What if you can’t afford to anything else than the local bus?

‘There is your bus’, the driver said in his broken English. ‘Many people. Be careful’

I look across the crowded bus terminal. There were hundreds of people crammed into the tiny space. The sight of the main bus terminal in Lahore was rather chaotic: people jumping out of ricksaws and cars and running for their buses; young mother carrying their crying babies while trying not to get run over by cars; a young man carrying a chicken on one shoulder and a basket full of wool on the other shoulder; bus horns tooting; relative shouting their goodbyes to those boarding the buses. 

I got off the car and walked to the main ticket counter on the other side of the terminal. There were ten different queues wavering across the room. I looked at the signs in front of the queues and tried to figure out which one I should head for. Fortunately my short Urdu course had paid off and I could understand which queue was meant for Rawalpindi. As I stepped to the end of the queue, I noticed that some of the queues were for men only and others for women only. 

I stood behind a pair of women who were both wearing hijabs, the head scarves. They glanced looks at me and smiled. ‘You can go before us’, one of them said and gestured at the spot in front of them.   

‘Oh no thank you’, I smiled. ‘You have been here for longer than me.’

They looked at each other, sniggered and started speaking in Punjabi. Unfortunately, Punjabi was too different from Urdu for me to understand any of what they were saying. 

Finally it was my turn to get my ticket. The ticket seller was a boy who did not look much older than fifteen and who did not seem to understand much English. With a mixture of broken Urdu and sign language I managed to buy my ticket. 

As I was about to leave, an elderly woman appeared by the side of the boy. ‘You beautiful’, she said. ‘You be careful. You not killed. No checks, no security.’ She pointed towards the buses at the yard. 

‘Ah, thank you’, I mumbled without fully comprehending what she was trying to get across to me. 

I understood soon enough: as we all left our luggage in the hold and entered the bus, there were no security checks. No one check any of the luggage and no one examined any of us. We could have carried anything onto the bus with us. 

I sat on the seat that had been allocated to me. How had this happened? How did I end up travelling from Lahore to Rawalpindi on my own on Christmas Eve, in our of the most dangerous and insecure times  that Pakistan had faced in the past decade, on a bus that was let to leave one bus terminal freely without any security checks and with potential bombs in the hold? 

I stared out the window. The mosque minares and the eucalyptus trees looked stunning against the bright sunshine. How had this amazing country ended up in such a mess? When would it come out of it? 

‘Excuse me’, the lady sitting next to me touched my arm. We were sitting in the ladies’ section on the right side of the bus. Men were sitting on the left side of the aisle. “Do you want some?’ She held out a packet of crisps. They were roast chicken flavour.

‘Oh no, thank you’, I shook my head and smiled. 

‘Why not’, she said in a louder and more aggressive voice, as if she was offended by me not wanting her crisps. 

‘I am vegetarian. I don’t eat meat’, I explained. Funny that, despite the fact that I was siting there thinking that I could be blown into pieces any minute, the most significant thing I remember about this trip is the lady’s smile as she offered the crisps to me.    

'La's Orchestra Saves the World' by Alexander McCall Smith

I have been doing a bit of traveling for work lately and so have had a chance to read quite a few novels while on trains and planes. One recent read was 'La's orchestra saves the world' by Alexander McCall. Although the name of the book sounds  a little corny, the book was an enjoyable read. It is well-written and plot flows naturally. 

The book follows a lady called La from birth till her fifties. She is born during the World War I and lives through World War II. The book describes and discusses life in war and what war can do to people. 

A must read for anyone interested in history and hoping to read about historical facts in a fiction novel! 

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/las-orchestra-saves-the-world-by-alexander-mccall-smith-1024355.html

Meat and chicken

‘This is roast chicken, this is minced lamb, this is a beef stew,’ Aisha explained to me. We were sitting in an outdoor restaurant in the outskirts of Lahore, overlooking a pretty, green park. It was mid-summer and the monsoon season was on. It was extremely humid and hot. We needed fans even when sitting outside on the balcony.

‘But, Aisha, I am vegetarian,’ I said in disbelief as looked through the menu and all the items there seemed to be meat dishes. I had arrived in Pakistan the night before and this was my first time in this country. Aisha worked for the local charity that I was going to do some consulting work for. She had wanted to take me out on my first proper evening in Lahore in order to have a good start for my placement in Lahore. 

Aisha laughed a little. ‘You’ve come to the wrong country then. We Pakistanis love out meat!’

I stared at the menu.’ So, I can only eat rice and bread?’

‘Oh no, don’t worry. We can order you some vegetable dishes. We have a lot of them too, but people tend to treat them as side dishes to the main dish, which is usually meat.’

The waiter approached us and Aisha ordered a list of items. She was talking fast and so my rusty Urdu was not enough to understand everything she was saying. The waiter looked at Aisha in amazement and the glanced a quick look at me. He wrote down all the items, poured us more water and retreated to the kitchen. 

Aisha felt the need to explain their interchange. ‘Here in Pakistan most people still have the mentality that you need to eat meat in order to eat properly. They don’t really understand vegetarians. We don’t eat pork, because it is haram and so to say a dirty meat to eat. But other than that, we believe that God created animals for this earth and we can eat them as long as we respect them, slaughter them rightfully in the name of God and are grateful to God for the food that we are given.’  

‘I see. Many people in the west also think in such a way. I am used to having to explain my reasons for being a vegetarian to people,’ I explained. ‘I understand that there is a biological reason and a more fundamental creative reason for why it is fine to eat meat. For me, it is just that I don’t want to eat animals. I like them too much to eat them. And there are reasons for it to having a bad effect on the climate and environment plus health reasons too. I am not judgmental at all to people who do eat meat, but I just personally don’t want to do that.’ 

‘I understand,’ Aisha said. ‘But many people here don’t. They are so used to eating meat that to them it is an alien concept. I’m just telling you so that you get used to having to explain yourself. I am sure many people will ask you for reasons for being a vegetarian and will try to give you meat.’

We looked at the scenery in silence for a while and then started talking about work related issues while waiting for our food. 

The waiter came with a trolly and started lifting all the foods in our table. It all smelled and looked delicious. Aisha started explaining to me what each dish contained and which ones I could eat. 

‘And this is a very typical food from Lahore,’ she pointed at a brown dish. ‘It is made with this special mixture of spices that gives it its unique taste. It also has vegetables and rice in it, and chicken.’

‘Oh but I don’t eat chicken,’ I exclaimed. ‘I told you that I am vegetarian.’

Aisha looked at me with wide eyes. ‘You don’t eat chicken either?’

‘No, I don’t eat an meat, including chicken meat.’

‘Oh I thought that vegetarians can eat chicken meat!’

‘No, no meat at all. Only vegetable and plant based things. Some eat seafood. I can eat a little bit of it.’ 

‘Well, then you better get used to even more questions since people really won’t understand it if you don’t even eat chicken!’

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More reading on Pakistani eating habits:

 

    

 

Rice and rice

I walked down to the kitchen of the orphanage in the morning. It was only six o’clock. Here is Nepal people followed the sun and went to bed when the sun went down and got up when the sun came out. They were much more attuned to the nature around them than we westerners were. 

I waved at Maya as I entered the kitchen. She was making tea for us. Tea, rice and lentils - that was the typical breakfast, the typical lunch and the typical dinner that the Nepali had. There were many rice fields in Nepal. The climate was suitable for growing rice. The vegetables that were eaten in Nepal varied throughout the year. At the moment, apples and pears were in season, as well as cabbage. 

Diego walked into the kitchen. ‘Oh lovely... more rice!’ He gave me a funny face. 

The previous night Petra, Diego and I had talked about being fed up with eating rice all the time. We were used to a more varied diet and not eating the same thing three times a day.   

Petra came in and sat opposite us on the long table. She was yawning. 

‘Too early to eat rice. I’m just not getting used to it,’ she said as she sipped her tea. ‘I do like this tea though. It is sweat but different from what we get in Europe.’ 

Diego shrugged. ‘This is part of the experience, as they say...’

Maya walked to us, with a bowl of rice, willing to put more on our plates.

‘No, no thank you,’ we all said in unison. 

At the same time, the manager of the orphanage, Azim, walked in. ‘Good morning.’

He sat down next to us and Maya brought him tea. 

‘Can you tell us something,’ Petra asked. ‘Why is it that you always eat rice? Why not potatoes sometimes, or something else, like noodles?’

‘When you look back in history, rice was the only grain that was grown in Nepal. Back in the day, there were no imports and exports and the climate was too humid and hot for growing potatoes. They can be grown further up the mountains. Wheat can also be grown there. But down here in the valley, traditionally it’s been rice. People got used to this habit of just eating rice. They don’t even really consider other alternatives, though nowadays there are more options. Many people are very poor and simply don’t want to spend money on buying other foods, so they settle into eating their home grown rice.’

We all nodded as we listen to Azim. 

‘What about here at the orphanage,’ Diego asked. ‘Do you get the rice from someone who has their own rice fields, or how come these kids always seem to be eating rice?’

‘We get rice from the local people who grow it. People are generous here although they don’t have much themselves. You know, as an orphanage and as a charity, we need to be careful about money.’

‘Yes, we all understand that,’ Petra said. ‘But also it is important for the children to have a balanced diet. This is why it would be good to give them something else to eat once in a while.’

Azim agreed. ‘We do get other foods from people as well and give them to the children when we have them. I know you westerners are used to balanced diets and all that. We try our best and do what we can do. We give them lentils every day and some vegetables Whatever we can get. This gives them enough nutrients, we feel. Then it is a nice surprise for them when they get something different. They are so used to eating rice that they miss it when they don’t have it at least once a day. Besides, we are lucky. At least we have as much rice as we want to eat. Many people are so poor in Nepal that they need to regulate the amount of rice that they eat. ‘

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If you are interested in reading more about the eating habits of the Nepali, take a look at this link:

http://nepal.saarctourism.org/nepal-food.html

 

Women and clothes - Pakistani style

‘I’ve worn all of these’, Farah said and looked miserable. ‘I can’t wear the same clothes all the time.’ 

‘Oh come on’, Said said. ‘You have tons of clothes. If you wear something more than once doesn’t mean that you are wearing it all the time!’ Said looked at me. ‘Pakistani women!’

I was looking at the piles of clothes that were lying on Farah’s bed. Back in London, I had less than a quarter of all her clothes. 

‘I don’t even have enough of a variety of colours in the clothes that I Have.’ Farah looked gloomy. 

I laughed a little.‘I can see all the colours on this earth on the piles of clothes lying on your bed. Blue, red, pink, purple, brown, black, white, yellow... All of it! What else do you need?’

Said let out a sigh. ‘See, this is why Pakistani men can’t save money. As soon as you are married, you have to sponsor your wife’s wardrobe!’

Farah gave him an angry look. ‘Come on, Tiija. Let’s go to the bazaar. I will buy some silver colour clothes with my own money, not my husband’s.’ Farah grabbed my hand and we walked to the car.’We want to go to the nearest bazaar’, she said in Urdu to the driver.

As we sat on the back seat of the car and watched the dark evening go by, Farah started to talk in a quiet voice. 

‘In Pakistan, there is so much pressure on women to look good, to look a certain way. If you don’t have fair skin, you are not beautiful. If you are not thin yet not too skinny, you are not beautiful. If your hair is not thick and long enough, you are not beautiful. This is why women run to the beauty salons, why we need to buy new clothes and jewellery. Just to compensate for our flaws. We need to prove somehow that we are worth our husbands; that we are worth something. This is why Pakistani women talk about shopping and fashion and looking good  all the time.’

‘It is much the same in the west’, I reassured her. ‘Although perhaps not to the same extent. But even over there, women face pressure about looking good and needing to justify themselves somehow by the way they look. There is a lot of comparison and competition between women as well.’

Farah shook her head. ‘I can imagine, but I don’t think it’s on the same scale as here in Pakistan. There is so much pressure. When men come to your house to see if they want to marry you, they only look at your appearance. They don’t care about anything else. Nor do their mothers when they pay the initial visits. It’s all about your physical beauty.’

The driver stopped by the bazaar. Farah and I got off the car. The stalls on the bazaar were all so colourful. I walked behind Farah as she started to rummage through the clothes stands. I was still amazed at how she could think of finding a new colour to add to her clothes collection. 

Soon enough Farah emerged with a silver-colour outfit. ‘This is perfect. Silver is in fashion now. If I go and teach in this colour next week, everyone will think I look stunning.’     

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Tips on bazaars in Lahore:

http://www.travelblog.org/Asia/Pakistan/Punjab/Lahore/blog-41526.html

   

Western customs, window cleaning and the Nepali way of living

‘We need to wash the windows. You can’t even see the outside through these dusty windows.’ Petra, my Israeli colleague said in a firm voice. ‘Who knows when was the last time these windows were touched with water.’

I was standing outside an orphanage in the outskirts of Kathmandu. Petra and my Spanish colleague Diego were standing next to me. We were all looking at the windows of the orphanage. In a Western country, very few people would have let their windows to reach the state that the windows of the orphanage were in. They were grey, nearly black. 

The oldest of the girls living in the orphanage were jumping around us, speaking in Nepali. They kept on looking at us, as if they were wondering what we were talking about. 

‘But we need to be careful about what we do here’, I said. ‘We already cleaned the whole orphanage, changed their bedding, brought in new lights... We shouldn’t offend them. We are on the border of doing that. ‘

Petra looked at me anxiously. ‘I know, but I also feel that we need to do as much as we can while we are here. When we leave, no one is going to do anything. Only then when they get some volunteers or other people working here.’            

‘Ok, let’s do it,’ Diego said. ‘We need to leave our mark here.’ 

We walked into the dark kitchen of the orphanage. The girls followed right behind us. Diego started to fill a pan with water. The care taker, Maya, looked at us with questioning eyes. She didn’t speak any English. 

‘Can you please explain her that we are going to clean the windows,’ I asked the oldest of the girls with clear English. ‘Tell her that it will be nicer for you to get more light into the house’

Suntali, the oldest girl, faced Maya and started to speak quickly in Nepali. Maya looked amazed. She opened her mouth and then closed it again.

‘She says that that’s fine,’ Suntali said. ‘I think she is as amazed as us about how much you care and try to help us. Also, she’s never heard about anyone washing windows, so she is curious to see how you do it.’

Diego let out a small laugh. ‘Well, this will be a lesson for her then.’

We took the bowel of water to the kitchen windows and Petra found some old cloth for us to use to clean the window. Diego and I stood on the table and started to wipe the windows. Petra was holding the bowel of water. 

Soon all the children of the orphanage and Maya were standing in line right behind us, watching in silence. There was no other sound in the kitchen except that of the cloths against the window and the water. 

‘I feel like a celebrity’, Diego said. We all laughed. 

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Here is a video on elephants being washed in Nepal, for your entertainment:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OgmRrTc4EY

 

      

Washing in the dwell in Rawalpindi

Another class over, I thought as I walked along the dusty alleyway that led from the main school building to the small library and computer centre that was recently built in the headmaster’s front room. It was challenging and demanding to teach children who didn’t speak much English and who were used to the traditional ways of teaching, meaning that they didn’t do much else in the class than read straight from their books. Yet, it was a very rewarding volunteering placement that I had undertaken for a couple of weeks.    

I walked past the sheds and tents that were the homes for several hundred people in the village. There were real houses around too, but these were inhabited by people who could afford them and were considered more middle-class by their fellow villagers. The whole village was squeezed into a hundred square metres. There was one building right next to the other, with any blank spaces filled with tents and sheds. There were children running everywhere; mothers cooking by the roadside on natural fire. One could hear the men of the village out in the fields, chopping crops and watering their harvest.

I looked at the roadside. I could see a dwell deep down, in between large bushes of white flowers and a wooden fence. The sound of falling water filled my ears. I looked down even deeper into the dwell and could see that there was a young lady pouring water all over herself. She noticed me looking and smiled. 

‘You need water?’ She said in Punjabi. 

‘No, no. I was just looking,’ I replied in my broken Urdu. 

‘Oh, I am just washing myself before the prayers’, she now said in English.’We need to be clean from top to toe before we praise our Allah’.

‘I see’, I said.’ Sorry to disturb you. I just heard the sound of the water and was curious to see what was going on.’ 

‘Don’t worry. You know, cleanliness is very important to Muslims. Our Prophet Muhammad used to take a full bath every time he was about to say his prayers. We follow his example.  We can also just wash our feet, hands, face and neck. But it is better if you can wash your whole body so I do that.’ The lady smiled a wide bright smile. 

I carried on walking towards the library. I could see that even the sheds and the tents were clean. There were brooms next to the front and all the things that one could see were neatly put in their place. Any of the houses that one entered were spotless clean. One housewife had told me the other day that she cleaned the house from top to bottom every day. If she didn’t have the time or the energy, then she would ask a servant to do it for her. 

I heard the adhan-prayer call from the nearby mosque. I could see the working men leave the field and to head over towards the mosque. Before entering the mosque, the men stopped at the small dwell right next to the mosque. They took of their shoes and thoroughly washed their hands, feet and faces. They even poured water over their heads in order to wash their hair. 

I entered the library. The head master was sitting on his computer. 

‘Salaam’, he said as I walked in. ‘Time for chai!’

We sat down on the table in the corner of the room. A servant walked to us with a pitcher of water and a plastic bowl. She poured water over my hands so that I could wash them properly before we had out tea. 

The head master looked at me. ‘I bet you are getting used to how clean we Muslims are. There are great benefits when you work in villages and slums. At least you know that people are as clean as they just can be with their facilities. ‘ 

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 More about the washing and cleaning habits of Muslims can be found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wudu