Tag: Pakistan

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Old Friends and Frozen Feet

Sometimes you forget that you have been missing things until you’re enjoying them again. This weekend I had the wonderful pleasure of having Daniel visit me in Red Deer for the weekend. After a crazy lack of proper directions and almost no arrangements of when, where and how to meet each other, he made it into the front doors of the college late Friday evening to meet me while I lounged, waiting in flip flops on the window sill of the main hallway, catching the strange looks of those passing by.

For so long I had been looking forward for this wonderful chance to spend time together and hang out again, yet when it actually came, I hardly noticed it was unusual to have Daniel around. The good memories of the past seem to lapse into familiarity in moments, no matter how long you have gone without them. We spent our time catching up over cups of tea, wonderful food, chopstick walrus teeth and far-too-late bed times with make-shift sleeping arrangements. I was only glad for my health’s sake that we don’t get to hang out all the time, or these dark lines under my eyes would soon become permanent residents of my face.

Thankfully we managed to do everything that we had planned for the short weekend, including a children’s story book about Mr. Poo, a character Daniel created back in high school, and a picture of us painted with mud, baring our arms and teeth as we stood shirtless and shoeless in the snow. For some reason the idea of being barefoot in the snow didn’t actually seem that terrible to me. I had this strange idea that it would be almost too cold to feel properly, or that it would take a minute or two for my feet to actually realize what was going on. Unfortunately, feet have a very apt sense of temperature, and after a couple quick pictures we slipped our snow covered toes back into our shoes and ran shivering back to the residence buildings.

Time went so quickly, it seems like a dream now that I think of it. Daniel is back to Saskatchewan, and my college life resumes with a blasé normality. And yet, we had a wonderful time – reminding ourselves of past antics in boarding and the all the crazy things we did during our time in Pakistan. I forgot just how much we packed into those few years. It wasn’t until we were explaining it to a friend, who generously hosted us for Saturday evening and all of Sunday, that I realized just how insane our ‘exploits’ sounded to a outside listener. Flaming arrows, fish cremations, riots in dorm halls, evading bedtimes and burning snow-witches. They were good memories. They still are, and with old friends around, these old memories are exchanged, cherished and brought back to life again.

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Some Suzuki Adds

I had a good laugh today, reading some car adds from Islamabad, Pakistan, all advertising their Suzuki Bolan’s which they wanted to sell. I thought I would share them, to spread the joy a little.

The first one might be a little lame if you don’t know what a dibba is.

dibba noun : 1. a small container. 2. may refer to a dinky tin car

“i want to sale suzuki bolan carry dibba. 100% genuine condition. rawalpindi number. demand 650,000”

And another…

“i wana sale my bolan van
alwoy rims new tire gud condection no work just drive”

And the best of all. I still haven’t quite figured out the last portion of this add. I tried very hard, but I’m afraid language has its limits.

“CARRY SUZUKI BOLAN ARJANT for sale NEW TAIER ORIGNAL BOOK GOOD CONDATION ALOS ALLKI TACHING BAHAR SEA ONLY UNDAR SEA JUNION ALSO OK GOOD ANY TIME CALL  LOCATION SEHALLA RAWALPINDI”

Hope that made your day!

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Dishes, Dry Yourselves

I’m not quite sure what psychological phenomenon happened to me when I was young, but I hate drying dishes.

When I was younger and would have to wash the dishes at home, I think I hardly ever dried the dishes at all. In fact, I think I could probably count on my fingers the amount of times I dried the dishes. And I think I could even carry that over to putting the dishes away. How did that happen?

When I recollect my various times of doing the dishes, I remember someone would always clear the dish rack for me while I ran the water. It was not because I was unable to, but I always remember wither my mum or my dad telling me that they would clear the dish rack for me while I started. I can hardly remember a time when I actually had to put the dishes away.

Another factor that played into my strange dish-washing psychology is the fact that we have a huge dish-rack at our house. Large, and with three levels, one hardly had reason to run out of space for dishes and, if planned well, one could cram a piles of dishes into the space that was there. Besides, on rack, the dishes simply dried themselves, by no effort my own.

And so, somehow, from these various elements that made up my dish washing history, I spawned an aversion to drying dishes. I really don’t mind to wash them – in fact I find it a relaxing, almost therapeutic exercise – just don’t ask me to dry them.

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The Choices That Make Us

I yearn for pieces of my past – perhaps because they are pieces of me. Something as simple as eating my rice with my hands while sitting cross-legged on the couch – I love it.

These things never had this much importance to me. I certainly didn’t eat with my hands every day in Pakistan. But there’s something about it – something nostalgic that transcends experience. I find that I feel a greater desire to live stereotypes – to fulfill every expectation of the displaced immigrant, pining for home. I become that person. I choose to become him.

Everyone has their aspirations. Everyone wishes they were different in some way, whether for better or for worse. And there comes a time, or we can make it come, when we are faced with a choice to live that person. In many ways it really just comes down to that, a choice. Some people make it. They dress as if from another world, or act like they are from another time. They live and breathe a persona that they themselves invented, and eventually chose to live. They become that persona, that character.

I’ve never quite understood those people. The people who cut a path apart from everyone else. But I see the method in it. I too make choices that comprise who I am – we all do. Sometimes I even shape my surroundings with the hope that somehow they will bring me to be the person I want to be. That perhaps surrounding myself with books will make me read them, and that putting notebooks on my shelves, I will be forced to write in them.

Ultimately everyone makes choices of who they are. In many ways we are shaped by the world around us, but in many ways we are really shaped by the choices we make – the things we let in, and the things we leave out. I don’t have the flame-red hair, the 20s wardrobe, or piercings all over my face, but perhaps that just makes me who I am as well. I am a simple guy. I like books, and sometimes I read them. I keep a lot of notebooks, and sometimes I write in them. I like chai, rice and I eat pie for birthdays. I like international relations, cultures and colours. I serve a great God and I don’t belong in this world. I live because of something I had no control over, an act of incomprehensible grace – but I made a choice, and I live each day in the grace of that choice.

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The Barber Shop

Going to a barber in Jhik is so much more than simply getting your hair cut. You step into the one room shop, off the road and instantly you are in a different world. Here, time means nothing; there is no clock, no bells and no people to tell you where you need to be. Nothing calls you elsewhere and within minutes you forget about time altogether.
The birds chirp outside and smells of shaving cream and other toiletries float around the room. The barber continues talking with the others in the room, laughing and exchanging jokes. You feel a part of their world, listening to them talk and argue with each other of politics or local happenings. However, at the same time you are detached. The dialogue goes on without you and there is no need to speak or to carry on a conversation. Sitting in the chair as your hair is being cut, you feel at ease, listening to them, without speaking—simply enjoying the scene around you.
Even the physical act of the hair cutting is relaxing and almost therapeutic. The gentle clicking of the scissors and manipulation of the hair almost lulls you to sleep as you sit back, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the experience. The spray of the water sprinkles your head before being rubbed into your hair, dripping down your head. Even the razor tickles as it is edged along the back of your neck and around the ears.
When all is done, the barber takes out a towel and rigorously ruffles your hair as, for a moment you seem lost amidst the towel. He then follows up with a head massage, rubbing deep into the scalp and with hard but controlled blows. Knocking your head around, he finishes with a hard squeeze of the muscles in the back of your neck to leave you with a tingling sensation. This whole experience leaves you almost senseless; relaxed and dazed.
You manage to lift yourself out of the chair and onto the bench where others await their haircuts and beard-trims before being given a steaming cup of tea. For a few minutes you sit there, drinking the tea, hot and sweet which runs down your throat and stimulates your relaxed and contented brain. Then you pay the charge, shake the barber’s hand, and step back out into the street; back into a world of time, movement, work and business. And like one who wakes up from a good dream, you trod along the road back home, nostalgic with a happy smile spread across your face.