Fleeting View: Stories from Islamabad, Pakistan

(previously published in the newspaper Dawn, under a pseudonym) 

Week 8:

 Marketing Happiness

On a Tuesday not long ago I went to a Sunday bazaar.  Call me simple-minded, but the very idea of going to a Sunday bazaar on a Tuesday makes me smile.  And that’s not the only thing about the bazaar that makes me happy.

When I'm tired of ordered Islamabad streets lined with mini-palaces for the rich, I go to the bazaar to be a part of an every-day Pakistani scene.  In the blur of busy customers, din of bargaining and shopkeepers crying out their prices, haze of dust and feathers, in this spice-filled air I forget my blues, if I have any, and get swept up in the pleasure of market sights and sounds.

The bazaar (open on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays) fills a square quarter-kilometer of space in the open area between Islamabad’s G-8 and G-9 sectors.  It feels to me like the Pakistani version of the Wal-Mart superstores that dot the American landscape and attract shoppers for bargains on everything they need in a big warehouse-like store under one roof.

Except the bazaar has no roof to shelter its wares, unless you count the tarps strung on ropes above some of the small, individual shop areas.  There is no floor, either, just the bare earth, dusty in the sun and muddy after rain.

Every time I go into a climate-controlled Wal-Mart in the States I feel stifled, numb, gloomy and – despite the sparkling tile floors – somehow unclean.  By contrast, I walk the open shops at the bazaar and feel alive, free, and untroubled.

You can find just about everything you need to make you happy in the Sunday bazaar.  There’s sandals and sneakers to gladden your feet, serving spoons and paper towel holders to bring cheer to your kitchen, cardamom and curries for ecstatic cooking.  There’s heads of cauliflower that are bigger than my head.  They are piled head-high beside perfectly stacked circles of succulent strawberries.

Generous scales and flexible prices make me happy, too.  It pleases me to see the fruit sellers weigh dates with hand-held balance scales, expertly changing the weights until the pans hang level.  I applaud their generosity as they throw in an extra handful for good measure or knock a few rupees off the price-per-kilo, just to keep the customer cheery.

On my recent visit I smiled as I watched a resourceful shoe seller draw a crowd.   With no shop to call his own, he set out his slippers and sandals in the middle of a pathway.  So skillful were his enticements that the established shoe stores nearby emptied of customers while his impromptu layout drew a crowd of women.  They talked excitedly to their friends while they tried on his offerings.

Very little makes me sad in the bazaar, except perhaps the orange-vested porters, thin, older men hired by shoppers to carry goods for a pittance.  How melancholy they seem as they wait without work, how fragile as they fill their round baskets then hoist the heavy loads to the tops of their heads.

This sadness evaporates, however, in the face of my chief happiness, which is the joy of seeing so many women interacting in public.  Like most Westerners, I find it hard to understand some Pakistanis’ desire to keep women covered up and at home, unable to have an open life or to use their gifts in the public square.

Here at the bazaar, however, it seems acceptable for women to come and wander the shops, largely unattended and unmolested.  The bazaar must make these women happy, too, offering them a bit of freedom in the outside world.  Perhaps they smile to themselves as they find a good bargain or stop to snack on a samosa.

Unfortunately it looks to me like this happy place may soon be in an unhappy position.  The bazaar’s makeshift shops sit on land reserved for a major road between sectors G-8 and G-9.  That road is being built now, with construction already reaching to the walls of the market on two sides.

Farther up, the Diamond Cricket Club also sits on this road right-of-way.  Another playing space is being built for them a kilometer away so that the road can take over their current space.  Will the same be done for the Sunday bazaar?

Whether it stays despite the road or gets moved to new grounds, I hope the bazaar survives, refuge of the bargain shopper and guardian of so much happiness.

Week 7:

 A Rawalpindi Adventure

I like to embark on an epic quest now and then, and when I saw truck decorating workshops listed in a Lonely Planet guidebook as one of three tourist destinations in the Islamabad area, I knew I had to find them.  That the workshops were in Rawalpindi, Islamabad’s gritty sister city, made my quest all the more appealing.

Rawalpindi, to me nothing more than a home for the airport and the place to get furniture at lower prices than in Islamabad.  It made sense that something as industrial as truck workshops would be in this other city, reputed to be so much dirtier and crowded, yet more “real,” than Islamabad.

The directions in the guidebook were pretty vague, involving an obscure road, a pony cart stand, and a bridge.  I knew it would be a challenge to find the place.

I was not sure if the regular Suzuki taxis would take me all the way to this distant land of Rawalpindi, but the second driver I talked to assented.  I climbed into his yellow car and we wheeled down the freeway past the Zero Point, past the airport and into unknown territory.

Going down Murree Road into the heart of Pindi I soon knew that I was not in Islamabad anymore.  A man with a missing arm begged for money at an intersection.  Kids trying to earn a few rupees wiped windshields with greasy rags.  Three donkeys carried concrete rubble in sacks.  Tuk-tuk exhaust hung in the air.

The taxi dropped me at a crowded intersection in the middle of the main Rajah Bazaar.  I bought a ten rupee bag of potato chips from a street snack cart and drifted through the crowded market area.  People, donkeys, motorcycles, forklifts, tractors, bicycles, and cars pressed through narrow lanes between brown brick buildings built long before Islamabad was even thought of.

Soon I began to ask directions to those decorated trucks I wanted to find.  A young man in a hardware store did not understand my request, even after I drew a picture of a truck with flowers on its side.  I tried again with a man inside an electronics shop.  He interrupted his cricket-watching and told me, “Go to China Market, College Street.”

I waved down a tuk-tuk and went to China Market.  There was nothing resembling truck workshops there, however, only cloth stores and a tiny shop selling police hats, uniforms and name badges.  The two men inside told me  I was in the wrong place.  “Go to Pir Wadhai,” they said.  “There you will find decorated trucks.”

At Pir Wadhai I found instead a long row of lumber shops and auto parts stores.  Trash and stagnant water gathered in a road-side gutter.  Buses from a nearby bus station crowded the streets.  It felt like the right kind of place, but I could see no truck decorating workshops.

While I stood, uncertain, beside a stack of tires, a man invited me into a tire shop for a cup of tea.  I answered questions about America, and he showed me photographs of his trip to visit a brother in England.  When I left he told me where the workshops would be.  He also gave me his mobile number.  “I am your little brother,” he said.  “If you have any trouble in Pakistan you call me.”

Following his directions, I soon found the promised workshops – only they were for buses, not trucks.  It was getting late and my quest had tired me, so I decided buses would be an adequate substitute.

In a large dirt area ringed by low-slung mechanical shops I found a sort of bus heaven.  Rusting skeletons crowded the middle of the yard.  Nearer to the shops working buses waited for a brake overhaul from the mechanics or a new interior from men sewing seat cushions.  All around me were the sounds of metal being hammered and welded, smells of grease and paint and the acrid tang of welding sparks.

As I wandered this maze of mechanical activity, at first I only saw the sleek, newer buses being prepared for sweeping graphics and balloon letters to be airbrushed on their sides.  I pressed on and finally found what would satisfy my quest – a bus being decorated in the old, ornate style with brightly painted borders and pictures covering every square inch of space.

As a worker fastened strips of brightly painted metal to the roofline of an under-construction bus frame, his supervisor told me how they take the old bus skeletons and make them new again.  His eyes shone with the pride of a craftsman as I took photos of the work in progress.

With my quest fulfilled, at least well enough for this day’s adventure, I caught a taxi back to Islamabad.  Approaching the orderly, tree-filled city, it felt good to see the Margalla Hills again.  I realized, though, that I would miss the grit and vitality of the Pindi street scene.  Perhaps I’ll find another quest to take me there again.
 

What Pakistani readers had to say (from emails sents to an address at the end of the column):

I greatly enjoyed your article on truck decorating, in today’s Dawn. The drivers take great pride in these decorated trucks, and have friendly rivalries among themselves about who has the best-decorated truck.
 
I was a student in the U.S.A. during the 1970’s.  At that time I was browsing in a bookstore, and I saw a picture book called “Truck Art of Afghanistan”.  It was by a young couple who had hitchhiked through the Middle East and Asia.  I can’t remember their nationality, but I think they could have been Germans.  When they were in Afghanistan, they were amused to see these wildly and profusely decorated trucks, and took their pictures.  I found the Afghan trucks were decoratead just like Pakistani trucks!
 
By the way, you mentioned ‘tuk-tuks’.  Most people who read your article probably won’t understand what that is, or they might confuse it with a fried meat dish in Pakistan called "tuka-tuk" , (also an onomatopoeia).  I happen to know that motorized rickshaws in Thailand are called 'tuk-tuks'.  But the rickshaws in Pakistan are not called that -  they’re simply called rickshaws.  I guess you know that the rickshaws in Thailand are called ‘tuk-tuks’ because of their sound.  The rickshaws there are made with motorcycle engines, so they make that chugging motorcycle sound.  The rickshaws in Pakistan are made with scooter engines, so they don’t make that sound.
 
You’re quite right that Islamabad is a different world from Rawalpindi.  In fact it’s a different world from the rest of Pakistan.  The country's rulers made a nice, new city for themselves to live in!  The cities and towns in the rest of the country are neglected, and most parts of them are a filthy mess, including Karachi, where I live. When people in Islamabad need to go to Rawalpindi (or “Pindi”), they jokingly say: “I’m going to Pakistan tomorrow”!
 
Keep up the good work.

(written from the US:) 

Enjoyed very much your story about the "truck decoration" adventure from Islamabad. Artfully painted trucks and buses are the most favorite photo ops for most outsiders.
 
I guess it is intriguing to see such an extravaganza of artwork on these transports, since you don't see these lavish exercise of creativity in the capitalistic society such as ours. Here, most Greyhound and Trailway buses are covered with Ads of some sort of consumer items.  And of course, all the eighteen wheelers have to announce who they belong to.
 
While you are there, try to get someone to hang out with to decipher the poetry on these trucks and buses. The artwork is nothing compared to the philosophical depth of the poetry. Generally, the verses will tell you that the life on this planet is too short (especially if you are traveling on those buses) and too insignificant. A person should remember that at all times and should pray to God so that he can go to  heaven. Some more adventurous poet might have a couple of verses about some romantic encounter in their life "way back". I have always gotten a big kick from reading the poetry inscribed both inside and outside these buses and trucks.
 
Have fun in Pakistan.

Your article "A Rawalpindi adventure" made interesting reading. Truck Art for Pakistani's is nothing new, as we see these highly decorated trucks and buses plying on the highways everyday. If you look at them closely, you will realize that the way they are decorated is quite unique from one another, ofcourse depicting individual taste but also reflecting the diverse cluture of different regions and the workmanship and skills of different truck artisans who belong to these regions. The pictures which one often sees on the back of these trucks is of an Eagle, an F-16 fighter plane, Ayub Khan - A former President of Pakistan (1958-69, in whose period the Pakistan Army defended Pakistan against the Indians in the 1965 war), Imran Khan (the Crickter, under whose captaincy Pakistan won the 1992 Cricket World Cup) etc. So these pictures, symbolize and signify a typical martial mind-set too. Another very important aspect that you missed is the poetic verses that you find written on these trucks and buses. The craftsman who make these work of art on wheels, paint on them, famouse verses of their favourite poets and sometimes even think of a few lines of their own, the very common and famous being "Pappu Yaar Tang Na Kar - Hey friend don't tease". The popular Pakistan Sufi-Rock Band - JUNOON, even did a very famous number by the same title.

Hope you have a pleasent stay in our lovely country.

Week 6:

 Islamabad, City of Trees 

“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree,” begins Joyce Kilmer’s famous poem “Trees.”  If his poetic sensibility is accurate, then I see poetry everywhere in Islamabad.

I knew that Islamabad was a planned city before I came here, though I didn’t quite expect the precise two-kilometer-square sectors with their sensibly numbered streets.  “It’s very green,” friends said when I asked their impressions of the place.

When I arrived I could only concur, though my first thoughts had little to do with plants.  I noticed more the decorated trucks that lumbered along the highways and how whole families – the husband, wife, and two or three small children – sometimes rode all together on the red Honda motorcycles.  I noted how bartenders prepared mocktails in the alcohol-less restaurants and how men sold vegetables or roasted corn from rustic wooden carts.

Weeks went by before the exceptionality of Islamabad’s tree-lined streets became real to me.  I was biking west along the Margalla foothills when, just as I passed the F-9 park, I looked up.  What I saw surprised me.  A near-desert landscape stretched north and west between the city and the receding hills, a landscape that looked nothing like the leafy environs of the beautiful city.

Suddenly I realized that if Islamabad is not a naturally forested area, as the nearby desert landscape attested, then all those trees must have been planned for just as carefully as the numbered sectors.  My love for the city grew ten-fold as I praised the environmental and poetic foresight of those urban planners.

I wish I could have been here to see the building of the city and to help with the greening effort.  How the planters’ hands must have sung with rhythm and with rhyme as they rooted all those poems.

Now, I try not to take the city’s trees for granted.  I pause to appreciate the whitened flanks of eucalyptus that line brick walls outside schools.  I take extra note of the beautiful buds that blossom at the ends of branches.  And when I hike into the hills on Trail 3 and stand beneath the grove of pines half way up, I sense the spiritual reverence that inspired someone to put a small prayer platform there.

My home town of Washington, DC is a planned city, too.  Like Islamabad, it has many trees.  This green canopy has been shrinking, though.  To combat the loss of leafage, the non-profit Casey Trees has mapped every street tree in the city and started an aggressive program of community plantings.  I hope it will be many years before Islamabad needs such drastic measures to save its trees.

If the folks at the Pakistan Tobacco Company’s tree plantation keep up their good work, then Islamabad’s tree canopy will continue to expand.  This tree nursery takes up a tiny corner of the Fatima Jinnah Park, but its results grow large.  “Thirty million trees planted and still counting,” boasts the sign at the gate.

Recently I rode my bike there and wandered this garden delighting over the neat rows of miniature trees, their rooting dirt packed into tiny plastic pouches.  Squatting beside a brick-lined bed of guavas, I felt the peace of growing things.  Birds called to each other above me.  The sun shown through wind-ruffled leaves.  Shadows rippled on brown dirt pathways.  Among so much poetry, I could have written a poem then and there.

Later, when I found a gardener who spoke a little English, I asked to whom they sold their plants.

“No-no, trees free,” he said.  “Every Monday, trees free.”

I was amazed.  “For who?” I asked.

“For everyone,” he said.

Then I wanted to run out into the traffic on the Margalla Road, waving my arms and yelling that everyone should stop here and get a tree.  Who could decline an offer so precious?

It happened to be a Monday the day that I visited, so I determined to do my part to keep Islamabad green.  I asked the gardener if I could take one tree.  He nodded yes and led me over to pick out a tiny pine, his favorite kind.

I thanked him and prepared to leave with my inches-high conifer.  Since I had no bag to carry it in I had to hold it on my left arm like a baby.  Steering my bicycle one-handed, I cradled my little poem all the way home.
 

What Pakistani readers had to say (from emails sents to an address at the end of the column):

It was very sweet of you to write about Islamabad and its trees. It was even more delightful to read your reference to the Pakistan Tobacco Company. I work there and share your enthusiasm for trees. In fact a couple of weeks back I got 250 plants from the very same nursery and distributed these amongst my friends, each to plant around 15-20 of them. Well, take care and have a good time. 

Since you have started contributing to Dawn I have been reading you minutely as I found your write ups so poetic and wonderfully woven. Today I read your piece on Islamabad trees.

I too contribute pieces on literary and cutural issues, book reviews and interviews of celebrities to Dawn's Sunday magazine, books&authors and Images for the last more six years. Your love for nature is highly worth appreciating. I feel fascinated by stories of our great capital city.

Would you visit Peshawar ?,which once was the city of flowers but sadly to say only a few but great old trees survive telling out the stories of its glorious past. I am English teacher by profession at a prestgious English Medium semi goverment educational institution Peshawar Public School and College Warsak Road, Peshawar.

Week 5: 

Alley Hospitality

Last week I needed a haircut.  My locks were shaggy and getting long, and the spring-time heat sat heavily upon my head.

I love it that, in Islamabad, barbers set up makeshift shops under trees whose spreading branches provide all the roof they need.  No appointments at fancy salons in Jinnah Market for me, no Nirvana Spa – I’d rather have birds singing and a breeze keeping me cool under the plastic hair-trimming apron.

I hopped on my bicycle to find the nearest tree with a barber chair underneath it and a mirror nailed to its trunk.  The first haircut tree I passed already had a customer beneath it, however, so I went to the second choice – my favorite alley.

In my home neighborhood in Washington, DC, alleys can be scary places – narrow, dirty lanes ruled by those who sell illegal drugs.  In contrast, Islamabad alleys are often lively, welcoming places.

My favorite alley is one of this kind, a narrow lane between two buildings that is full of industrious activity.  In small spaces that would be left to waste in America there are two naan bakeries, a restaurant, and several stores selling motorcycle parts and oil to the young men who bring their motorbikes to the open air mechanic’s shop there.

Foreign faces are unusual in such a place, but I am always received graciously whenever I appear.  When I took my mountain bike to the alley’s bicycle mechanic a month or two ago, he treated me, a complete stranger, with a hospitality we in America normally reserve for close friends.  He made sure I had a seat, convinced me to try radish with masala from a bicycle vendor, shared his lunch-time orange, and of course brought a cup of afternoon chai.

My visit last week for that spring haircut was no different.  Gliding into the lane, I leaned my bicycle against a wall.  By the rules of Pakistani alley hospitality, I did not have to lock it.  In Washington, DC an unlocked bicycle would be quickly stolen, but here I knew no one would disturb it.

The haircut man in this alley has his red barber’s chair in a small nook along the outside of a building.  It is nothing more than a closet, barely big enough for himself, his chair, and a few shelves crammed with Black Cat talc powder, Fair and Lovely fairness cream, and Victoria Apricot facial scrub.  The barber charges a pittance – thirty rupees – for a haircut, yet receives me with more graciousness than I’ve felt in most American salons that charge forty times the price.

Why do Pakistanis, even those who seem to have few resources to spare, offer such hospitality to a guest of strange tongue and country?  When I first came to Islamabad I did not want to reveal that I was an American, afraid I might be despised for my country’s rude and bullying brand of international politics.  But instead of despising me Pakistanis have welcomed me at almost every turn.

Everything about my alley haircut happened for my convenience.  A man was already waiting when I appeared, but he offered me his seat then let me have the next turn in front of him.  The barber turned on the TV, tucked high up on a shelf, to entertain me then changed the channel to suit me when he thought I did not like the game show that came on.

Midway through the haircut a cup of chai appeared in front of me.  When I began to drink it he stopped his work and brushed my face so that no trimmings would fall into my cup. 

As I began to sip the chai, I thought of how, through my barber’s lack of English and my lack of Urdu, we felt the distance of those whose tongues and cultures are strange to each other.  Half way through the cup I realized that his hospitality had helped bridge that distance.  Sipping the dregs of tea at the bottom, I felt a kinship between us that lasted long after I had risen from his chair.

Haircut complete, I paid the barber and thanked him as best I could.  When I began to walk away, forgetting my waiting bicycle, he called to me and gestured to my bike to remind me, a final generous act.  I pedaled away with shorter hair and a life enriched by alley hospitality.
 

What Pakistani readers had to say (from emails sents to an address at the end of the column):

I really appreciated your piece 'Alley Hospitality' in Saturday's Dawn newspaper. However, you wondered why you were being treated with such hospitality in Pakistan as opposed to Washington. Well I have an answer. In Pakistan 'goras' or white foreigners are seen as superior. They are treated literally, with a kind of reverence. Foreigners fascinate and amuse the locals who only get to see them on the television and rarely in their locality. This mentality of the common man has been there ever since the British Raj. Just ask any other Pakistani guy if they get 'chai' and smiles every time they go to a barber... you'll know what I'm talking about then.

sir ur observations of barber under a tree was really excellent and hospitality presented by barber is usual attribute of pakistanis and if you see real hospitality and generousity then you should see some SUFI in pakistan but these days real sufies are really rare. one way to see a sufi is : each night before going to bed say to ALLAH " Oh Allah i want to see a sufi who will show me a right way" then by god Allah will send a person to you who will be a miracle. just try this formula and see the results 

Week 4: 

Suzuki Appeal

If the Centaurus, the sleek new high-rise going up on Faisal Avenue, is the identity of Pakistan’s future, then the familiar black-and-yellow Suzuki taxis are the identity of Islamabad’s present for me.

After I finished gushing over the decorated trucks, these little cars were my next fascination.  They are so tiny and cute, and I like the colors.  And the prices, so inexpensive!

I even like that most of them are what, in America, we call rattletraps, so well-used that they rattle and clunk like the engine might fly apart or the doors fall off at any moment.  

How slow their worn tires roll when trolling for customers, but with what authority and purpose they move once a passenger is safely inside.  Then they cut across lanes of traffic in front of speeding cars, or run red lights if they can get away with it.  The passenger must not be late!  

Sometimes these faithful cars carry surprising cargo.  I’ve stared in amazement at two goats getting out of the back of one and laughed at a bicycle hitching a ride atop another.  I’ve watched a taxi take home a mattress almost bigger than the car itself.  The driver put his left hand on the wheel while his right held down one side of the foam slab resting on his roof.

Taxi drivers themselves come in all shapes and sizes, though they all seem to live in Pindi, and each has his own character.  Sometimes they show their individuality by the decorations they put on their car, like the driver who was so excited to explain to me the names-of-God ornament on his rearview mirror that he nearly drove into a red Mitsubishi minivan beside us.

Sometimes they show their individuality by their headgear, like the man who took me to Jinnah Super after doing some work under the hood of his ancient car.  “Does it work?” I asked.  A red-checked head wrap framed his kind face as he nodded, motioning me inside.

Once in awhile I have problems with the taxi men, like when they want to charge me too much money, or when they say they know where to go then stop three times to ask for directions.  Usually, however, they are honest, like the man who told my friend that for Pakistanis the charge was forty rupees, but since he was an American the charge would be fifty rupees.  Or like the man who indicated that, no, he doesn’t know where the passport office is, and I should get another taxi.

From these men I get the news of Pakistani life.  They tell me how they get up early in the morning to work a few hours at a government office, then drive taxi until there are no more passengers to pick up from the markets.  They tell me how they make only eight or nine thousand rupees a month and ask how much money taxi drivers make in America.

Among them I also find kindred souls, those who, like me, have hope that our human need for peace and understanding can make our daily lives full of cooperation instead of conflict.

On a recent rainy day I walked out my front door to find a taxi.  I am not on any usual routes, so it can be hard.  This time, though, it is easy.  A horn honks and I look up to see the familiar Suzuki shape.  The driver has a bushy black beard and an open, honest face.

“What country,” he asks as he turns around to head toward the Blue Area.

“America,” I say.

“America government bad,” he says.  “American people good, very good, but government bad.”  He smiles to reassure me.

I nod in agreement.  “All the wars and the fighting, that is bad,” I say.

We pass men on bicycles loaded with firewood.  The rain soaks through the wraps around their shoulders.

“You Christian?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“It is good,” he says.  He points upward, through the roof of his taxi.  “Muslim, Christian – one God.”  

By the side of the road, an umbrella salesman tries to drain a growing pond that threatens to swamp his tent home.

“Is it a good job, taxi?” I ask.

“Allah shukria,” he says.

“Ah,” I say, “God gives you a job and so you are thankful.”

“Ghee,” he says.  “Many other jobs, some good, some bad, but I am taxi driver so I am thankful.”

I am thankful then, too, that he is a taxi driver and that on this rainy day his black-and-yellow car appeared to give me a dry ride over the wet Islamabad streets.

Week 3:

To Photograph or Not to Photograph 

Islamabad has so many things to point my camera at, I want to take pictures of them all.  I want to photograph the monkeys in the forest trees and the birds that flock in Fatima Jinnah park.  I want to snap pictures of the huge cauliflower at the vegetable markets and the goat heads for sale in Aabpara.  I want images of the artfully decorated trucks and the sidewalk carts holding colorful balloons for ten rupees each.

I’m shy about using my camera here, though.  I’m shy about taking pictures of mosques, afraid of offending the faithful.  I’m shy about taking pictures of government buildings, afraid of offending the police.  And I’m especially shy about taking pictures of Pakistanis.

When I got brave enough to start carrying my camera around, I found that people in Islamabad can be shy, too.  Once I wanted a picture of one of those hot-drinks-and-soft-ice-cream stands in Jinnah Market.  When I asked the proprietor if I could take a picture of his sidewalk setup, he nodded yes but stepped to the side.  He didn’t want to be in the photo himself.

Others, though, are not so shy.  A man pedaling vegetables from the back of his bicycle seemed hesitant when I asked for a photo; but no, he only wanted me to wait a moment while he arranged his wares neatly.  Then he stood proudly behind them while I snapped away.

I understand, though, when people tell me no.  When random Pakistanis want to take a picture of me – because of my strange American appearance, I guess – I sometimes tell them no, too.  As a white foreigner I already stick out a lot, and sometimes I’d rather not have the camera’s attention focused on me.

Doubly so for my female American friends.  They tell me how men stare at them constantly on the street, and how when a stranger asks to take a picture with them it makes them feel extra self-conscious.  They don’t want to be on display all the time.

One day in the fall a female friend and I went to the Daman-e-Koh overlook.  Families from all over Islamabad ate picnics, sat on benches, pointed down at the sights of the city below.  Soon a group of women wanted to have their photo taken with us.

Since we had just hiked up the hill to the viewpoint we were sweaty and dirty; we didn’t look the best for photos.  But they wouldn’t let us say no.  We grudgingly posed, smiling like good little Westerners happy to be in a photo with a family from our host country.

Trouble was, then everyone wanted a photo with us.  More families came.  Hennaed hands tugged at our sleeves.  We had to push our way through a small crowd to escape.

Not long ago I saw a Pakistani put in the position of unwilling photographee.  A friend from America was visiting Islamabad for a week.  One day while we were out walking she stopped to take a picture of an ice cream shop we had eaten at the night before.  She wanted a reminder of the good times she had in Pakistan.

She took some time to set up the shot, then pushed the button.  "Well, that should turn out ok," she said.

"And did you get the man shaking his finger at you not to take the picture?" I asked.  I had seen him waving while she was concentrating on the camera.

"What?" she said, surprised.  When we looked at the photo there indeed stood the man in the doorway of his shop, finger pointed upward in mid-wave as if screaming, "No, no, put away your camera!"

We laughed about it, but she also felt bad.  She, like myself, did not want to be insensitive in an unfamiliar culture.

I want to be a polite and well-mannered American photographer, not a rude and offensive one.  To photograph or not to photograph, how should I use my lens?

I’m slowly learning how to conduct myself on both sides of the camera.  When I don’t want to be in a photograph I say no firmly and walk away.  When I want to take a photo myself I ask first when I can and always try to be quick, polite, and discrete.

As I get over my shyness I am indeed photographing many of the things that fascinate me about Pakistan.  I hope I’ll make a few friends, and no enemies, along the way.
 

What Pakistani readers had to say (from emails sents to an address at the end of the column):

salaam! :)
i read ur stories about Islamabad....(and now waiting for the next)....
i just hope now u have a different image of us Pakistanis.....now that u might have figured out that we all are not a bunch of terrorists strapped with bombs wherever we go, and blow ourselves up wherever we want.....that we are a people with heart and warmth, the side of us that the world is fairly ignorant of........I'm saying this because no one else knows the meaning of "negative portrayal" more than us.....it aches ones heart FROM THE VERY INSIDE,FROM DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP WITHIN.......
hope u get to meet more of Pakistani people...and hope u can feel the love even when they disturb u by their desire of a photo session with u:D
hope u have a wonderful stay here in Pakistan:) wish u good luck and prosperity.
enjoy ur visit :)

The facts that you mentioned about the ISLAMABADIANS are quite funny. You may know that the people of Pakistan are quite shy to the foreign people. They feel a bit distance between them and the foreign guys. They usually think that they(foreign guys) are some kind of superior creatures. That makes such a difference between them and the others.

Pakistani prople may portrait them selves a thousand times but they become hesitating when doing so with others.

well mr john i came to read your experience of islamabad by chance in the newspaper..i am a student. obviously what you explained as your experience was clearly saying about the reserved nature of most of the people of pakistan though somtimes foolish too.i was thinking about the reasons that caused such behaviours in pakistani people including myself...

if we look into the past,we come to know that white foreigners have not been very kind and sincere to the people of subcontinent and many other nations. rather they have been able to exploit the sincerity and ignorance of those peoples to meet their own ends...

another reason is that being a msulim majority country ,thoughts of the people are quite different towards same things as compared to western thoughts....

islamic principles are quite clear and concrete in terms of social life.... in islam,this world is a craft...a temporary period given to us by the ALMIGHTY to prepare for the eternal life which comes here after..so worldly things are not considered seriously for adaptation...though some people do that here too.

america has been land of dreams for most of the people here....in all respects...
from the very beginig of our life ,we,statr hearing about america and americans....
what come to our mind are the people who enjoy life, can change the rules of the world on their part being allowing legally male to male realtionships etc, have got expertise in almost all feilds of knowledge

and above all...the hot sexy girls ladies etc...showing off theirselves in movies...and functions ...displaying things which we never saw b4,they r amazing believe me.......

the development all around america.....these things make an imprezssion on our minds,,,,so,we,being poor people of an indebted country,,,,when see white people ,we get fascinated or afraid....fascinated because such things as i mentioned before exist with americans...andd frightend or shrinked because v dont hav them....

in the end of ur written expeience in the newspaper,u wrote u would like to make few freinds not enemies...one should appreciate this intention... but dont you think people are afraid of you because of your past?..not all,but most of them are.

i dont think that you would consider a pakistani to be your friend....may to an extent that suits you only,,,,i learned in book that most of the americans feel bellied if some one comes more than 18 inches close to them when talking are meeting,,,,dont think thats from a biased source, it's written in mcgrawhill company book...

anywz ,i have no intention to finger you out,just enjoy your time here. 

Week 2: 

A Wicket Education

Last week I played cricket for the first time in my life.  Yes, the first time.  It was a momentous occasion.

To most Americans cricket is a confusing sport.  There are too many ways to be out, they complain, and one game can last for days.  Besides, is it a real sport if the players stop for tea?  And what is a wicket, anyway?

I’d spent a few months in England years before I came to Pakistan, so I knew a little about the game when I arrived.  “Oh yes, cricket!” I thought as I flipped TV channels and kept seeing the white-suited men on their grassy ovals.

For awhile I did not know the meaning of the upright, narrow piles of brick that I saw in empty spaces all over Islamabad.  I thought perhaps they were the prank of some lunatic artist leaving his creative mark on the town.  But no, I soon realized they are simply improvised wickets for pickup games of cricket.

And what pickup games there are!  Apparently, Pakistanis are so passionate about the sport that they play it in any available space – on sidewalks, in the dirt of construction sites, in corner lots surrounded by busy streets.  No matter if fielders have to dodge cars to retrieve the ball.  No matter if trees dot the playing space.  All it takes is a bat and ball and two players and the game is on.

After watching these informal games for months, last week I went to a match at the Diamond Cricket Club in G-8.  When I get there I see a regulation oval with proper wickets and referees.  Two teams of eleven men are suited up and facing each other for one over after another.

I sit on a bench and watch.  The action is far away, though, and I can’t always understand what is going on.  After an hour or so I decide to leave.  Walking out, I stop to pick up a cricket ball lying in the grass.  It is surprisingly hard.

I look up.  The batting team watches me from their chairs in the clubhouse.  “The ball hurts when it hits you, yes?” I say to them.

 They nod.  “This is your first time holding a ball?” one asks. “Yes,” I say.

They invite me to sit down in the clubhouse with them.  I have spied three boys playing a pickup game on the side, however, not far from the official cricket oval.  I decline the offer and wander over to the pickup game instead.

The boys take turns bowling a tennis ball to each other while the third catches.  Only small patches of green fuzz remain on the well-used ball.  The wicket is a stack of concrete blocks and bricks.  But somehow this impromptu game is more real to me than the one played by the grown men with their fancy equipment and proper pitch.

Soon an adult joins the boys.  They all bowl and bat and run, laughing and calling to each other.  I decide to join them.  I tell them I’ve never played before, but still they accept me happily. 

“You bat first,” they say to me with the typical courtesy that Pakistanis extend to their guests.  But I am nervous and want to ease my way in.  I take a fielding position instead.

It is hard at first.  There is string underfoot from kites flown nearby, the sun beats down on the back of my head, and I have to remember all those rules that I’ve read online.  But one of the boys keeps encouraging me - good running John, good batting John, good bowling John, swing hard John! - and I do the best I can.

Soon it is all straight out of a cricket storybook.  I caught a ball!  I got a good hit!  I am a cricket hero!

But wait, not so fast.  I dropped as many balls as I caught.  On that first “good hit” I was so excited I forgot to run.  On the second I ran but shouldn't have, and I was run out.  But I learned new skills and had fun with my playmates.  That's what games are for, right?

We all shook hands then, my first cricket playmates and I, and I left feeling the generosity of those who invite a stranger into their midst and teach him to play along with them.

   

Week 1: 

Shoe Shine, Islamabad Style 

I like to watch the shoe-shine men in Jinnah Market.  They seem to be there every time I go to shop, their small wooden carry-cases full of shoelaces and polishes and brushes.  They walk past me and point at my shoes, which I usually don’t even know are dirty.  “Shoe shine?” they ask.
 
Last week when I went to Jinnah for lunch, a shoe-shine kid pestered me for three or four minutes.  My shoes weren’t that dirty, though, and I don’t like to be pestered.  I said no for two minutes then ignored him for two, and he went away.

This time, sipping a strawberry juice and sitting on a metal chair in the market’s central outdoor seating area, my shoes are muddy from the recent rain.  I say yes to the first shoe-shine man who comes by.

“How much?” I ask.  I’ve learned to set the price first.

“As you like,” he says.

“No, you tell me,” I say.

“Twenty rupees,” he says.

He quickly calls over a friend to help.  They busily spray and brush the blue material.  I watch with interest, since these are slip-on sneakers of a kind I’m not used to seeing polished.  In America shoe-shine guys polish leather dress shoes and nothing else. 

Soon one of the shoe-shiners points out that the sole is pulling away a little from the upper – a flaw I hadn’t noticed – and could he fix it?  I nod another “yes,” since I am enjoying my strawberry juice and enjoying the scene on this windy winter day in Jinnah.

They stitch away with a large needle and thread.  It’s late in the afternoon.  A spatter of rain comes down now and then.  A mother and father sit at a metal table with their young child and enjoy a snack.  A teenager at a sidewalk food counter makes the last of his paratha rolls from the lunch hour.

The man who is stitching the shoe I did not know needed stitching asks me what country I am from.  “The United States,” I say.  He looks confused.  “America,” I clarify, and he nods.

“I from Afghanistan,” he says.  “What business, embassy?”

“No,” I say, “I am a writer.  Maybe I will write about you!”

I would like to ask him a thousand questions, then, like how much money he makes on an average day, what he eats and where he stays and what he thinks of my country, but he obviously knows little English. I don’t even know if he is speaking in Urdu to his friend or in an Afghani tongue.

A cry comes from the low mosque pavilion in the center of Jinnah, the afternoon call to prayer.  My thoughts drift away, and I pray for my family back home in the States.  Then I pray that my country would stop doing things that force people, like perhaps this shoe-shine man, to leave their homes.

Now the shoe-shiners are cutting foam insoles to fit in my shoes, another surprise.  I know they will want more than twenty rupees now.

I finish my juice; they are finished, too.  I slip off the loaner sandals and pull on my shoes.  They are so clean they shine, and the insoles are soft.  They feel like new.

“Kitnee rupee now?” I ask.

“As you like,” he says.

“No, you tell me,” I say.

“Twenty dollars,” he says.  I laugh.  He laughs, too.  He points to my shoes.  “A lot of work,” he says.  He points to the clouds.  “No business these days.”

I look at him.  “Ok, ten dollars,” he says.

“What?” I protest.  “That’s more than I paid for them in America.  I bought them used for five dollars.”

He looks sad.  “But we stitch them and put new sole and make like new,” he says.  When I still look at him funny, “Ok, five dollars,” he says.

In the end I give him two hundred rupees, about U.S. $3.50.  He thanks me and shakes my hand.

I was surprised that he dared to ask for so much, though he and his friend put in a lot of work.  Do you think he took advantage of me like the ignorant foreigner I am?  Or should I have taken out that US ten dollar bill I keep in my wallet and given it to him?

It begins to rain.  A man who is washing the floors with a hose takes my empty juice cup and throws it away.  His eyes, dark in his wrinkled face, briefly meet mine.  As I pedal home I ride through a puddle and my shiny, like-new shoes get a small splash of mud.  I almost stop just to wipe it off.

What Pakistani readers had to say (from emails sents to an address at the end of the column):

" Yes he has overcharged you alot. The normal charges of a shoeshine is Rs. 5/- and if you include the stitching as well then you should have paid him around Rs. 20 max. Your article made my mood much better rather i would say pleasent espacially today after reading about what our insane President has done to our judiciary and our constitution, i was very depressed thinking that what is going to be the furture of our country. Every so-called leader that comes into power, gives false hopes to us as a nation, strengthen himself financially, and gets overthrown after a while. The next one comes and the same exercise again and again. Your article actually made me forget this issue today for a while. Please dont mind it but we know that it mostly is because of your country's interests in the region and anybody who comes in front of them either has to bow down or will have to leave the corridors of power till the time he agrees to the terms of the US.
 
Any ways thank you again for making me smile for a while."

"I read your "fleeting view" in Saturday's Dawn. A nice piece of prose, I found it very interesting and lively. I hope you continue to write and help budding journalists, like me, to learn tips about writing good features.I think the shoe shiner took advantage of you. In Pakistan, you can buy a new pair of low-quality sandal with Rs 200, at least like the one the shiner has put on in the picture. I mean the shiner who sits near the carry-case in the pic. As for as I can understand asking for 20 dollars was not at all a daring task. It was an outcome of a mix of his poverty, sense of humor and expectation that foreigners, are rich to the extent that they consider it a small amount. In other words, they don’t have an idea what 20 dollars mean."

"sir, hi
Today i read ur article in Dawn Pakistan's leading nespaper, and i decuded to mail u sir. As u told that u are a american writer, and wil be wraitting in dawn for coming days. Sir u can see these afghani childs in all over the pakistan, doing different duties to get meal for the day. these refugees are facing the consequences of cival war and now uni polar power of ur country, hope u will be identifying other problems facing these afghan refugees. the other thing that i wnw say is that u gave much more money than he deserve. "