Lost in Transit Elation

On the eve of my trip to Pakistan I debate over what to pack and wonder what conditions I will find in the mountains. Paramahansa Yoganada-ji's poem Divya Banjara suddenly springs forth from the recesses of my memory and tunes out the mind's anxious static. Trepidation is replaced by quiet anticipation of the adventure that awaits. "Let's go," encapsulated by a whisper and a prayer.

I will be a gypsy,
Roam, roam, and roam!
I'll sing a song that none has sung.
I'll sing to the sky;
I'll sing to the wind,
I'll sing to my red cloud.
I'll roam, roam, and roam.

The exact wording of the remainder escapes me. It is something to the effect of proceeding to stranger, yet stranger lands, yet always being the king of your portable domain.

I break my Sunday fast sharing dinner with Mama and Papa in their bedroom/kitchen/living room. My contribution is asparagus brought from the very Americanized Khan market. The strange vegetable generates much discussion as to how it should be prepared, how it is grown, how it should be addressed and so forth. In the end Mama opts to fry it in the pan with some potatoes and eggplant and all agree it is delicious.

The following morning features a brief calm before a flurry of activity. At Mama's insistence I share with her the minimal secrets to my morning sits on the veranda. In exchange I make her climb the stairs to top level. In the weeks I have spent at the guest house this marks the first time Mama has left the second story of the compound. She makes labored squeaking sounds as we ascend, like air being forced out of a leaky bellows. "Mama's health not good," she huffs, "but I do everything I need in this life." She takes a two minute break on the landing half way up. Mama manages to sit for five of the ten prescribed minutes and then sits her way back down the stairs one at a time. When I join her in the courtyard she insists that she sat for the full ten minutes. I negotiate with Mama on a storage fee for the tens of thousands of Pakistani friendship letters, then head to the market to procure winter clothes and fire off last minute emails. Lastly I find a shipper for the over-sized portrait of Jesus in a meditative pose that I had commissioned by a local artist. I balance the piece precariously on the back of a bicycle rickshaw completely hidden from the view of those in front. As we pass, people turn back to see the life-size Christ in blissful serenity in the maddening crowd. The slightest breeze threatens to send the sail-like painting soaring into the heavens and I have my hands full keeping it earthbound.

My bags packed, I sit for lunch in the American Diner at the India Habitat Center in Delhi and order the usual: chili bean soy burger, side of sauteed mushrooms and a Hawaiian Sunset. I select California Dreamin' on the juke box and then idly peruse the Times of India while I wait for my order. The juke box clicks, whirs, clicks some more before Que Sera, Sera begins playing. What happened to California Dreamin'? Whatever (will be, will be). The Times prominently features two stories linking Pakistan to terrorist acts – the ISI's hand in the 1993 bombings purportedly divulged by recently extradited Abu Salim, and the alleged involvement of at least two Pakistani nationals in the recent Delhi bomb blasts. Page two publishes claims by Pakistan's human rights organization, Ansar Burney Welfare Trust, that the children orphaned by the earthquake are being recruited into terrorist camps. The melodramatic Where Have All the Children Gone follows Que Sera on the jukebox. Clearly the Universe is enjoying herself.

I haggle for a rickshaw and then am off for the Indira Gandhi International Airport. The rickshawala sings snippets from film songs and is sufficiently shocked when I chime in that we almost collide with the neighboring truck. We motor past street kids selling tabloid papers at a polluted intersection, a bare-bottomed child drinking from a filthy water bottle, smartly uniformed school kids at the bus stand, cows exchanging tongue baths, horses being walked at the polo grounds, and a Fellini-esque, giant-sized, inflatable Spiderman bounding around the lot of a petrol station. As we roll up to the airport I invite the driver to accompany me to Pakistan. "Very hard for Indian go," he says, "My everything here."

At the airport I encounter the all-too-familiar Indian bureaucrat that revels in his governmental-given power to make one wait without explanation or eye contact. "Excuse me, excuse me? Hello? My flight leaves in forty minutes would it be possible... Hello?" Nothing. As I look around at similarly frustrated travelers I consider that at the very least this breed is impartial in their non-application of timely assistance. The months spent in Indian queues (or more accurately 'scrums') have trained me to use the time for standing meditation rather than give in to the indignation of endless waiting. A half hour elapses before I am cleared to leave.

Once inside the departure area of the terminal I discover that my PIA boarding pass provides no gate number. An expansive painting of a flock of birds flying into a fiery cavern is evidently hung to keep people ever mindful of the dangers of flying. A trio of loudly laughing Germans passes by and I overhear their destination as Lahore and fall in behind them. The female of the trio is clad in what might pass as club wear in Europe. As we pass through what is the fourth security check since entering the terminal, her male companions loudly tease her when she raises her arms behind the screened partition where female passengers are frisked. To their delight she does a mock shimmy. The security staff do not look amused. Both men are rather burly, but one in particular sports a vast shoulder spread that makes me self-conscious of my India-withered frame. "You aren't so tough," I think to myself, "You're just the type that give Westerners a bad name." We proceed to yet another queue for yet another security check. Women to the left, men to the right. The German woman keeps up her banter with her companions while aggressively attacking a Subway sandwich. She leaves her place in line to shove the sandwich in the mouth of the broad-shouldered man while the other guffaws. "C'mon, you guys. Tone down your road show," I think derisively. It is then I note that the large man's arms have an odd angle at the shoulders. Closer inspection of his hands reveals that they are frozen in a neutral position and unnaturally smooth. It finally dawns on me that he has no arms, or rather he has two prosthetic arms. I sheepishly cease my internal critique of their behavior and am inspired to reflect on how imperfect impressions are. I peer out of a poorly caulked port hole at the orange orb of the setting sun. My last sight of India is of a woman on the tarmac stooped over and shoveling asphalt into piles. She appears to be ten-months pregnant (or maybe she is just bowling-ball fat).

The plane trip begins with a prayer in Arabic and then a stewardess comes on the PA system and announces that the flight to Lahore will last fifty minutes, God willing. Once airborne a man in his late twenties, looking for all the world like Eric's fictional fourth brother, overhears my vague plans to help with earthquake relief and introduces himself as Ed, project designer for ActionAid. "What kind of work are you looking to do?" he asks.

"Anything hands on. I heard cholera is becoming a real problem, so maybe just digging pits for latrines."

"I thought you would say that," Ed says grinning and slowly nodding his head. Evidently I look like a poop pit digger. The food tray comes by with a choice between crustless bread and croissant sandwiches. "Which one is vegetarian?" I ask the harried older man serving as a steward. Immediately several passengers within earshot of my inquiry laugh caustically.

"You are going to have a hard time in Pakistan," one offers.

"You are going to be very hungry," another pipes in.

"Actually I'm vegan."

"Then you are going to starve to death," the second commentator says amending his original prognosis. The steward shakes his head defiantly.

"There is no vegetable sandwich. Only meat." I opt for some orange juice and gnaw anxiously on the emergency procedures card. Ed leans across the aisle and gives me his bio. He has just come from one week of sun and fun on the 'hard to leave, really' beaches of Kerala and before that 'one of the most awful places on the planet' Kabul where his headquarters are. Ever since he turned eighteen he has been working non-stop in the non-profit world. After ten years he is starting to burn out.

"There's no money in it, really," Ed explains, "You get some nice satisfaction from the work, but just as often disappointment. To be honest, really, the only reason any of us Westerners do this stuff is for the adventure." Currently he has been given one week to design a earthquake relief project on which to spend 3.5 million dollars. I tell Ed that I would love to load or unload relief goods or help drive trucks into the affected regions. "This is exactly what we need," he says grinning once more. "I, myself, don't get the chance to go into the field anymore. I'm fly here and there, but I'm always stuck behind a desk now-a-days. I just got married last year, so I am looking to settle down and just lead a boring life, really."

In the Lahore terminal a lean, red-headed girl that towers a good two-inches over me introduces herself as Molly and says she overheard my conversation with Ed. "That's so cool that you're going to do relief work. What got you interested?" I start to fill her in on my stint in Ahmedabad, but she cuts me short. "I was there just a few weeks ago," she says, "Were you with any group? Do you know Manav Sadhna?"

"Yes. Jayeshbhai is amazing. How do you know about Manav Sadhna?"

"My friend Sonal..."

"Sonal Shah?"

"You know IndiCorps?"

"You know IndiCorps?"

It is a strange case of two people having occupied the same orbital space, but only coming into contact once the connective bond had been broken. It adds to my growing sense that I am but a player in an drama being scripted piecemeal. The author (or authors) of the play seem to come up with theatrical devices, tire of them and introduce new characters with the restlessness of someone wanting to fast forward to the climax. Both Molly and Ed are booked for Islamabad on the same flight as mine.

I visit the restroom to change into my Super-Ordinary Muslim Man costume of plain white pajama kurta. I have no idea what to expect in Islamabad and want to draw as little attention as possible. When I emerge from the stall the washroom attendants look at me like I have a screw loose. I take a look in the mirror and think I've done not too badly and decide to dismiss their stares as fashion envy. Back in the waiting area Molly studies my wardrobe change from head to toe before commenting, "Oh, you've put on your costume." Her tone is the same as one might adopt when humoring a senile relative.

Molly loans me her guidebook to look for hotel possibilities after explaining everything in Islamabad is booked due to a spate of international conferences. The Lonely Planet Guide to Pakistan plainly instructs vegetarian travelers that knife-wielding fundamentalists are the least of their worries and that they should leave the country for greener pastures ASAP. It gives no advice to vegan wayfarers presumably because their unqualified demise is so completely self-evident. A photo spread in the middle of the guide book features mountain scenery that triggers memories of an old and repetitive dream of mine where I am shown a vast, towering range of mountains and overcome by the desire to travel to them. Could these be rocky giants of my vision?

After writing down the numbers of some Budget Hotels I turn my attention to the newspapers folded in the pouch in front of me. While all major Indian dailies have long since superseded USA Today in the use of saturated colors and bold graphics, Pakistan's Nation and News both have the appearance of dated high school publications. There are no stories relating to the bomb blast discoveries made in India. An editorial pooh-poohs India's earlier claims of the probable involvement of rebellious Kashmiris in the attacks. "Our beloved jihadis risk their lives daily in striking at military targets and would never stoop to a cheap attack on civilians with bombs. It is most likely the Indian government that has coordinated the bomb blasts in an effort to discredit our struggle." Elsewhere an article addresses ideas on how to overcome the so-called 'trust deficit' with India. It is amazing to me that India uses the exact same language in reference to Pakistan. Apparently the trust deficit exists in both directions across the border. A special section in the newspaper details the myriad problems facing the residents in the earthquake affected region. I am champing at the bit to get into the mountains.

In Islamabad I am the last passenger left in the terminal along with an porcelain-skinned elderly woman in elaborate victorian dress. She seems completely out of place and period in the modern environs of an South Asian airport. I am missing a box containing my shoes and trekking poles while she is searching for a microscopic pin that served as a hinge in her hat box. She recruits two airline employees who feign to look around the now empty luggage conveyor for the missing pin. I join in the futile search and catch the gaze of one of the employees who rolls his eyes in frustration. I am called away from the charade to check a large cargo container for my missing box and find it at the bottom of the pile hopelessly distorted out of shape. When I return to the terminal the apparition of the woman has disappeared. In fact, the entire building is empty save for a jackbooted army man who sits listlessly by the door armed with an assault rifle. I step boldly through the sliding doors to where a few taxi drivers are waiting for the next flight to arrive. In spite of my costume and full beard no one deigns to speak to me in Urdu. One driver is antsy to take me immediately to Islamabad, but another in attendance insists there are no rooms available in the city. A man guarding the only phone booth makes some calls on my behalf to Islamabad's sister city, Rawalpindi – and although there are some vacancies all refuse to accommodate a foreigner. "Much problem for hotel to have foreigner stay," explains the phone operator. I begin to steel myself to the possibility of a cold night spent on the street.

I decide to enlist the original taxi driver and take my chances in Rawalpindi. From the airport we drive through neighborhoods that improbably bring to mind a nameless industrialized area somewhere in southern Illinois. Definitely not what I was expecting. Only occasional trucks of fantastical multi-colored decoration remind me I am sitting at some 170 odd degrees topsy-turvy with respect to the the States. Several futile stops are made before I find a featureless hotel on the main road. The proprietor reluctantly takes me in after I strike a properly portentous stance. "Call the police. Call the army," I dare him, "I am friends with the Captain and the General."

That night in my room I am too giddy with my new environs to sleep. After watching some pro wrestling on the static filled television (the first idiot box watched in many months) I pop a randomly selected bootleg DVD from Delhi into my laptop. The bootleg was produced by someone who videotaped the movie in the theatre and hence the screen is periodically obscured by patrons returning from the snack bar or headed to the restroom. English subtitles were added to the already English movie and are unintentionally comical in their inaccuracy. Interestingly, however, they provide insight into how an English-speaking South Asian might easily misinterpret an American's English. The transcriber, clearly not expecting to encounter anything of local relevance in the movie, mishears the very South Asian appellation Sameer (an Indian or Pakistani convenience store operator in the Boston based movie) as 'so we' on one occasion and 'the man here' on another. The italicized matter is taken verbatim from the subtitles.

Four Brothers

Oh okay, Darnelle. So the candy just happened to jump into your pocket?

Oh, okay, there are now, so the candy is just happened into your pocket, huh?

Sameer is going to call the police right now.

So we gonna call the police right now.

Is that the way you want to lead your life, huh?

Is there where you want to live in your life. huh?

I happen to believe that you're worth more. But you have got to believe it Darnelle.

I happened to believe that if you work more... Well, you're the police in turn now.

Are you bullshitting me?

Are you bullshit with me?

Now you tell Sameer.

Now you tell the man here.

So let's take a look at these Thanksgiving birds.

So, lets take a look at this thanksgiving birth.

Must have gotten off for good behavior.

He is good enough for good behavior.

Not likely.

Not like that.

I love you, man.

I love your hair.

Another model citizen, I'm sure.

Another mother suicide I'm sure.

I thought you said there were four?

The one just sitting in the floor?

Angel? Pretty boy. Ex-hustler...soldier. I guess he's a no show today.

Angel? Pretty bored. Ex-sailor, soldier, I guess he is not sure, I think.

In thirty years she only came across four lost causes.

I mean, 30 years, she only come across 4 lost of course.

Trust me, Fallow. These kids are congressmen compared to what they would have been.

Trust me, fellow, his kids are concluded compare to what they would.

But, I thought the mother was a saint.

But, I thought the mothers sick.