Meals on Wheels September 20, 2006
Posted by KG in Dhaka, Food, Islamabad.1 comment so far
One of the coolest things about the Islamabad American Club was their scooter. We could pick up the phone, order food, and in 30 or so minutes, a scooter would appear at the consulate door with your order. It was great when strapped for sustenance, especially after a trip to the gym or a morning adjudicating visas.
Here in Dhaka, we’re all in the same building, so a walk to the canteen is quite easy. But! We’ve got our own unique pleasure: The Tea Cart. A nice Bengali gentleman walks around the floor with a cart stocked with various goodies throughout the day, including the eponymic tea, assorted pastries, candy bars, fruit, and so on. Pretty great for satisfying instantaneous cravings, and now I’ve developed a substantial tea habit. Not so bad that I get grumpy for lack of caffeine, but enough that when I see the cart I want my no-sugar, no-milk, slightly kora cha. 10 taka later (at current exchange rates: approximately 15 cents) I am a happy man.
Mehrans to the Left of me, Hiaces to the Right June 14, 2006
Posted by KG in FS Life, Islamabad.add a comment
There are some times when you're glad you've had that training about staying cool when situations are tough. And no, I'm not talking about public speaking gigs. Because there are other situations that are much, much worse. Such as, well, tonight. Where after being a good Samaritan and taking a stranded colleague from Kabul back to her way out of the way hotel, my car broke down in the middle lane of Jinnah Ave, a mile from home.
Of the wide roads in Islamabad previously alluded to, Jinnah is one of the worst. There are six obvious lanes that separate the only large commercial strip here, and that number at any given moment expands to about six on each side, populated by motorcycles, taxis, pedestrians, bikes, one legged flower salesmen, street sweepers, and various other regularly seen folk. Still, not a street to be avoided, and certainly not to be avoided at 2115. That is, unless your car breaks down at a stop light, with you trapped in a suit and tie. In other words, clearly not a Pakistani. The hidden red plates, American accent, and western hairstyle don't really help either.
Luckily, that "don't worry, this can be solved, be patient" instinct, practically beaten into me, kicked in. A quick call to the Embassy and a car was out to see what the problem was. He said my car overheated (no duh, that hood was steaming hot, I thought that was normal!), determined that I had an overtaxed battery, and got his massive armored SUV in a position to give me a jumpstart. It was a rather amazing move:
(note: nothing at all drawn to scale)
After the jump, he told me in mechanic's Urdu that the problem was probably with my radiator's water level and I should go to the Embassy mechanic tomorrow (for the Urdu inclined: "Apka radiator meh pani nehi hai. Kal, motorpool meh ayingay or hum apki gari ka masla fix kerengay.") And here I thought the smell of charred rubber when I got out of the car was the great Islamabad tire fire. In fact, it was my car's engine, slowly cooking itself. If I had known, I would have purchased some eggplants to roast on the hood. One more opportunity lost, I suppose.
On getting home safely, I saw that two of my guards were standing watch. It was their changing of the guards, though not nearly as ceremonial as the limey version (just a handing off of the one rifle, really.) I told them of my car tribulations and they clucked in sympathy, saying "I thought the car always smelled that way," (thanks guys) and offering a ride to my office on their shared bike tomorrow.
I had a post planned for the near future that I hoped was interesting and well written. Unfortunately, the hilarity of having my new used car break down in the middle of Islamabad Pakistan was far, far more blogworthy. In any case, I think the moral of the story is clear: never be a good Samaritan. Ever.
Let Me Go On June 10, 2006
Posted by KG in Islamabad.1 comment so far
In general, I am not a member of the sunburning peoples of the world. My mother has a complexion far fairer and burns easily, but I inherited genes from the other 3/4ths of the family, the darker set. This has been useful for many things, including eschewing use of sunscreen, facetiously saying "oh man, I am so pale right now" in the winter, and blending into the night like a ninja.
But I guess Pakistan didn't get that memo.
Since I've been here, I've burned a number of times. Its probably the heat, or maybe there's a hole in the ozone right above my head. The first was in Taxila, a site of Buddhist ruins where I climbed a few thousand steps, as well as seeing this gem of Pakistani craftsmanship. Predictably, I also burned a bit while up North. It got really bad last weekend though — after frisbee, I took a look at my arm and saw a thousand tiny blisters. An allergic reaction to horrible PIA food? Thankfully, no. It was just really bad and weird sunburn. And this morning, my arms started peeling like I was molting. Aren't you glad I don't have my camera?
So, to all my pale friends who I made fun of for slathering on sunblock and wearing stupid hats: I'm really, really sorry. I guess this is what I deserve for bring the mockery. Question: when will the itching end?
Saf Karna June 7, 2006
Posted by KG in Islamabad, Urdu.2 comments
Of the three guards posted at US Embassy Islamabad/Diplodocus House Annex, there's definitely one that's my favorite character. The young one is a bit lazy, the quiet one is quiet and always seems to be sprinting to get back to what he's supposed to be doing (guarding, that is), but the third is just hilariously awesome. For one, he's a former member of Pakistan's Frontier Constabulary, which is pretty hardcore by most military standards. He also may be the only former member of the Frontier Constabulary who wears eyeliner daily. Some sort of Pathan-Goth? I've never seen him out of uniform, but that's unlikely considering the tapes he tends to listen to are more of the Afghan folk song variety. According to the young one, he's an amazing shot, which makes me feel slightly safer. And every time I come home (when he's on duty), he lifts his right knee to his chin, stomps it as hard as he can, salutes me, and loudly says "Thank you sir!" (Maybe for doing an awesome parking job?)
But by far the best thing about my guard (though these things are all fairly great in their own right) is that despite his pedigree as a possibly Robert Smith worshipping, sharpshooting, incredibly martial Pathan, he considers his most important duty…
… washing my car. And like a man who truly loves what he does, he does it incredibly well. He started doing it completely unbidden and never once asked for a penny, but I pass him some extra Jinnahs anyway. Not exactly for the car washing. You see, the guard's name is Safdar, and "saf" in Urdu means clean (right, Urdu speaking readers?). So to recap: wears eyeliner, stomps a big right foot when he sees me, can probably take out a mountain goat at five hundred yards, loves to wash my car, and has a name that in an Urdu-wordplay related way belies his favorite duty. Character traits that combine to make one of the more awesome guys that I know here, not to mention one of the nicest as well. Well deserving of many extra Jinnahs, just for being so darn cool.
***
And yes, that's my new car. I know, you're all jealous of my 1993 Toyota Land Cruiser Turbo Diesel. So fresh and so clean.
Saal Girah Mubarak-ko May 29, 2006
Posted by KG in Family, Islamabad.4 comments
Saturday was the hottest day I've experienced thus far in my tour, a seriously scorching 47 degrees Centigrade. That's 116.6 degrees for you Fahrenheit fans, and for that matter aren't you a little embarassed that you use such an illogical system? (seriously, a zero point calculated by a mix of water and ammonium chloride? Baffling.)
Despite the heat, it was a great day, and really a great weekend here at Embassy Islamabad. Saturday was frisbee, house parties, and avoidance of the fact that it was my birthday. The Corona was flowing freely and everyone who knew was very good about not really mentioning it. Sunday (May 28th being the traditional kickoff date of Partying like a Rockstar all Summer, whose 2006 iteration has unfortunately been cancelled) was even better. Unfortunately, the day is also very hard to describe given the fact that the dramatis personae are only known to a few dedicated blog readers. But if that's how the Embassy does long weekends, I am really looking forward to Labor Day.
So: my 27th year begins in, of all places, Pakistan. Thankfully, there's no time for cheesy self serving retrospection. Instead, there's lunch to be had, and I think I'm going to go to the pool.
Happy birthday Dad!
Dead Milkmaiden May 18, 2006
Posted by KG in Islamabad.2 comments
When it comes to fun on a Wednesday night, there are few better options in Islamabad than going to a Turkish ballet-slash-opera performance. There's sitting at home watching the Armed Forces Network, sitting in the American Club watching the Armed Forces Network, or sitting at your desk working, wishing you were watching the Armed Forces Network. Which makes a performance of Turk fine arts pretty darn appealing.
On driving to the Turkish Embassy, I noticed the building's similarities to the high schools of Northern Virginia, all light stone, sleek marble floors, and rich visitors. In contrast to the American Embassy, which is more like the high schools of Baltimore County — dark brick, non-descript brownish halls, and few visitors. The grounds were equally impressive, with expansive green lawns and a large stage for cultural performances. All of this unfortunately increases the count of my "Why I'm Jealous of the Turks" list to one. I would have been wowed more except that the performance that later took place was less aesthetically beautiful and more utterly hilarious.
We were treated, first, to three ballet performances in the "classical," "demi-classical," and "modern" forms. That middle one I'm pretty sure is not a real classification, but I may be wrong. My knowledge of ballet comes only from my old crazy roommate and my sister's recitals when she was six. Thus my appreciation of the form is limited to basic observations, such as the relative size of the dude's quads (huge) and the pliability of the women (bendtastic). The second piece had some sort of plot to it involving a man, his wife, some plowing or perhaps sledgehammering, a ballerina sized baby, an old wet nurse being punched in the breast and I think dying, and a man carrying the ballerina baby in ways that traditional babies should not be carried. Catch all that? Yeah, me neither. But it was pretty funny. The first ballet performance, btw, was supposedly Swan Lake, nondescript, pleasant, and innocuous. The last was odd and made absolutely no sense to me, though the synopsis read as if it were a ballet remake of "Midnight Cowboy." Or something.
The opera — or as the program put it, folklorama, was even more hilarious, though probably unintentionally. First, my basic observation about the looks of Turkish people by the ballet suffered from the inference fallacy. The dancers were all lithe and attractive. The singers? Definitely not lithe. After the ballet I had been regretting not bidding higher on that Ankara job, but after seeing the singers performances… Anyway, the folk songs were plagued with equipment malfunctions of the microphone variety, and the songs were slightly irritating. The costumes and dances, in contrast, were awesomely comical. I loved the men's silver jackets. There were three (singers and jackets, natch), each slightly different. They were like the Turkish version of the three tenors crossed with a boy band. The awkward Riverdance on a sprained ankle movements of the singers were also so bad they were deliciously good.
The highlights of the evening were the speeches after the performance, given by the Turkish Ambassador and one of the sponsors. Both kept repeating "tomorrow the performance will be much better, we promise," apparently failing to realize that we had already paid $500 a table and would only come back the next day if promised belly dancers. Well me, anyway. The sponsor lady also alluded to the fact that this was one of the first times this kind of thing had ever been done in Pakistan, and that they were really trying hard, and you can't expect perfection the first time can you? Basically, a litany of excuses that made one want to scream "turn the mic off!" The Ambassador's best line was of the "we once had an Empire" ilk, which is always fun to hear.
All this must make it seem like it wasn't a good time. If that's the case, well, no, it wasn't a good time. It was great. We laughed, sat outside, watched people jump around, ate mediocre food (yes, out of character that I don't mention the food, but it was just mediocre after all), laughed some more, and got to see the Turk's beautiful compound. This is the kind of place where one has to make their own fun, and I think ten of us from the Embassy succeeded in doing so. A winning night in Islamabad, all around.
Brown is Brown May 13, 2006
Posted by KG in FS Life, Islamabad.4 comments
The commissary at Embassy Islamabad is great for the ConOffs here, because we're conveniently located right next door. Late afternoon trips for Diet 7-Up are thus very frequent. Now, the commissary works on a credit system: you hand them a check or some cash, they put it in your account, and afterwards you pay for your shopping by signing a little piece of paper. The system requires you to tell the cashier your name when you're checking out — but if you're a commissary regular, like the ConOffs, this ceases to be an issue. Unfortunately I have somehow not become a commissary regular. But not because I don't go there often (I absolutely do).
There are three South Asian Americans — aww hell, Desi is so much easier to write — that work here, a Pakistani American and two Indian Americans. We're all very different looking, though pretty much the same height. The other Indian handles the commissary portfolio, so is well known to the staff. Mr. PearlVendor, the Pakistani, is a Political guy, while I adjudicate visas. Very different jobs, different sections, and so on. But somehow, whenever I get a certain cashier at the commissary, he inevitably starts to process my order under Mr. PearlVendor's name. Especially odd considering my Political colleague has been sporting a rather large beard lately and goes to the commissary far less frequently than I do.
I think this implies that even to other brown people, all brown people look the same. Which I imagine makes living here totally confusing.
Kilim All May 10, 2006
Posted by KG in FS Life, Islamabad, Pakistan, Photos, Shopping.4 comments
To bring things back to a more positive note, I thought I'd share my latest and greatest purchases here in the IRP. My usual channels for spending money (or, more affectionately, "Jinnahs") are largely unavailable here, and quality antiquities, handmade crafts, and various textiles are far easier to obtain than Oregonian microbrews. The end result? Lots of good decorations for what will one day be a cluttered, schizophrenic home, and a smaller gut (inshallah).
One of my rug-selling friends knows that I'm headed to Uzbek-land eventually, and thought it prudent to tell me he had obtained an Uzbek tribal kilim, an item I haven't seen much of here. Now it graces my entryway, where I see it and often think "I could probably have bought this cheaper two years from now." Still, its unique and I've not seen many other people with them, and that alone makes it a good purchase.
The same dealer sold me this "chobi," a smaller rug that has yet to find its final resting place here. The dealer that sold it to me is a booster of locally made rugs, and this comes from his family's own production line. The cool thing about this rug is that there are no dyes in it. Instead, its all made of different colors of wool (presumably from different sheep, though maybe there's some sort of psychedelic multicolored sheep out here), and these colors will never run.
I've got two pieces I think are nomadic Baloch in origin: a pair of stuffed saddlebags (or probably more exactly, camelbags) and a rug that may or may not hail from Afghanistan. To tell the truth, I'm not sure of the origins of the one on the bottom, as it was a total on-a-whim purchase. Its in my house where a runner should be, since I haven't gotten around to buying one. I haven't found any runners that really catch my eye. Surprising, considering that most everything I've seen has caught my eye here.
I couldn't resist this prayer rug, which is also Baloch. The pattern is meant to mimic the traditional Muslim prayer posture, and in deference to that, this rug has to be somewhere where I can have the head and hands westward, towards the Kaaba. Most Baloch prayer rugs seem to only have a central line of symmetry, but this is the only one I've seen to actually have the shadow of the body as its pattern. Oddly enough, my definitely Moslem housekeeper doesn't seem to get this fact, and whenever he vacuums he gets the placement of the rug wrong.
Finally, a few things that are not meant for (as the good lady pointed out) my still very empty floors. In the back left, a British flask from the WWII era and an Egyptian teapot that from the style and workmanship is at least 50 if not 100 years old. No, neither will be used, but they are nice little additions to my tchotchke collection. In the foreground is my good friend Sri Ganesha, who has been traveling with me since my last trip to the Mother Country. He's sitting on an antique Kashmiri shawl, a piece I still regret showing my friends. Authentic ones are fairly tough to find here and now everyone knows where to get them.
Not pictured here is the rosewood chest I'm having custom made. Its on its way down from Peshawar and should be arriving any day now, secret drawers and all. There's still more furniture to buy, as well as more suits and shirts from my local guy — all with only 10 months left. Sigh. Whenever will I find the time?
Free advice for those who like that sort of thing (free advice, that is): cheap local crap is easy to find, but avoid it. You are far better off with a few beautiful things than a gaggle of cheap knick knacks. The exception is anything that can be classified as disco-esque. More on that to come (ooh, foreshadowing!).
Children… Future May 5, 2006
Posted by KG in Food, Islamabad, Pakistan.5 comments
A couple of nights ago a colleague invited us to a sneak preview of a new restaurant his Filipina cook and her sister were opening. It was all the way out in F11, which in DC terms is inviting people who live in Dupont out to eat in Nebraska. Not in terms of distance, mind you, but in terms of urbanization. At an abrupt point in Islamabad (see the blue line in the figure below), clear development ceases to exist and what was a planned grid starts looking more like "the willage."
The drive out wasn't that bad (see yellow line figure below — staring point noted in the lower right in the Diplomatic Enclave), at least in the Pakistan sense of driving not being bad. Two or three swerves to avoid motorcycles, one inexplicable traffic pattern correctly navigated, four or five one legged beggars waved away. But man, was it far. A more literal minded direction-giver could have said "drive southwest, and at the end of civilization turn right."
When we got there, we walked in to see that it wasn't a restaurant — it was a preview party in the woman's house. We sat around eating her food in her living room on her couches — all 10 or so of us. Her daughter and various siblings/relatives filtered through the house while we enjoyed a delicious repast of glass noodles, lumpia, spring rolls, and melon juice. Then started the karaoke.
Karaoke in a fully lit room with strangers, half acquaintances, coworkers, and anonymous Filipinos isn't like it sounds: its even more uncomfortable. But a few brave souls stood up to sing various tunes. The highlight was diminutive cousin/friend of the hostess (I had no idea there were so many Filipinos in Pakistan) named Rosie singing "The Greatest Love of All." It was an impressive rendition – the auto-scorer on the Karaoke machine gave her a 92.
All of us left for home around 9, starting our long drives back to the known world. I elected to take a different route than I had come in on (for varieties sake), the northeast-bound road on the upper edge of the city incorrectly referred to as Margalla (real name: Khayaban-e-Iqbal). Before the civilization mark (see blue line in figure) there were no full strength street lights. There were, however, numerous jingle trucks plodding along, obeying the "headlights optional" rule that everyone here got the memo about except me. Oh, and also the usual menagerie of small and rickety vehicles one sees on the road here, half completed apartment buildings reflecting ambient light, and motorcyclists following the universal motorcyclist rule of "make your own lane and go". It wasn't anything I hadn't seen before, so navigating the unforseen hazards wasn't particularly difficult. Until a mysterious brown-black blob (see brown blob on figure) lumbered slowly onto the road. I wasn't going too fast (this is Pakistan and the pothole factor makes me drive way slower than usual) but definitely fast enough to have hit the blob and caused damage to it. It turned out to be a cow, and by pure luck driving prowess I managed to honk my horn and swerve enough to get the cow out of the way and keep maintain my car's structural integrity. The rest of the drive was uneventful and mercifully easy.
To recap: ending up at some stranger's far off house to eat dinner on their couch. Karaoke with random Filipinos and Whitney Houston (unmentioned: Judy Garland, Los Lobos, Van Morrison). Near collision with cattle, for the first time ever. Funny that that occured here in the IRP, as opposed to other places where road-cattle are far, far more numerous. At the end, just another day, as surreal as any other here in the Land of the Pure.
