PIA

Living outside Pakistan, there isn’t really any reason one would hear of PIA, or know that Pakistan International Airlines exists. They are not known for their efficiency like Lufthansa, or for their extensive movie selection like Emirates. But if one were to hear about PIA, here are some of the things one might find out:

First, PIA is the only airline offering a direct flight between Islamabad and London. This fact alone is enough to ignore all others you might hear about the airline.

When purchasing your ticket, it is very helpful to be white, as you will most likely get whisked away from the indefinite queue in which all others are waiting, and have your own window opened up just for you. Oh, sorry, would that make you feel uncomfortable? You can always protest and insist that you will await your turn with everyone else.

The same characteristic helps when checking in at the airport: you get ushered into the person-less line labeled “business plus” regardless of what kind of a ticket you hold.

It helps to be a single (the technical term is “unaccompanied”) female because in the three subsequent security, immigration and baggage checks, you get to go to the “ladies” line, where... you guessed it, no one is in front of you! You dare not look back at the line of 50 + men and families who are shifting their weight from one foot to the other, waiting for their turn.

Once you’ve used up your “get out of queue for free” card, you can seat yourself in the lounge area along with all other travelers. There are no gates, no signs to indicate if you are in the right place, except one that says “Facilitator.” Hmmm...

You sit and a tea boy comes around and ask you “coffeetea?” which is pretty much a compound word here. When you say tea, he arrives 15 minutes later with a silver tray, containing your beverage and a selection of saran-wrapped white bread sandwich and sponge-looking thing ominously named “yellow cake” neither of which you should dare to eat. You sit and wait for your 10:35 departure while the lounge swells with hundreds of people. At 10:25 the “facilitator” announces it’s time to board, whereupon all 300 passengers, strollers, wheelchairs, crying babies and children, grandmothers who are actually trying to fly to Karachi or Birmingham form a massive herd at the facilitators’ desk.

You funnel your way down the ramp onto the tarmac where your passport and ticket, is checked for the fifth time, and those going to other destinations are sorted out and sent back upstairs through the herd. Nothing but a small inconvenience.

You board a bus which screeches up to your plane. As you exit the bus your ticket and passport get checked one more time, and 10 meters later, as you ascend the stairway to your plane, a guy with a black beret, gray beard and aviator glasses gives them another once over. He shakes his head “no” and hopefully by this time you’ve realized that in Pakistan that actually means yes, and you don’t panic.

Finally, you’ve made it on board. You are the 10th person or so (thanks to your unaccompanied white female status), and because you’ve heard the horror stories about the toilets on PIA flights, you might hurry to use a clean one and prepare your bladder for the trip.

In the toilet there is no soap, but there is a huge sign over the toilet imploring that you not throw metals, glass, razor blades, cloth or plastic bottles into the toilet. Sanitary napkins are apparently fine.

Later on you will discover that smoking in the lavatories, is in fact still tolerated and practiced on PIA flights, despite the typical red-strike over a smoking cigarette picture on the mirrors and side panels.

Some other air travel norms you may have taken for granted also do not apply on PIA. For example, you are welcome to stroll about the cabin about 10 seconds after take off. You are also allowed to keep piles of stuff right in front of your feet, and your neighbors’ feet. You are not required to sit and buckle up until the wheels have been prepared for landing, and even though you will most likely stand at the luggage carousel for two hours, it’s frowned upon (literally) to get out of your seat while the plane is still taxiing and start rummaging through the overhead bin, but no one will try to stop you.

After a Koran recitation the plane ascends smoothly commencing the 8 hour trip to London. Heading northwest over Afghanistan, the pilot speaks lengthily in Urdu, of which you only understand “In-Sh-Allah” and “Maharbani” and “Shukria” (“god willing”, “please” and “thank you,” respectively). In the English translation you learn that the captain gave very detailed explantation about the winds, weather, turbulence and adjustments he prepares to make and how that will effect our trip. Very nice. He peppers his lecture with announcements of how many more miles you have until the Afghan airspace has been traversed. You imagine in Urdu that went something like: gentlemen (not ladies) we are about 300 km from Ashkhabad and Inshallah will make it over the airspace of Afghanistan. Not too reassuring.

The cabin crew is pretty much male. And not gay either. Also not too reassuring.

Children of pre-school age are allowed to sit on your lap. Or your neighbor’s lap.

Lunch is served and, you are offered choices. “Vegetarian, please”. You are delighted to receive a tray of steamed jasmine rice with curried peas and potatoes and perhaps one green bean gingerly laid across the top. You dig in. Oh shit! Not a green bean! That was a chili pepper! Whatever they say about PIA, they can’t say that the food is bland.

People of Pakistan

Crowds of people outside the airport entrance not only await loved ones, but also have come to bid them farewell. It turns out crowds showed up to bid me farewell also. A group of young women keep waving and smiling in my direction as I wait in my first line of the morning to enter the Benezir Bhutto Terminal at Islamabad International Airport. The crowd of young women keep waving enthusiastically, even though there seems to be no movement in my vicinity. Feeling awkward, I smile at them. Their waving grows more zealous and my smile widens as I understand, they are waving at me, if for no other reason than just to exchange smiles and mutual attention. It is strange to be treated like an exotic species or obscure celebrity. I feel embarrassed and happy at the same time, thankful to be distracted from the drabness of the airport.

For all the glares, stares, scowls that I get from men, I seem to be a magnet for women. It often happens when I walk around the markets, especially on a Saturday night, as they gain the atmosphere of a southern california mall, crawling with giggly teenage girls clad in fake gold jewelry, that these young women get very excited about my presence. It is hard to image how they would react if I were a heartthrob male movie star, because in my presence they get fluttery, giggly, bashful, and they steel glances at me and look away timidly if I meet their eyes. Eventually, a brave one in the group will toss a bold “hello!” in my direction, and keep her eyes locked on mine, to see what I will do. When I greet her back, her friends flutter and giggle even more, like small birds bathing at the edge of a puddle. And then more of them call out “hello!” and even “how are you?” and before I have a chance to say anything - “I am fine!” they call with much amusement and delight.

The women I’ve encountered at conferences seem awestruck by my height, and probably my uncovered light brown hair. Whatever they are amazed by, often they have no qualms voicing their awe. “I have been watching you all morning. You are so smart and so pretty,” they share with me by afternoon tea break. We exchange long friendly smiles and nods of respect. My favorite though, is when they compare me to Princess Diana. I am usually very embarrassed, blushing and surely trying to grow shorter, so I can be at least at a more reasonable level to have a conversation, human to human, not towering like the Eiffel over radio antenna. These encounters are very sweet and full of mutual affinity. I compliment them on their colorful clothes, their charm and their smartness as well.

When Tom and I have been at the ZOO or at a museum, places where many local tourist come for a Sunday outing, dressed in their crispest, brightest clothes, much jewelry, flashy handbags, children with kohl eyeliner, often we get asked to pose for pictures. There is always a lot of excitement about this, and arranging of people. Recently, I even had a kid shoved in my arms, he and I looking at each other in surprise, not really knowing what to do. “No, not in that arm, this one...” a young woman rearranged the kid from my left right arm to my left. The often want to know how we like Pakistan, and how we find the people, clearly aware of the reputation their country has in the world. They seem deeply satisfied when we nod and confirm that Pakistanis are “really really nice people.”

But what would we find beyond this contact. That is still a mystery to me. Often when I have conversations with women at the conferences, I find their accents hard to understand, their reasoning hard to follow, sometimes the conversation is completely incomprehensible. When we talk about basic things, like how to cook yellow dal, or how many children they have, and how their husbands feel about them working (husbands I hear about are always “cooperative”) I understand them, and presumably vice versa. But beyond that, we seldom venture. And the few times we have, I became lost, confused, losing the thread of clarity that brought us to this point. It is much easier to talk with women. They are much more accessible to me, and relating to each other is easy via food, children and husbands. With men, there is always a sizing up of sorts, a determining of where one is on the hierarchy of a grade pay scale (the determinant of your pay and position in society based on your education). When they realize I am not “Dr.” of anything, they dismiss me with a sigh of relief.

What always surprises me about conversations here, is the forwardness about religion. Often people ask out right “are you a Christian?” Which always completely stumps me, as I have no idea what the “correct” answer is. I feel like either way it’s a losing proposition. I have also been asked “What’s your method of prayer” by a crusty old chancellor from an Islamic University. I did my best to evade the question by saying “it’s kind of personal.” He nodded dismissively and asked about which language I pray in. I mumbled “not in English.” He continued his line of questioning with “how many times a day?” at which point I almost cried “Uncle!”

For the most part, Pakistani people, the roles of male and female, the role of religion, the relationships among the classes, are still a mystery to me. All three aspects plus the added obstacle of language, form barriers to understanding this country and its people. I glimpse as much as I can from the brief interactions and conversations I have, and from the outsider’s view I am afforded by living here, but this is still only a very small window through which to view a culture.

Sunday Lunch

There are many reasons why living in Pakistan really bites. The most biting reason for me personally is the feeling of being trapped, of not having freedom to go wherever whenever one pleases. The annoyance of always being driven somewhere by people you don’t really know, and sometimes people you may not like. Once you actually get to where you are going, you can’t really relax either, because... well, in short, because you are an American in Pakistan.

So, imagine my delight when we were invited by our friend Z to Sunday lunch at his house on the lake. We loaded up into his land cruiser along with various baggage, six cartons of Quaker Oats, and a Pakistani man introduced to us as James, who was dressed for a safari in multi-pocketed khaki attire. I imagined that for lunch we might have tandoor cheetah with a bowl of porridge.

We headed west out of Islamabad along the Grand Trunk Highway, which used to be the main road from Kabul to Delhi and is the oldest road in the region. The major highways have no lanes, and cars swerve freely like schools of fish in the pond. Despite the seeming chaos of it Tom pointed out that this is indeed the latest theory on traffic control: makes people pay attention to what’s happening, and not get complacent while driving in the safety of their white lines.

We drove through many miles of undeveloped Islamabad suburbs into an increasingly industrial area. We passed stone quarries, and turned off the major road at a railroad crossing. Pakistan is generally a dusty and gray landscape (at least what I’ve seen of it so far), but there are several areas where one can see a symphony of brilliant colors: women’s clothes, flower stands, produce stands and the jingle trucks (see Tom’s picassa photos from Pakistan trip in April). These are very heavy and tall trucks which transport most goods in Pakistan. They are covered with small painted metal plates forming colored mosaics of art: a tiger, a woman’s eyes, fishes, winged horse, fighter jets.

We slowed as we drove through the town of Taxila, which reminded me of Mexico, with its llantaras on the side of the road, and armies of colorful statues for sale outside some craft stores, disco tigers (imagine disco ball, only reincarnated as a tiger sentinel). This was the town of industry, especially stone cutters. They used local stones to carve anything from grave stones to mortar pestles, to statues.

The road narrowed and turned north. Z pointed to turn-offs leading to various Buddhist stupas dating back to King Ashoka’s power in 250 BCE. In general, people here do not know pre-Islamic history, as it has been erased from textbooks, from memory, especially in the last 30 years. I was proud to share with our friend that such knowledge, about King Ashoka the Mauryan Emperor who renounced violence and became a Buddhist (conveniently) after gaining power, is taught to all sixth graders in California. Yay! It’s nice to feel proud of what education can do well!

We veered onto an unpaved road, which turned and twisted along the foot of a mountain and dipped into river beds. This really reminded Tom and me of Mexico, specifically, Baja California. Complete with glimpses of flat silvery water to the East.

As we got our first peek of the lake, several aspects of it remind us of the lakes in southwest United States: the arid high desert landscape and the pathetically low water level. It seems to me wherever I’ve travelled in recent years, (Central America, Hawaii, Southern California or South Asia) in the countryside the evidence of water shortages is everywhere: low water levels in wells, rainfall below the normal levels, dried up rivers and streams. Those who know about the land speak sadly about dry seasons, and the threat to crops. I wonder if the sadness does not point to something deeper, not just a temporary drought. If we don’t intuitively know that we are witnessing climate change right in front of our eyes. If we do, we don’t say it. It’s easier to talk about droughts. In our collective consciousness we know and hope that droughts pass. But we don’ know about the passing of climate change, or if hoping for it is futile. As we pass over far reaching fingers of the reservoir, it’s clear that the water is 30 or 40 feet below what its regular level. What might normally be lagoons of water, have become cricket grounds, and pathways for women carrying hardwood atop their heads.



We arrived at a small green gate and drove along Z’s property on a gravel road. When we climbed over a hill away from the main road, we saw the roof of his house, and span of the reservoir. What’s most striking about the view is the simplicity Z’s house, and the flat span of terraced lawns in front. The openness of the landscape feels especially refreshing compared to the usual state of being trapped. It’s all I can do to wait a few polite minutes before removing my shoes and walking on the stubby grass barefoot. We get acquainted with the local caretake and the caretaker dog. Z shows us the house, which he has designed and built. What I love is the straightforwardness of the structure: cooking area, eating area, sitting area, all open to face the marvelous view of rural Pakistan. What Tom loves are the solid materials: wood, steel, leather, and the thoughtfulness with which they were utilized.

It is spacious and quite. Falcons and kites glide on invisible gusts of wind. Voices of people on the other shores are carried effortlessly over the surface of the water.

Tom and I take a walk around one drying finger of the reservoir, toward the brightness of mustard fields. A family of peasants is collecting mustard greens on the other side of the lake. We hear voices of women talking and children bantering. At the water’s edge, I notice the kids have climbed on rocks on the other side, and quieted, watching us. I wave. One of them looks away and the other half hides in the shadow of a boulder. We watch each other across the water. I wave again. One of them reflexively lifts his arm, in what’s not quite a wave. Even from here, they seem bashful, but curious. I wave one more time, before walking away from the water’s edge. I hear a loud splash and when I turn around to see what kind of fish might make so much noise, I realize one of them had thrown a rock into the water to regain my attention. Now they were motionless again, waiting to see what I would do. I walked toward Tom who was taking pictures of the mustard field trying to capture it’s bee-buzzing, goat-herding, central Asia-feeling wonder.

When we returned to the house, carpets and pillows had been laid out on the grass terrace, waiting for the arrival of small sized harem. While we wait to find out who the harem will be composed of, we admire the handmade furniture, the free standing fireplace, the most delicious blood oranges, and the Quaker Oats installation art. One would confidently bet that Z was maybe born in Argentina, or had lived for 15 years in the US, but to our surprise we find out that he’s never taken more than a month’s vacation abroad, that he misses Pakistan on long sojourns away. One suspects there might be more to this story, but the overwhelming impression of Z is of a good natured teddy bear, who wants to host people he finds endearing or interesting, in truest Pakistani hospitality.

When the other guests arrive, the silence of the landscape is broken. Several vehicles pull up almost simultaneously, and out pour a dozen or so people, loud as only a group of city slickers arriving in the country can be. They include some of Zs Pakistani friends, and three Ambassadors of certain Latin American countries, their wives, kids, and nephews. They all introduce themselves to us, not by title, but by name, it is up to us to match the ambassador with his respective country. 

The picnickers brought not only cheer and noise, but also delicious food: homemade pizza, empanadas, fresh tossed salad. Zulfikar had Pakistani food made by a local woman, and James made the most delicious quiche (much preferred to roasted cheetah). There was wine and beer and cigars, and lots of chatters and laughing, and story telling.

Here is my favorite, told by a flirtatious Brazilian woman (imagine a buzzed Portuguese accent), now living in Pakistan, which is where the story takes place:

My father died and we needed to prepare the church for his funeral. But there were still Christmas decorations up. I told them they have to take the decorations down, because it’s after January 6th, and having them up after the Three Kings would bring bad luck to my father's funeral. But they didn’t do it. So I sent my guys down there to clean up. When they arrived at the church they all took off their shoes, and I had to convince them that it’s OK to wear shoes inside. So they come into the church, and they just kind of stop and stare at the crucifix with Jesus, with their mouths open. At the service we sang Catholic hymns and it was shocking because all the Pakistanis there knew the words! It turns out they had all be educated at missionary schools or convents, so they knew how to sing in Latin!

To appreciate this story you have really pull yourself out of the Christian culture, and imagine that in your religion depiction of God in any form is forbidden. Shoes are removed before entering mosques. Showing bare arms in public is improper. And here you are faced with not only a crucifix, but Jesus, nailed on it, probably bleeding brownish blood from his open wounds, wearing nothing but a ribbon over his privates. I would stop and stare with my mouth open, and someone would have to do more than snap their fingers to get my attention on cleaning the Christmas decorations.

The afternoon passed, and I took advantage of the free flowing, self-sustaining conversations to sit on the carpets and draw. Being barefoot, and bare-shouldered for the first time in months, felt so good and freeing, it was easy to enjoy the simple pleasure of drawing the land scape. There are many moments of brightness and delight in Pakistan, and one has to really suck the marrow of them.