kaleidoscope emergency

I'm not sure whether I should bring this up. But honestly: it worked once. A supergreat friend of mine has send me bread and cheese from europe, which lead me to enjoying what I had missed over four months.

Now something else (rather than my tummy missing europe- like food) is in danger:

my kaleidoscope.

Why does this girl make such a fuss about a children's toy?!

Ok. Get back to the basics: this side is called traveleidoscopia. Why? Because I'm travelling with a kaleidoskope. And? This is one of my ways of meeting people! While having sometimes no way of communicating with them, I share a beautiful moment with them by showing them something like this:

or this:

or this:

and I get smiles, laughters. And sometimes conversations start. And I share more than I thought I ever would. With different people.

But now this playing behaviour of mine is under threat. Why?

I carried my kaleidoscope from Germany all the way to Pakistan, keeping it in my shoulder bag, taking it out, giving it into children's hands

and older hands, seeing it sometimes being dropped or squeezed. And now, as it gets looser, squeezed from all sides, crushed a bit, it already lost some of its security features and now the dust and dirt is coming in, making it impossible to shoot nice pictures or to carry it everywhere I want.

I tried to get a kaleidoscope over internet. Either they didn't respond to my request because they thought I'm a mad one or they said they're out of stock. And no, I couldn't find any kaleidoskopes in Pakistan, I tried to find them, honestly.

What I'm asking of you (just one of you, who might be reading this...).

Please go in one of the shops in your town that sell children's toys and get a kaleidoskope with mirrors. One where you can see the outer world broken in different schemes. It doesn't matter how big this is. Sometimes they come to be very small. And send it to me in Pakistan. I'll give you the money for it aswell as for the stamps as for the thing itself, when I meet you.

Please let my journey go on as colourful as it started. My retireing kaleidoskope will be smiling rewardingly at you, when it gets a small friend at its side when it breaks down.

18steps

“We are more than happy, to welcome you, the daughter of the nation of Karl Marx in our home.“

The elderly man said smiling, sitting in front of me on a table on which we just had shared a meal as I was visiting a fellow student that I knew from university in her hometown in Sindh.

I looked at him with intent gaze.

“What do you think about marxism?“

He asked me and unfolded a talk that would last several days between us.

To understand the setting, my honest surprise and the significance of this moment, one must know a bit more, where this took place.

The interior Sindh is a place, which is mostly rural. You drive through long planes of agriculture, water sides are accompanied with water buffalloes, which are huge, black beasts of animals, trotting by and not caring whether there's a car coming or not. In Sindh I was confronted with many women wearing the burka. And with places where there are no women at all to be seen, just men. I was escorted by police from one place to another. Also to the home of this special family.

“Communism is basically against religion as it considers it as the opium of the people that is keeping them away from rising up and gaining their strenght and their right. How do you think about that?“ I ask being not sure where this question will lead me to.

Pakistan is a state, which was created in the name of being a islamic state. A state in which everyone is a muslim. Although there are a lot of different islamic sects and their practice aswell as views are different, still most of the people living in Pakistan consider themselves muslim (despite the fact that there are other religious minorities like christians, hindus, etc to be found aswell)

“If you say, you are an agnostic or a deist, I'm with you.“ he smiles.

I know that he could never make this statement infront of other people in the public. The consequences would be severe. I also get to know further that he was the first in his village to send his girls for studying outside of his district, for letting them go out without wearing a headscarf, for letting them choose their husband independently, for letting them wear westernized clothes, for letting them selfresponsibly free.

In the evening, he invites me to a walk. He's a doctor and he knows what a person needs for good health. I decide to accompany him. We put on our shoes and start walking: in the courtyard. 18 steps forth, 18 steps back. In Europe I meet friends to go for a walk along nightly streets and through parks. Pakistan's different. At least in interior Sindh.

He says it is a good sign when he hears about the protests against G8 or NATO from Europe. It tells him that these people are not just nodding with their heads to the capitalist system and its wars, but that they are thinking and trying to change something. We talk for hours, walking from one side to the other in the courtyard. Communist ideals, real implantation in societies, socialism (oh how I wished he could have spoken with my friends from a certain shared flat in Berlin, he would have had equal partners!), capitalism, mysticism, religions, literature,...

As we say goodbye some days later, his whole family hugs me, gives me presents, saying they're going to miss me, grieve on both sides. I still have no idea how to thank them for what they gave to me. “You'll always be always the missing part of our family, which came to us from the country of Karl Marx and Rosa Luxemburg“ he said and looked as I walked out of the door.

princess in Sindh

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be a celebrity or one of the blue blood's folk also called royal family? What is it like if the police is making a fuss and surrounds you with security and doesn't trust you to step around alone?

I had heard about the convoys that you have to travel with when you want to cross Baluchistan or Sindh by bike for example, but coming to Sindh myself visiting a friend I suddenly found myself in a hotel with a police officer infront of my room explaining to me that I can't go anywhere without him. This is „dangerous area“ and he was there for my „personal protection“.

What is so dangerous about Sindh? There are no suicide bombers (except for very rare occasions in Karachi where a lot of different ethnicities mix) and I didn't have the feeling of being in danger while drinking a chai with the people from he bus which broke down in the middle of our trip why I had to stay overnight in a hotel paying a fortune cause I was too exhausted to haggle them down. The answers about the concrete danger were: There are rarely foreigners coming to Sindh (well, if they come to Pakistan they mainly go to the bigger cities or in the north for the mountains...).

There's poverty that leads the people to stealing (not new to me, a general threat while moving around), (group)rape (well...), robbery and kidnapping. This is why the police were struggling with my existence in their province: if something happens to me, a blonde single woman travelling alone, they're responsible. I was made later on to sign papers by the family I stayed with, about me being self-responsible for my travelling in this area and being here without anyone forcing me.

The night passed, the children watched me eating in the restaurant aswell as the waiters stared and rumbled for opening doors for me. The next morning, the police chief was already waiting at the reception: massive with black glasses and a little hat. He would guide me to the bus-stand and take the number of the driver, inform the police in the town that I was going to and made sure I understood not to eat or drink something with foreigners. How did he get me to the bus station?

With his motor bike! Imagine me sitting behind the police chief with my backpack, an additional smaller bag and the whole town watching us while he drove slowly with a selfsatisfied grin in his face, greeting everyone who wanted to see him, showing that he was on his way to fullfill his duty with a blond angrezi women holding on to him. What a show :-)

I wished I had pictures, but my words have to be enough for you lately.

So, the princess of traveleidoscopia was made to go to several police stations, handed over her passport, denied that she needed security guards (but still got one infront of the house she was staying in) and is still not convinced that this makes her any safer, but feels that it draws attention that makes her unsafe. I, as the princess of traveleidoscopia decided that I rather be an unprotexted circus princess dancing on roof tops and sharing chai with bus vallas than an overprotected royal princess that cannot move around

Why does the young man stand on the chair?

„You have to come with us.“

„Why? I don't have courses today. I'm just here to get some texts copied and I need to do some reading in the library...“

„No, but it's the beginning of the semester and you are aswell new on the uni. So we, as your elder classfellows have to introduce you into uni...“

says my smiling classfellow, who is one year younger. I have already endured two years of university education. But well, here I am new, so I follow them into a classroom full of students, who giggle and look around uncertain what's gonna happen:
the first semesters.
I sit down as one of them, observing how the „older students“ who have already studied two or three semesters, call one after the next student in front. They place them on chairs (either sitting or standing on them), let them answer silly questions to introduce them or let them dance:

it's the first days of their university career, so they should have fun. At least in the beginning.

As it is my turn, I stand in front of class, I have the name „I fly, I fly away“ and have to sing a song. What? She cannot sing an Urdu song? Ok, an english one will be acceptable, too. We laugh together and after a while stroll out of the classroom to the jungle like campus. Unity and fun in the form of dancing and singing is something that's missing at least in my homeuni.
Maybe in this country sometimes aswell. So maybe they made a not so bad start with it.

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.