreso than Indians) and when a series with their neighbours comes along, it’s a BIG deal. I watched almost every minute of the one day match from 08:30 to 16:00, missing only a few minutes at the start. Throughout the day I was joined by various memebers of the family. They ranged from the children, sitting and watching excitedly, singing along with the commercials; to grandfather, dozing off in the bed nearby; to grandmother, slapping dough for roti back and forth and paying little attention to the match; to the young men, who were probably be the biggest fans of all. Since not much else went on that day, I’ll pause to add that it was an INCREDIBLY exciting match. India set a massive, seemingly unreachable target of 316 runs when they batted first. Pakistan’s opening pair bashed out runs at an amazing rate, getting them off to a wonderful start, which was follwoed by careful, methodical batting by the rest of the Pakistan team. All of this lead to the final ball of the match, with Pakistan having 315 runs on the board. Pakistan’s captain, Inzamam smacked it for a 4, giving my host nation a three wicket victory (though as I observed, saying they won by three wickets when they had zero balls left doesn’t make much sense.)

In the evening Mubeen and I went out to Shahi Bagh once again. He to study, me to just get out of the house. I wandered around with his little brother Bilal for a while, stopping to watch still more cricket (live, this time) before meeting up with Mubeen and returning home.

Later on that night, as on a few other occaisions, I walked into an upstairs room and find someone in the middle of prayers (unsurprising, of course, in Pakistan.) When this occurred, it always left me wondering how I ought to behave, or what I should be doing at prayer times. Usually I just tried to make myself inconspicuous in some quiet part of the house.

My final day in Peshawar was perhaps the most memorable of them all. Iwoke up a bit later than I’d planned, but still in reasonable time to join Jamilfor a schedule of sightseeing that Khalda had suggested/mandated for us that day.

Our trip first took us to the fruit bazaar, which sprawled over an astonishingly large area of the city. As we wandered through the maze of crowded passageways and courtyards, Jamil kept warning me to keep my hands in my pockets and be sure of the location of my wallet. “There are many bad people here,” he added, by way of explanation.

Our fruit shopping completed, we paused for a super-delicious bananna shake, and then hopped on a local bus for the ride through town and to the Khybar Teaching Hospital. The buses were decorated almost as garishly as the trucks were, and much to my astonishment, this didn’t end with the door. The inside of the bus was almost as bright and colourful and was almost a distraction from the sights of the city (which wasn’t THAT bad a thing, since most of them consisted of little shops, and half of THESE seemed to be selling auto parts.)

We arrived at the hospital, which seemed crowded, though well run. After a short visit with Jamil’s cousin, who, I’m pleased to say, seemed to be recovering well from a stomach ailment.

After the hospital we headed across the road via an underpass (which was jammed from end to end on both sides with pharmacies) and to Peshawar University. The university was pleasant enough, and looked like a good place to sit and relax (as universities in many cities do) though it was fairly modern and nothing entirely special. Just before leaving, I was struck by the school’s “office of examinations and secrecy” which looked more like the headquarters of a secret police organization than a university administration building. We walked back out through the gates and had some delicious freshly made seasoned french fries from a vendor just outside.

After the university we walked around a bit more, in search of Islamia College (the school system in Pakistan is similar to that in Quebec… Ten years of school, two of college, then perhaps further studies at a university.) We seemed to have some trouble finding the place, and I started to wonder if Jamil actually knew where it was… I was about to say that I didn’t REALLY need to see it, but thank goodness I didn’t.

Islamia college may well have been the most beautiful school I’d ever seen. It was constructed in (so I read) “Mughal Gothic” style. Whatever that might mean in specific, in general it meant that the buildings were very pretty and exotic looking. Even better than the buildings, however, were the gardens. Throughout the school there were quiet little laneways lined with gorgeous flowering plants. Among the best of these were the flowering peas which not only looked beautiful, but provided tasty munchables as we walked through the grounds. Every time we turned a corner we were faced with yet another beautiful building and its lush, accompanying garden. The beauty of the gardens was such that I suspected Islamia college must have had more gardeners on staff than teachers!

It was beginning to get late, and while I could have stayed at Islamia college all afternoon, I’d promise to meet Mubeen back at home for a shopping trip.

We returned by bus, with one quick stop to pick up a couple of bottles of Mecca Cola. (For those that have trouble reading the label, it notes that Mecca Cola is “The Taste of Freedom” and that 10% of all profits go to “Palistinian Childhood.” Connections with Palistine and with Islam were popular marketing ideas in Pakistan, and was used by several brands of soft drink, including “Islam-Up”.

After a quick tea break back home, Mubeen and I headed out on his bike for the bazaar. We were going in search of a shalwar kameez for me. The S-K is the national garment of Pakistan, worn by men and women alike (though the womens’ are much more brightly coloured and fancy.) It consists of a pair of loose trousers held up with a string and a long, shirt-like tunic.

On the way to our destination we passed several bazaars, all buzzing with activity (yes, the one above is a series of shops facing out onto the train tracks… There aren’t that many trains a day through Peshawar, and I suppose it is efficient, if not entirely safe, use of land.)

The first market we visited was the cloth and tailor’s bazaar. Had we been there a few days earlier, it would have been just fine, as I could have had an outfit custom made for myself, but I was leaving the following morning and no one seemed to have anything ready made. We headed through the town seeing a few more historic sights along the way, to a second bazaar. We found off-the-rack shalwar kameezes (shalwars kameez?) there, but the prices were all pretty steep, and Mubeen said he was sure he could find one for much less outside of town near to his home.

I ended up returning home mission not accomplished, but happy all the same. The bazaars we’d passed through were wonderfully exciting. When we’d visited them previously on Sunday, they’d been only shadows of their full, buzzing selves. I would have been quite disappointed had I left Peshawar having not seen them at their best!

Before dinner I sat around with Mubeen and Fozia, looking over their studies and trying to coax some explanations or practice problems for them out of the depths of my memory.

When supper was ready, we all sat down around the eating mat. (I’d tried to come up with a translation for this for everyone, but the best I could do was tablecloth… close, but given that its on the floor, not quite true.) Clockwise from bottom left we have: Rabia, Khalda, Mubeen, me, Maria, Jamil, grandma, Sabia and Bilal.

Khalda had prepared a special meal for this, my last dinner with everyone. She’d said earlier that she felt bad that they’d had such ordinary food for the whole time I’d been there (not quite believing my claims that “ordinary Pashto food” was really what I wanted to eat.) This night she’d prepared a huge tray full of Uzbek Pulao, a rice dish with a few kinds of meat (including beef that just fell apart in my hands) and delicious, delicate seasonings.

After dinner all of the younger folk (yes, that did include me for any smart-alecks out there who make note of the fact that my 30th birthday is rapidly approaching) went out for a walk. I headed out with Mubeen and Jamil ahead of the ladies (once again to avoid questions from the neighbours.) The girls and women caught up with us once we were out ofthe neighbourhood, and we headed through the dark streets everyone chattering away as we did. We first stopped at Shhi Bagh. Save for oneclub cricket match there wasn’t much going on. The fun park was completelyempty and shut down (Khalda told me that even a year ago when they’d live nearby it was active and lively every night.)

We wandered a bit more, the air much cleaner in the night when all the vehicles were off the streets. We were near returning home when Khalda went and knocked at a door and was greeted with a happy shout from above. We all cimbed up the stairs and were warmly greeted by the aunt, uncle and cousins of my hosts. We sat around in their sitting room (sensibly enough) enjoying first soft drinks, then delicious green tea. As we sat, Rabia gave us a brief poetic, sung recitation from the Qu’ran. Rabia was Khalda’s niece, and her memorization of the entire Qu’ran was made still more impressiveby the fact that she was perhaps 11 years old.

After a bit more talking (which I was generally left out of, [but not in an unpleasant way] since it was in Pashto) my hosts began to insist that I must be bored. Thus we moved totheother communal room where we sat and watched one of the cousins at his work as a jewler. The intricately detailed pieces he produced in 24K gold were very impressive. Itwas begining to get late, but before we set out the jewler cousin presented me with a simple silver band that just fit on my left pinkie (a match to my Iron Ring on the right hand.) The design was very simple, but I was touched yet again by the kindness and hospitality of the Pakistanis. I’d met thisyoung man less than an hour ago, and hardly spoken a word to him (I had very limited Urdu and he, English) but he still wanted to send me away witha gift to remember he and his family by.

We arrived back home quite late, and everyone was about ready for bed. We headed off to sleep, this time with Jamil and Mubeen in my room (I think by this point they’d become more comfortable having me around and so didn’t mind sleeping in the same room.)

The next morning we had a quick breakfast and said final goodbyes. Before Mubeen walked me down to the bus park, khalda dug out an old shalwar kameez of her brother’s and, after assuring me that no one else would have worn it again, I happily accepted it as a parting gift.

Mubeen and I headed down through town to the bus park, where he put me on a minibus bound for Rawalpindi. Several times already members of the family had asked me anxiously “you won’t forget us, will you.” I replied that morning as I had every other time. There’s not even the smallest chance of that. I could not even if I tried my very hardest (which, of course I never would.)

My deepest thanks go out to Sabia, Khalda, Jamil, Fozia, Sakina, Mubeen, Rabia, Bilal, Maria and their parents/grandparents. They were absolutely perfect hosts (indeed, the only discomfort I ever felt came from the fact that they were working TOO hard to see that Ienjoyed my visit) and my stay with them was the absolute perfect beginning to my stay in Pakistan.

Special thanks to Mubeen and Jamil, who, by virtue of their youngness and maleness were my guides for most of the time I spent in Peshawar. It was wonderful to have people who knew their way about to show me around town. I especially appreciated their efforts given that they had to take time away from exam preparations to do so.

An extra special thank you to Khalda who was always fussing over me and doing everything possible to ensure I was comfortable and happy. It seemed to me that she was truly the boss of the house. Khalda’s exceptionally friendly nature, religious devoutness, hard work (both at home and at the college where she taught) and clear intelligence make her a role model for women in Islamic countries, and, indeed, everywhere else.

Tags: Pakistan

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