Two days after the Akikah, we were ready to throw my motherinlaw her Hajj party. One of the five pillars of Islam is to make pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca. She had completed her Hajj in November 2009. We decided that since the majority of her family was here in Pakistan, we should invite the masses to a dinner in her honour.
Her party was held at a upscale restaurant called Salt and Pepper, The Village. Apparently when Princess Diana had visited Lahore, she dined at this very restaurant. I videotaped pictures of her visit in the lobby while we waited for the family to arrive. The restaurant was buffet-styled and many modern families were already feasting on the delicacies. Before we entered, a gunman spot checked the men in our group while I got a picture taken with the doorman. He was dressed in a traditional 'village' outfit. He passed me his dunda (stick) and insisted I hold it in the picture. The gunmen put down his rife and offered to take the picture. I looked over in horror as his gun lay in the open, on the curb of the entrance, allowing anyone, at anytime, to pick it up while he took our picture. People talk about security in Lahore. What security? It's all for show.
As the gunmen struggled with the shutter button on the camera, I imagined him having the same problem finding the trigger on his gun, if confronted with a real-life ambush on our party. A dream sequence suddenly flashed into my head, of me, a supposedly naive girl from Canada, encountering armed bandits in front of the restaurant, instinctively picking up the gun and firing at everything that moved. My husband nudged me violently. I suddenly realized, in my heat-induced trance, that the 'shot' had been taken and our doorman was waiting for his money.
We waited a full two hours for our guests to completely arrive. As the hosts, we refused to eat until all guests arrived. Everytime a family member walked by with a plate of hot food, my tummy grumbled. No one gains weight in Pakistan, I reasoned. It was all organic food. Its that processed crap we eat in Canada that packs on the pounds. Ok, I justified my meals. If I was going to be slaughtered that night, it would be better on a full stomach. Yes, you think I joke about my existence but everyday I mentally prepared myself for the worse - albeit with a positive spin. Whatever came my way, I would handle it. I never told anyone what I was thinking so it was that internal court scene all over again.
The Dubai cousin approached me during dinner and said there was a diamond shop across the street from the restaurant, owned by his friend. The main market boasted many high end shops and the street was an up and coming strip that was like Boardwalk on a Monopoly game. I looked at him incredulously. "You want me to go out at 9pm, cross the street with you where no one obeys traffic laws, leave behind my family, with my purse full of gift money to buy some diamonds?"
He shrugged, not understanding my sarcasm. "He give good deal. What people didn't like diamonds?" he said with his broken English. I looked down at my gulaab jamen (dough balls in syrup) and back at him. "I'd rather eat these balls than be lying at my own funeral with diamonds around my neck." Trust me, the Urdu version of this sentence sounded more classy.
Remember, it was 9pm at night but he laughed, put on his sunglasses and stared at my dessert. I knew he thought I was joking while he stood next to me for a few seconds, wondering if I was ever going to leave the restaurant with him.
Mmmmm, the Gulaab jamen never tasted so good...the jury was definately out for this one!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Pakistan - Day 15 Cont'd: Is that you, Cinderelli?
As I sat trying not to think about the Buckaa and Buckoo kabobs I had just eaten, I was mesmorized by the girl in black, dancing in the middle of the floor. Her cohorts were off to a corner, smiling and giving her moral support. In the past, it was not uncommon to invite dancers to a function to help with the celebrations. My cousin's son, who was the guest of honour, was oblivious to the festivities and was chasing his sister nearby. At 18 months, he would not even remember his Akikah!
I picked up the camera to zoom. That's when I realized why the cousins were laughing and the men's section were not amused. The dancers were in fact...MEN!! My camera lens picked up the clean shaven, foundation lathered face of a man!
Squeeze me? Then I remembered the transvestites in the streets. A common but frowned upon practice was to hire men to dance as women because dancing was deemed as a prohibbited act only practiced by prostitutes. No girl in her right mind would dance in front of men or suffer the probably chance of ruining her reputation. I remember growing up and my father sternly admonishing me if I got up at any gathering to dance before I was married. At the party, we all knew that these girls (men) were solely here to dance for money.
Now the rumour was that our UK cousin's father was livid over their bold appearance. My motherinlaw's sister exercised poor judgement by inviting them. The story goes that when she got ill, they would frequent her house. Word got out in the street that this aunt was left bedridden and the girls would come over to cheer her up. So as a treat to her nephew, she invited them to show off their womanly wiles, so to speak!
I wasn't that shocked by their dance as I had experienced this scene once before back in 1989 but I forgot that my girls were privvy to this sight. I waved over at them and motioned to close their mouths. They giggled and whispered into each other's ear. My NFC cousin walked over to me with a sly smile and asked if I got the whole thing on tape. Yes, I couldn't resist. I think the camera shook often because I couldn't stop laughing. The dancer's girlfriends were clapping and batting their eyes the whole time and I wasn't sure who to focus on. Afterwards, the dancers helped themselves to dinner, FOUR TIMES. My girls counted how many times they went to the buffet and became angered. "They may dance like girls but they eat like men!" said my younger twin. She wanted to eat the ice cream but my doctor had warned to stay away from dairy. I refused but she insisted so I relented and let her indulge. It was only 15 minutes later when she claimed that she felt queasy. Not the right time to expose the kabob story.
The party ended at 10:30pm, past the curfew. The hall owner had allowed us to stay open (I am sure he was bribed) and while everyone was filing out, I stood under a ceiling fan to cool off. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the three dancers stand up, and walk very haughtily past our group. As they came near the fan, the tallest, more manly looking 'girl' gave me a sidelong glance and then ...a wink! Note to self: whenever you carry a camera, someone in Pakistan will give you a show.
It was time for Cinderalla to go home. The spell had worn off way before midnight...
I picked up the camera to zoom. That's when I realized why the cousins were laughing and the men's section were not amused. The dancers were in fact...MEN!! My camera lens picked up the clean shaven, foundation lathered face of a man!
Squeeze me? Then I remembered the transvestites in the streets. A common but frowned upon practice was to hire men to dance as women because dancing was deemed as a prohibbited act only practiced by prostitutes. No girl in her right mind would dance in front of men or suffer the probably chance of ruining her reputation. I remember growing up and my father sternly admonishing me if I got up at any gathering to dance before I was married. At the party, we all knew that these girls (men) were solely here to dance for money.
Now the rumour was that our UK cousin's father was livid over their bold appearance. My motherinlaw's sister exercised poor judgement by inviting them. The story goes that when she got ill, they would frequent her house. Word got out in the street that this aunt was left bedridden and the girls would come over to cheer her up. So as a treat to her nephew, she invited them to show off their womanly wiles, so to speak!
I wasn't that shocked by their dance as I had experienced this scene once before back in 1989 but I forgot that my girls were privvy to this sight. I waved over at them and motioned to close their mouths. They giggled and whispered into each other's ear. My NFC cousin walked over to me with a sly smile and asked if I got the whole thing on tape. Yes, I couldn't resist. I think the camera shook often because I couldn't stop laughing. The dancer's girlfriends were clapping and batting their eyes the whole time and I wasn't sure who to focus on. Afterwards, the dancers helped themselves to dinner, FOUR TIMES. My girls counted how many times they went to the buffet and became angered. "They may dance like girls but they eat like men!" said my younger twin. She wanted to eat the ice cream but my doctor had warned to stay away from dairy. I refused but she insisted so I relented and let her indulge. It was only 15 minutes later when she claimed that she felt queasy. Not the right time to expose the kabob story.
The party ended at 10:30pm, past the curfew. The hall owner had allowed us to stay open (I am sure he was bribed) and while everyone was filing out, I stood under a ceiling fan to cool off. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the three dancers stand up, and walk very haughtily past our group. As they came near the fan, the tallest, more manly looking 'girl' gave me a sidelong glance and then ...a wink! Note to self: whenever you carry a camera, someone in Pakistan will give you a show.
It was time for Cinderalla to go home. The spell had worn off way before midnight...
Monday, August 30, 2010
Pakistan - Day 15: Cinderella's Ball
Ok, to be selfish, I needed a party to liven up my spirits. Do you blame me? The shopping therapy helped but it was not done during the best of times. So, I needed a party to calm my nerves. I was born to pessimistic parents but I had taught myself to look at life in a positive way, no matter the circumstances, no matter what God threw my way. And let me tell you, He was watching over me the whole time. And the party was no exception.
We woke up on the Akikah day around 11am. The eletricity had just come back on so we ate breakfast in relative luxury but knew we had to wait at least until 5pm to get ready for the party because the 2-4pm loadshedding would render us sweaty all over again.
Our aunt had brought over her 17 year old servant to wash and iron all our clothes. I had a hard time getting used to the fact that a girl, who was about the same age as my eldest, had to wash and iron clothes for 15 people in the house. It broke my heart to watch her get up early in the morning, prepare breakfast with the cook, and then commence to wash, starch and iron our clothes BY HAND everyday. Again, my girls pulled me into the bedroom, closed the door and advocated for her release. "But Mom, she is only a little girl. Why is she doing this all our work?" I looked at them incredulously and asked flat out whether they would do it themselves? Of course not! The machine washed their clothes and mommmy dearest ironed their clothing back home. I explained to them that she was paid for her services and this was her way to earn a living for herself and her family.
Needless to say, I gave her more than her share and so did my motherinlaw. I would slip her money here and there and she would shake her head and refuse my offerings. This got to me even more. And what was worse was the fact that she would sleep in the same bedroom with my aunt and motherinlaw but on the carpeted floor. I walked in one day and gave my two cents to them both. My aunt explained that the hired help did not sleep on the beds (and there was no room for her to sleep on the bed anyways). My eldest daughter stood in the doorway listening, extremely quiet. We exchanged looks briefly and I knew what she was thinking. When I came out, I took her hand and gently said, "Ruby (the servant) would change places with you in a second. Never forget what you have today or take it for granted." She looked at me knowingly, unable to utter a single word.
Ruby ironed all our clothes for the party. I took out an outfit that belonged to one of the twins, who had only worn it once. I gave it to Ruby and asked her to wear it that night to the party. Her eyes welled up with tears and she thanked me profusely. I went back to my closet and dug out a relatively new pair of gold sandals and asked her to try them on. They fit perfectly and I announced that Cinderella was going to the ball tonite. Of course, she had no clue what I was talking about but my girls hugged her and she laughed anyways.
The hall where the party was being held was 10 minutes from the house. I refused to pile over five people in the car, given the fact that we were all dressed to the nines wearing spiky jewellery. I suggested we take three trips to transport the family. The girls were dressed in their favorite outfits and we had hired a hairdresser to come to the house and get the youngsters ready. It was really like we were going to the ball. Now I don't know about you but going to the ball with gunmen posted outside the doors was not my cup of Pakistani tea!
Squeeze me? We arrived at the hall and two gunmen opened the doors of the car and shuffled us into the hall. The girls eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets as they looked over their shoulders at me. Did I mention that Cinderella could be a target if she attended the ball? Yes, since we were going to an expensive lavish hall that required a lot of rupees to rent, gunmen were hired to protect us in case we were robbed. LOVELY! Could the party get any stranger? I was hoping to have a nice evening out, protected by my gunmen with no disruptions. Was I asking for too much?
The time given for the party was 7pm. Add two hours and we were hunkering down for dinner at 9pm. Because of a new curfew in effect, Lahore halls were forced to shut down by 10pm. I asked why and was told in case there was a bomb threat or robbery. I smiled and almost choked on my samosa. The girls piled their plates with kabobs and scarfed down their food as they had not eaten since 4pm. The budding vet twin walked over to comment on the food. "Mom, are these kabobs chicken? They are amazing. I think I ate around four of them!" she exclaimed as the juice dripped off her chin and onto her outfit. I rolled my eyes and looked at my aunt. She walked over and nudged me, quite indiscreetly. "I don't know how to tell you this but the kabobs are not chicken." She walked away with a swagger and a huge grin on her face.
I sat down and it took a few minutes to register. I was more entranced with the three girls who showed up, dressed all in black, with thick, long black hair and overdone makeup. Then it dawned on me. The kabobs were not chicken, the kabobs were not chicken.... HOLY BUCKAA AND BUCKOO. I looked over at all the girls. They had finished dinner and were also staring at the three new arrivals. I racked my brain on how I was going to explain this to them but the scene unfolding before me didn't allow me to concoct a new story. It would have to be left for another day. But here is a pic for old times sake!
The music started and one of the girls in black got up and started to seductively dance. I looked over at my husband who was standing with his cousins. He, along with some of the older men, averted their gazes while the younger generation of boys and girls were laughing. It was until I took a closer look, I realized why this picture did not look right!
Pakistan - Day 14: Buckaa and Buckoo go to goat heaven
I awoke the next morning to loud braying. I took two pillows and covered my ears. And then instinctly, I got up and covered the ears of one twin with another pillow. I didn't want her drama in the morning but she was out like a light. No clue where the other two were. I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the goats. Curiosity got the better of me. I opened the balcony doors and stepped out. As I looked down, I could see the side of the carpark. The local butcher, with a machete around his back and a belt full of carving knives, was leading each goat to the side. I looked over to the right and saw a scattering of small black pellets all over the front of the carpark. Great. The goats were literally sh*tt*ng themselves. I turned back and looked down. The butcher was looking straight up at me. I realized then that I did not have my head covered nor was I properly attired to be in public! I quickly took two steps back and hid behind the curtain.
The execution was about to take place. I grabbed a chador(large shawl) and with grotesque excitement, was ready to watch my first sacrifice. No one stirred inside the bedroom. I threw the chador over my head and around my body and bravely stepped out on the balcony again. Neighborhood cats were standing near the gate to the carpark. I imagined in animal world that the word was put out that Buckaa and Buckoo were about to meet their Maker. The butcher tied them both to a post and carefully took his machete out of its case. He looked up again. Great, he knew he had an audience. I wondered if he would put on a show like the neighbour did when my daughter was videotaping. Instinctively I stepped back again and then came back like it was some peep show. Now I will be the first to admit that I did not have the stomach to watch but somehow I was intrigued to see the Islamically humane practice of sacrifice. With the words of God invoked, the butcher took his knife and sliced into the jugular vein of, hmm...not sure if it was Buckaa or Buckoo. This practice allows the least amount of pain to the animal and immediately cuts off the supply of blood to the vital organs. The goat was incredibly quiet before and after the knife went in. I, on the other hand, let out a huge gasp. The butcher looked up, smiled and asked if he did a good job. I pulled the chador around my mouth and nose and quickly stepped back into the bedroom without replying. Ok, I realized I could not watch the whole thing.
I washed up and went downstairs. As I passed a window on the staircase, I saw the emptied carcass of one goat, with the head balancing precariously near the wall. I was about to puke. As I rounded the kitchen, the cook asked me if I wanted liver for breakfast!
Squeeze me?? I exclaimed to her, "Did you see what is going on outside?!" She smiled and replied, "Yes, and the goat's liver is for breakfast." She laughed and then went back into the kitchen. Again, and I don't know why, I returned back to the window and saw remnants of limbs, meat, and intestines spewn across a sheet on the carpark. Thank God the girls were still sleeping. But it was only an hour later when I heard my budding veternarian crying upstairs. She had seen the blood flowing down the carpark and realized then that the deed had been done.
Again, as the master storyteller, I lied and told them that all the meat was going to the poor. All the cousins had gathered around me in the foyer between the bedrooms. They looked like an angry mob. I ignored them and turned to my daughter asking her how could she be a vet if she couldn't see the sight of blood?
Little did they know that they would encounter Buckaa and Buckoo tomorrow, but in a completely different form...
The execution was about to take place. I grabbed a chador(large shawl) and with grotesque excitement, was ready to watch my first sacrifice. No one stirred inside the bedroom. I threw the chador over my head and around my body and bravely stepped out on the balcony again. Neighborhood cats were standing near the gate to the carpark. I imagined in animal world that the word was put out that Buckaa and Buckoo were about to meet their Maker. The butcher tied them both to a post and carefully took his machete out of its case. He looked up again. Great, he knew he had an audience. I wondered if he would put on a show like the neighbour did when my daughter was videotaping. Instinctively I stepped back again and then came back like it was some peep show. Now I will be the first to admit that I did not have the stomach to watch but somehow I was intrigued to see the Islamically humane practice of sacrifice. With the words of God invoked, the butcher took his knife and sliced into the jugular vein of, hmm...not sure if it was Buckaa or Buckoo. This practice allows the least amount of pain to the animal and immediately cuts off the supply of blood to the vital organs. The goat was incredibly quiet before and after the knife went in. I, on the other hand, let out a huge gasp. The butcher looked up, smiled and asked if he did a good job. I pulled the chador around my mouth and nose and quickly stepped back into the bedroom without replying. Ok, I realized I could not watch the whole thing.
I washed up and went downstairs. As I passed a window on the staircase, I saw the emptied carcass of one goat, with the head balancing precariously near the wall. I was about to puke. As I rounded the kitchen, the cook asked me if I wanted liver for breakfast!
Squeeze me?? I exclaimed to her, "Did you see what is going on outside?!" She smiled and replied, "Yes, and the goat's liver is for breakfast." She laughed and then went back into the kitchen. Again, and I don't know why, I returned back to the window and saw remnants of limbs, meat, and intestines spewn across a sheet on the carpark. Thank God the girls were still sleeping. But it was only an hour later when I heard my budding veternarian crying upstairs. She had seen the blood flowing down the carpark and realized then that the deed had been done.
Again, as the master storyteller, I lied and told them that all the meat was going to the poor. All the cousins had gathered around me in the foyer between the bedrooms. They looked like an angry mob. I ignored them and turned to my daughter asking her how could she be a vet if she couldn't see the sight of blood?
Little did they know that they would encounter Buckaa and Buckoo tomorrow, but in a completely different form...
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Pakistan - Day 13: Bucka and Buckoo know better
Buckaa and Buckoo were the names of the two goats the children came up with. The younger ones had no clue why they were here. The older ones knew better. They were tied up to the poles in the carpark, braying like there was no tomorrow. And ironically, there was not going to be a tomorrow. We took turns taking pictures with them and they looked wildly into the camera, their eyes glowing in the dark.
My girls came up to me later that night to ask the inevitable question: were the goats to be sacrified? I looked at the girls and kept quiet. The twin, whose aspiration was to become a vet, looked at me angrily. "Buckaa and Buckoo deserve better!" She stomped upstairs with her younger UK cousin copying her body language. They were not happy campers. My eldest daughter laughed and asked about the menu for the akikah. A la carte Buckaroos? Even I wasn't laughing. Our meat came packaged and cello wrapped in Canada. Meeting the livestock beforehand was not part of our protocol. I went to the front door to do my last video of the goats. They looked at me with fear in their eyes. "I know," I said out loud. "Who are you talking to?" my aunt asked. "To Buckaa and Buckoo", I sighed.
I acknowledged their names. Not good...
My girls came up to me later that night to ask the inevitable question: were the goats to be sacrified? I looked at the girls and kept quiet. The twin, whose aspiration was to become a vet, looked at me angrily. "Buckaa and Buckoo deserve better!" She stomped upstairs with her younger UK cousin copying her body language. They were not happy campers. My eldest daughter laughed and asked about the menu for the akikah. A la carte Buckaroos? Even I wasn't laughing. Our meat came packaged and cello wrapped in Canada. Meeting the livestock beforehand was not part of our protocol. I went to the front door to do my last video of the goats. They looked at me with fear in their eyes. "I know," I said out loud. "Who are you talking to?" my aunt asked. "To Buckaa and Buckoo", I sighed.
I acknowledged their names. Not good...
Pakistan - Day 12
After a day of shopping, we rested and sat around at home. The girls had gotten closer to their UK cousins and I knew at least they were being entertained.
Today we had to arrange the party. My mother in law had completed her pilgramage to Mecca back in Nov 09 and we wanted to celebrate this with both sides of the family. To organize such an event needed only two days notice in Pakistan.
Squeeze me? Yes, you heard right. Two days! We netted out that there would be 61 guests from both my husband's mother and father's side. We just needed to check out a few restaurants to do the party. Hubby went with his uncle and cousins to scour Lahore for the best location. They left at 2pm and I waited. And waited. Around 6pm, my imagination went wild concocting stories of their lateness. I stopped watching television because it was so depressing. The floods were still rampant and I had just heard that a domestic flight from Karachi to Islamabad had crashed because of inclement weather. All 160 people had died. They showed footage of the carnage which I conveniently switched off when the girls came downstairs to eat mangoes.
Oh, btw, one of the upsides of our trip was the food. It was the season for mangoes and I averaged 2 a day. They were amazing. We tried to eat mostly at home as I would not be able to ascertain the handling of food from bazaars off the street. Bottled water was delivered daily and then boiled before being placed in a large cooler for us to drink. And with the loadshedding, we were drinking more than eight glasses a day.
But I digress. The gang came back at 7pm with the announcement that in four days, the party would be held at a restaurant named Salt and Pepper, The Village situated five minutes from Gulberg main market. My head was spinning with minor details, like how everyone would show up given four days short notice. But it was a week day and if you invited people to eat dinner on you, trust me, they would come in droves! The Village was buffet style with an assortment of Pakistani, Chinese and Western cuisine. But again I digress. The first party to take place was to celebrate for our UK cousin's son. When a son or daughter is born, it is Islamic tradition to sacrifice a goat and serve half to your dinner guests and the rest as meals for charity. We call this party an "Akikah". For a boy, two goats are sacrificed. Enter Buckoo and Buckaa, the two goats who turned up at the doorstep when the gang returned. The akikah was to happen in two days.
The braying said it all...
Today we had to arrange the party. My mother in law had completed her pilgramage to Mecca back in Nov 09 and we wanted to celebrate this with both sides of the family. To organize such an event needed only two days notice in Pakistan.
Squeeze me? Yes, you heard right. Two days! We netted out that there would be 61 guests from both my husband's mother and father's side. We just needed to check out a few restaurants to do the party. Hubby went with his uncle and cousins to scour Lahore for the best location. They left at 2pm and I waited. And waited. Around 6pm, my imagination went wild concocting stories of their lateness. I stopped watching television because it was so depressing. The floods were still rampant and I had just heard that a domestic flight from Karachi to Islamabad had crashed because of inclement weather. All 160 people had died. They showed footage of the carnage which I conveniently switched off when the girls came downstairs to eat mangoes.
Oh, btw, one of the upsides of our trip was the food. It was the season for mangoes and I averaged 2 a day. They were amazing. We tried to eat mostly at home as I would not be able to ascertain the handling of food from bazaars off the street. Bottled water was delivered daily and then boiled before being placed in a large cooler for us to drink. And with the loadshedding, we were drinking more than eight glasses a day.
But I digress. The gang came back at 7pm with the announcement that in four days, the party would be held at a restaurant named Salt and Pepper, The Village situated five minutes from Gulberg main market. My head was spinning with minor details, like how everyone would show up given four days short notice. But it was a week day and if you invited people to eat dinner on you, trust me, they would come in droves! The Village was buffet style with an assortment of Pakistani, Chinese and Western cuisine. But again I digress. The first party to take place was to celebrate for our UK cousin's son. When a son or daughter is born, it is Islamic tradition to sacrifice a goat and serve half to your dinner guests and the rest as meals for charity. We call this party an "Akikah". For a boy, two goats are sacrificed. Enter Buckoo and Buckaa, the two goats who turned up at the doorstep when the gang returned. The akikah was to happen in two days.
The braying said it all...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Pakistan - Day 10
We returned to Gulberg main market on Monday. The girls were rejuvenated and realized that the whole country was not like the congestion they felt at our "headquarters".
My older daughter was even willing to go with me and her cousins to the main market shopping area, ironically named Liberty. It was time to go clothes shopping. I had arranged months before our arrival to have our summer clothes stitched and ready for our arrival in July. My girls and I had no cotton outfits to wear in the heat. So, 80% of the shoppping was complete. But I knew I would have to venture out myself to buy the gifts and rest of the items I needed. We all packed into the Corolla - this time nine people. We were all sweaty and mashed up but tell eight women that they were going shopping and NOTHING would put a damper on our plans.
I was amazed at all the shops. Most of them in Liberty were high end. Our aunt and cousins knew exactly what we needed and where to navigate. They had a radar for these things. Screw GPS. I was shown so much variety that it left my head spinning. Again, the prices were phenomenal. Each trip to the market left my wallet screaming for a refill. I never carried a purse and strategically hid my wallet under a shawl near my chest. I also carried a pouch within my waistband.
Squeeze me? Yes. I dubbed it my "Plan B pouch". Before I left for the market, my husband caught me pinning the pouch, full of cash, inside my pants.
"I don't want to know" he exclaimed as he headed to the washroom to take his fourth shower of the day. I didn't care. I had to have a backup plan. If my wallet was stolen, at least the bulk of my assets were close to my other assets ;)
We completed the bulk of our shopping in two hours. It was like clock work. I would tell my aunt what I needed, she would direct me into the shop, I would select my items and she would do the bargaining. I could never imagine that she could save me more money with things already so cheap but she executed on this great service for me like it was second nature. By the time eight women returned from shopping, we had 20 bags amongst us. We had to make separate trips to the car to pack them in the trunk so not to direct any attention. Too many bags meant too much money. And despite our many tactics, I was still wary, looking over my shoulder and watching my surroundings for anything suspicious. But with so many people and cars in the street, you would never know what to look for anyways.
When we came home, I packed all my shopping in the suitcases. When we first arrived, I was instructed to empty out our suitcases and hang the clothes in the closet. For some reason, I could not bring myself to do this. Instead, we lived out of the suitcases. There were four of them lined up around the wall. Our UK cousins would walk in and ask why I hadn't put them away. I would make some lame excuse. But deep down inside, it was in case I needed to make a quick getaway. And to leave the suitcases open, kept my sanity in check...
My older daughter was even willing to go with me and her cousins to the main market shopping area, ironically named Liberty. It was time to go clothes shopping. I had arranged months before our arrival to have our summer clothes stitched and ready for our arrival in July. My girls and I had no cotton outfits to wear in the heat. So, 80% of the shoppping was complete. But I knew I would have to venture out myself to buy the gifts and rest of the items I needed. We all packed into the Corolla - this time nine people. We were all sweaty and mashed up but tell eight women that they were going shopping and NOTHING would put a damper on our plans.
I was amazed at all the shops. Most of them in Liberty were high end. Our aunt and cousins knew exactly what we needed and where to navigate. They had a radar for these things. Screw GPS. I was shown so much variety that it left my head spinning. Again, the prices were phenomenal. Each trip to the market left my wallet screaming for a refill. I never carried a purse and strategically hid my wallet under a shawl near my chest. I also carried a pouch within my waistband.
Squeeze me? Yes. I dubbed it my "Plan B pouch". Before I left for the market, my husband caught me pinning the pouch, full of cash, inside my pants.
"I don't want to know" he exclaimed as he headed to the washroom to take his fourth shower of the day. I didn't care. I had to have a backup plan. If my wallet was stolen, at least the bulk of my assets were close to my other assets ;)
We completed the bulk of our shopping in two hours. It was like clock work. I would tell my aunt what I needed, she would direct me into the shop, I would select my items and she would do the bargaining. I could never imagine that she could save me more money with things already so cheap but she executed on this great service for me like it was second nature. By the time eight women returned from shopping, we had 20 bags amongst us. We had to make separate trips to the car to pack them in the trunk so not to direct any attention. Too many bags meant too much money. And despite our many tactics, I was still wary, looking over my shoulder and watching my surroundings for anything suspicious. But with so many people and cars in the street, you would never know what to look for anyways.
When we came home, I packed all my shopping in the suitcases. When we first arrived, I was instructed to empty out our suitcases and hang the clothes in the closet. For some reason, I could not bring myself to do this. Instead, we lived out of the suitcases. There were four of them lined up around the wall. Our UK cousins would walk in and ask why I hadn't put them away. I would make some lame excuse. But deep down inside, it was in case I needed to make a quick getaway. And to leave the suitcases open, kept my sanity in check...
Pakistan - Day 8
Everyone knows in Canada, or at least the Pakistani-Canadians, that one advantage of travelling to Pakistan is the shopping. Our cousin, promised me Saturday night that he would wake up early to take me shopping. My husband had no urge to leave the house nor spend money. Typical. But I had saved up for this moment. A part of me was nervous because no matter how safe someone told me a location was, I would not believe it. I was told to come visit Pakistan because everything was safe! I realized after my arrival, it was only a ruse to get us to come. After 17 years, I knew my relatives would be sorely disappointed if I elected not to come if they told me the truth. It was selfish on their part but selfish for me too. We all had inner motives to see one another but at the end of the day, the experience, good or bad, would be etched in our memory forever.
I woke up, showered, ate breakfast and waited for our cousin in the family room at 10am. He said he would be ready by then to drive me into town. 10am came and went. 11am came and went. I looked from the television to the clock. It was now 1pm. Now in Pakistan, when someone gives you a time, don't take their word for it. Just add about three hours to get the RIGHT time. The same goes for Pakistanis living in Canada. If you tell them to come at 6pm, they will ring your doorbell at 8pm. Some things never change.
He awoke and we were out the door by 2:30pm. I took all three girls because our first item on the agenda was shoe shopping. As we walked into the BATA shoe store, the place was nearly empty. He explained that many did not shop in the middle of the day when the heat was at its worst. Good. I had the shop to myself. Two hours and fifteen pairs of shoes later, we walked out and hit a jewellery store. The girls selected artificial earrings, bracelets and necklaces. Each time they selected something of their choice, they looked at me. I would nod and they would smile sheepishly. With items costing less than $5 (that would normally cost $50 in Canada) I did not attempt to deter their shopping. I still felt guilty. The vacation I promised to them was more than they could handle. It started out as a trip for them to rediscover their roots, their culture, relatives and heritage. Instead, it was a trip that opened up their eyes to things that they never imagined and brought fear into their hearts.
But here we were, in the thick of things and we had to grin and bear it for two more weeks. I needed the girls to debrief and have some fun. Every trip we made shopping (and there were only a few) I took from the country but gave back. I would normally spend an equivalent of $50 giving money to the poor despite our cousin's protests. At one point, I wondered if he rather me give him the money. $50 amounted to 5000 rupees -- consider that like $5000 to the natives.
So the excel spreadsheet the hubby created for me before we left for Pakistan, mysteriously went missing. Budget? Squeeze me? What budget?
If I was going to get out of this country alive, I better pump some money into their lagging economy and damn well look good leaving!
I woke up, showered, ate breakfast and waited for our cousin in the family room at 10am. He said he would be ready by then to drive me into town. 10am came and went. 11am came and went. I looked from the television to the clock. It was now 1pm. Now in Pakistan, when someone gives you a time, don't take their word for it. Just add about three hours to get the RIGHT time. The same goes for Pakistanis living in Canada. If you tell them to come at 6pm, they will ring your doorbell at 8pm. Some things never change.
He awoke and we were out the door by 2:30pm. I took all three girls because our first item on the agenda was shoe shopping. As we walked into the BATA shoe store, the place was nearly empty. He explained that many did not shop in the middle of the day when the heat was at its worst. Good. I had the shop to myself. Two hours and fifteen pairs of shoes later, we walked out and hit a jewellery store. The girls selected artificial earrings, bracelets and necklaces. Each time they selected something of their choice, they looked at me. I would nod and they would smile sheepishly. With items costing less than $5 (that would normally cost $50 in Canada) I did not attempt to deter their shopping. I still felt guilty. The vacation I promised to them was more than they could handle. It started out as a trip for them to rediscover their roots, their culture, relatives and heritage. Instead, it was a trip that opened up their eyes to things that they never imagined and brought fear into their hearts.
But here we were, in the thick of things and we had to grin and bear it for two more weeks. I needed the girls to debrief and have some fun. Every trip we made shopping (and there were only a few) I took from the country but gave back. I would normally spend an equivalent of $50 giving money to the poor despite our cousin's protests. At one point, I wondered if he rather me give him the money. $50 amounted to 5000 rupees -- consider that like $5000 to the natives.
So the excel spreadsheet the hubby created for me before we left for Pakistan, mysteriously went missing. Budget? Squeeze me? What budget?
If I was going to get out of this country alive, I better pump some money into their lagging economy and damn well look good leaving!
Pakistan - Day 7 Evening in NFC
The minute we entered the Wapta town district that housed the new development of NFC, I could see why our uncle had moved his family there. Even the girls had shifted in the back seats of the Corolla to press their noses against the window.
The area was less congested and more 'north american' looking. As soon as we entered the neighborhood, we encountered cleaner streets, less traffic, more greenery and something, I hate to point out, civilization. I immediately sensed a change in the girls demeanor. I could have sworn I heard one twin turn to the other and say, "Finally..."
The house was beautiful. And modern. And clean. And something that made the girls more homesick - but in a good way. As we drove into the carpark, the girls practically lept out of the car. It was like entering a safe haven apart from the crime, dirt, pollution, congestion and corruption of the outer world that existed outside of Wapta town. Our uncle informed us that it was safer here to walk outside the neighborhood and that loadshedding only happened once a day for half an hour. I turned to my husband and gave him the "I will stay here for the rest of my trip" look. He nodded back in agreement.
We all sat down in their luxurious living room. It was about 8pm by that time and his dutiful children brought tray after tray of samosas, cake, chicken patties and an assortment of pastries. I looked over at the girls who were smiling from ear to ear. Jackpot. It was the first time I saw peace in their eyes. To make them feel even more at home, our uncle decided to get pizza delivered to the house for dinner. For me, it was just like we were back home. And that night, in the spacious master bedroom in full air conditioning, with the electricity ON the entire night and full day on Sunday, I slept an entire night.
Now I know what you are thinking. I just came from a car ride, viewing the poverty in the country to a upper middle class neighborhood with all the enemities. But knowing what we were used to back in Canada only heightened our sense of what we took for granted on a day to day basis. The lesson was being learned very quickly by all of us. But like all women, I needed some retail therapy after a stressful week in the main market.
Sunday was the day the stores would not forget my face!
The area was less congested and more 'north american' looking. As soon as we entered the neighborhood, we encountered cleaner streets, less traffic, more greenery and something, I hate to point out, civilization. I immediately sensed a change in the girls demeanor. I could have sworn I heard one twin turn to the other and say, "Finally..."
The house was beautiful. And modern. And clean. And something that made the girls more homesick - but in a good way. As we drove into the carpark, the girls practically lept out of the car. It was like entering a safe haven apart from the crime, dirt, pollution, congestion and corruption of the outer world that existed outside of Wapta town. Our uncle informed us that it was safer here to walk outside the neighborhood and that loadshedding only happened once a day for half an hour. I turned to my husband and gave him the "I will stay here for the rest of my trip" look. He nodded back in agreement.
We all sat down in their luxurious living room. It was about 8pm by that time and his dutiful children brought tray after tray of samosas, cake, chicken patties and an assortment of pastries. I looked over at the girls who were smiling from ear to ear. Jackpot. It was the first time I saw peace in their eyes. To make them feel even more at home, our uncle decided to get pizza delivered to the house for dinner. For me, it was just like we were back home. And that night, in the spacious master bedroom in full air conditioning, with the electricity ON the entire night and full day on Sunday, I slept an entire night.
Now I know what you are thinking. I just came from a car ride, viewing the poverty in the country to a upper middle class neighborhood with all the enemities. But knowing what we were used to back in Canada only heightened our sense of what we took for granted on a day to day basis. The lesson was being learned very quickly by all of us. But like all women, I needed some retail therapy after a stressful week in the main market.
Sunday was the day the stores would not forget my face!
Monday, August 23, 2010
Pakistan - Cont'd Day 7: Sights You Never Forget
To travel to NFC, seven of us piled into a five seater Toyota Corolla. One twin on hubby's lap and the other on mine. As we passed people on the streets, we saw the strangest sights. Our back windows were equipped with mesh so we could look out but outsiders could not look in. It was a good thing because the look on our children's faces would single us out.
Sights You Never Forget
-Monkeys being pulled on a leash, wearing sunglasses and a skirt, doing tricks so their owner could make money
-Women with malnourished babies crying and banging on our car window
-A family of eight piled on a motorbike with a five month old on the handlebars winding throughout traffic
-Transvestites begging for money with their makeup running down their faces in the heat of the day
-Men walking down the street, holding each other by their pinky finger
...these were just a few examples that caused awe and mixed emotions within the girls.
At one point, they would shut down and remain speechless. The environment was overwhelming. But despite the shock factor, we had the urge to give money whenever we deemed it necessary. We learned to pull down the window only a crack to pass small bills to the needy. The caveat was that if you opened your entire window or door, you risked having your purse stolen or robbed at gunpoint. All our relatives advised us not to give anything because street begging was an organized business.
Squeeze me? Yes, rich business men would cripple the poor and send them to the streets to make money and take a portion for their profits. We saw many maimed people from old men, to small children. Knowing that if we gave to one they would all come in hoards did not stop us. I could not drive past them, especially the women with small children. A part of me refused to believe the story and I went with my gut and good intentions. We asked about charitable organizations and did see some lineups outside reputable businesses where the owners would give out meals to the poor. Our 10 suitcases were filled with old clothing and shoes on our arrival and we consulted relatives where to donate it all. One revelation that perturbed me the most was that the majority of the aid sent to Pakistan during the earthquake was never received. The tents and warm clothing were diverted and sold on the black market.
It was no wonder that the rich became richer during that time period. Figures. Corruption had always been at the core of all levels of government since I had visited in the late 80s. My relatives complained about it then and even more now. We passed by Modeltown, a suburb where many of the govt ministers and officials owned property. And damn, was their property a sight to see. Thousands of square feet, lush gardens, high walls and luxury cars in the car park, all guarded by the local police and gunmen. It burned my blood driving by the deputy, minister and government official estates. And only across the street, would we see the dichotomy in the country. Slums, mudhuts and children by the side of the road, begging for money, food or clothing. I swallowed back tears and sat back in my seat, feeling helpless and guilty. Here I complained daily about the heat and loadshedding while these poor, small children braved the daily heat, with no clothes on their backs, let alone food in their belly. I looked at the girls. Their glum faces said it all.
I tried to divert my attention. What would this new development NFC be like? Where were we going to? Another posh city with poverty at the fringes? Again, safety was my priority and I just wanted to make sure we got there in one piece....
Sights You Never Forget
-Monkeys being pulled on a leash, wearing sunglasses and a skirt, doing tricks so their owner could make money
-Women with malnourished babies crying and banging on our car window
-A family of eight piled on a motorbike with a five month old on the handlebars winding throughout traffic
-Transvestites begging for money with their makeup running down their faces in the heat of the day
-Men walking down the street, holding each other by their pinky finger
...these were just a few examples that caused awe and mixed emotions within the girls.
At one point, they would shut down and remain speechless. The environment was overwhelming. But despite the shock factor, we had the urge to give money whenever we deemed it necessary. We learned to pull down the window only a crack to pass small bills to the needy. The caveat was that if you opened your entire window or door, you risked having your purse stolen or robbed at gunpoint. All our relatives advised us not to give anything because street begging was an organized business.
Squeeze me? Yes, rich business men would cripple the poor and send them to the streets to make money and take a portion for their profits. We saw many maimed people from old men, to small children. Knowing that if we gave to one they would all come in hoards did not stop us. I could not drive past them, especially the women with small children. A part of me refused to believe the story and I went with my gut and good intentions. We asked about charitable organizations and did see some lineups outside reputable businesses where the owners would give out meals to the poor. Our 10 suitcases were filled with old clothing and shoes on our arrival and we consulted relatives where to donate it all. One revelation that perturbed me the most was that the majority of the aid sent to Pakistan during the earthquake was never received. The tents and warm clothing were diverted and sold on the black market.
It was no wonder that the rich became richer during that time period. Figures. Corruption had always been at the core of all levels of government since I had visited in the late 80s. My relatives complained about it then and even more now. We passed by Modeltown, a suburb where many of the govt ministers and officials owned property. And damn, was their property a sight to see. Thousands of square feet, lush gardens, high walls and luxury cars in the car park, all guarded by the local police and gunmen. It burned my blood driving by the deputy, minister and government official estates. And only across the street, would we see the dichotomy in the country. Slums, mudhuts and children by the side of the road, begging for money, food or clothing. I swallowed back tears and sat back in my seat, feeling helpless and guilty. Here I complained daily about the heat and loadshedding while these poor, small children braved the daily heat, with no clothes on their backs, let alone food in their belly. I looked at the girls. Their glum faces said it all.
I tried to divert my attention. What would this new development NFC be like? Where were we going to? Another posh city with poverty at the fringes? Again, safety was my priority and I just wanted to make sure we got there in one piece....
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