Flying Home

2009-03-05T07:37:00.000-08:00

By Sarwar Sukhera

I have lived overseas, off and on, for thirty years of my adult life. Despite the obvious advantages of civic order and opportunities that the western hemisphere holds, nostalgic memories of one’s childhood and adolescence make one yearn to relocate back to one’s homeland.

I have just relocated back to Pakistan for the umpteenth time. Once again, I wish I had been born somewhere else!

Some people never learn from experience, and I am one of them. Pakistan appeared so exciting a place to me. It has spectacular bomb blasts, not to mention the magic of corruption turning the impossible into the legally possible. While road ingénues manage to worm ahead of traffic on congested roads, the appearance of VVIP cavalcades turn a hustling, bustling city into the frozen frame of a DVD. Top it off with lively protest marches, political slogans blaring in unison, tires barbecuing on the road-side, grocery stores closed to punish those with well-stocked refrigerators, and you have all the ingredients of an action-packed film with a touch of black comedy. Who can resist going to the sets to watch the filming of such a blockbuster? Once again I succumbed to temptation and couldn’t resist returning.

Patriotism demands that we fly by PIA, also because no one else does. The airline must be doing fantastic business since all its flights are always fully booked regardless of a date or destination. The reasons routinely given are: School holidays, Haj season, wedding season, summertime vacations, while winter is traditionally a convenient time for expatriates to visit families back home and, at times, even excuses like the excitement generated by a new batch of senators and people rushing back to Pakistan to watch the spectacular oath-taking ceremony. Reports about the airline losing money appear as a clever ploy to wangle money out of the IMF and the naive ‘Friends of Pakistan’. It’s only when you board a plane that you find it half empty.

I get to the airport way earlier than advised with the determination of getting a window seat this time. Once again they’re all gone, reserved by wizards who had not yet made it physically to the check-in counters. I present the ticket putting on an act of being unwell, having bad back, point to my hip joint that needs replacing, and even make up a story of knowing President Zardari personally. I pleadingly look towards the station manager who is busy on the phone assuring someone not to worry about any extra baggage or a seat, but all to no avail.

I hold the boarding card sullenly that shows I might have to strap myself to the tail of the plane and head for the assigned gate, on the way picking up a book with an attractive cover and interesting title. I soon find out the short reviews printed on the back of the cover were written by the Indian author’s American friends with hopes to see the Taj Mahal. I sit and wait to board while cursing myself for not knowing the right people at the right places.

It is a long wait and finally the flight is announced. Passengers with children are asked to come forward. Bunches of ten or more adults with every child make up the front of the line. It is the first time I find out that it takes ten adults to produce one child. Next in line in priority come the sick and invalids. That’s when I catch sight of Butt Sahib riding a wheelchair. I often saw him at the gym and envied his stamina on the treadmill. He winks at me and gloomily hangs his head as if he is being wheeled to an operation theatre for a serious surgery.

The two matronly-looking stewardesses at the entrance of the plane are chatting about a movie they watched the night before, oblivious to the passengers boarding the plane. People rushing around looking for assigned seats remind me of kids playing treasure-hunt. Overhead compartments are jammed with carry-on baggage that make one wonder why the designers never thought of building the main cargo area overhead instead of down there in the belly of the plane.

Female passengers dressed—not for a long-haul flight but for a wedding—are amusing to watch. It's easy to tell first generation immigrants from the way they are dressed up, with dark suits and ties, on such international flights. They are the ones who will be asking you to fill out their custom forms near the end of the journey. Casually dressed young men and women with amicable mannerism are either going home after completing their studies or to get married to their first cousins and return to jobs in the banking and IT industries.

The continuous howling of rowdy children and untended infants assures me that I have taken the right flight. Another common practice on PIA is people swapping seats en mass. Business Class is usually reserved for airline employees or ministers of the ruling political party. Sometime you see them strolling back smugly as if they were inspecting the guard of honour. I have read in the Book of Pakistani Etiquette never to smile or say ‘hello’, but to stand up and salute them when they look at you condescendingly.

I love the dry and crispy surface of the piping hot food served on the plane. You know instantly that it is no ordinary airline quality food but of a rare vintage that has been stored for ages just for you. The aroma of ethnic food mixed with the stench of sweat coming from fellow passengers reminds me of Indo-Pak ghettos back in the country I had been so keen to leave. Having a personable lady sitting next to me in the airplane is yet another fantasy unrealized—quite like winning a lottery, getting romantically involved with an Indian movie star or being a sportsman of international recognition.

The haughty attitude displayed by the cabin crew is a clear sign of them being government officers with discretionary powers and not mere employees of some commercial organization. One doesn’t ask, but begs for a glass of water. Someone with a brilliant sense of humour must have come up with the ‘great people to fly with’ tagline.

The entertainment provided on the scuffed and scratched tiny screens on the back of a seat in front of me is an ingenious way of luring the audience back to PTV. However, the plays are so ancient that you begin to wonder whether you are riding in a recently acquired and much touted new model of an airplane or Noah’s ark. As for the audio channels, one can take only so much of qawali and Mehdi Hasan. Why, I have often walked out hungry from dinner parties where ghazal singing goes on till the liquor runs out.

I pull myself out of the confines of a narrow seat that was originally designed to carry an infant in a car. I carefully squeeze past the fellow passengers in a deep slumber. I need to stretch my cramped legs and also to join the social club that has formed near the toilets. Some people are chatting cheerfully while others twist and turn to hold on till the occupant of a toilet finally decides to come out. The toilet is a mess with water everywhere and tissue paper littering the floor. The good Muslim who was there before me had obviously been performing wuzoo. That makes me think why an airline of an Islamic country like ours does not have a proper wuzoo place and a small mosque in one area of the plane. Pilots are growing beards in increasing numbers. They make announcements informing us of our location on the map. Why can’t they also recite the azaan on the public address system? In fact, constructing a symbolic minaret on the plane will reflect our religious zeal and make Jihadis of all brands proud of the flying mosque.

President Obama ought to consider the idea of Flying Mosques to appease and neutralize the Taliban when strategizing his ‘War on Terror’. The drone attacks not having succeeded, this just might.

As we touch down, the flight from Toronto to Lahore does not seem as long as it did when we were somewhere in the sky. We begin to disembark and I see a few people holding placards with names written on them. The named are obviously from the privileged class and, thus, exempted from going through customs and immigration. Yes, we have landed in Pakistan. Welcome home.

Msukhera2000@yahoo.com

Taj Mahal, Agra , India

2009-03-03T08:01:00.001-08:00

By Prem Singh

Taj Mahal: An eternal symbol of Love!
I was there on 18 February, 2009.

Entrance Gate to Taj Mahal
.

A view of Taj Mahal
.

Photographing Taj Mahal
.

Another view of Taj Mahal, The Crown Palace

Prem Singh

Holi Tour: Updates and Short Weekend Package

2009-03-02T10:16:00.001-08:00

An update on the Holi tour, for those who want to come, please register by Monday 2 March evening at the latest, since the tour leaves on Thursday and bookings are to be made in time.

The details are as given here:
http://www.redearthindia.com/events/holi09/holitourdetails.pdf

We have been getting a lot of requests from people who are unable to join the full tour, and would like to join the tour on Saturday and Sunday only, for that, we have made a special package, the details for which are below:
http://www.redearthindia.com/events/holi09/holitourdetailsshort.pdf

Looking forward to hear from you,

Himanshu Verma

Hola Costa Rica!

2009-02-25T09:00:00.000-08:00

By Ayesha Durrani

These photos are from the ferry ride over to Nicoya Coast from Pentarenas. We drove for a few hours on dirt roads to get to Mal Pais where i am now at my hostel.

The roads we drive over are bad, some dirt, and we don't have seatbelts in the back row so we are being thrown around the van along with our (very loud) backpacks.

There can be no sleep, instead we simply pause to watch the grace around us, listen to the crickets who manage to be louder than the violent winds coming in through every open window and the about-to-break-down car sounds. It is almost 9, the darkness sits thick outside the van and it is still just slightly too hot, the air is like flowers, we all became aware at once that we were smiling the whole way.

My head had been stuck out my window for at least ten minutes; I have never ever seen so many stars. I didn't know that you could from Earth. It is like when I found out, upon receiving my first pair of glasses, that you could see the moon's craters from Earth. So it seems that this new air and new life is making me see more clearly as well, because above us is a blanket of stars.

They remind me of the view from our third flight, they remind me of the lights of the towns we saw as we flew over Nicaragua. A sprinkling of candles too many to count. So I see the sky now as another country, or a province, something where there is clearly life.

I felt when I arrived last night that I had turned away from the warmest things in my life. I see now that this was a disloyalty to my self, to my personal evolution, to the voyage I have known I needed to take for a long time. If I've lost anything, I accept the loss. Now I aim to allow the violent wind coming in through the car window to lead me, I want to whirl continually according to it's circuits.

Some time back I knew I had to leave Vancouver, I felt a voyage just around the corner, I felt it give off heat and kiss my nose and cheeks. I'm here now, opening to it.

Ecclesiastes

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

Photos by Ayesha Durrani
beachcombersparadise@gmail.com

Uddari Travelogue

Flying Home

Taj Mahal, Agra , India

Holi Tour: Updates and Short Weekend Package

Hola Costa Rica!