Part I - J's Life in Isloo: Thank you, Kevin Bacon

I have now been in Pakistan for a little bit over a week and the only thing limiting my dining choices have been bomb scares. That and the questionable safety risk of walking alone at night is also (now) a limit. Of course, there are a plethora of small, pale yellow cars that serve as the city's taxis. They frequently see me, the random business-casual clad Westerner, and honk, which is the universal code for "do you need a taxi?" But everyone I speak with informs me that taking a taxi is a good idea only if I am interested in coming down with a case of the Stockholm Syndrome. And as lovely as Stockholm is, I'd rather not get any syndromes.

So how do I get out of my guesthouse and see the town you ask? Answer: People I know (or their drivers) that can pick me up with their car. And to answer your follow up, I know people through a Kevin Bacon-esque game of Pakistanis. Basically, a classmate of mine, Nadia, put me in touch with a friend of hers. He then put me in touch with a couple people, one of whom connected me with several of her friends who are basically the 20-something elites in Islamabad. Like most developing countries, the wealth in Pakistan is heavily concentrated in the hands of notable families and their business conglomerates. And while this may pose a severe constraint on Pakistan's economic development, and cause stratification and massive inequality, it has certainly benefited my social life.

To be fair, the people I've met are not all children of the uber-wealthy. And of those that are, they are incredibly down to earth. So much so that the only way to know that they are scions of a patrician family is if you happen to see their mansion or if another person mentions someone's notable relatives. Actual quote from someone to me: "Oh yeah, he is General Zia ul-Haq's grandson." Me: "It must be weird to have a former dictator as a grandfather." But generally the elites are simply a mix of upper and upper-middle class individuals that are well-educated, cosmopolitan, and typically speak and write better in English than Urdu. Many attended the International School of Islamabad (ISI), which is not to be confused with the other ISI -- the Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI). To avoid confusion and my arrest, we'll use ISoI for the school and never speak again of the ISI. Better safe than sorry. Regardless of whether or not they attended ISoI for high school, nearly all of them went abroad for college and have now returned to Isloo at least part time. Many have done so to run a family company, or at least a portion of it. Others are pursuing a more standard professional path or a life in the arts. Hanging out with this crowd feels not too different than hanging out with friends back in the States. Of course there are some noticeable differences. Drinking at home is not a pre-party option; it is the party option. Deciding where to eat dinner is not dependent upon a Sietsema review or the Washingtonian list, but the high-alert terrorism target list. And when invited over to someone's place, rather than having a hard time fitting everyone in a room, you have a hard time finding the right room.

During my first week, sitting in the office all day and taking solitary trips to Jinnah Super was quickly fading in excitement. Sure, I could make it more exciting by walking at night. But there had to be something better than simply making myself a potential AMBER Alert, or the Pakistani equivalent. (Query: Do they have an equivalent? Considering the number of abductions, it seems like a good idea.) But luckily my stir-craziness was ameliorated. I received an email from a fellow who explained that our mutual friend (see the Kevin Bacon explanation above) told him that I was in Isloo for a while and was looking to hang out with folks. He invited me over for drinks after dinner and I quickly agreed. When I offered to take a cab over, he laughed and explained that was a poor idea. Instead, he and his driver came to pick me up. When I entered his home, I was floored by its magnificence (including the floors). The first level seemed to contain two spacious living rooms, with a few seating areas in each. Proceeding to the second floor, we passed a modern, angled, wall-length skylight. Evidently, when the Marriott was bombed, that was the only window in the house that didn't get shattered. Even his front door was blown in. At the end of a long hall, we entered a large room. And by large, I mean colossal. It had floor to ceiling windows, which is normally impressive. But this ceiling was two stories high. He introduced me to his wife, who offered me some tasty bruschetta. We sat in the quarter of the room which functions as the entertainment area -- a Wii, TV, etc. His sister stopped in, as did a friend of his. Both had received the now infamous email from the same mutual (read: fourth degree) friend to get in touch and show me around town. We chatted about Pakistani politics, movies and drank bootlegged wine for several hours while listening to an ecletic mix of music ranging from the Gypsy Kings to electronica. It was remarkable how much it felt like I was simply hanging out at a friend's place in Cambridge or DC, albeit a very nice friend's place.

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Also, International Crisis Group just released its policy briefing on Pakistan's IDP Crisis. You can check it out by clicking here.

Part II will be out in several days.

It's not just about the food.

Despite my several skirmishes with sanitation-challenged street food, all is well. But as shocking as it may seem, I actually came to Pakistan this summer to do more than eat spicy kebabs and chicken tikka. The real impetus was that I was offered the opportunity to work for International Crisis Group's South Asia office, which is based in Islamabad. For those of you that are less familiar with ICG, let me offer you the following introduction excerpted from ICG's 'about' page:

The International Crisis Group is now generally recognised as the world’s leading independent, non-partisan, source of analysis and advice to governments, and intergovernmental bodies like the United Nations, European Union and World Bank, on the prevention and resolution of deadly conflict.

Crisis Group was founded in 1995 as an international non-governmental organisation on the initiative of a group of well known transatlantic figures who despaired at the international community’s failure to anticipate and respond effectively to the tragedies in the early 1990s of Somalia, Rwanda and Bosnia.

What distinguishes Crisis Group from other organisations working on conflict analysis, prevention or resolution is a unique combination of field-based analysis, sharp-edged policy prescription and high-level advocacy, with key roles being played – very unusually for an NGO – by a senior management team highly experienced in government and by a highly active Board of Trustees containing many senior statesmen and women used to making things happen.

Crisis Group’s reports, and the advocacy associated with them, have had a very significant direct impact on conflict prevention and resolution in regions across the world, as policymakers wrestle with how to handle Islamist terrorism, nuclear proliferation, local conflict and the multiple problems associated with failed, failing and fragile states worldwide.

And as good of an explanation that this is, it really tells you nothing about what I'm doing for ICG this summer. If it did, then this would be a much shorter post. But before delving into that, I'll have to give you a sense of my office and its cast of characters.

So, after arriving on Sunday, I sent an email to Zaib, the office manager, informing her of my arrival. She was my contact person during the planning stage of my summer and to whom I had to send the various liability and assumption of risk releases, security protocols agreement, the non-disclosure agreement, and proof of health and evacuation insurance. She simply wrote back that I would be picked up by car the next morning. This seemed odd, as I had checked Google Maps (is the best) and had already walked by the office earlier in the day to familiarize myself with the area. Regardless, I wasn't about to tell her no. For all I knew, maybe the office had changed locations.

Monday morning arrived early -- 2 am early. And that was after popping a benadryl. Granted, I probably wouldn't have been able to operate heavy machinery; but being somewhat drowsy was not enough to fully overcome the jet lag. Luckily, my excitement over starting at ICG successfully circumvented my fatigue -- at least until 5 or 6 pm. At 9:30 that morning, a black Toyota (which is quite rare for Isloo, as you may recall from my last post) arrived for me. While Zaib wasn't in it, an older gentleman was. As he emerged from the car, he asked me in broken English if I was J. I assured him that I was. With a grandfatherly smile, he introduced himself as Sharif and began to open the back door of the car for me. But being chauffeured about felt and still feels unnatural, so I quickly opened the door to the front passenger seat. Once he got in, he told me the street number of the office, which hadn't changed (nearly all the streets in Isloo are numbered -- e.g. Street 14). As he started to drive, he was gesturing the path we were taking so I would remember how to get from my guesthouse to the office. I tried to explain that I had already walked there, but that didn't really break through the language barrier. We arrived outside the front of the office three minutes later.

But that wasn't my only car ride with Sharif, although after the first one he opens the front door. In the past week, he has driven me to lunch a couple times, the only bank where my ATM card will work, and the Mobilink customer service office where he spoke on my behalf to get my SIM chip working while I just sat there looking bemused. Whenever we are in the car, he likes teaching me the name of the roads and landmarks. While I have already figured out the names of the nearby roads (remember, with the exception of 5 or so streets, the streets are simply numbers) and the landmarks are remarkably few, I just don't have the heart to interrupt him. He is just too sweet and eager to teach. He speaks slowly and loudly, not unlike an American dealing with someone who doesn't speak English well. But it's all very well meaning. In fact, he is also trying to teach me various nouns and short phrases in Urdu. It's not going well. So far, I've learned coffee (kafe) and tea (chai) and that's about it. He also enjoys telling me about the good restaurants. For lunch today, he suggested "one potato, two potato" - a fast food chain where I had Masala flavored fries and the Pakistani interpretation of a grilled chicken sandwich. It's was a bit pricey by Pakistani standards - roughly $3.50, which is nearly triple what a chicken paratha cost. As we drove back to the office, he handed me a flier for a new restaurant that offers Burgers, Shwarma, and Chinese. Not sure how well those go together. It did remind me of a restaurant in a 'transitional' DC neighborhood that offers some equally puzzling combination that includes Chinese, Fried Fish, possibly BBQ and Pizza. I haven't experienced that one either.

The office is housed in a large, two-story house, with a few rooms on each floor, a couple meeting/sitting rooms, a kitchen and 3 bathrooms. Like all the homes in the neighborhood, it's surrounded by a large wall and a gated driveway. The first floor windows have metal bars, as do the windows of the safe-room (more on that later). The armed security guard out front, another neighborhood common feature, opened the gate and waved us in. After exiting the car, I introduced myself to the guard. The guard carries a little extra weight, seems to dye his hair some odd orange-ish color and has a cheery persona. Whenever someone arrives by car, he shoots up from his fan-cooled plastic lawn chair, and jogs over to open the gate. While our interactions are limited to my entering or exiting the gate, he never fails to offer me a casual salute in the British Military style. I wonder if he thinks I'm British. If only he heard my Betty Boothroyd impression.

Upon entering the house/office, I finally met Zaib in person. A mother of two and with a world of experience, she is the ideal office-manager. She has a dry and somewhat sarcastic sense of humor (as I learned over the first several days), is well-organized, and incredibly sweet. Within the first two days, she managed to get me a ICG paid for cell number, a transportation and meal per diem and set me up with a new office computer. She is the office's (and my) go-to person for travel logistics throughout Pakistan and Isloo. She is, fundamentally, the glue that keeps the office together.

Zaib then introduced me to Samina, the South Asia Director for Crisis Group. If you've read the recent TIME magazine article on Pakistan, the NYT Magazine Article on Pakistan from April, or anything by the Economist on Pakistan, you've probably come across a quote by Samina. She's the real deal. And people in government recognize her as such. When a certain US Senator was visiting Pakistan, he met with Samina. She gave him an earful due to some irresponsible comments he had recently made. After returning stateside, his rhetoric changed quite a bit. One would think that with her knowledge, sharp intellect and powerful connections, she would be intimidating, haughty or dismissive. But she is quite the opposite. Her office door is always open and she is always happy to answer questions, discuss an issue or offer advice.

When I entered Samina's office, she was in the middle of a meeting with one of the two analysts in the office, Shehryar, over a report. Instead of deferring our meeting until later, she had me pull up a chair and listen their back and forth conversation about the timing and content of the new report. After they finished, she gave me a more extensive welcome, as well as a safety and security run-down. She said that the security situation has gotten much worse, necessitating an alarm system and modifications on the house to create a safe-room, which has a reinforced steel door, steel bars on the window, its own bathroom and a windowless interior room that contains water and rations. Conveniently for me, it's also doubles as my office. She also mentioned several safety pointers: change my route and time to work every day; avoid government/military/police buildings, political demonstrations, large crowds generally, iconic locations (think Marriott Hotel and the US Embassy), locations where foreigners gather in public; don't take taxis or travel to many places throughout Pakistan; and don't walk near mosques and madrassa on Fridays when the mullahs are potentially fomenting unrest. Just today she mentioned that the madrassa in our neighborhood is has a large degree of notoriety and was the site last week of several arrests. Thankfully, it's on the far side of the neighborhood and the security guard out front has an automatic weapon.

After the security briefing, she said that I would spend the majority of my summer working with Sophie, the other analyst, on researching and writing the upcoming Kashmir report. She added that Sophie and I would likely get to travel to Kashmir to get a sense of the situation on the ground and interview people. I have been desperately wanting to go to Kashmir, so this possibility made my day. It's an incredibly complex issue that has important ramifications for the Kashmiri people, as well as global security. Kashmir is the world's most militarized place, with over 500,000 Indian troops stationed there. This disputed territory has brought India and Pakistan to war several times since 1947 and the brink of war several others. The Pakistani Taliban was largely created by the Pakistani military to fight an asymmetric insurgency against the conventionally stronger Indian military, strategically tying up and bleeding the Indian army. India's hands are also dirty, by undermining democracy in Kashmir, and perpetrating human rights abuses against its people. This long-running conflict is the one in which most commentators believe nuclear weapons are the most likely to be used. So, the stakes of this conflict could not be higher. A peaceful resolution would demilitarize the Pakistani-Indian relations, allow Pakistan to shift its resources and troops to the border with Afghanistan and properly focus on its efforts to root out its militant insurgency and better provide for its people. Also, I hear the food is quite good.

Samina then brought me upstairs where we ran into Rizwan, the office butler of sorts. He is a cheerful fellow, with a kind face. He, like Sharif, wears the traditional garb with a proper looking vest over it. His role is basically to bring us drinks, snacks, or whatever other edible items that we may desire. Within a minute of meeting me, he had me write down his inter-office number (the only one I have, actually), so that I don't have to walk down to the kitchen. Even when we don't order beverages, he comes by with coffee or tea several times throughout the day, and ensures a constant supply of bottled water. Rizwan recently told me that he travels nearly two hours to come to work everyday on public transportation. The secretaries who drive nearly two hours at my old law firm impressed me. But Rizwan puts them to shame, since the transportation he takes consists of the small, lavishly decorated flat-bed trucks or mini-buses that are overcrowded and are neither safe nor reliable. Despite this hardship, he is perpetually in good spirits and always happy to offer a cup of tea, which he did ad nauseum until he realized that I'm not British and therefore cannot drink black tea with milk continuously throughout the day.

I then met my office-mate Sophie, with whom I'm working on the Kashmir project. Sophie recently graduated from the Universite de Provence, which is located in the picturesque, must-have-been-built-for-a-movie-set Aix-en-Provence, where L and I lived last summer. As you may guess, she is French and therefore smokes. Pleasantly, she doesn't do so in our office. The office is spartan in decor, with the only color coming from of a small plant and several regional maps of Pakistan. Like the rest of Islamabad, our power shuts off periodically throughout the day and usually in the hot afternoon. And sadly, unlike my guesthouse, the ICG generator doesn't have the power to keep the AC running. Coincidentally, it is usually at this time that the local ice cream truck comes around. Yes, a local ice-cream truck. Seriously. And it plays Fur Elise by Beethoven. While I've been tempted to try it during the afternoon heat when the AC shuts off, I have not because 1) the refrigeration on that truck is definitely questionable, and 2) the power usually comes back on within an hour, so I'm not too desperate. If I don't have AC for 2 hours one afternoon, my resolve may very well break.

When I arrived and settled into the office, Sophie handed me a stack of books and previous reports for background on our Kashmir project. But due to the Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) project's deadline, she took me up on my offer to help her and Shehryar on the IDP policy briefing.

For those of you that haven't seen the news, there are between 2 to 2.5 million IDPs resulting from Pakistan's military operations in the NWFP. These operations, unlike a population-centered counter-insurgency that goes to great lengths to protect a civilian populace, are simply leveling towns and shelling villages through the use of heavy artillery, helicopter gunships and jet fighters, which inevitably result in civilian casualties. This does not endear the military or the Pakistani federal government to its people. Of course, this isn't to say that the government shouldn't be doing something against the Taliban -- they just need to do it better and actually follow through this time in providing security for people who voted for secular democracy in 2008. Villagers have lost their homes, farms, livestock and businesses and are forced to flee. Most IDPs can reach camps, but those stuck within the conflict zone are without electricity and functioning hospitals and their supplies of food and water are dwindling. Those that end up staying in camps, like those in Peshawar or Mardan, face terrible conditions. Food, clean water, and health care is also in short supply, while they must bear stiflingly hot conditions and disease runs rampant. Nearly 50% of the IDPs are children, none of whom are receiving an education, making them more susceptible to recruitment by the Taliban, some of whom are present in the camps. Beyond the camps, over 80% of the displaced persons are living in host communities or in make-shift camps, which creates a large financial burden on those commnunities. Also troubling is the bubbling ethnic tension caused by the internal migration. This issue is coming to a head as the Sindh provincial government tries to limit Pashtun from entering Sindh province. As one might expect, such a complex emergency requires extensive help from the government, the international community and NGOs. The Pakistani government is sorely lacking in both resources and capacity. And while the UN and NGOs are working overtime, financial commitments made to them have gone unfulfilled. Filling this void are Islamist organizations with ties to the Taliban and other militant groups and terrorist organizations. In addition to dealing with the current crisis, there must be a plan for Pakistan to resettle the IDPs and compensate them for their losses. Infrastructure, schools, hospitals and homes must be rebuilt and an economy revived. The sooner this happens, the faster people will resist extremist overtures and faith in their government restored.

Obviously, there are hundreds of interesting issues to research. Specifically, I researched how to strengthen a community's capacity to deal with a crisis and effectively communicate their needs to the government. I also examined policies to provide financial assistance in one form or another to IDP families, economic incentives for host family support, as well as ways to provide education and vocational training to the IDPs and incentives for families to send their children to school. Lastly, I looked into the current humanitarian activities of several Islamist charities with links to the Taliban and terrorist organizations. Of course, with only a few days to work, this research was necessarily limited in depth. But it was sufficient for our purposes, as our policy recommendations aren't intended to get into the weeds of domestic policy. The policy brief is being edited this weekend and will be sent up the ICG publishing ladder to come out as soon as possible.

In addition, I attended a conference of IDPs who discussed their situation and what they wanted the government and NGOs to provide going forward. The program was held in the Hotel Margala, a tightly secured hotel with a dilapidated exterior off-set from a major thoroughfare and near the government sports complex. I imagine the hotel is typically just used for elaborate weddings, since they had a wedding videographer make-shift office in the front lobby. The hotel's tag line is "Where dreams whisper and time sleeps." What does that mean? Regardless, the place was empty with the exception of two conferences, neither of which involved whispering dreams. The other conference was some pointless management workshop on developing one's inner-fire and true north. Okay, that wasn't it exactly, but it seemed equally pointless when compared to the gravity of the IDP conference next door. While biding my time before the conference, I had a bag of Masala flavored chips for lunch from the lobby's convenience store. They expired in 2003, I think, but weren't too bad. The conference itself was in Urdu, but they provided a translator for me and the other goras (Urdu for white folks). There were 14 Pashtun IDPs from all over Malakand District (Buner, Swat, and Dir) of differing economic background. The seven men wore traditional salwar kameez and their former jobs ranged from farm hand to school principle. The seven women were dressed with chadors or niqab (I still can't figure out the sartorial differences), some of which were quite decorative. None worked, but several discussed their recent hardships and those of their husbands. Their stories were all sobering, despite the translation. The discussion that followed was interesting, with a recurring theme of dissatisfaction with current military campaign, as well as concern over current conditions in camps and what the government should do after hostilities end. On a lighter note, the videographers that have their office in the lobby were in full force. Three of them flitted about, filming the IDPs from different angles, the NGO reps and the discussion. It was as if they were at a wedding celebration and trying to capture every sentimental moment, which was incongruous considering the situation. But I guess they come with the banquet hall. I wonder if they also filmed the management training seminar. After the conference ended, they provided a high-tea banquet of crust-less mini-sandwiches, biscuits and chocolates. I, however, didn't stay to eat. I had to get back to the office to debrief Sophie, because it's not just about the food.
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Please consider donating to help UNHCR provide emergency support for the IDPs in Pakistan.

(My next posting will be an update on my recent goings on in Islamabad. And I will keep it shorter.)

As Salaam Alaikum -- J's First Impressions

The following are my initial impressions, anecdotes and experiences of the first few days in Islamabad (Isloo).

After a two day trip that took me from DC to NY to Frankfurt to Istanbul, I finally reached Pakistan. With the end to my two days of travel in sight, I was elated. But this recognition also contained a convoluted mixture of feelings -- excitement, fear and anticipation. But these emotions were somewhat dampened by the fact that I had yet another flight 4 hours later to Islmabad, which left me feeling fairly sleepy. Karachi International may not have the elegant lounge setting or impressive upper end boutiques that Ataturk International offers, but it does have a great 1978 retro look. After passing through the Swine Flu check, which consisted of me giving them a statement stating that I did not have the Swine Flu, I headed over to passport/visa control. The woman at the desk asked me why I am visiting Pakistan. I responded: Tourism. She gave me a quizzical look, so I followed up with: It seems like an interesting place. She smirked. But other than the abundance of armed guards with automatic weapons, there was nothing to suggest that there was anything out of the ordinary going on in Pakistan.

After collecting my bag, I asked a PIA employee how to transfer to my next flight. Rather than telling/pointing me where to go, he decided to help. Maybe it was because I look bedraggled and he could see that I had traveled far, or maybe it was 3am and he had nothing better to do. Regardless, he grabbed my bag. took me to the transfer counter, went to get an official itinerary printout for me, brought my bag and led me to the actual ticket counter, and then walked me through security and to the gate. Talk about service. I waited for (read: attempted to nap before) my next flight, while morning prayers were going on at the gate next to mine. No need for the airport chaplain, I guess.

The flight to Islamabad, on a plane roughly my age, was relatively uneventful. It was a full plane. On the upside, they did serve breakfast on an hour and a half flight, so it had that and the 1970s color scheme going for it. I also had a brief chat with the software engineer that was seated to my right. He spoke about his views on Germany's aging population due to women not wanting to have children, the inappropriateness of people making out publicly in Rome near the Vatican, and how I should already be married when he found out my age (he first thought I looked 22 and that is with the beard). We did manage to chat a bit about Kashmir, the Siachen Glacier conflict, and that he liked Musharraf because the economy was better under him.

Upon arriving and after grabbing my bag, I headed out to meet my ride from the guest house. Problematically, there wasn't one. So, I hopped into a cab and directed them to my district (E7 for all you Islamabadians.) The cabbie was nice, although his English was sparse, not unlike the vegetation. The ride, other than getting used to driving on the left side of the road, was marginally less scary than in other developing countries. It helps that there is pavement and ostensible lanes. Don't get me wrong, I still felt like we were going to get into an accident. But despite the driving, I still noticed that on the surface, things seemed to be marching along normally, as if there wasn't a large military operation going on in the NWFP and 2.3 million internally displaced persons. Of course, the driver mentioned matter-of-factly that the Taliban were going to be gone in 2 or 3 months, which may be why no one seemed too concerned. Good to hear, no? But he also said that Pakistanis love the US, which based on some recent polls is a questionable assertion, undermining his credibility a bit. Then again, optimism isn't a bad thing.

From the drive into Islamabad, Pakistan seems like any other developing country. It has large amounts of architecturally hideous buildings on the outskirts of town, clothing styles from 15 years ago, laborers cleaning the streets with makeshift brooms, and the unemployed resting in the shade. But it has some eccentricities as well, particularly the elaborately painted and decorated trucks, mini-vans and buses. And, as a Muslim country, there were very few women out. Those that were, were dressed in traditional dress and some in burkas. Isloo itself also seemed a bit out of the ordinary. We pulled off the highway that seemed like it was in the middle of a park, made a turn or two and we were clearly in a city- simply one with lush greenery. And as I found out a turn later, this is my neighborhood.

E7, as I learned over the next couple days, is basically filled with Pakistani elites, high-level expats, a few embassies and large homes doubling as offices or guest houses. For example, my guest house is a couple blocks from the Crisis Group office, which sits in between some UN official's house and the embassy of a small Eastern European country. The neighborhood is quite nice, although the small ubiquitous white cars give it away as a nice neighborhood in a developing country. That and the armed security guards in front of every home, the lack of regular sidewalks and the frequent occurrence of high walls topped with sharp spikes, barbed wire or or the time-honored developing country favorite -- shards of broken glass. The security guards seem nice and typically smile back, which is somewhat surprising. I doubt I would be all smiles after standing in 100 degree weather all day long.

The guesthouse is great. In addition to the kindly guards, it has a lush front lawn that also contains the diesel generator. The generator is key, since the main power shuts off in Isloo for 3-5 hours a day. The guesthouse also offers several extras that have varying degrees of utility. The AC is very useful, as is the 24-hour inter-web access. The satellite TV, of which the 600 stations are mostly in languages other than English and consiste of mainly just phone sex ads, is less so. In addition, there are some things I just don't understand. For example, why do I have a shower curtain that is too short to block the water from escaping the shower? And what is the purpose of a mini-bar if it isn't stocked with alcohol? And why do I have an incredibly small desk, but two large sitting chairs? But more than the room or its amenities, the people that run the guesthouse are quite kind.

Yesterday, the manager came to me and said that he didn't introduce himself to me properly on Sunday since he knew that I had flown a great distance and was tired. But he wanted me to know that beyond the normal expected service, I should think of him and the rest of the staff as brothers. They know that I am staying for a while and they want me to feel at home. We then spoke about his 7 brothers and 1 sister that have been displaced due to the fighting in the Northwest Frontier Province. Another character at the guest house is the cook, who looks like a real Gen Xer circa 1986 (jeans, rock t-shirt, longish hair parted down the middle -- think brat pack.) A genuinely friendly guy who prepares breakfast made to order as long as it involves toast, Nescafe and eggs. He can also whip up some dinner on request. I took advantage of this the first couple nights, as the notion of not being within 20 feet of my bed seemed like a dangerous choice. For dinner, I can order whatever I want from the menu, but he ends up making whatever is available in the kitchen. Regardless, it tastes pretty good and it usually consists of chicken, I think. It does makes me wonder, however, why they placed a menu in the room. Anyway, that's not important right now. Point here is simply that the folks at the guesthouse are great. But other than catching up on sleep, working and eating, I've been exploring my neighborhood the past few days.

The first day here, I wandered down to the major market (Jinna) in the area, down in the F7 sector. Rather than a large supermarket, like a Wal-Mart or Carrefour, it is simply a disorganized amalgam of shops in different sizes in various buildings with separate levels that extends for several long blocks. It has fashion shops, restaurants, electronics, dry goods, bakeries, a bookstore, wedding shops, guys selling individual balloons, banks -- it's basically an outdoor mall for the upper crust and expats in Islamabad. But as it was Sunday and most of the shops were closed, I returned home. Unlike other Muslim nations, Pakistan's colonial history still dominates and they have a Western-style weekend. This history also results in an unnatural love of cricket, polo, squash and badminton. And also tea, which is forced upon me every hour by the tea guy at work. But I digress. F7 is a similarly nice neighborhood, although busier, noisier, and more crowded, as it's closer to the heart of the city's main thoroughfare (Jennah Ave) and because it doesn't have as many dead-end streets to limit traffic.

The crowd on the street on the way to and from Jinnah Market consisted entirely of men. These men wore the kameez shalwar, the traditional Pakistani clothing, like those I saw on the drive in from the airport. Many more had beards and wore skull caps than I had anticipated. But upon reflection, it makes sense, as it seems true that often times those without economic opportunity turn to religion with greater fervor. Not that any of these people were Salafist-style Talib. They were simply religious. Most were friendly, returning smiles or greetings. I returned to Jinnah Market again on Tuesday for lunch to grab some street food from a food stall -- less than a dollar for some delicious chicken paratha roll. It wasn't sanitary, but it was absolutely fantastic. We'll see if my view stays that way tomorrow.

On Tuesday afternoon, the sky was a pure blue for the first time since I arrived and so I headed over to the Faisal Mosque after work. Allegedly, it can hold over a hundred thousand worshipers at once and is one of the largest mosques in Asia It is white and architecturally modern (the minarets look like rockets), with traditional Pakistani architectural themes. It nestles into the bottom of Margala Hills, the dividing line between Punjab and NWFP and is only a 10 minute walk from my guesthouse. After stopping by, I headed home to drop off my bag and let it cool off (it was 39 degrees Celsius today).

In my attempt to continue exploring, I decided to try Kabul Restaurant -- one of the restaurants in Jinnah Market that Crisis Group's driver, Sharif, recommended. Inside and upstairs, (in the A/C cooled dining room) the walls held several large landscape paintings from Afghanistan, including one featuring the Bamiyan Buddhas, which the Taliban lamentably destroyed in 2001. Inside the restaurant were some well-to-do couples, including an Ugyhur couple, and small groups of well-off Pakistani men. None were dressed in the kameez shalwar, or even wearing long sleeves or trousers. In fact, one even wore board shorts. While my sensibilities weren't shocked, it was a bit surprising after seeing the traditional types heading off for evening prayer just moments before. I ordered blindly from the menu and ended up with Afghani Naan and some stew-like lamb dish, I think. It was tasty, but I couldn't finish it and offered my naan to the table next to me. They happily accepted and exchanged it for a skewer of barbecued meat. A fair trade, I think. One of the four guys next to me, the one with the board shorts, suggested I try a dumpling dish next time -- evidently, it contains beef, but is listed under the vegetable category on the menu for some unknown reason. I wonder how they are defining vegetable. Regardless, this meal upholds my hypothesis that when a country has an ethnic restaurant from a nearby country, it is usually pretty good. (And just to clarify, only US States on the border with Mexico count as nearby Mexico -- the Mexican Food Hypothesis Corollary.) After dinner, I meandered a bit around the still bustling Jinnah Market. It turns out that back in April, there was a terrorist attack against a Frontier Corps (the internal security units being sent to NWFP) station near the market, but it doesn't appear to have dimmed anyone's enthusaism for the place. In my wanderings I discovered a trendy clothing shop where the shirts are about 10 dollars piece, an espresso bar and a shisha lounge, but figured I can save those adventures for another day.

(I'll add pictures here after I download them to my computer.)

My next post will discuss Crisis Group, my office, coworkers and Samina, the projects I'm working on, and the IDP situation.

Blog Introduction

This blog is a first attempt at blogging for all three of the contributors. We collectively have no idea what blogging really is, means, or how to do it. We just heard that this is what the kids are into. And since we were looking for a way to improve our hipster cred, we thought this was the best option. So, for our first go at it, we decided to try it from locations with spotty internet, electricity outages and domestic stability issues. Seems like a great recipe for success.

But what does this all mean for me, you ask. Good question. Basically, this is the disclaimer. We're giving the whole blogging thing a try, but the results are far from certain.

Also, you may comment on postings. But please note that our parents, other family members and your future employer may read it.