Part II -J's 1st Weekend: Checkpoints and Chicken

On my first Friday evening in Isloo a fellow named Shaheryar, another Kevin Bacon-esque connection, called and invited me to join him for coffee. I didn't know what to expect from this aspiring journalist, but thought that getting coffee was a good way to go. If it was terrible, I could just head home and write a funny blog entry about it. He swung by my place around 7 with his friend Asim. Both went to ISoI and attended college in the States. After the basic introductions, he drove us over to F6's Khosar Market. Khosar is a smaller and slightly more upscale market area that is chiefly important because it contains Gloria Jean's coffee, one of the only cafes in Isloo and few places that serves real coffee. This makes it a sort of social life mecca in Isloo for the elites and a handful of expats. While such patronage makes it a potential target for the militants, it is also very close to a mosque, which militates against its likelihood of being targeted. As do the security guards that wander around with semi-automatic weapons. Just beyond Gloria Jean's patio is a fountain that shuts off randomly. On the other side of the fountain is a large, dilapidated cage for peacocks. Why, I have no idea. The rest of Khosar has a typical mix of stores -- shoe, rug, fabric, and grocery stores, as well as a small produce area and the random street food vendors that come around 8 pm.

Once we arrived, we grabbed some macchiatos and decided to sit outside since the interior has a sharp, paint-like smell that is probably toxic. We encircled a small table on the edge of the patio and chatted about my work for Crisis Group, Asim's life and former job in Dubai, Shaheryar's pursuit of journalism, the current situation in Pakistan, and life in general. After a brief time, a friend from Harvard, Nadia, joined us. She was in Isloo for the night in order to travel to the IDP camps in Mardan the following morning. Soon after, her friend Noor, a columnist and blogger for Dawn (the best English newspaper in Pakistan) joined us. She quickly apologized for wearing a sleeveless shirt, and explained that she was going out to a party later that evening and hadn't expected being out in public. While considered scandalous in many circles in Pakistan, her sartorial choice would have been considered conservative in the West. I, of course, told her I was deeply offended. She thankfully realized that this was simply my poor attempt at humor.

After lingering over our empty cups of espresso for three hours, we decided it was time to grab dinner. So we left Gloria Jean's and decided upon Tiramisu. Tiramisu is Islamabad's somewhat feeble attempt at Italian fine-dining and is located off the main commercial thoroughfare, known as the Blue Area. The Blue Area is lined with businesses, shops and restaurants that range from hole-in-the-wall to upscale, or Isloo's approximation of upscale. Everyone was excited for some soup that they serve, but it seemed that they no longer served it. My penne arabiata with chicken was spicy, but somehow not particularly tasty, and clearly overpriced at 6 USD an entree. Pleasantly, my entree was paired with a great wine that really brought out the flavors of Tuscan cooking. Wait. That doesn't sound right. They don't serve wine in Pakistan. Oh right. I was drinking watermelon juice. Tasty on its own, Watermelon juice offers some conflicting tastes when paired with picante pasta. The dessert, however, was great and worth every rupee.

As the evening wound down, we offered to drive Nadia back to her evening's lodging. Since she was only there for the night, she didn't quite remember where it was. All she could recall was that it was on the way to the airport, there was a ramp nearby, and it was a "farm." Evidently, there are a number of "farms" outside Isloo, which are simply sprawling mansions with a substantial plot of land. While finding her place was difficult, the hour that we spent looking for her place offered me a bunch of new sights as we drove past the Islamabad Club, the country club in Isloo, and the Diplomatic Enclave, the highly guarded sector that houses many embassies, including the French, British, American and Canadian, and their expat-popular "clubs." In fact, we drove so far in attempting to find Nadia's place that we ended up in Rawalpindi. Rawalpindi, or Pindi for short, would be part of the Isloo metropolitan area if Isloo had a metropolitan area. While our entry into Pindi was brief, it was enough to get a sense that it's a lot grittier and much more like what one would expect a city in a developing country to look like. Its population is 4-5 times that of Isloo and is only about a 25 minute drive, or 30 minutes including the police checkpoint traffic. That evening's accidental journey to Pindi wouldn't be my last; in fact, I would end up there the following night.

Saturday is not a day off for most in Pakistan. The proles usually only get Sunday off and possibly time for prayers on Friday afternoons. The menial laborers don't even get Sunday off. The UN takes off Friday afternoon and the rest of the weekend, which is just one more area for possible UN reform. Crisis Group is a bit more rational and gives us the normal weekend, so we don't get Friday afternoons off. But that's probably a good thing, since one wants to avoid running into impassioned service-goers as they emerge from the mosque after an inflammatory sermon. So, my first weekend arrived. But instead of spending the day in the markets or out in the sun, I ended up working since we were trying to finish the IDP report (see the link from Part I below). The only thing that entertained me throughout the day were the two geckos that I discovered were my roommates. At least they eat some of the mosquitoes. Not enough of them, but at least it's something.

As evening rolled around, Shaheryar had gone over to another ISoI-er friend that lived near him in Pindi. I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go out to Pindi and I had nothing else to do, so I was just going to call it a night and avoid wandering around alone at night on foot. But it turned out that Shaheryar's friend had sent his driver to pick me up. So, I hopped into the waiting SUV and we began the 25 minute drive to Pindi. As the buildings shifted into farmland, we came upon a police checkpoint. They stopped us, had me get out, searched the car and patted me down. I thought nothing of it at the time. That would change later. (Cue music for ominous foreshadowing). We got back into the car and drove into Pindi, passing partially built buildings, furniture stores, peeling advertisements, textile mills, shuttered store fronts and run-down dwellings. While traffic laws are not completely followed in Isloo, the term "law" can't properly be used to apply to Pindi traffic -- they're simply suggestions. So I was pleased when we pulled off the road and arrived in front of a large wall with a metal gate.

Out came several guards to open the gate and wave us through. As we drove towards the house, I didn't realize its true size until the driver drove along the front, past the stone arch entryway, around the side, past the guesthouse and stopped at the 6 car garage that apparently abuts an Olympic sized pool. It's one of the oldest homes in Pindi and clearly one of the largest. I walked to the side entrance and Shaheryar had to come get me since I would undoubtedly not found the room he was actually in. After a seemingly endless walk down a couple corridors that were lined with impressive artwork, we reached the our destination, consisting of a suite of rooms. One was a room dedicated to an amazing sound system and had a bar hidden within what appeared to be some sort of artsy furniture. The other was a cavernous room that houses the snooker billiard table. For those unfamiliar with Snooker (I know I was): it's an old British game that is played on a larger table, with smaller cues and takes substantially longer time to play than 8 or 9 ball. The third was the bathroom that was twice the size of my bedroom in Cambridge. It also had vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, two sitting chairs, and a coffee table. It was far too spacious to feel comfortable to use.

The three of us sat on the "modern" furniture that was impossibly comfortable, drank scotch, listened to jazz and chatted for a couple hours. It was a summer goal of mine to drink scotch with a Pakistani general, but I'm happy to settle for a titan of industry. It turns out that this family owns a large number of corporations, including a textile business that Shaheryar's friend runs at age 25. A couple other friends arrived later into the evening. One had been playing Polo earlier that day and invited me to a match later in the summer. The other was a Brit whose family was from Pakistan and he was in town visiting them in between trips to the US, where he owns gas stations and convenience stores throughout the South and Midwest, as well as a joint venture in Florida. Hilariously, the joint venture is with an old Jew in Florida with whom he owns a chain of Greek diners, where the cooks are Mexican. "Only in America," he tells me. After some more drinking and chatting, someone smartly suggested a game of snooker. It wasn't pretty. I chalk it up to my "inexperience" with snooker, but it was more likely the scotch.

We called it a night after several hours, but our adventures weren't over. The group of us left with the driver in the SUV. We again came to the checkpoint. The police stopped us again, but I wasn't forced out of the car this time. But I was the only one who was asked in Urdu for their National Identity Card. It was then that I remembered Samina's warning that I looked like a Pashtun and that I should have a copy of my passport. So, I pulled it out to show the officer. He responded by asking me for the real one. At that point the other guys in the car said, he's American and not stupid enough to carry his actual passport around. They luckily let us go. I jokingly apologized to the guys for looking like a Pashtun due to my Taliban-esque beard.

So why would I be the only one asked for my NIC? Basically, racial profiling. The recent bombings throughout Lahore, Islamabad and elsewhere have been carried out by militants who are overwhelmingly Pashtun in origin. The others in the car were of Punjabi and Mohajir origin (Mohajir means emigrant in Arabic and refers to the muslims in northern India that came over after Partition.) So, the police view the Pashtuns with suspicion, but not the Punjabis and Mohajirs. It is this ethnic tension that is bubbling up throughout Pakistan, exacerbated by the 2.5 million mostly Pashtun refugees that are fleeing the NWFP. But this tension goes beyond the Pashtun, as the different ethnic groups view each other with disdain and is the basis for many of the internal problems of Pakistan including the secessionist movement in Baluchistan and the rise of MQM in Karachi.

The following day I took it easy and wandered around my neighborhood to take pictures. I found my way up a nearby street and saw a family of monkeys that were living in some trees above a creek. Of course, as an easily impressed foreigner, I started taking pictures of them. Then an older man came up to me. After the normal greeting, he asked me what I was taking picture of. I told him "monkeys" and proceeded to point them out. He asked where I was from. "Canada," I answered. He asked for my passport. "I left it at home, so I wouldn't lose it, sir." He said this was a restricted zone and illegal to take pictures. "Oh. I didn't realize that. I just wanted a few pictures of the monkeys, since we don't have them in Canada." He said he should call the police. "That isn't necessary -- I'm just a Canadian tourist who likes taking pictures of monkeys." And I just kept walking. He didn't call the police, or if he did, they didn't care. As I found out later that week, the reason for the restricted zone is because it's the back of A.Q. Khan's house. Yes, that A.Q. Khan. Talk about having a crazy neighbor. A.Q. Khan is the father of the Pakistani nuclear bomb and the chief exporter of nuclear technology to N. Korea, Iran, Syria, and Libya. He is a national hero of sorts, despite the unsavory dealings and subsequent house arrest. Over a week later, I am still a bit amazed by the fact that AQ Khan has a house up the street from me.

Later that day, I met up with my father's co-worker's brother in-law, who is from Isloo. He and his friend, both of whom are "entrepreneurs," meaning they are inheriting their father's company, picked me up. They decided to take me to the top of the Margala Hills (they'd be considered mountains in Massachusetts or Virginia). We decided to stop for dinner at Monal, a restaurant that overlooks Isloo. But the pollution was mixing with clouds and the view, while nice, was obscured a bit. On a clear day you can see the mountains within the NWFP, the real foothills of the Himalayas. The hills themselves are gorgeous - with lush green ravines and abundant wildlife, including monkeys (with the standard beware of monkey signs.) The road that snakes up the hills isn't the most dangerous road in the world (that's in Bolivia), but the hairpin turns and complete lack of proper lanes or driving technique certainly increase the risk factor. Arriving to the restaurant was interesting. The guards checked the car for bombs, and glared at me, but let us through. But before we got to the restaurant, we had to go through a metal-detector. I, looking like an Afghan Taliban, got patted down. We descended the stairs to the dining area, where we were watched over by several snipers. Luckily, we sat facing the valley and could nearly forget the barbed wire fence and heavily armed protection behind us. We shared different Pakistani chicken dishes over a couple orders of Nan, while discussing Pakistan and politics. Both the food and conversation were enjoyable.

After dinner we went to the park built onto the side of the mountain that has a few fair-like activities and is largely a place for families to picnic. It offers views of Isloo from different angles and is lovely at dusk, as the heat of the day fades. The guys pointed out landmarks in Isloo and we laughed about the warning signs about keeping your children away from the monkeys, as well as the monkeys who were being forced to perform tricks for money. But before I became too irate at the inhumane treatment, the clouds that had impeded our city-scape had turned into storm clouds, so we headed back to the car. As we drove back down to the city to get some ice cream, they played Indian music videos on the car's small screen with the windows rolled down. Nothing like Hindi pop music to get the party started. We arrived at the ice cream shop, which is basically a Cold Stone and was called Marble Stone. As one can imagine, it had the same flavors and toppings that one would find in Missouri or Massachusetts. Inside it felt like a decent approximation of American suburbia. Even the music was American. But when you stepped outside to sit on their patio you could the unfinished pavement, the diesel generators, buildings in disrepair and armed guards. That and the ice cream tasted just slightly off. I imagine it has to do with the milk they use, which tastes a little different. Not sure how, just not quite right. But it was still ice cream, and therefore tasty. So we finished our cones and I got dropped off. And thus ended my first week in Isloo.

--J