Abid lifted the camera high over his head, prepared to slam it into the floor of the customs room after the agent on duty demanded he hand it over. Suddenly another officer burst through the double doors which led to the passenger greeting area, placed his hand on the examining agent's arm and whispered in his ear.
Turning to Abid, he apologized. "I am so sorry for this inconvenience," the obviously-senior officer said. "Please come with me."
Abid lowered the camera as the junior agent hurriedly stuffed everything back into our suitcases and shut them.
As we exited to the waiting room, Abid searched for familiar faces. By that time I was exhausted, and I honestly don't remember who met us, but I suspect it was Abid's brother, Altaf. Whoever it was welcomed us, hugged his brother, greeted me warmly and led us to the waiting vehicle. I sighed in relief. One relative down, hundreds to go.
The first thing I remember upon stepping out of the airplane was the overwhelming smell of diesel fuel. That odor followed me the entire time I was in Pakistan. Before that time a diesel smell evoked pleasant memories from my time in Mexico City. In Karachi, the scent invaded everything, even inside residences and businesses, because taxis and buses spewed smoke out their tail pipes, accompanied by the ever-present sound of motorized rickshaws.
Traffic in Karachi resembled that of Mexico City, only worse. Although stop signs and traffic signals marked the intersections, they seemed to be ignored by everyone. Defensive driving took on a whole new meaning as we careened through the streets toward Abid's childhood home on Britto Road.
So far, so good. Now for the real test--meeting Abid's mother and father.
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