Furniture Shopping

"We need to go look at a few pieces we have on hold at a furniture shop. Why don't you join us?" I love jumping at invitations like this. More often than not, an adventure is waiting.
The couple who invited us has lived in Islamabad on and off for years on different assignments. We wove through the streets arriving at what I can best describe as a "strip mall". I climbed out of the car, stood for a moment watching the man selling nuts from piles on a rug, and followed the group into the shop. In the narrow store pieces of furniture lined the walls with more in the center creating two aisles. I slowly wandered around stopping to run my hand over different pieces. The furniture this man deals in is uniquely made from old pieces of buildings. When towns tear down old homes and mosques to build new, he buys the old wood. From a door he creates a table or bookcase. An old archway becomes a headboard. As I got to the back of the shop I stopped in front of a piece. I could already imagine it as a t.v. console. It is solid with dovetail corners and intricate carving in the front. My husband comes over. We put it on hold.
It's time to get back into the car. I get in and close the door. A woman approaches, holding her hand out for money. I feel so helpless. I am actually surprised that I have not seen more begging here in Islamabad. We follow the owner to the warehouse to look at some more pieces.
The drive takes me further outside of Islamabad than I have been. The buildings become fewer and poorer. We pass jingle trucks and families on mopeds. Horses and donkeys are pulling carts piled high with stuff. We pull into a parking area. Some men are sitting at a stand selling fruit and drinks. We get out and walk through a door into a "warehouse" area. Old wood is piled everywhere. Small rooms line the courtyard area now used for cutting the wood to craft it into new furniture. My husband and I wander into the rooms looking at piles of uninteresting wood. Then I see a corner of beautifully painted wood sticking out behind a pile. I point, my husband comes over we begin moving a few pieces and then a man comes over and brings the wood out into the courtyard. As he sets it on the ground I realize what a beautiful coffee table this will make. It is the diamond in the rough. It was made by a family in Peshawar who has retained the craft of painting in this style. We begin inquiring about the price and at this point tea arrives. As soon as a customer is becoming serious about making a purchase, drinks are served. Steaming cups of sweet milk chai are passed around and the discussion continues. We put several more pieces on hold.
Now that we have finished our bargaining we notice a group of kids popping their heads in the door watching us with curiosity. We take a few pictures. They love the cameras. The boys ham it up for us but the girls duck their heads in shyness. There is a gleam in their eyes and their smiles are precious. We have fun taking pictures and showing them. We walk with them and try to communicate. They do not speak English, only Urdu.
I get back into the car and as we drive away I think about how enjoyable the last few hours have been. I have seen a glimpse of Pakistan that few others do.

Tailor Party

Around the world we connect in similar ways. In America I have been invited to parties ranging from Party Lite to Pampered Chef. In New Zealand I attended 3 Tupperware parties in 6 months. Here in Pakistan I have been invited to a Tailor Party. When invited I looked at my husband in confusion. Well, a tailor party is an open house with a tailor and his workers present. At the home we found fabrics stacked against the wall and spread on the table. Suits were hanging around the room in example of the tailor's work. People had come with pictures printed from the Internet and a laptop was open on the table with a woman and an apprentice deep in discussion about the finer point of a Banana Republic suit. It was a great atmosphere and fun way to spend the afternoon.

A Hike into the Margalla Hills

The chilly morning air greeted us as we stepped out of the car at the beginning of trail no. 3. There were few cars in the parking lot as we headed up the trail into the Margalla Hills.
The Margalla Hills, the foothills of the Himalayas, are just North of Islamabad. There are two different legends behind the name of these hills. Mar means "snake" in Persian and galla means "heard" in Pashto thus giving the meaning of a place with a lot of snakes. Fortunately it is winter so all snakes would be in hibernation right now! The second legend is derived from Mar Galla meaning "hit, neck" or "to strangulate". It is believed these hills were used as a sanctuary for bandits and robbers who would strangle travelers to rob them.
The trail was steep and rocky giving us a good cardio workout. The first bit of wildlife we spotted were three Kaleej pheasants in the brush. The jet black male with red around his eyes stuck out against the brown earth whereas the two females were harder to spot with mainly brown feathers.
A short time later we began to hear scuffling and chattering in the brush. Soon the monkeys began running out of the bushes. The young would follow, some being as curious as I was, stopping to stare. Monkeys in the wild were exhilarating to me. As we climbed higher we no longer saw wildlife. Although the day was hazy, the views were beautiful looking to the South down at Islamabad and to the West at the hills stretching out in the distance. We passed several hikers and runners going down the path.
Halfway up the trail we came upon a camp of tents surrounded by barbed wire. Several armed men inside were lounging around. The sign said "Margalla Hills Rangers". These men were Rangers in the military sense. Their job is to monitor people crossing the hills into Islamabad.
We began getting glimpses of our destination, the Monal Restaurant. We came to a fork in the path, choosing the left. A faint sound of music floated down the hills from the restaurant. It sounded like a music box. A few paces later we came upon a small village. Cows were tethered under a stick shelter. A mud building stretched out. Rugs were hanging on a line and women and children were walking between rooms. A girl pointed to where the trail would lead us up to the restaurant. A few minutes later we emerged in the parking lot.
We entered the outdoor restaurant and reclined in the pillows on beautifully painted benches. In a few short minute we were warming our hands on steaming cups of milk tea. Chicken in a red sauce and wrapped in hot naan was delicious. We rested, filled our stomachs and enjoyed the view before being picked up by the motor pool.

First Impressions

We only get one chance to have a first impression. That impression tends to dictate our feelings unless something major happens to alter our view.
The plane landed in Islamabad at 2 a.m. I walked off the plane and squeezed onto a very crowded transfer bus. Men moved over motioning for me to sit on the last available chair next to an elderly woman. The ride was short.
I entered the terminal and immediately saw a man holding a paper with my name scrawled on it. The expeditor my husband had arranged for. I gratefully followed him past long lines designated "foreign passport", "Pakistani passport" and "women and children". He walked right up to the official behind the desk, stuck my passport in his face, got it stamped and we bypassed all the people to the luggage area.
The expeditor opened his phone then shoved it at me. It was my husband. "Honey, I'm here!" I squealed. As my husband was explaining that he couldn't come into the airport the expeditor grabbed the phone from my hand, spoke rapidly to me while pointing and waving his arms around then ran off. I stood there a bit stunned. My first suitcase was coming on the belt so I grabbed it. Thank goodness for bright orange suitcases! While grabbing my second suitcase another man started putting my luggage on a cart. I frantically tried to explain that I should wait for the expeditor. The man began to move with my luggage out of the airport. I went trotting after him, shoving my passport to the official at the door. I followed the man and my luggage out the door and was greeted by a sea faces. 100 Pakistani men with bearded faces in long sand colored robes, crowding around the railing waiting to find the person they knew whom had just arrived. I felt as though I had stepped into a scene from a Christmas pageant where the Shepards were crowding around to get a look at the baby. The man with my luggage was stopped at the end of the row of people wanting to know where to go next. I tried to explain that I was looking for my husband. He handed me a cell phone. I rummaged in my overstuffed purse for my husband's number. The man dialed the number and as I was talking to my husband he said "I see you". The next thing I knew I was safe in his arms. The expeditor ran up saying "I told you to wait for me!" Really? That was what the waving of your arms meant?
We got into the armored car and drove off. It was dark and the streets were vacant. We passed a guard dressed in khaki standing around a fire he had built in the street to stay warm on his night watch. Some jingle trucks drove by, ornately painted in bright colors with their chains jingling along. We drove around cement barricades in the street, the driver flashed a card to a man staring at us though a slit in his burlap like covering keeping him warm. Everything looks so dry and dusty.
Entering the diplomatic enclave we went though checkpoint after checkpoint passing the French embassy and others. Finally we pulled up to a gate. It opened and we drove into a cement and steel area where guards surrounded the car checking under the hood and under the bottom. Finally we were passed through. A walk up the stairs to my husband's apartment and into bed to get a few hours of sleep.
My first impressions weren't bad. After a bit of rest I will be looking forward to seeing this city in the day.

The Visa

My visa has arrived in the mail. It is official now, I am going to Pakistan. I dragged my luggage up from the basement earlier this week and am already half packed. My husband is starting to send me notes on things to bring him. Things are arriving in the mail that I didn't order - I guess I'm supposed to bring that stuff along too!
I found myself at dinner one night this week listening to the kids chatter around me. I felt separated as if I was watching them from afar. My head asked my heart how they would do if something were to happen to me. I realized at that moment that they would be ok. Sure, it would definitely be hard on them, but they would be ok. It's been hard on them having their dad gone for a year, but they are ok. They are happy, secure kids and that will continue with or without me. It makes me feel good to know that my kids are strong enough to survive the difficult things that life will throw at them. Most likely nothing will happen to me, I will get home and we will continue on in life finishing the school year, packing up the house and moving to Colombia - together. But somewhere down the road very difficult things will happen to each of them because they happen to each of us. I have confidence that they will do well, they will weather the storms that come their way.
I glance down at my passport, open the page and look at my visa. This is really happening, I'm just holding onto the ride!

The Ticket

I have purchased one round-trip ticket to Islamabad. I am due to leave in 2 weeks. I think about it throughout my day. Do I want to do this? Why? It has been pretty intense there lately. An assassination, a visit from the Vice President followed by a car bomb. What is pulling me to visit? It could be a couple of different things.
For a year now there has been a connection with my husband that is missing. I don't understand his new world. I don't know the people, the procedures, the culture. I long to know these things. To have something tangible to grasp and hold onto. I want to have a conversation with him without feeling frustrated at my lack of knowledge and understanding.
It is a country torn by war. I do not understand war. I live in a neat and clean bubble where bad things don't happen. I can not fathom the necessity to pursue life while there is unrest around you. To understand people and their suffering, I need to experience this life first hand.
But there is something deeper. The largest natural modern day catastrophe happened in this country but we have not responded. $1,000 per person was donated to the earthquake in Haiti but only $100 per person to the flooding in Pakistan. Why is that?Pakistan is a place we are all afraid of.
I am afraid to go there to. Conquering this fear may be part of what is driving me to go. I may never know the reasons and I will probably continue to struggle with the rightness of this trip until I step off the plane in America again.

I must learn Spanish

From everything I have read about Bogota, it is essential that I learn to speak Spanish. Just the thought of learning a foreign language puts me in a state of anxiety. My mind flashes back to previous experiences.

My high school class was the first in our school to be offered/required to take a foreign language. Being a very small school there weren't any teachers who spoke foreign languages. The drama/typing/speech/Bible teacher was awarded the job of teaching Spanish. She was handed a stack of text books and video tapes by A Beca Press. We filed into the classroom and met our new teacher, the T.V. Needless to say, we only made it through about 1/3 of Spanish 1 that year. I remember being totally confused and having no one to help me. Not a good start to the joy of foreign languages.

My second attempt at a foreign language would be French. We were preparing for our first trip to Africa. We had been assigned a small hospital through World Medical Mission in Togo, West Africa. French was the trade language, Ewe the main tribal language of our area with Kabiye to the North. Then there were a myriad of tribal languages throughout the country. I remember one physical my husband did with 3 interpreters: tribal language to Kabiye, Kabiye to Ewe, and Ewe to English. Sounds like that game where you whisper a sentence into another person's ear and laugh at how misconstrued it is by the time it makes it around the circle, back to you! A year before we left my husband and I began taking French lessons from a friend who taught French to homeschool kids. This time we had a textbook and a real teacher. As well as 2 small kids running around our ankles, another one on the way and medical residency to deal with. I remember faithfully hauling the kids over each week looking forward to the time with my new friend but dreading the lesson itself. Although I studied faithfully, it just didn't stick. I continued with it and was rewarded by being able to hash out a few conversations with locals while in Togo.

My third attempt would be while we were living in New Zealand. We knew we would be applying for the State Department job and wanted to give our kids a head start on a language. Figuring we had a good chance of being placed in an Arab country, we chose Arabic. I thought I would be the good mom and work on Rosetta Stone right along with them. That lasted about 2 weeks, at which point I was greatly distraught and ready to throw the computer right out the window! I was surprised at the depth of the emotions that the whole foreign language thing brought on and decided I wasn't above quitting something that I hated so much.

So now I am on my fourth attempt to learn a language and have managed to make it full circle back to Spanish. Thank goodness for Rosetta Stone. I'm going to dive in and give it all I've got.