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No, thank
you.
Author: Luke Brown
Posted: 16 May, 2003
Before I came to Pakistan
I thought that being identified as an Australian might have its
drawbacks, due to the war in Iraq. But, as of yet, that has not
been the case. Rather, Australia's ground breaking win in the 2003
Cricket World Cup has been quite the conversation continuer, with
a western face the conversation starter.
"Ah, Australia. Congratulations on the World Cup! I must shake
your hand."
"Well, I can't take all the credit, but thank you anyway,"
I usually reply, nursing an imaginary sore bowling arm.
Pakistan is cricket mad. Nearly everyone has an opinion on the national
team (mostly its deficits) as well as the state of the international
game. And a day does not go by without some kind of cricket game
being played outdoors. A relative lack of specialist facilities
is no barrier when local parks, rubbish dumps or, in the case of
a game I played in Multan, back streets will do. And it is relatively
cheap, with only a bat, a ball (sometimes just a tennis ball wrapped
in tape) and some spare bricks or a milk tray as the stumps.
Like tea, cricket is a holdover from the time of British rule in
India. Pakistan's first ever test match series was on their tour
of the great enemy, India, over half a decade ago, which they lost
2-1. Cricket is cricket here, except when the opponent is India.
Even the world-wide respected Indian batsman Sachin Tendulkar has
been severely scorned by fans here. To not win the World-Cup (they
last won it in 1992 under Imran Khan), while a tragedy in its own
right, can eventually be forgotten, when India is defeated. Not
that that is going to happen anytime soon, with political rivalry
poking its ugly nose into sport, a planned tour by India of Pakistan
called off recently, as well as any games in the near future.
Habitually getting lost, despite the aid of a map and the size of
the town being no impediment, sometimes has its advantages, as I
stumbled upon a game being set up on my way back to my hotel one
afternoon and was promptly invited to join. I got my excuses in
early for my inevitable poor performance: "Guys, I'm just crap."
If they didn't quite know what I meant, they soon enough found out.
The back street in this case was squeezed in between a local park
and a house. Point was a wall a metre away, square leg a tree in
the park, mid-on a tea stand and (silly) slip in the middle of a
road. A decent whack in any direction but to your right brought
a four; if any part of a tree was not struck, a six; hitting a passerby
brought laughter and sledging a passerby respect.
It seems that nearly everyone I have spoken to in Pakistan for any
considerable length of time has either invited me in for a meal
or to stay at their house (but not marry their daughters). As it
was with the Multan Back Street Cricket Club in the living room
of one of my team after a few hours play, so it also was in Bahawalpur,
a couple of hours drive south from Multan. A large bazaar is the
focal point of Bahawalpur, around which a number of hotels and restaurants,
amongst other things, can be found. A typical bazaar in Pakistan
is much like a one-level shopping mall held outdoors, albeit grubbier
and without Kenny G playing on the PA system. To get around one
must navigate its narrow roads, pot holes and pathways, avoiding
the cars and bicycles that careen around the corners. As all shops
or stands are small, the employees are practically standing on their
doorsteps. This kind of environment makes it easier for them to
chat with their fellow tenants, next to and across the street. And
easier to spot those walking by. As did two merchants, who I'll
call Waqar and Ahmad. Ahmad immediately piqued my interest as he
wanted to talk politics, and Marx was not mentioned once. Specifically,
he was in the mood for government-bashing, which always warms the
heart. That he bashed them (his own) because they would not just
leave people to act peacefully and voluntarily, as opposed to just
leaving alone the "wrong" people, was the icing. Once
he got going he was difficult to stop, despite the best efforts
of Waqar to get a word in. For a few hours. And for once it was
not about Iraq, because I know where that can go. And then we ate,
courtesy of a relative, away from the bazaar.
I had been expecting to be proselytised in Pakistan at some point,
although I thought it would have come sooner and from perhaps someone
less overtly Westernised. Ahmad's relative gave Ahmad a good run
for one-way express conversation. His pitch was this. Islam is for
peace and the total submission to the Will of Allah. Through this
comes true happiness, the kind of happiness that comes from a life
lived well, a life where one treats another well. To treat someone
well is to be seen as good by Allah, and being seen as good by Allah
is the key to gaining immediate access to heaven once this life
has come to an end. In illustrating his point, he gave as an example
a man walking down a street. If a rock is in his path and you, knowing
that he may walk into its path and trip, do not do something about
it, then you have not done your duty as a Muslim. Similarly, as
a Muslim, it is your duty to tell others about your faith, because
if you do not, you have not done all in your power to put him on
the right path. So when a Muslim sees a stranger, he must act with
kindness, fitting in with the requirements of a good life. He summed
up the way he saw it: "The reason that I am being friendly
towards you and have taken you in and given you a meal is because
it is my duty." And I thought it was because of my bubbly personality.
To do something out of duty has the appearance of being clinical,
of going through the motions for an end; however his amiability,
curiosity and warmth were genuine.
You occasionally get some moments and conversations where you'd
like nothing better than to pause them, replay them a few times,
chuckle for a few minutes and then press play again. One of them
was during my conversation with Ahmad's relative. It centred on
his perceptions of the drinking habits of Westerners, some of them
quite accurate. Of course, as a diligent Muslim, he did not drink;
the corollary being that a Muslim who does drink is a "bad
Muslim." Not only that, but he told me that one of the teachings
of Muhammad is that if even a drop of drink is to fall on your shirt,
you are to get rid of that shirt. As it happened, a few hours later
I was to be joining Ahmad in a little spot of illegal drinking;
the Ahmad who was sitting behind his relative and a few degrees
to the right of my eyeline. It was akin to that scene out of Seinfeld
where Jerry and George are in the apartment of the NBC executive
and the executive's lovely daughter is in the room and leans over;
you can't help but look. Indeed, you have to look. I bit my lip.
The penalties for the consumption of liquor by a Muslim in Pakistan
are strict. Non-Muslims can officially drink in certain designated
areas, usually top-range hotels. But there are those Muslims who
choose to risk buying alcohol from the black market and consume
it illegally. One of these gettable alcoholic drinks is a local-made
whiskey, which comes in a white container, much like one can buy
vinegar in back home. Ahmad mixed it with water and coca-cola, and
we drank it out of tea cups, over a couple of hours. The best thing
one could say about its taste and quality is that the consequences
of being caught drinking it outweighed the consequences of drinking
too much of it. The night had a certain weirdness to it all, my
friends seemingly unperturbed by the risks they were taking. But
it was good, although a little melancholy in retrospect, drinking
with men essentially treated like boys.
One of the troubles of being a tourist in Pakistan, particularly
when visiting holy sites, is that one can easily turn into being
the attraction itself. It can be fun, for a few minutes, when everyone
turns to look and stare as if you are a rock star, but then rock
stars have a paid entourage, with limos and fawning female fans,
not a dissheveled bag with warm drinking water in it; besides, I
prefer jazz. About 75km out of Bahawalpur is the town of Uch Sharif.
Like Multan, it is an old town, pre-dating the arrival of Islam,
and also popular among pilgrims and ordinary Muslims alike, although
some of its impressive
structures are crumbling.
Most of its most important shrines are found in a fort-like structure
away from the town, next to some sketchy homes and farmlands. The
day I was there coincided with the excursion of a bus-load of families
from Multan, including one Haasnain, with his three kids from two
marriages (one arranged marriage and one "love" marriage).
After inspecting a couple of the shrines (one with a wooden ceiling
and dank interior, the other with an intricately engraved ceiling
complete with concrete tombs surrounding a grand shrine, mostly
encased in glass where pilgrims touched the cloth covering the tomb),
I made my way out to the smoothly stoned courtyard and sat on the
edge of its wall. Haasnain came over and introduced himself. A pleasant
and earnest man, with a bushy black beard, he was chiefly concerned
with making me feel welcome. He even went so far as to, after looking
at my sunglasses and gasping at their expense (ten dollars is a
lot of money to a Pakistani), to give me his pair, explaining, with
much embarrassment, that it was all he had to give me. That this
was really necessary, I decided not to directly question; that the
genuine hospitality I have experienced thus far is at times heartbreaking
is not under any doubt. That I had nothing to give him was even
more embarrassing. And then he asked me if we acted the same in
the West. Would we, for instance, care for a sick neighbour?
The best answer that I could give is that it differs from individual
to individual, circumstance to circumstance. If one is to generalise,
close to yes, but hardly quite on the same scale. The trouble with
generalisations though is that they sweep apparent exceptions under
the easy conclusion carpet. A case in point was an hour into a conversation
I had whilst down in southern Punjab. For the first hour the conversation
was brimming with curiousity, friendliness, insight and humour.
After the hour mark I was asked by this person what religion I was.
"Israel?" He meant Jewish.
"Well, I'm...."
"Jews are bad people. Muslims and Christians are friends. Not
Jews and Muslims. Not friends."
And there it was. A conversation of an hour, brimming with curiousity,
friendliness, insight and humour, would remain so, if my answer
was in the negative. If, however, my answer was in the affirmative,
presumably it would be rendered, in retrospect, not so; a fiction
and a figment of our imaginations. Strange.
Author: Luke Brown
Email: editor@polosbastards.com
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