Khyber Dreams Chapter 13: Party Time

Even though I was sicker'n'a dog, life in Karachi went on. It's no doubt that our visit there sparked a lot of curiosity amongst Abid's hundreds of relatives. Even more than that, the family was most anxious to show us how much they loved us. My memories have faded about the finer details of the party they planned for us (specifically for Farida), but it was so special that I have to share what I do remember.

It is the custom in Pakistan to host a party on or around a child's second birthday. If I recall correctly, it is also the occasion of the child's first haircut. Although Farida wouldn't turn two until after our departure, Abid's parents wanted to honor her in advance. It also served as an opportunity to invite those relatives twice and three-times removed to meet us.

I was down for the count, but I wasn't needed to help in any case. The Britto Road crew moved into high gear, inviting everyone and getting the food prepared. In this particular case the food included a live goat which had to be freshly-slaughtered by a mullah according to Islamic tradition then cooked into a curry. This was not something that my delicate sensibilities appreciated, so when they brought the goat around, I made myself scarce and took pains that my ears were covered.

The family began to prepare massive amounts of biriyani and raita and other delicacies, including the one Middle Eastern food group I can't abide:  dessert. I'm sure for those who know me, this is a real surprise. For most people, a dish of baklavah is a treasure. I can barely look at it, let alone eat it. I also can't stand gulab jaman, halva or kheer. The one exception is seviya, a vermicelli pudding laced with almonds and pistachios and decorated with gold or paper foil. Really. Although at that time I couldn't stomach even that.

You can imagine that the smells of all this wonderfulness were overpowering, especially for someone who hadn't eaten more than a tablespoon of food in weeks. Literally. One of the relatives who decided that a dish of kheer would be mild enough for my battered stomach brought me some and suggested I give it a try. I couldn't refuse, but one bite was all it took for me to become violently ill.

I spent the rest of the party in the bedroom in a desperate attempt to hold things together.

Prior to my hasty exit, I did spend some time with the family, as shown in the photos below. In the first picture, you'll see me at the extreme left. Look to the very bottom picture to see the wedding finery in which I'd dressed. It thrilled the family to have Abid and me celebrate a "mock" wedding at every possible occasion.

Do you notice anything unusual about the upper two photos? (I know they're very fuzzy--hey, they're 40 years old and scanned from paper originals.) Let me know what you see that makes this different from the typical United States soiree.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 4 - An Intro to Pakistani Life

I was completely blown away by the welcome Abid, Farida and I received when we arrived at Abid's childhood home on Britto Road. His parents lived there, along with Abid's brother Altaf and Altaf's wife and baby and Abid's two younger brothers, Akhlaq and Munawwar.

During the years Abid and I had been married I'd learned a bit about Pakistani customs. I knew that Pakistani elders depended on their children and grandchildren to take care of them as they aged. In the Pakistani version of Social Security, it was (and is) completely normal for adult children (and their children) to share a home with elders. Abid's parents appeared to be in their late 70's and slowing down. Having their children around allowed them to continue to live in the home they'd occupied for many years. In addition Abid's sister Safia, who had her own home with her husband in the area known as Defense Society, came to her mother's home daily to make sure everything was okay. She would help prepare the food and take some meals with them.

While we "Americans" often prided ourselves on our acceptance of other ethnicities, I'm embarrassed to admit that my own family had not been welcoming to Abid. To the day she died, my mother never completely accepted him, although she cherished her two granddaughters. Here his family was, opening their arms to me and greeting Abid as if he'd never been away. I honestly had not expected that, and I was grateful.

As soon as we'd lugged our suitcases upstairs to the living space, Abid and Safia gave me a tour of the house. I was struck by how similarly it was arranged to Mexico City houses I'd lived in. Built in a square with a large open area in the middle, the various rooms all opened onto the two-story-deep central "courtyard."

The rooms were large, the walls thick and stuccoed (very like southwestern adobes) to insulate against the heat and encourage air flow in a country where temperatures regularly reached into the 90's and beyond . . . with 90% humidity. As I remember, there was a living area, a kitchen, another living area which Safia used as a painting studio, a bedroom where Abid, Farida and I parked our stuff, another small bedroom, which was the only air-conditioned space in the house.

After all these years I can't remember where Abid's parents slept. I suspect the bedroom they assigned to us was theirs and that they probably slept on pallets in the living area during our stay. They were always awake before me during our entire stay, so I can't say for sure.

Abid rushed to show me the bedroom he occupied before he left for the States, atop the roof of the house and accessed by a set of rickety stairs. For years he'd told me about it.

An accomplished athlete, Abid loved competing at cricket, soccer and bicycle races. His parents, however, saw no value in sports and forbade him to participate in anything not having to do with book learning. The rooftop room allowed him to escape whenever he wanted by shinnying down the mango tree that hugged the side of the house. Even if his parents discovered his absence, they couldn't do anything about it until he returned. They'd chastise him, he'd listen--and do it all over again.

One area I remember vividly is the bathroom. And I use the term "bathroom" advisedly. Although I'm sure sanitary facilities have changed over the past 40 years, in many homes of that time, the "toilet" was an old-fashioned  hole in the ground. I hadn't known about this in advance, so it took a few moments (!) to get my mind around the facilities. I've never been known for my coordination, so the prospect of having to squat on my haunches was a bit daunting.  I adjusted, however, although I never liked it and never accomplished it with any grace.

Both Abid's sister Safia and brother Tajammul had recently built or remodeled their houses prior to our arrival and both included western bathroom facilities in their construction. I swear they timed the building to coincide with our visit. That's how accommodating they were to this complete stranger. Although Tajammul's house hadn't been fully completed by our arrival, he and his family made sure it was most comfortable when we visited or stayed there.

As a concession to my western sensibilities the family provided toilet paper for my use. The usual way of cleaning oneself was by use of a water pitcher. (I'll leave it to your imagination as to how that works.) That's a big reason why you won't see Pakistanis eating with their left hands . . . the left hand is for cleaning, the right is for eating.

The shower occupied a tiny room next to the toilet. I can't remember how or if the water was heated. Karachi weather was hot and clammy, so a hot shower probably was not necessary and not desired. In fact,  as soon as I'd exit the shower, the stifling humidity made me crave another. I never felt really clean for more than a minute during my entire time there, except during our visit in Peshawar toward the end of our stay.

I came to admire the agility of Pakistani women (and men) who could sit on their haunches as they worked, whether it was cleaning or cooking. Each morning Abid's mother would squat for an hour as she prepared chapattis from scratch and cooked them over what in Mexico was called a comal, a flat piece of metal or cast iron set over an open fire.I have no idea what it was called in Urdu, the language of Pakistan.

Perhaps the trickiest part of my earliest days in Karachi was figuring out who was who in Abid's family. He is one of ten children, and all of them except for three sisters lived in Karachi. A parade of brothers and their families appeared over the next few hours, anxious to welcome Abid home and meet his family.


Next episode:  Keeping 'em straight

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 3 - Family Ties

Abid's parents couldn't have been more welcoming. Everyone there, including Altaf's wife and baby, Abid's sister Safia and the students who came to the Britto Road house two or three times a week to study oil painting with her gathered around, anxious to meet the returning brother and glimpse the American wife and baby daughter.

Another hurdle overcome.

I began to relax a little.

Farida, on the other hand, screamed at the approach of anyone other than Abid and me. She adamantly refused to consider getting to know any of her Pakistani relatives. To her, of course, they were completely foreign. She didn't understand a word they said (even though many spoke excellent English), and she didn't recognize the saris and shalwar kameezes  the women wore.

That hurdle would hold fast the entire three months we remained in Pakistan. Pakistanis adore children, and I sympathized with Abid's relatives who wanted nothing more than to hold and cuddle her--not to mention I was aching for a break from the constant child care.

Group photo:  The family gathered at Abid's parents' house on Britto Road, shortly after our arrival. I'm surprised the photo reproduced as well as it did, being 41 years old and not stored under the best of conditions.

Standing, from left:  Abid's oldest brother Akhtar, Abid's father, brother Altaf, mother, Abid.   

                               

Middle row, seated, from left:  brother Munawwar, Akhtar's wife, me, sister Safia, (unknown).

Seated in front are Akhtar's children, I believe.

If I look tired, it's because I was . . . Pakistan is 12 hours ahead of California and a whole world away. It took at least a week before Abid, Farida and I didn't wake up in the middle of the night expecting to see the sun shining. That was my first experience with jet lag. Although I'd spent a lot of time in Mexico, Mexico City wasn't enough of a time change to be uncomfortable.

Not only that, but going from being an only child into a family of ten brothers and sisters--not to mention hundreds of cousins, uncles and aunties--required a huge mental adjustment. There was never a time when the house was empty of people, and that was a togetherness I simply wasn't used to.

To be continued. Next episode:  An Intro to Pakistani Life

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 2 - Welcome Home

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.

Khyber Dreams: Chapter 1 - The Journey from Hell

Afghanistan has been on my personal "bucket list" for years. Reading Caravans: A Novel of Afghanistan by James Michener created a longing for that wild land that time has failed to erase. Afghanistan has become incredibly dangerous now, so there's little chance that dream will be realized in this lifetime.

I came close, 41 years ago. A step . . . a heartbeat . . . away.

Getting to that place was the adventure of my life.

***

In 1968 my husband, Abid, and I, along with our toddler daughter, Farida, flew halfway across the world to spend three months in Pakistan visiting his family.

For my part, I had no idea how I would be received. Would his family hate me because they perceived I'd kept their son/brother away from them? Would they accept me because I'd helped bring him back? Until this trip I'd never met any member of his family, and they were a great unknown, to him as well as to me. He hadn't been back to Pakistan in nearly 20 years, since he'd come to the United States as a young student and, until recently, he had barely communicated with them . . . afraid of how they'd react to his marriage to an American. His misgivings were as great as mine. Not exactly reassuring.

In order to make the journey I quit my job at TRW Systems and Abid closed his TV repair business. This would be Abid's first return to his homeland. In many ways his family thought he'd been lost to the West; now he was coming home with an American wife and a young child.

A big part of my ex-husband's life, then and now, is the game of cricket, so our trip to Pakistan began with a stopover in London, England, as part of a cricket tournament. We boarded our charter flight via Sudflug, an affiliate of Lufthansa Airlines. In order to maximize their profits Sudflug jammed as many seats as possible into the available space. No elbow room, no leg room—and a 1-1/2 year-old on our laps—it wasn't the flight of our dreams, to say the least. It lasted a grueling thirteen hours, with one stop somewhere in between, Ottawa, I think, before disembarking at Gatwick Airport.

Within minutes we discovered that the London of 1968 was no place for a couple with a young child. The Britain of that era believed that children should be kept out of public view. We searched for kid-friendly venues without success. The final straw was the match Abid was scheduled to play at Lords Cricket Ground, one of the world's premier cricket venues. He'd looked forward to the opportunity as the culmination of his own lifelong dream.

The hosting club scheduled a reception at a local pub, and when we inquired about bringing Farida, we were told “absolutely not.” Although other families in our group traveled with children, they were mostly British citizens who had family available to care for them. Even if someone had come forward to offer to care for Farida, it wouldn't have worked. She absolutely refused to have anything to do with anyone other than Abid and me.

We felt decidedly unwelcome.

“Let's see if we can get an earlier flight to Karachi,” Abid suggested.

“All right,” I agreed, although I wasn't sure which was the lesser of the evils: staying in London or finally facing Abid's family. I didn't express my misgivings to him, but I was very nervous.

After three days we cut our losses, abandoned the cricket tour and booked seats on the first flight we could get. The stopovers on that flight read like a “where's-where” of Middle East hotspots: Damascus, Tehran, Baghdad. How I wished we'd had time to tour any one of those cities, but all we could do was observe their fabled skylines as we landed and took off.

As we taxied to a stop at Karachi airport, my nerves mounted even further. I think Abid felt much the same, although he hid it well, wondering what sort of reception awaited us.

In London our experience with British Customs had been minimal. We'd been ushered through with no baggage inspection and a cursory glance at my U S passport and Abid's Pakistani one.

Abid had assured me his family would make our Pakistani Customs passage even easier. Baksheesh is a magic word in the Middle East, and Abid's family was well-connected besides. We shoved our suitcases along the line toward the Customs agent, juggling hand luggage, my purse. I gripped Farida's hand, as she struggled to be carried. She hadn't adapted well to all the new sights, sounds and smells that had surrounded her since leaving our Huntington Beach home, and now she was engulfed in conversations carried on in Urdu.

The customs agent reached for our passports and studied each page. Minutes passed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Visiting my family,” Abid replied, as if the answer should be obvious.

He kept glancing around for a familiar face, but no one came up to greet us. Of course the customs area was closed except to agents and arriving passengers, but in Pakistan rules are made to be broken, or so Abid had assured me. The agent opened our luggage and rifled through every inch of it. He picked up our movie camera and then examined our Pentax 35 mm. He asked about purchase papers for the Pentax. Abid tried to explain that we'd brought the camera with us from the States, so we hadn't known we needed to bring a sales receipt along.

Reaching for the camera, the customs agent shook his head in the inimitable Pakistani way. “I am very sorry, but we must confiscate this until you can provide a proof of purchase.”

We knew as well as the customs agent did that he coveted the camera. If we released it to him, we'd never see it again. I could read Abid's mind as he struggled with the alternatives. Should he give in to the agent? Should he offer a bribe. If so, how much?

Suddenly, Abid raised the camera above his head . . .


Next episode: Welcome Home