water. hot

„Is there hot water?“

„No.“

„But the receptionist said there would be water at six!“

Knowing smile.

„I'll go to ask.“

Just one of the small dialogues that I'm so used to now, from my trip to the north with friends. Still I hold these little dialogues in my head when there's again no hot water. Or when I first have to ask someone to heat it. Or to get the machine going.

Don't get me wrong: there are everywhere showers and water in Pakistan. But in the places that we were at in the north, they had sometimes already closed because the season had ended, which meant that the people were slowly leaving the town going to the south at it would be too cold soon to stay. This also meant: poor hot water supply. Or sometimes the electricity wasn't always there, so that they restricted the water boiling to 3-4 hours in the morning and evening. This can also get delayed if the electricity is away for longer. Or there's no hot water at all.

What you come to love in a situation like this:

two baskets

The bigger one for catching the hot, steaming water, while it's there (and for your friend to use after you had a hot shower and there's no hot water left, cause it's gone again...).

The smaller one for pouring the water over your body and having „a shower“.

These two items come in handy to washing your clothes by hand (what I do since several months, oh yeah, my dear).

Or to pour the water in an old washing mashine which doesn't supply itself with water:

This whole procedure might also explain why I was sometimes dragged away from a chat with an explanation like: „sorry, we have HOT water now!“ after travelling for three to four days with just cold showers...

Z.

There are things you regret. Sometimes you might have a glimps of what is happening in that particular moment. Sometimes this glimps is strong enough to change something. Sometimes you see it passing by. And regret it even stronger when you think about it later.

The last time I saw Z., we were walking through streets of Islamabad at night. I felt like hugging this huge man with the strong eyes and the outspoken honesty that still kicks my ass. We never dared to be physically close to each other, although our words draw us nearer than I could say. And I don't mean this in a touchy love affaire manner, but in true friendship.

We had met in the first weeks of Pakistan and ever since met to go for a tea and talking while we strolled along nightly highways and closed down parks. He was one of the only ones and certainly the only male Pakistani that I connected with the way we did.

As I slipped into another society, I slipped into another me aswell. When you're travelling through or when you're 'just a tourist' you can stay in your bubble of meeting other strangers, of understanding some things and opposing others. You have a special status as a traveller with special rights and always the possibility to drop out.

When I decided to live in this other society, I didn't only decide that I wanted to be the foreign particle, but I wanted to dive into something to understand it, to get a hold on it, to experience what it means to be part of this society. Of course, I will always stand out with my blonde hair and the fair skin, with my liberal education and just the mere fact where I come from and that I'm now here, but I wanted to see how close to understanding I can get.

He questioned me as he questioned the society around him, but he knew more from my european me than anyone else. As I switched my clothing style from jeans and t-shirt into shalwar and kamize, I changed my outspoken, extrovert european me against a me that was first of all listening and maybe later trying to explain some of her background-thoughts. I got used to lowering my eyes when walking through the streets and not looking into men's eyes. I naturally covered my chest and stopped speaking about open relationships. I think he was one of the only persons that could see most of it as I let him do so.

After we said gooodbye with a handshake we spoke on the mobile phone that we would have liked to hug each other like he had seen it with some other european friends with whom we had had tea together. In Pakistan men and women don't hug like at least my friends in Europe and I do, to say hello or goodbye. Even shaking the hand can be too much conact, depending on the region, tradition or open western mentality of the people. I told him, I would hug him when we see each other the next time. But I know now that this will not be in my time in Pakistan. Family issues keep him in the north and losing his job brought him to not being able to coming back to Islamabad while I cannot travel up norh to him due to university obligations and the snow- and landslides in that area.

I imagined to hug him. Several times. Maybe that's not the most important thing of having met him. Maybe it'll be another time, if other times exist. And maybe there'll always be something that you'll regret not having done. I would have loved to give him this being close. Exactly because of the reason that he would have understood it, that it would be friendship. Not more, but certainly not less.

beach

The sun is not really visible, just her first glances on the muddy white house-scene, seen from the eleventh floor of an appartement in Karachi's Cliffton. I stretch, put on my shalwar kamize and the dupata, try to open the door as quiet as possible, but my host's mother still looks out of her bedroom: „your dawn-walk to the beach?“ I nod
„Take care not to go to the absolutely abandoned places“

I jump down eleven staircases, wander along the waste that's going to be burned at the side of the street as soon as it will get enough. I remember my last visit two months ago. A whole world ago. It was the same person, me, who landed in Karachi airport, who went out, saw the McDonalds, took a cap, noticed the amazingly coloured busses, the beggars at the traffic signs, the advertisements on the houses, the immense traffic, the cows walking by, the waste. But wo months ago I couldn't get my mouth shut, I didn't know how to behave in front of staring men, when to put my dupata over my head and how to haggle the taxi driver down to a normal price, cause I didn't know what a normal price was.

I walk through the streets, cross two alleys, walk over some greenery and reach the beach. The sun is just appearing as a big red glowing ball between Karachi's scyscrapers, the camels and horses are still sleeping. They are going to carry the inner-pakistani tourists around on their backs on the beach later. Some men sit and make chai over an open fire. There's no chance not to go to an abandoned place. There's no one at the beach at this time of the day. Just one jockey who's riding up and down the beach with his horse. To train it?

I walk through grass and shoes. Shoes? Like dead animals they're lying around everywhere. Why would so many people forget their shoes on the beach? Some quite appeal in thei style to me. Should I try one on? I walk through them, to the shells, to the soft pondering water that's falling in cascades over each other, waterlayer over waterlayer on the silvery beach. Last time I was here, I couldn't resist. I had to take off my shoes and step in the sea, feeling that warm water stroking my feet. This time I stand still and watch.



What is it like to meet yourself again. The place is the same, The shoes I'm walking in are the same. Just my feet feel different when taking the next step (is this why so many people left their shoes here? Is it a place where my feelings are the common ones?). Two months ago I knew nothing. Today I know nothing and a bit more. Is it knowing that make the difference? Or is it remembering and feeling? Feeling that I have stepped over some of my fears and remembering the people that have crossed my way. People who became friends. Or people who betrayed me. And I'm thankful for both.

taliban

Humor.

What is it and from which textures is it made?

It seems to be for every person different what he or she can laugh about. And sometimes this also determines who you like to spend your time with, as you might choose a person who understands what you laugh about and what is funny and what not. But there seems to be aswell a cultural code in humor.

In every country I've been so far, there exist jokes about different ethnic or language groups. They mostly operate with stereotypes, imitation of how one speaks or acts and the concentration on regional differences.

One thing I'm finding quite special in Pakistan are the political jokes that are being made (well, there are a lot of political (un)correct jokes in Germany or Europe aswell, still it is different to hear about them in a different country...). First of all there are jokes about the government or government staff. A friend told me that there were a lot of jokes forwarded about Zadari for example (the prime minister and head of state). I have to admitt that the Pakistanis find a quite strong happinness in forwarding messages on mobile phones (about mostly anything, from mass generated messages to quiz-questions). This seems to have gone so far that the government made a law that it is illegal to make jokes about the prime minister or his staff. Who is being caught doing so has to calculate detention for this. So the people stopped saying Zadari's name when joking about him, but using synonyms (animal names like dog for example...).

The second type of jokes, which came quite shocking to me and a friend of mine, when we were in the north, are the taliban jokes. They are not a regular fixed type of jokes that you could collect as a serious of „did you already hear joke XYZ“. They are rather an attitude how to deal with the turmoil that is shaking the country.

One example might illustrate quite well what I'm talking about.

We had made the acquaintance with a woman on the street. She was openly talking to us, showed us the two cows that she possessed and introduced us to her two children that were around her. We met several times while we were around in that village. One time, while she was taking the cows in the little shed that she had build, her little son, barely two years old, started fighting with a little stick with my friend. As she saw this, she burst out laughing and said in affection to her son: “Oh my little taliban!“

servants

“Where are our shopping bags?“

“Oh, they keep them until we come back and get them“

“We get them“ meant in this shopping centre in Karachi in this case that we would come back and someone from the mall would carry our bags to the car where he'd get some rupees for this “favour“.


While this was absolutely new for me, who was used to carrying all her stuff herself, I found these “porters“, “servants“ and “helpers“ in a lot of places and forms. There are the ones that are well known to europeans: waiters, garden keepers and women who come to help in the household with tidying up and cleaning (the german (oh, well...mostly not originally from Germany....) „Putzfrau“ might be known to most of the people). But there's still something else, a trait that I'm not so used to. People who can be called when you're in need of a favour (buying a new phone-credit-card and you're too buisy watching TV to go out, for example), or coming to cook for you, washing your clothes, giving massages or just coming to carrying the garbage out. Some of these persons are even closer attached to the household as they sometimes even live in the same place and take care of the house and its facilities. By this they mostly don't have the same status as the people they're working for and mostly wouldn't eat together with them (quite interesting how meals and food can segregate different stages of who is close to someone or status equal, higher or unequal...).

When I spoke to a lahori couchsurfing member once, he confessed that he doesn't even get up to get a cold water from the kitchen. „Why should I stand up if I can ask the servant to get it?“ he asked. „Pakistani people are lazy. They know where to spend their energy on and what not.“ (although I wouldn't sign them being lazy as I have seen them working very hard, I can at least understand the statement that I heard from others aswell: why spend energy on something, get sweaty or absorbed in little things while you have to care for other, far more important things...?).


I'm still unsure how to see the whole case. Is it just an extended service sector that uses the people's resources differently? Is it modern slavery, as you let others wok for yourself (or do you always let others work for you while you would never call it like that?)? Or does it always depend how you treat the people while they're doing “a favour“ for you?

pois madness

You're fed up with playing with your sock-poi? You want nicely made pois that are unique and interesting and that are made for you cheap but still in good quality?

Come to Pakistan!

Just some days ago we were a bunch of overlanders (people who travel overland from europe to India or further), who were infected with the juggling virus. We first wanted to go and get long socks to make some simple sock pois, but as al the socks we could find were black, white or uninteresting to look at and as the eyes should have their share when playing pois aswell, we decided to design some pois ourselves.

A fancy textile was soon to be found, some scissors and the general idea how to make them (outer body, inside body with ladies socks afilled with rice or some material alike (can be mudd aswell...). We designed them and brought them to a nearby tailor. They sit in the markets in small little shops. „Six hours“ he said and we said „ok“ after agreeing on the price of 200 Rupees (something like 1,60 Euro) for six pairs of pois.

Some chais later, we went back to the tailor, and.....

got our brand new great pois and started practisind and spreading joy over the camping side....

story-tellers

Where are you from. Where are you going to. What did you like the most. How about Visa XY.

Meeting other travellers can be tireing in the respect that most of them ask the same questions and most of the time the answers might determine whether the talk goes on or not.

A friend and I thought about alternative first questions to begin a talk between travellers. What do you like to do the most in your life. Where are you in your daydreams. Tell me a story.

Because the most loved of all travellers are for me the ones that can connect a story to their travelling. My friend's story was that he loves to learn new things all the time. Mine was maybe that I don't want to accept fear as a determining boundary for myself and the search for something behind the news. Another traveller was travelling to mediate in Burma and another one cycled to a friend in Singapor to visit him. All these little stories found their way to the campspace in Islamabad.

There are just certain spots in Iran aswell as in Pakistan where overland-travellers seem to gather, exchange, find other people to travel with or re-meet. The camping place in Islamabad is certainly such a place. Next to the Rose and Jasmine garden where you can take a nice evening walk and the Aabpara market with fries wrapped in newspapers or mango milkshakes with a extra bowl of ice cream. The campingspace is just a small piece of green grass and old trees, some toilets and a cold shower, unfriendly personals, who seem just able to say “stay or leave today?“ “ 50 rupees“ (understandable in the case that the campingspace should get government support and doesn't see anything due to corruption. Even the electricity for the electric wire is taken illegal as there's no money for it).

Sometimes this little piece of land can mean home. When a good group of people gathers, sharing chai and ideas, playing tarot at night and cooking together near the caravans and tents. Then questions more than the „where from/where to“ can be asked, or can be skipped with a good story.