Karachi: In Anticipation of The Unexpected

I got the news that I’ll be going to Hanoi about a week ago. Vietnam will be the ‘big five-oh’. The fiftieth country I’ve visited. It comes less than a month after my last trip from my current abode in Austria. During May, I traveled to Karachi for a few weeks. It was my second trip there.

A different kind of travel

During the two years since my first time in Pakistan I’ve traveled for the first time to many other lands. I enjoyed my most recent Pakistani sojourn more than any others I’ve had a while.  Travel is an addiction. And like any such habit, you develop a tolerance. Once exotic destinations become itinerant homes; where understanding language and culture becomes surplus to transitory requirements. New regional destinations, or even old favorites, become of mild interest. You can’t stop. But, you also get jaded.

The first time I flew to Karachi I was nervous. I knew that the negative media reports through which I’d heard of the city couldn’t be its whole story. Still, I didn’t know what I would find – better or worse. On my second trip, I looked forward to my arrival. I knew I would find the unexpected.  

When going to Karachi, the unexpected can be awesome. I sat next to a group of Karachi’ites who were traveling home. As soon as we’d boarded the plane, one of them asked me for a pen as we filled out immigration forms. His compatriot meanwhile busied himself with opening a large bottle of rum. Pakistan is functionally a dry country. This was their last sure chance for a drop of the true before arrival. As the flight proceeded they badgered the flight attendant for multiple individual-sized bottles of wine. When I asked for a second glass of wine myself they had to go the galley for more. As I waited, one of the Pakistanis shoved a glass into my hand. “Red wine!” he proclaimed. It was public diplomacy at its finest as raised our glasses over the lights of Tehran.

A water truck delivers in Defense

This anticipation of the uncertain penetrates into everyday aspects of life. Pakistan perennially struggles with poor power fuel management and illegal tapping of electric lines. With my host’s generator offline, the power could go out at any time. One must be prepared to go without at all times; you have to use the electricity when you have it. The same goes for water. Most houses in Defense, the upscale neighborhood where I stayed, have a tank which can be filled for use when there is none in the municipal lines. When asking about the cause of such shortages, some of the answers boggled the mind. For example, the water situation is not due to shortage or drought. The trucks which fill tanks in peoples’ homes steal the water from taps on the mains and then re-sell it at inflated prices. The water company seems unable or unwilling to stop this practice. Instead, it uses the theft to justify non-payment of its electric bill. It also accuses the electric company of shutting off power to the water pumps and making the entire problem worse. The electric company justifies the outages by saying that the water company doesn’t deserve the electricity if it is going to allow a large amount of the water to be stolen. The water company uses the continued power interruptions as further justification for not paying its bill. End result: There’s just no water.

Politicians promised to fix these issues while I was in Pakistan two years ago. Today, the same promises continue. But, the issues seem to have gotten worse. Such utilities service interruption didn’t occur in Defence two years ago. 

At the library

   Those born in the Western world often come to expect other regions to adopt trappings of Western culture. The past 30 years have been turbulent for Pakistan. It is perhaps due to this that the cultural influences of globalization seem to have permeated to a lesser extent in Karachi. I came to Pakistan to participate in academic research at University of Karachi’s All India Muslim League archives. Despite KU being a breeding of ethnic extremism, I felt welcomed there. Those who worked in the university’s main library were interested in helping me with my research. They were also insistent about my learning their languages and cultures. In one instance, as soon as one person told me the word for sugar in Urdu, others proudly informed me of the equivalents in Punjabi and Pashto. By the time they were done, I was too confused to remember any of the three. Still, I welcomed the exercise.  

KU's main entrance - always closed

Especially outside of Defense, I was expected to adapt my own habits to a greater extent than is necessary in many other countries. For example, Businessmen from many countries usually choose to dress in suits and eschew their national dress. However, I was told at the university to wear shalwar kameez on Fridays. Still, my identity as a foreigner worked to my advantage. Once, on arrival at the university, I was told to beware of all the “political parties” that were active there. Fortunately, l was neutral as an outsider. Despite the anti-American slogans on the main library’s entrance ramp, the student body seemed more interested in internal politics than they were in me. Sometimes, my neutrality allowed me to get a plurality of perspectives.

In the West, and especially the US, racial tensions remain obfuscated under a veneer of ‘political correctness’. Pakistanis wear ethnic identity on their sleeves. I was often told outright by members of one ethnic group why they felt oppressed, or held other groups in lower esteem. When speaking with a class of US history students, I was asked about race relations in America. I attempted to give as balanced a perspective as possible. Still, it felt odd to frankly discuss the taboo topic in public. Afterword, some Baloch students freely bemoaned what they viewed as national oppression of their province by Punjabis and Mohajirs. Their comments served to begin a civil debate. It was refreshing to be around such directness of opinion.

en route to KU - MQM flags on poles

But, signs of more violent disagreement are everywhere. Karachi is a mega-city of 20 million people. Landmarks become few and far between once you leave the older section of the city. I found the best way of marking the route from Defense to KU was via the flags of its ethnicity-based political gangs:  Start by taking the first highway with MQM flags on the light poles. Turn left onto Airport Road after the over-pass where flags of a Pashtun party dominate. Continue straight until a left at the cloverleaf that green black and red tri-colors mark as PPP turf. After the second MQM overpass you’re almost there. This ‘political visibility’ is not evidence of a vibrant civil society.  My host’s accountant, a proud Mohajir, told me that once one formally joins any of these parties, his days of life are numbered.

Karachi’ites seem used to the violence. At times, they seemed to expect it. They even admire it in a weird way. The city can effectively shut down due to violent political conflicts. When I asked one journalist about the possibility of a shutdown due to planed PTI protests during my stay, she seemed amused. Basically, informed me that said party is largely made of educated classes; apparently, they don’t really know how to protest.

My host told me about his bad habit of ignoring bomb threats when driving through the city. There are so many, he reasoned, that you sometimes just have to ignore them. He seemed to think of it the way that many in large American cities think of muggings: The threat is always there, but it will never happen to you. In Karachi, armed muggings do happen all the time; especially on public transport. Many told me that they are constantly prepared. For them, it isn’t a question of ‘if’. It is a matter of ‘when’.

Reason for my return

Upon arrival in Pakistan I was greeted by the chaos of Karachi and the hospitality of its people. From our 4:00 greeting at the airport, to my host’s welcome dinner at Karachi Boat Club, I felt honored to have arrived. As my time In Karachi drew to a close, many felt honored that I’d made the trip. In tourist destinations, visitors are sometimes automatically disregarded as little more than annoyances with deep pockets. In Pakistan, I got the feeling that I’d already been remembered as a guest. On my last day, I recounted with colleagues at the university how I’d come to know of the archives on my first trip to Pakistan along with a journalist family-friend. One of them got excited. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “The mass-communication student and a foreigner! That was you!”

Grounds of Frere Hall

Later that day, I met with that “mass-communication student”, now a journalist with one of Karachi’s main English language newspapers. We went to Frere Hall, a large colonial era exhibition gallery. On the ground floor, we ran across sizable collection of newspaper archives.

Karachi’s surprises can shock. But, they can also amaze; lead to new opportunities, prospects and perspectives. They’ve already lead to one return trip. Maybe the next time I need to get jolted out of my jadedness I’ll be able return again. After all, its Karachi. You never know.       

Keeping Roza

I thought a great deal about going to Pakistan during Ramazan. I didn’t know if I could go without food or water for 14 hours every day. Then it occurred to me that I’d already done so two days a week over the past year.

 When I started commuting to USC, the only way to make it logistically viable was to schedule my classes on two days. During those days I scarcely had time to eat, drink, or even go to the bathroom.  Those days often lasted about 14 hours. I found a way to get through it.

If I could handle USC, I could handle Ramazan.  

I came to Karachi assuming that I’d be fasting daily.  It was surprising to learn that half of my host’s family doesn’t fast. In fact, they told me that I would be expected to gain weight during my time with them.

There is a law in Pakistan forbidding eating and drinking in public during Ramazan.  It’s another story behind closed doors. Among those I met, the decision to ‘keep Roza’, or fast, is regarded as a personal choice.

One of my host’s family’s relatives met me when I arrived in Lahore.  I’d taken refreshment on the flight there. Travelers are exempt from the fast, and PIA (the Pakistani national carrier) honors this. Once I arrived, I found that my local host was keeping Roza.  He graciously offered me the opportunity to have some water in the 40 degree heat.  “No. Thank you” I told him. “Your culture doesn’t change just because I’m here”.  

A couple of days later I returned to Karachi.  My host decided that it would be good for me to experience Roza at least once during my time in the country.

I was awoken at about 4:00 on my last day in Pakistan. I took part in Seri, the beginning of the fast. Afterward my host told me that I should still drink water as I was not Pakistani. Therefore, I must not be used to fasting.  I declined. It was pointless to not have the whole experience.

My host’s sentiment was repeated many times through the day.  More than a few people asked if my fast was getting difficult. This was the first time they’d seen a westerner fast; they were curious. Almost as if they doubted that one could endure the experience.

But, there was also admiration. On the ride to Iftari at the Karachi Boat Club my host’s daughter enquired as to the condition of my fast. I told her I was fine.  Our driver also understood. ”Roza?” he asked inquisitively. I nodded and he gave an enthusiastic ‘thumbs up’.     

At first, I thought the experience would be little different than going to college.  After a full day of classes I’d come home, shove the dogs aside, and throw a pizza in the oven.  I usually didn’t respond to questions until I’d downed a triple vodka.  During Ramazan you have to be nice.

Keeping Roza doesn’t simply refer to abstaining from food.  Succumbing to violence, vulgarity or even general crankiness is regarded as violating the fast. As my Host’s daughter put it: “Fasting is not furious”.

The Iftari at the Boat Club was more civilized then my own ritual. It was fitting that it was my last experience on this trip to Pakistan. I reluctantly headed for the airport.  In a small way I felt closer to a people I’d come to know only two weeks before.

I’d gone without food before. In Pakistan I learned the meaning of fasting.  

A Case of Two Schools

Oars sliced through the water near Karachi’s main port.  The rowers worked in unison, pushing their shells toward construction cranes that towered over the mangroves. I sat on the Karachi Boat Club’s pier watching my host’s children and their friends practice competitive rowing. Most of them attend the same private school.  I stared towards the Arabian Sea, reminded of a different group of high school students. They’re also located near the sea. But, their school places them at a disadvantage.

This summer, I interned with the Population and Community Development Association.  I visited their 10^th grade Mechai Bamboo School (MBS) for disadvantaged children. It was part of an idyllic resort in Pattaya.

My responsibilities also took me to the school’s main campus in Buriram. While there, I learned how the organization promotes the school. They claim it is a great improvement from similar government institutions.  It's described as a center of "lifelong learning" that imparts English ability and micro-business skills.  The Bamboo School boosts of its well rounded curriculum, developed by teachers and students.

I didn’t have much opportunity to talk with the students in Buriram. That was not the case in Karachi. My host’s daughter was class president at Karachi’s private Center for Advanced Studies. The school exhibits a marked improvement over government educational centers. Students are schooled in English and Urdu. The curriculum prepares students for acceptance to international universities while teaching them respect for local culture and religion. Students, with faculty oversight, manage discipline among themselves.  

At first glance, the schools’ methods seem similar. Except for one major thing.  The Thai school provides meaningful education to the needy. The Pakistani school reserves it for those who can pay.

Teaching students to not rely on hand-outs? 

But MBS does require a form of pay. It’s just not the kind that can fund its operating costs. Students’ families must plant trees in order to pay the school’s “tuition.”  The organization promotes that children perform one hour of community service in the School Lunch Garden to receive a meal. This is ostensibly so students will learn to value work instead of relying on hand-outs.  After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch at the bamboo school, right?

Wrong.

Anyone who visits the school for more than a short time notices the deficit between promotional literature and reality. A donation box for the students’ lunch sits at the entrance where parents pick up their students. The students receive some level of “free” lunch through donations. The Bamboo School advertises that it closes during “rice planting season.” In fact, the school only closes for two days with little rice planting involved.

The landscaped entrance to MBS

 I saw students in class exactly once during my entire two-month internship. Assemblies in honor of visiting sponsors seemed much more common. When I inquired as to the students’ course load, PDA employees discreetly told me that donor visits necessitate a sparse class schedule.  According to an English Teacher, the pupils’ English levels are actually no higher than in average government schools. Contrary to what is claimed in the brochures, student participation in curriculum development is non-existent.

Back in Karachi, the Center for Advanced Studies seemed to deliver on its promises. It’s easy to see why:  CAS requires monetary tuition. This frees it from the need to put sponsors first. Most Pakistani families cannot afford the price of attendance. However, the value of granting some few a quality education benefits a country far more than professing to provide it to many.

Still, those who cannot pay have few options. Government schools are often sub-standard, especially in the developing world. Pakistanis, who place a high value on community service, have started NGOs of their own to provide alternative schools for the poor. But, they also require donations from sponsors.

 Organized religion sometimes offers a solution. My Pakistani host is a successful businessman. He was educated in a Catholic school.  In Lahore I met some students from a local mosque. They were quite friendly and seemed knowledgeable about local history.  The students’ English was far better than any I’d encountered from their older MBS counterparts in Thailand.

Radical mosque near Jinnah's Tomb

Yet, such religious education also carries risk, especially in Pakistan. On a visit to Jinnah’s tomb, my host pointed to a minaret about one block from the Quaid-e-Azam’s resting place. “This is a very controversial mosque,” he told me. He went on to explain that most of its students go on to join the Taliban.

Rowing at the boat club was over. Our driver navigated Karachi’s gridlock; we arrived safely home. It occurred to me that the value of any service is equal to its outcome. A high quality education affords its recipient an opportunity. But, it is up to that person to take advantage. It makes no economic sense to expect something from nothing. Charity isn’t always the answer.  

Karachi Unfolds

Two weeks ago, I returned from Pakistan. It was the most enthralling locale I visited this summer.   Yet,  I have delayed  putting my experiences into words . So much went on during those ten days.
The last time I wrote about Pakistan I wondered which aspect of Karachi  I would see.  I guess that is the best place to start.
I stayed with a family in the city's Defense Housing Authority.   Upon arriving at their home I felt as if I could be a version Los Angeles with more servants.   Then I took first trip from my hosts' walled compound.  We went to the tomb of the country's founder, Jinnah. As we drove through  Ramazan traffic I redefined my idea of bad congestion. Cars stopped as peddlers allowed their monkeys  to entertain  grid locked commuters.  Karachi became a completely new world as we headed back to Defense.
Later, I experienced other elements of my hosts' Karachi: rowing at the exclusive Karachi Boat Club; organic and Mediterranean  restaurants.  From the  journalist who explained some Pakistani cultural mindsets , to the student who provided insight into Karachi'ite university life, to my host famly's children who highlighted practical details of life in the city.  I gradually came to get my bearings in this immense metropolis.   
 Defense is clearly influenced by the west. But, I also got a feeling for the neighborhood's more traditional side.  It pays to stay inconspicuous in Pakistan. One night I stayed up through the morning at a local tea house. Members of Pakistani political families lamented the situation of their country. But, I also could hear their pride at being Desi. It was encouraging to be surrounded by such awareness of the present and  hope for the future at the same time.  
 During some trips through the city my hosts strongly suggested  I sit in the back of the car.  These parts were not safe for foreigners.  I took lunch with a family in one of these  neighborhoods  as an honored guest.  I didn't feel  unsafe.  A bomb recently went off in the vicinity.
It would not have been prudent  for me to see some of Karachi's lower strata. But, the same is true in my home city of LA.  I am taken by how similar the two cities turned out to be in some ways .
Maybe  the Karachi I experienced was already pre-determined.  The world you are born into determines the world you  come to know. If this is true, then the city I saw  is  indeed 'my' Karachi.
 Still, I still feel as if I've only scratched the surface.  I look  forward to expanding my perception of Karachi and Pakistan in the future. As I continue my travels, I will not forget  the nation I've experienced. The faces and reality of a people.