Gulbadan

A week or so ago I decide to tour the city of Cambridge and visit a mall for some shopping. As a proud indicator of my nationality (and to announce it to the world), I decide to wear my Experience Pakistan t-shirt. For those who have not seen it, it's dark green in color with a crescent and star on the front and the words "Experience Pakistan" on the back. Turns the wearer into kind of like a walking talking flag.

On my way back, while at the bus stop, I notice a lady wearing a headscarf carrying a million bags of groceries. Thinking she is Arab, and keeping in mind by general dislike for Arabs (as a retaliation to their normally held view that the Islamic world consists just of them and not of anyone outside the Middle East. (Hehehe.)), I decide to ignore her and not be a gentleman and help her with the grocery bags which she was quite obviously struggling with.

As I am boarding the bus, she turns to me and says (in perfect Urdu): "where in Pakistan are you from?"

Me (thinking): oh, that's a pleasant surprise. She's Pakistani.

So I tell her and we board the bus. And then we start chatting. And that's when the fun begins!. Within five minutes, she informs me of her entire life story. She chats without break and does not ask me a single question about my life. So I now know she's born here and is an only child and has lived here all her life but went to the homeland for medicine and is now back working as a doctor and does not normally make friends with girls because Pakistani girls are the jealous type and always work to demean her and the desi girls she has met here are very hypocritical and of weak moral standing and always bring boys home and she does not want that kind of people as roommates which is why she rejected their roomie requests and always befriends boys as they are more genuine and less conniving and even at the hospital she only has one female friend who is also a Muslim and in fact an Arab and since she can speak Arabic fluently they enjoy conversing in that language and...and...and...

Yea, so there was no full stop in that sentence. Because there was none in her monologue.

Me: so if you are an only child, where do your parents live?

Her: oh, they live in Saudi Arabia. Oh shit, I shouldn't have said that aloud. Now everyone in the bus will hate me. Anyway it doesn't matter. I am fasting today by the way. Even though Ramzaan is starting tomorrow, my parents follow Saudi Arabia and I don't know why even though most of the people there are idiots but still I thought what the hell so I'll fast today and that's why I went grocery shopping to buy lots of stuff for sehri tomorrow and I also bought ice cream but I've been waiting for the bus for half an hour so that's probably melted now. Hey, you want ice cream?

Me: Heh, no thanks, I'm good.

Her: oh, why don't you come to my house right now. I'll also show you where the mosque is.

Me (thinking, and quite clearly taken aback): right, so let's analyze what's just happened here. This is the very first time in my twenty-four years of existence that a girl has invited me into her house like this. This is definitely a moment to relish. But, wait a second, what did she just say about a mosque?

Her: Oh, so here's our bus stop. Come, let's get off!

I reluctantly agree. This time I decide to help her carry her bags. She lives in an interestingly quaint little house typical of this city, and takes me inside. It's empty. She just moved in yesterday and is sleeping on the floor, a fate that, interestingly is to soon befall me in the coming days as well.

Her: Have water. It's really hot outside.

She hands me a glass. I start drinking.

Her: Oye, what are you doing? Don't drink water standing up. Shaitaan does that!

So naturally I plop myself on the wooden floor and gulp away.

Her (fondling with the ice cream box): Okay, so this ice cream has clearly melted. Which means you probably don't want it.

She then proceeds to lick the ice cream box to enjoy the melted goo. Yes, lick. And then...

Her: Oh shit, shit, shit! I was fasting! Shit, shit, shit!

Me: Oh, yea. Hehe. It's okay, it's a mistake. Doesn't count.

Her: No, no, no! Excuse me.

She then proceeds to the bathroom, puts her finger down her throat, and throws up the entire contents of her stomach, including, I presume, the freshly-licked ice cream.

Me (thinking): wow, I thought only drunk people did that to get the alcohol out and sober up as quickly as possible. (Actually, there is a similar story where I was eating haleem at a restaurant after consuming some....acha, more on that some other time)

Her: okay, now that that's out of the way, have some chocolate cake. And please keep it away from me.

And so now I have chocolate cake. It's actually quite tasty. :)

Her: great, now let's go to the mosque and I'll introduce you to everyone!

Me (thinking): introduce me to "everyone"? Who is "everyone"? Abu Musab Al Zarqawi? Baitullah Mehsud? Wait, is she Dr Aafia Siddiqui Part 2, looking to recruit? Sohaib, beta, run for your miserable little infidel life.

"Actually, I better be going. I have to get to my Kennedy School orientation as well, and they are expecting me."

Her: Eh, what's Kennedy School? Acha, doesn't matter. I'll just show you the mosque from outside so you know where it is and you can proceed onwards.

Me: That sounds reasonable.

With that, we exit our house. A bus is just leaving the nearest stop. It's the same one that apparently goes to the mosque and in the general direction of Harvard.

Her: shit, that's our bus! Run!

And she starts running. With headscarf flying in the air. Naturally, I follow. We manage to get the bus.

Her: hehe, that happens every day with me! Anyway, so I get off at the next stop. That's where the mosque is. You proceed to Harvard. I'll hopefully see you some other day. You know where I live, do drop by!

And hence ends my most interesting one hour so far in the new country.

It has been about two weeks since I left home and arrived in the US, and almost every day I have noticed something intriguing, fascinating or weird. Proponents of culture shock have devised entire theories on how people react to such new experiences, and I must say they are probably right.

They are also right when they say that it is those little things that affect newies the most, and often cause the most excitement or frustrating. Since my experience attests to that, I wanted to share some of those little things that have dotted my journey so far:

Some context here: I have extremely limited travel experience and exposure. My only international visits in the past eighteen years have been to India (which doesn't really count as it's so damn similar and was on a bus/train/on foot) and Turkey (where I stayed for a week or so with friends).

My flight was routed through Abu Dhabi and Heathrow airport (London). Naturally, this was my first time at these locations.

People had told me that Abu Dhabi airport sucks. They were right. It's apparently shaped like a football/alien ship and its roof is painted dark blue and yellow in hexagon patterns. Utterly scandalous stuff.

Heathrow, on the other hand, is a different story. The airport is huge (probably the size of a small city), superbly well organized and very classy.

There were more desis in Heathrow than goras. That was quite surprising, and was my first taste of the supposedly massive (ala Goodness Gracious Me) South Asian community in the UK. I saw more sikh turbans and brown skins than yellow, white and black ones combined.

I also found out that 'innit' is actually a word that they use, and not just something I've heard on TV. It was almost surreal having a conversation with an airport worker who kept on using innit. "Innit, mate, innit." It is possibly the funniest word I have ever come across in English. Innit?

MIAMI

I first went to Miami for four days for my Fulbright orientation. So, yea, the first thing I saw of the United States was Miami. Quite unusual for a Pakistani.

Immigration took me four hours. Mostly because I am Pakistani and they probably do not get very many of us in Miami. There were tons of people ahead of me, which took longer. Students from Europe who'd shown up without visas, exiles from Latin America, etc etc. All kinds, really. Sitting there observing the flow was quite fun, actually. One security guy asked the officer if a certain individual required "hard or soft" treatment. Hehe. I wonder what that meant.

Miami is a beautiful, sunny city. Full of beaches, ocean views, palm trees and hot chicks. A bit like what DHA in Karachi is tying to be. (Although I hear they model themselves after Dubai. So I guess that means Dubai is trying to be Miami. Not that I've ever been to Dubai.)

There is a place in Miami called Star Island. It's a small little, well, island (duh) with houses of rich and famous people. So I saw where Elizebeth Taylor got fucked for one of her honeymoons, where Julio Iglesias lives (and probably ogles at Anna K while his son is fucking her), where Madonna once lived, etc etc. You cannot set foot on the island unless you live there or have been specifically invited. (Kind of like an Army mess in Pakistan.)

All chicks in Miami are hot. All of them. So, naturally, I had no chance.

There are beggars in the USA too. Man, was that a shock! So here I am walking back to my hotel at midnight and a guy walks up to me and goes "spare some change, son, so I can eat food." Another guy offered to bet a sandwich that he'll guess my last name. I so wanted to take him on that offer: try guessing Athar, you fuck! But I didn't. He looked scary, that's why. And everyone knows I'm chicken.

One of the things I did on my first night in Miami was visit Hooters. Apparently it's a quintessential American thing to do, and necessary for immersing yourself in local culture. Hooters is a restaurant where the waiters are women with large breasts and little clothes. One of the Turkish dudes with me was quite amazed and wanted to go there every night. I, on the other hand, being more of a leg person, found the place to be strictly average. But, yea, the ladies were quite nice. So, son, when you come to America, visit Hooters.

BOSTON / HARVARD

Eventually, I arrived at Boston and Harvard after a few days in Miami. My only knowledge of Boston is from a TV show called Ally McBeal. I used to watch it for the cute babes and the sharp wit. Some people now watch Boston Legal and it's apparently a really funny/sharp/hit show, but I've barely seen an episode or two and find the two main characters highly pretentious and obnoxious. But enough about TV shows.

The first person I met in Boston was a Muslim. Imagine the odds. He was the taxi driver from Somalia. He could barely speak English, so I decided not to ask him about Halal places in Boston. Not that I care, really. :)

Harvard University is quite beautiful. Most of the buildings are old, stately and imposing. They are also without exception red. So walking around is quite fun as one always comes across something new and ancient. The campus, however, is integrated into the city of Cambridge (across the river from Boston, and no relation to the university of the same name). I don't like that. I am a fan of quaint university campuses with miles of open land, something like Aitchison College. So this urban setting is not something I am enjoying. It makes one less of a student and more of a resident of an area. I prefer the relaxation of the former.

On that note, I hate walking. You have to walk everywhere here. And ugh, my legs are not made for life without private transportation. Usually they are shaking every step I take, cursing me for not quitting smoking when I had the chance and sitting on my bum all my life not playing any sports besides the occasional cricket and football a few years ago (and achieving nothing but embarrassment in either).

The mobile phone system in the United System is ridiculously fucked up. I fail to understand how a country supposedly resting on the pillars of consumer choice and the free market can have such a complicated, user-unfriendly and exploitative cell phone system. In fact, the thing I miss most from Pakistan is my trusty old Warid connection, with its simple and convenient post-paid structure and wonderful network. (The other thing I miss is biryani. I don't know why. I don't even like biryani that much.)

Harvard is full of Pakistanis and desis. Especially my school. Out of a student body of approximately 900 students, about 25 are of Pakistani origin and 75-ish Indian. That's 100 students, making a percentage of 11%. Shit son, that's a lot! Now I don't know about India, but clearly some Fulbright magic is working here at Harvard. I wonder what connections they have with the university that so many of us get admitted every year. (Out of the 25 Pakistanis at my school, about 20 are on Fulbright). Naturally, my admission was probably the result of some quota arrangement as well. And here I was thinking I got in based on pure talent and achievement. Sigh.

Finally, the most important point: before coming here I was petrified of the possibility of having to use toilet paper - that uncivilized symbol of poor bum-hygiene. Being so used to water (and finding the muslim shower to be an invention at par with the wheel in convenience), I was quite nervous of the possibility of having to use astonishingly thin paper to clean heaps of shit. And as God would have it, the moment of reckoning came on my very first day: I ended up shitting and using toilet paper within my first few hours in the country. Interestingly, western barbarity defeated eastern civility: I had no reasonable amount of discomfort in using paper, and, contrary to my expectations, did not feel icky or dirty or eww-y or crass afterwards. Even more interestingly, the two people I thought of as I wiped my ass were foreign men who I had converted to the use of the muslim shower as an essential item of bum-cleaning: Michael Kamau and Andrew Webster.

So, Michael and Andrew, is it not ironic that last year you became comfortable with water after much persuasion from my side on our Zamzama rooftop, and now, in a twist of fate, I embrace the paper? Oh how times change!