It’s snowing again. Sometimes I feel like I am about to get over my weariness of all this snow. The sun comes out, water runs underneath the huge white mounds everywhere that have grown and grown over the winter, but even then — it’s only to freeze and leave tiny skating rinks here and there. A few weeks ago, while helping my roommate film a movie for class, riding our bikes, I found myself suddenly lying on cold glass of what was supposed to be the sidewalk. It happened twice actually — only one of the times was almost on purpose. What amazed me the most was how quickly and painlessly I went from being on top of a bike, to being right down on the ground, sitting on my bum or lying on my back with the bike out in front of me. I imagine the long line of traffic waiting at the light had quite the time laughing at the show I was putting on. Thankfully my roommate and I were also able to have a good laugh, bent double, my sides aching, trying to imagine what I must have looked like. I only wish I had been filming at the time.
I’m tired of defrosting windows and sitting in a cold car waiting, shivering until I can see enough of the road to start driving. I’m tired of coats and layers. And what are the benefits of all this snow? We’re not even on top in the Olympics! At least the Jamaican bobsled team has nice warm beaches to go back to after their time at the Olympics, but us? We have snow; and a sky that has the runs and can’t manage to hold it through till the next autumn. Instead it’s intermittent dumps of snow, again and again and again. But really, I shouldn’t complain. Winter can be beautiful at times. I do enjoy seeing the trees after a fresh snowfall, or watching the sun glitter off the little ice crystals that blow in the wind some brisk mornings.
Every season has its ups and downs. Personally I prefer the ups and downs of summer, especially here in Canada where it never quite gets hot enough to suffer. Summer in Alberta is like winter in the Sindh — pleasant. But, I guess I’ll have to live through it, make the most of winter and try to enjoy it’s beauty, even when that beauty decides to attack my face every time I step out of a warm building.
Photo credit: Stephen Wiley (2014)
I’ve been meaning to change the name of my blog for quite a while now. I only meant “Something Different” to be a kind of interim title until I could think of something better. I had been playing around with different possibilities for quite a while, but nothing really seemed to stick. Finally, while sitting in McDonalds at the Karachi airport with my parents, the new name came.
I have owned the same pair of sandals for as long as I can remember. Not the exact same pair, but the same style — I just buy a bigger size every time I grow out of them. They’ve gone with me everywhere. I’ve picked up huge thorns in them dozens of times, snapped the straps on some and worn other pairs right down till I could feel the road on my bare heel. I love them. They’re comfortable. After a number of years, my sandals (I actually call them chapals, as they’re called in Pakistan) have become even more significant to me. They bring back all kinds of memories from growing up.
They make me think of the dust that would cover my feet while I played outside, until I would finally wash them off with a hose and see those strange white toes peeking out at me. They remind me of the intense heat in the summer, when wearing shoes is just plain silly. I always wished my sandals had been part of my school uniform when I was little, instead of the hot, stuffy shoes I had to wear. Besides, you never have to polish blue, rubber sandals. I would have probably been barefoot outside all the time if it wasn’t for the sharp rocks and bits of garbage that were everywhere outside. My sandals remind me of arguments with my mum over whether or not the floppy, blue things were really church-worthy attire. I tried so many times, but I always lost. After being in college in Canada for over a year, and with my parents on the other side of the world, I did actually wear them to church once, in an act of rebellious defiance and newfound freedom. I suppose that’s one of the privileges of being an adult.
While visiting my parents over Christmas, I remember being told the news that my younger brother, Stephen had recently bought a different pair of sandals — not the blue ones. I remember voicing all kids of complaints, pretending to be so crushed by this break in his loyalty to our blue sandals (it’s been a tradition for both of us). I wasn’t seriously heart-broken, but there was a little part of me that was genuinely disappointed. It was serious history. Thankfully when we picked him up that evening from the airport, we found out that he hadn’t actually bought a new pair. There had been a miscommunication. He had actually decided to wait and look for sandals in the Sindh, because he couldn’t find the blue ones up north. My faith in my little brother was restored.
The fact that both of us have always had the exact same pair of sandals has been a little bit of a problem at times, but we’ve always managed. It used to be that we could tell the difference because mine were always the bigger ones, but those days came to an end quite a few years ago. When in doubt, we could always tell them apart by putting a pair on. The rubber sandals have a way of forming to your feet, so putting on my brother’s would mean I could tell straight away that they weren’t mine — their strange surface feeling like a foreign species to my toes. Sometimes we would take each others on purpose, or wear one of each, just to hear the other shout, “Give me back my chapals now! Yours feel so weird!” This last time we were home, Stephen decided it would be easiest to just write his initials on his pair, since they were both fairly new and hadn’t had time to get worn-in.
So, after all these years of my love story with my blue sandals, I was all ready to get onto the plane at the end of my Christmas break and fly back to Canada wearing my blue sandals. I had put on a collared shirt, and a nice pair of pants, because wearing at least semi-formal clothing when travelling tends to gain you a little more respect and friendliness. It was then that my mum made the comment “You know Josh, you’d look like a normal foreigner if it wasn’t for those silly Sindhi chapals.” Finally I had my blog name. I really would look like any other foreign businessman if I had decided instead to wear a pair of nice dress shoes. But instead, my façade of being Western was destroyed with my blue sandals. They have a really hard time matching with any and everything I wear — though I try hard to ague that they do.
The sandals aren’t really Sindhi. I’m pretty sure they sell them all over Pakistan. But I’ve never actually bought them anywhere other than the Sindh. Not only that, but all the memories associated with them take me back to my years growing up in the Sindh, playing in the streets with friends and running around in my blue chapals. They’re just one little reminder of the fact that, although almost everything about me makes me look like I should be a Canadian, my silly blue sandals make sure that something about me is always a little different. I just hope they keep making these sandals, because if they ever stop, I’m not really sure what I’ll do.
I recently had some troubles with my car. One of the tires had developed a bulge, (which I didn’t realise at the time) and the whole car would wobble a little and tend to one side. It stressed me out. I had only recently got back from Pakistan and I was jet-lagged and tired. On top of this, I had just begun classes, which is always overwhelming, as students get bombarded with outlines of our assignments for the semester. On days like these I find myself going back to my room after class, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling wondering, how am I ever going to get through this?
Of course, it’s not actually as huge a mountain as it seems — it’s just a bit of an information overload. I think that’s often why God tends to keep us hanging in life, never revealing too much of the future. He knows we wouldn’t be able to handle the whole picture. Instead He gives us enough of a glimpse ahead to know where to put our foot next, but other than that, we’re left in the dark. I don’t always mind the dark, because I know if I could see everything ahead of me, I’d probably go lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling forever. In fact, I might decide it’s just not worth getting out of bed at all.
Life can often be overwhelming, even in the little things. As I went through my first week, trying to muster up the energy to make a simply call, find a mechanic, and get my car looked at, I felt a little anxious. It was just a lot for me to handle, along with everything else that was going on. Tiny things in my day seemed like massive hurdles, as if anything on top of what I already had to go through would be the final straw for me. Sometimes I felt like a pressure cooker, ready to blow. Parents experience this stress a lot. I can remember times when I was little when, after one tiny issue, one of my parents would reach their limit. All the stresses that had been building up over time would burst. Suddenly a torrent of emotions would come gushing out, with a long list of all the tensions that had all been piling up within. I feel like it happens more often for moms. But I can sympathise. I don’t even have kids and I have days when I feel like I’m at the end of my rope. The smallest most unrelated event can often be the pin for the grenade that’s been slowly forming itself inside.
Thankfully it doesn’t always have to explode. I did finally get my car looked at. And two days later I had new tires on, and my heart was a thousand times lighter. I had been worrying that it would be something bigger in the suspension or steering, but thankfully it wasn’t. Tires are easy to replace. Not cheap, but easy. My long list of things that were going wrong in my life were suddenly all forgotten — because most of it really came down to the car. It’s interesting how that happens. Layer upon layer of stresses add themselves onto each other, all piled on one central problem. And once that single stress is removed, suddenly you realise the simple cause for all this turmoil, making everything else feel unbearable.
I may feel like a real idiot at times, but I’m glad things worked out the way they did. I’m glad I needed to learn to just go and get things dealt with. I wish I would have done it earlier. Now I know. Hopefully next time I have a problem, I’ll just deal with it before it gets to the point where it becomes overwhelming. I’m glad I’m learning, even though sometimes I would give anything to just have my problems solve themselves in my sleep. But God knows that I wouldn’t learn anything that way. He knows that I have growing to do, and though He doesn’t often make it painless, He is always faithful to walk with me through it. On top of this, I’m glad I have friends and family that are there for me too. Sometimes I just need people who are willing to talk to me and listen to me, while I unload the things that feel I can’t carry, only for me to pick them back up again after and get them dealt with. I’m so thankful for the listeners in my life.
While I was home in Hyderabad, some family friends and the boys of my family took a trip down to the Indus River. We don’t go out to the river very often. In fact, we usually just go to show it to people who are visiting at the time. This time, as we drove out to the Indus and over the big barrage, it reminded me of earlier days — of the times we would go as a family, to a swimming pool further down the road. We would load into the car with our towels, books and toys and drive down the familiar road, enjoying the cool breeze. Once there, we would switch into our swim trunks in the neglected change rooms, watching the wasps closely as they buzzed around the warm window, or hid themselves in the cracks of the doorways to the toilets. Going to the bathroom was dangerous.
We would leave wet footprints all over the hot concrete around the pool as we made our leap into the water, calling for attention from our parents, who were trying to relax and read on the side. Around the edge of the pool were hollow, stainless steel railings, and we kids would go to opposite sides, shouting and making silly sounds through the pipes to each other, or would try to blow water from one end to the other. It never worked. In the very early days we could get food there — usually french fries or pop. I would always have a Fanta. I rarely do anymore. I think I’m afraid that it won’t be the same. The pool eventually changed management with the departure of the British engineers who had lived there, and over the years it became green and cloudy. More and more of the areas were closed, and when the bottom of the pool eventually disappeared into the emerald haze, we finally stopped going altogether.
There at the river, the dark blue water was low in the river bed, and a few of the gates on the barrage had been opened to allow the buildup of silt to be cleaned out of them. They too had suffered through years of neglect. The British may have left some negative marks in Pakistan, but their influence left some quality infrastructure behind. Unfortunately their departure has meant neglect and disrepair for many buildings and systems around Pakistan. The barrage is one of these. Climbing down the steep steps on the bank of the river, we made our way across the flat expanse of sand toward the thin channel that the Indus had become at that point in its journey. There it was still and quiet. The sun hung low in the sky, throwing small shadows over the ripples in the sand as we walked along.
I kept my eyes focused on the ground, falling behind the rest as I stooped to pick up two halves of a clam shell in the sand. I had forgotten that shells could be found in the riverbed. I suppose having only seen them in the ocean before, I didn’t expect them here. With the shells in my pocket, I continued along, keeping an eye out for more. Before long I found another, bending to pick it up from the sand. It was small, and as I ran my fingers across its surface, the outside of the shell flaked like old paint on a wall. It wasn’t nearly as big as the others and, with its peeling surface, I was just about to toss it back down into the sand when I stopped myself. I ran my thumb over its rippled flaking surface again. It was so imperfect — so perfectly imperfect.
Sure, it wasn’t large, or very smooth. It was small and simple. It had its imperfections. It wasn’t the picture-perfect shell I had been looking for, but that didn’t make it worthless. Did I really want a flawless, picturesque shell anyway? In some ways it was the fact that the imperfections existed that made it valuable. It was real. It was raw.
My experiences, my home, my life — have all been like that shell. They came with aspects that weren’t always perfect or pretty. They came with imperfections. Is Pakistan a bed of roses or the first choice for luxurious living? No, but I love it. It’s beautiful. That shell is beautiful too, with its patterned exterior peeling and chipping away. It’s beautiful, imperfections and all.
There was only one shell that came home with me in the end. I left the others to keep the smallest one. Now it sits in a little clay dish on my desk in my room as a reminder. Something doesn’t need to be perfect in life for it to be valuable. In fact, it rarely is. Life, experiences, places and people all come with issues and disappointments. Make the best of the them, because there’s beauty in the imperfections.
Though I’m not actually in Pakistan now, I had a number of posts which I wrote while I was there and didn’t have time to post. As a result, I will be writing about my time there for a few more posts, which might be interrupted by others in between. Thanks for reading!
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Slimy, Stinky Fish
Wet covers the ground as men, wrapped in shawls, make their way around the piles of fish that lie everywhere. No one has time to stop and gawk at the three oddly-placed foreigners making their way around the press of people. All are busy doing their own business, rushing to buy their fish and get them out to the public. Carts make their way through the crowd, their pushers shouting at whoever stands in the way as they stop constantly for the men squeezing through the small gaps in the mass. One man makes a loud wailing sound, like a siren on an emergency vehicle, as he pushes though. It works for ambulances, so he figures it can’t hurt to put it to use for his fish cart. Others are almost ploughed over as they stand around the piles, only just dodging the carts as they check the mounds of fish. One wheelbarrow, left unattended, is knocked over in the hubbub, but thankfully manages to keep its fish from sliding out onto the ground.
The fish are all so varied. Some of the piles are full of bright pink fish, with yellow streaks colouring their fins like an early sunrise. There are huge fish too —tuna maybe (I’m not very knowledgable when it comes to fish) that look like it would take the full strength of one man just to lug one of the slippery bodies to wherever it needed to go. There are sole, and other fish that look like they spent their lives lying flat on their side at the bottom of the ocean, staring up at the strange world above them. There are others that have large red balloon-like bulges sticking out of their mouths, as if their stomachs exploded out of their bodies on the way up from the water. There are long eels, brilliant blue parrot fish, and barrels of shrimp and prawn, with their tiny black eyes and long wispy appendages. My brother and I glance around at the different fish, having to constantly keep moving, for fear of being run over by the traffic of carts and wheelbarrows all around us. It’s like being in the Sea World of Pakistan.
I’ve never been to Sea World, and I won’t even pretend I know what it’s like. I know its nothing like the Karachi fish market, but all the same, it’s an amazing experience to see the display of sea life — dead. It’s kind of an oxymoron when you think about it. Dead sea life. This is the kind of fishing my dad likes, where everything is already caught for you, sorted in nice little piles. My brother seems to be the only one of us blessed with enough patience to enjoy fishing – though I’m not sure why that patience can’t be put to use in any other areas of his life. I really don’t mind fishing, just like I don’t mind sitting, with my feet in the water, watching and talking, while my brother does all the fishing. I think I would enjoy it even more if I could have a pot of chai with me as well.
While we walk through the market, a wheelbarrow of stingrays passes me on my side, just giving me a glimpse of their flat, grey bodies and long, thin tails. I remember the time we found a stingray on the beach —tired and half dead (or half alive, if you’re being optimistic). Scooping it up with a shovel, we waded into the water and tossed it into the waves, making sure we bravely screamed and ran the other way, so the all-but-lifeless stingray didn’t manage to get us while we stood there in the water.
In the fish market, everyone carries a slimy wicker basket — on carts, wheelbarrows, rickshaws and by hand. A man goes by us with a slimy basket in each hand, a giant tail sticking out of one end, as his shoulders droop with the weight of his fishy cargo. I wonder if there is a special supplier of these slimy fish baskets. I wonder if the fishermen are outraged when they get a new one, because it doesn’t come slick and slippery like all the ones they are used to having.
Stinky, slimy, noisy and busy, the fish market is a must-see for anyone wanting a display of ocean creatures. Roll up your jeans and slop your way through the a raw museum of the Indian Ocean’s dead sea life. For anyone security conscious, this is the place for you. No terrorist would ever look for foreigners there, or even follow you in, for that matter!
My brother Stephen and I cleaning up the shrimp back at the hut
