New Trip to an Old World

I returned to Pakistan in November 1973. 18 months after my disastrous first experience in Afghanistan. The taxi ride through the Kyber Pass is a blur but I recall meeting up with some friends at the bus station in Peshawar. One of these friends was Shapuan Haji Ali, we had met in Rome and traveled together periodically. He was a slight boy with olive complexion and features I could not identify ( Thai, Indian, Philipino) but definitely Asian. When he said he was Malay I wasn’t even sure where Malaysia was. He had gone to Europe overland, from Lahore where he was attending college. I wanted to know everything about him and his culture, including why he had traveled so much. Two things I learned were that Pakistan is a Mecca for higher education and that travel and curiosity are universal. As we climbed into a Tonga the sunset was so intense I had to shade my eyes with my hand. The intense beams formed a corona around the huge lettering above the Park Hotel. I remember the main road was filled with potholes, choked with dust and lined with utility poles strung with wire from every tea stall and chicken coop, more of a giant cats cradle than a grid and all seemed to terminate at the largest building in sight the Park Hotel. Although it was impressive on the outside it was drab and worn on the inside and very expensive, so we chose the nearby Rainbow Guest House. Beside it was already getting dark and we would be leaving for Lahore early the next morning. When we arrived in Lahore there were 6 of us and we were hijacked by an aggressive Tonga driver who had to get down and coax his horse to move. Finally we arrived at the Hotel Shaheen, his choice, and I realized that beside the taxi fare from us, he would get a commission from the hotel for each guest. This is where I met the infamous and outrageous Abdullah no sweat, a Nigerian vagabond who claimed to be traveling for 17 years and besides entertaining us with his tales of travel and adventure he rolled one hell of a joint. From Chitral in the north to Quetta in the south, he seemed to know everyone and everything, with his trademark funky fedora, dress slacks and sandals to his Cheshire grin his charm was undeniable. Before long I came under his spell and agreed to join him on his latest adventure, of which he told me little, only that he was going to visit a friend in Hyderabad, but first he must make a stop in Multan. The rail system in Pakistan is chaotic and corrupt, a sentiment I must extend to every bureaucracy in Asia. There are 3 classes, with many price concessions, complicated bookings, unruly crowds and undependable schedules. Lahore station serves as temporary home for some and permanent home for many others. Hundreds of passengers with their families, livestock, and sometimes all their possessions are barely distinguishable from squatters. All were on their feet as the train approached the station. Before it has stopped, luggage and people are shoved through the windows and there is a free for all for the unreserved lower class and best second-class seats. All this as some passengers try to exit. After fighting our way onto the train we change our mind and decide to wait for a later and less crowded one. The locomotive itself is a thing of beauty, an antique steam engine, the size of a ship with a smokestack billowing a trail of black smoke and ash from one village to the next. At one station a tray is unexpectedly passed thru the window, I don’t remember ordering it but I do remember eating the excellent curry, when a hand returned to retrieve the empty tray I realized we were moving very fast. Later we discovered that Multan was to be the site of a huge student demonstration planned for that week and was probably the cause of the overcrowding. We finally arrive at 6am exhausted after an all night train ride. While Abdullah tends to the business that brought us here, I enjoy a massage and recover from our ordeal. Multan is interesting, a mix of education and industry, but during our stay the demonstrations turn violent, one student is killed and shops close for 3 days. A week after arriving we were back at the station for another overnight train. This time it was to Hyderabad, to visit Abdullah good friends, the Abbassi family, this turned out to be the unexpected highlight of my stay in Pakistan. From the moment we met they opened their hearts and home to me and gave me the most intimate look possible into Muslim family life. There are 4 Abbassi brothers ( Maqbool, Mahmood, Iqbal, Nizar) their wives and extended families. They are middle class and live in a compound of which I saw only 2 rooms, my comfortable bedroom and a sitting room which acted as dining room and parlor. Even though Abdullah left the next day, I spent 10 days there and never met any of the women. I ate most of my meals alone, they would always be brought by the servants occasionally one of the brothers would join me. From Hyderabad I made several memorable side trips. One to Karachi to pick up mail and meet more of the Abbassi family, and friends of Shapaun Hajji Ali. Another time I went to visit a friend of Mahmood at college. I was apprehensive after being invited to join a post exam ritual involving a lesson in plant pathology and a trip to the local bhang shop. Bhang is an intoxicating drink made from marijuana. The cannabis is wrapped in gauze then soaked in water, it sits for a few minutes before all the liquid is squeezed out, and the process is repeated 3 times before drinking. It can be very potent but I declined fearing not the cannabis but the water. A third time I went to the family farm which was in a nasty dispute with a neighbor. When we arrived we were given a kings welcome, by a group loyal to the family and armed to the teeth. There were 10 men in turbans baggy pants and shirts that is the native dress all had guns most had shotguns. We were surrounded by fields, without a house insight, instead there was a tent like structure with walls of woven branches and leaves, with a canvas roof. We stayed only long enough to give moral support, sample the local produce and taste roasted goat they had slaughtered just for us.