Brussels, You're Pissing Me Off!

A Costa Rican swimming pool 

My family spent a couple of weeks in Costa Rica last summer at a house overlooking the pacific ocean.  During that time my mother read a book entitled 'Karachi, You're Killing Me!' . Judging by the plot description on the back cover, it sounded like the novel mostly was about a girl whining about her boyfriend problems who just happened to be in Karachi. When my mom initially offered to loan me the book after she'd finished, I declined.

Once she was done, she told me that the book would be enjoyable for anyone who'd been to Pakistan's largest city.  According to her, the more 'personal' sections were easy to skip over. Indeed, the tome turned out to be mostly about journalism and Karachiite life. I have to admit that I enjoyed the author's observations about the city. I even  admired the stream of consciousness through which she conveyed her perspectives on Sindh's capital. I laughed profusely as she described living among the city's fragmented bureaucracy.  Constantly caught among contestant linguistic and ethnic groups, the main character lives a hectic, emboozened  life. Her woes largely revolve around writing stuff which is seldom appreciated and even more rarely gets paid for on time. As the last sentence of the  back cover plot description puts it: "It's a comedy of manners in a city with none".   

Two months later : in Belgium 

That was two months ago. Now I'm in Brussels. The capital of the EU. I've been here for a month and a half on a Doctoral program. I've drafted a 40 page literature review, helped submit a panel proposal and attended a mandatory pedagogy seminar about teaching in English as a foreign language. I still don't have any proof of enrolment, any health insurance, or any payment delivery. This is even after going through hell to get a bank account.

I've had to ask 'mommy' to pay my rent. The funds in my Austrian bank account were depleted a few weeks ago. I'm relegated to paying American travel banking fees just to get cash. These would be minor annoyances if I didn't have to provide proof of enrolment at the university four days from now as part of a complicated registration process in Belgium that I am subject to even as an EU citizen. I received an email today saying that said proof won't arrive for another two weeks.

This is my first time living totally west of the former Iron Curtain. I'm used to countries where the bureaucracy is somewhat particularized . At first, I thought the Belgian delays were due to interpersonal politicking.  They're not. My bank account application documents were misplaced and needed approval by the head office. My enrolment documents were lost twice. The final step of receiving my stipend  has not been completed despite assurances. It's not because those in the administration want me to kiss their behinds.  As one of my coordinators explained: "they're just fulfilling a job description".

Laughing at western culture

Ok. So Brussels isn't exactly a free-for-all of target killings and outright municipal mismanagement.  It's kind of the opposite extreme. Still, like Pakistanis, Belgians are oddly proud of their country's complicated nature.  Belgians will proudly tell you how eleven separate parliaments meet in Brussels alone. Said bodies work out endless complicated compromises between Belgian linguistic groups, civic interests and EU Member State positions.  In this environment, it's easy to get lost in the red tape.  

The hold-ups aren't fun.  I've noticed that since being here I've developed my own mental narrative of western Europe's crazy workings. 'Karachi, You're Killing Me!''s main character often used humor as a means of dealing with adversity that was beyond her control. I'm beginning to think that it may be a common human defense.

 As an example,  I spent most of yesterday's afternoon talking with an Algerian who lived in UK and France.  We both  noted the gently condescending attitudes of Brussels' residents. She laughed in sympathy  when  I told her that that I'd taken to answering airs of superiority from western Europeans in Belgium by lauding the organization of east European administration over their own.  To paraphrase the last sentence of  'Karachi You're Killing me!''s  back cover:  It's a comedy of defunct manners where one can only respond with none.

        

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.       

The Land of A-thousand Suprises

I hate surprises. They almost always end up being something bad.  That bombshell in your inbox. A negative or no longer wanted response to a forgotten query. The shock of an unsolicited phone call.

Travel was always a refuge for me. A place to escape from life’s reality.  Even after days of logistical set-backs, belligerent drunks, or sleepless nights on university sponsored excursions.  At least, I’d left everyday life’s problems behind.    

There are also places that make an impression. Those I thought would be lackluster.  A well-known monument may disappoint. But, the unsuspected sometimes leaves its  mark.  Despite the up’s and down’s, I thought that I’d never tire of traveling

And then I did. The beginning of May in Poland is called ‘Majówka’.  It’s a de facto holiday season. Many on my program traveled to Italy or other locations. I stayed in Wrocław despite the risk of boredom. It was better than facing more stress of the unknown.

Stress I’ve known here is different from what I’d experienced in the past.  The unknown comes to you. Surprises call at your front door; they’re never good.  They don’t stop after a two week excursion. I’ve long wanted to tour to the Baltic states.  I have a few weeks free this June. Yet, I lack the energy.

I used to long for travel to new lands. In the past year I’ve noticed a change.  Travel options are relatively limited from Wrocław’s airport. It’s still easy to reach unexplored western European cities. After my travel-bloated fall semester it just means another trip to the airport. Another hotel I may not be able to find.
Next year, I’m studying in Vienna. Many flight’s go to western and eastern Europe. I can easily fly to northern Italy or Latvia. But, locations I’ve already been to now hold more attraction. A discount airline flies from Budapest to Skopje. I’ve spent months in Hungary’s capital. I can get to its airport. Macedonia’s western lakes are impressive. I know what to expect.   

There’s also a certain fear.  What if the places I’ve visited don’t measure up to the memory?  The circumstances under which I see them will be different.  I haven’t been back to Maldives in five years. During Iftari at Karachi’s boat club, I vowed to return to Pakistan during February of this year.  I visited a friend’s family in Tunisia instead. Macedonia’s Lake Ochrid may not measure up.  Unexpected hazards may present themselves. Time differentiates the known and the newly  discovered.       

This afternoon, I received a rare surprise. After a year of grad school and a summer internship with the European Investment Bank’s Finance Directorate in Luxembourg , I’d planned to return home for a few weeks rest. My parents had informed me we’d be going on a tropical vacation. I wouldn’t know where until I saw our connecting flight’s destination.

 It could be to Mexico, Miami, to French Polynesia, the BVI, or back to Nicaragua for all I know. It’s the first time in a while that I can live with the surprise.

I ordinarily would have inquired about our destination. For better or worse I didn’t. Not knowing in this case would mean something.  I’m reminded of trips to Russia, Spain, and my first travel to Poland.  When the focus was not on the stresses I’d encounter - but on the wonders I’d find.

I appear to be doing fine in the short-term.  Yet, I’ve come to fear the future. It’s the perpetual surprise; many pundits predict it negatively for my generation.

the respite of my parents’ undiscovered country awaits me.  Before what may ever be after it:  The final frontier where none of us want to cross. 

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.