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| Lahore Canal |
Chapter 5: Lahore Lifestyle
This Is Pakistan?
Known as the cultural, academic, and artistic capital of Pakistan, Lahore has a rich cultural and historical tradition. That history reflects in its’ people, who have a sort of warmth and grace.
That culture has been built in to the Lahorians over the centuries. There is an old saying: in every Lahori, there is a Mughal prince.
Lahore is beautiful city with lush foliage, palm trees shooting to the sky, and Banyan trees spreading their branches out over vast expanses of land.
A broad canal runs through the midst of the city. Men play cricket in fields or side-roads. Sliced coconuts, blankets, tablecloths, newspapers, and flower jewelry are sold at intersections. Vendors sell corn on the cob baked on rickety carts. Skinny donkeys and horses roam the city. A meal at a fancy restaurant costs $1.50. Join the locals around 8:30 P. M. for supper because Lahorians eat late. If you drink alcohol, bring your own and hand it over to the waiter. They will keep it cool for you but establishments cannot sell booze.
Lahore is a city of close to seven million people where beauty and chaos meet culture and poverty.
A Very Brief History
From 1500 to 1700, Mughal emperors built palaces, gardens, and magnificent mosques. The Sikhs then built temples, gardens, and mausoleums. The British then came in and mucked it all up.
To be fair, the British did build post offices, museums, and schools. But they tore down buildings in the process. Then they proceeded to split India into India and Pakistan in 1947. Eventually, Pakistan was split into Pakistan and Bangladesh.
A bucketload of fighting ensued and people were killed. Good intentions perhaps, but a miserable failure in many ways.
India and Pakistan still hate each other with a passion to this day (see Wagha Border Crossing). That feeling was no mere rivalry.
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| Street in Lahore |
Where in the World is Lahore?
Lahore sits at a strategic crossroads in the Punjab, a large geographic region that flows over the Pakistan border in to India (means “5 rivers”). As a testament to the historical importance between the two cities, Delhi’s (India) Red Fort has the Lahori gate, so named because it leads to Lahore. This route was an important road for caravans and travellers. Now, it is a road that connects two cities filled with contempt for each other.
A canal, sixty kilometres long and built by the Mughals, splits Lahore in two. The canal serves as a source of irrigation and recreation. Swarms of boys and men (never females) swim and jump off the bridges that criss-cross from one side of Canal Bank Road to the other side.
Dana and I lived in the town of Gulberg. Other towns such as Ravi, Shalimar, Wagah, Lahore Cantonment, Nishtar, and Shadman made up the city of Lahore.
Street names are mixture of old and new. In fact, some streets have two names - one traditional, one British.
Sheep Scrotums
The Punjab is home to rodents of all kinds, deer, bats, snakes, monkeys, jackals, leopards and many types of birds. These creatures were never seen in the city itself. Within the city, goats and sheep were the most common mammals.
One day while out shopping, we saw a shepherd herding sheep down the side of the road.
The sight of the sheep almost caused me to drive the van into a wall. I could have sworn that I was looking at females in need of milking. Instead, the male sheep had scrotums the size of cantaloupes. It looked uncomfortable for them to walk.
The People, Clothing, and Beards
Despite being 94% Muslim, the majority of women did not fully cover. They wear wonderfully coloured shalwar kameezes that are not only stylish but comfortable, cool, and slimming.
Men wear shalwars as well, a custom that I adopted.
Many men sport well maintained beards. In fact, Lahore may be the Fancy Beard Capital of the World.
One chowkidar groomed his hair and beard in attempt to recreate a Planet of the Apes look. His entire look and wardrobe was spot on. He could have been an extra on the movie.
When they start to go grey, many Lahorians will use henna to dye their hair. This gives them a wonderful, bright orange, Carrot Top look. Very distinguished, very bright. Very hard to miss.
Islam
Prior to living in Kuwait, my knowledge of Islam consisted of misinformation from the news and one university religion class. The majority of the university class was spent listening to two friends whisper about the attractive female professor. I took something away from the class but the real nature of Islam escaped me. Islam was nothing more than words on paper; theory only.
In Kuwait, I had the opportunity to immerse myself and learn about the real nature of Islam. During the evenings, a good friend, Omar, and I would discuss Islam and basketball. He knew college basketball and I knew the NBA.
“Where’s Harold Miner now? He was something in college,” asked Omar.
“He was drafted by Miami and was traded to Cleveland,” I replied.
We would then compare his college career to his NBA career.
Then the topic of conversation would switch from basketball to Mohammed or Ibrahim (Abraham).
Soon, I came to appreciate the similarities between Islam and Christianity. I looked at commonalities rather than the differences.
With Omar’s teachings, I learned that the two religions share the same prophets. Also, being surrounded by two million Kuwaiti Muslims provided countless examples of Muslims living a very ethical, religious - normal - life. Kuwait also furnished many examples of Muslims leading a not-so-religious life. Some drank. Others cheated on their wives. Some were asses. But that did not make them terrorists or evil.
I grew up attending St. James Anglican Church. As a child, I witnessed people of tremendous strength and conviction. Other parishioners proved to be models of hypocrisy and lacked true faith. They were all show and no substance
And in this way, Muslims were no different. The majority of people’s quality of faith happens to be somewhere in the middle, regardless of their religion.
I started to see Muslims as brothers rather than the enemy.
My mind often drifted to the parable of The Good Samaritan. Samaritans were not liked during Jesus’ time, but he made a Samaritan the hero of his parable. And for good reason. The Samaritan helped where others would not. The heathen turned out to be the good guy.
A more encompassing view of my non-Christian brothers and sisters become cemented in my mind. I was more accepting of all Abrahamic faiths.
Before we moved to Lahore, I had no idea what type of Islam we would face. Would it be a stricter variety than in Kuwait? Would it be more moderate? I kept an open mind, and was anxious to learn.
We found that the dress code was more relaxed in Lahore than in Kuwait. Shalwar kameez replaced abayas but the faith was as strong as it was in Kuwait. If you are a believer, you are believer regardless of the country you are living in at that moment in time.
Living in Kuwait did not make me less of a Christian. I still held my beliefs. I also felt like I was a better Christian when I embraced other religions as brothers and sisters for I believe that those are the neighbours Jesus told me to love.
One morning at LAS, I had a class discussion regarding Islam, Judaism, and Christianity (the Abrahamic religions - so called because they all trace their origins to Abraham). During that time, I mentioned the following mini-lesson from Kuwait to my class of Grade 10s.
“I was told to think of the Abrahamic religions in this way - and tell me if you agree with me: Judaism is the Old Testament. Christianity is the Old Testament AND New Testament. Islam is the OT, NT, and the Koran,” I said to the class. I waited for their reaction.
The students agreed with me. In fact, they were at a loss as to why there was such a divide between Christianity and Islam.
“We believe in Jesus, sir. He’s one of our prophets. They don’t believe in Jesus in Judaism,” one student said.
“Why do you not fight with Jews? Why do North Americans believe that we’re so different?”
Good question - and this is obviously an oversimplified view of things - but it got me reading, contemplating, and learning.
The media and my culture had taught me that Jews and Christians were brothers and sisters. I added Muslims to that family.
And the stereotype of Muslims as terrorists was crushed - not that I ever believed that fallacy in the first place.
The majority of Muslims want a peaceful life for themselves and their families. They want a job. They want to be happy and be well fed. They want clean water and love. They want a family. Our needs and desires are the same.
Of course, there are those who use Islam to promote killing. But these are power hungry people who are using religion to further their interests.
There are thousands of people who have used Christianity in the same way. In fact, history is full of crazed Christians.
From the historical conflicts between Catholic and Protestant to Timothy McVeigh to the Westboro Baptist Church cult, tens of thousands of lives have been lost and countless scriptures twisted all in the name of our loving God.
But the fact that McVeigh called himself a Christian will never make me a “crazy Christian” or a “Christian terrorist” any more than a few terrorists make all Muslims terrorists.
The divide between Christianity and Islam is an unnecessary one. It is a divide in which no one benefits.
My life is richer for the friendships I had and continue to have with Muslims.
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| Typical Truck |
Manuel’s Tour
One sunny, Friday afternoon, Manuel took us for a tour of Lahore. He was very proud of his city.
The first stop was a church that held Christian services in English. It was good to know that we had a church to attend.
Manuel then directed us to his cousin’s water buffalo and rice farm, which was within the city limits.
We mingled with the water buffalo amongst a corral of homemade clay bricks. A wooden cart, one wheel smashed in half, was upside down. The buffalo fed from brick feeders. A crumpled metal canister sat on a rickety table. A thatched roof was suspended by a combination of cement columns, brick walls, and trees.
The water buffalo were huge in comparison to our North American cows. Strangely, their horns grew in every direction - up, down, left, right, frontwards, backwards. And the right horn would grow in a different direction from the left.
I avoided making eye contact for I felt the buffalo’s blank, silver eyes staring blankly through my soul. They are part evil, part tasty.
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| Buffalo Farm in Lahore |
Poverty
After our evacuation from Pakistan, Dana and I returned to Canada after drifting around Thailand for a month. As we were entering a Saskatoon shopping mall, a well dressed beggar approached asking for a hand-out.
“No,” I said.
I was shocked that a well-dressed, plump person would beg for money. A couple nearby gave me a dirty look. If they had seen the abject poverty that we witnessed while living in Pakistan, they would not have looked at me so crossly.
During our daily drive to LAS, we would pass a beaten, yellow dumpster. One day, a family of nine made this dumpster a wall of their new home. The new occupants ranged in age from two to sixty-ish.
They attached a small tarp to the dumpster and propped the other end up with poles. As we drove by, we could see the children playing on the small piece of land that they now called home. During the afternoon, they would rest in the shadow of the dumpster.
Colleagues told us that they were gypsies. If so, they would not receive a warm welcome from their neighbours.
Unfortunately, Pakistan does not have the wealth or social services in place to assist those in need. Circumstances trap many in the poverty cycle and that is a hard cycle to escape. Even the donkeys were scrawny.
Human nature is marvellous. Despite their bleak circumstances, some beggars invented new ways to thrive and survive by making themselves more ‘beg-able’.
Two parents had their child’s head bound at birth. They took two small planks and cloth. They strapped the boards around their newborn’s head. As the child grew, his head became elongated and misshapen. Now the parents had a money making machine for a child.
At red lights, the children were sent amongst the cars, little hands extended and cupped, ready for a few coins. Their feeble taps on the driver’s window initiated a Pavlovian response of a brief “go away” wave or the drop of a few coins into eager hands.
One day, a child of ten approached our van as we stopped at a red light. In all respects, he appeared to be a normal child. He was poorly dressed with a dirty face; thin but not out of the ordinary.
He smiled as he reached our van and begged with one cupped hand. We decided to save our change for others who appeared to be in greater need. When he saw my “piss off” wave, he held up his other arm.
Around the middle of his bicep was a huge zig-zag scar. Someone had cut his arm off and sewn it back on upside down.
Imagine that he wanted to throw a baseball; his shoulder would be in the proper position to throw overhand. However, his fingers would be pointing to the ground, palm facing backwards.
We decided to fill his palm with coins and he smiled a big smile as we gave him the money.
“Did you see that?” I asked Dana.
We were both shocked that not only would someone do that to a child but that it worked. The arm seemed healthy.
And there is the conundrum: are we helping a young man or encouraging a new form of exploitation. I’m not smart enough to know the answer to that question.
Later on in the year, a man approached our van while we were stopped at a red light (red lights are magnets for beggars). The man was unrecognizable as a person. His skin resembled a burnt marshmallow and showed none of the beautiful, copper glow that is characteristic of Pakistanis. Only the general shape of his body and some rags for clothes told us he was human. His hair and eyebrows were gone.
Our best guess was that he was a victim of an honour killing that left him physically alive but severely burned. He took our money and shuffled away, eyes cast to the ground.
The light turned green and Dana and I drove on in silence.
While Sammi was inside delivering film for developing, I waited in the van and was watching people - one of my favourite hobbies.
I heard a knock on the van door. I looked around but could see no one. After another knock, I looked down. There was a man with no legs, presumably lost in the conflict with India. His torso rested on a wooden, wheeled piece of scrap wood. He held two blocks of wood, which he used to push himself around.
I reached down and placed several bills in his hand. His eyes widened and he took the bills and held them to the sky. He touched his forehead with the bills. Then, with both arms extended he pointed to the heavens and then pointed at me several times.
After his prayers of thanks and blessings upon me, he gave me a short salute and wheeled away. I may have given him only one or two US dollars in total, but that was a windfall for him.
The film developing, by the way, cost 150 rupees or less than $2 USD for a 24 exposure film.
There was one beggar we never gave money to. I nicknamed him Fat Monkey Man. He and his leashed monkey would beg at a small strip mall with a bookstore and other specialty stores within.
The beggar’s belly was round as was his monkey’s. After seeing the plight of others, we had little sympathy for him. He appeared to be living well.
At times, the begging could be overwhelming to one’s soul. It tore at our sympathy and it eroded our faith in mankind. How could we allow this to happen? Where were mankind’s priorities? It was painful to witness and I can only imagine the pain of living a life that full of poverty; hunger pains, malnutrition, lack of sanitation, no housing - the list goes on and sadly on.
One day, after driving through yet another gauntlet of begging children, a young boy approached the car. He appeared to be fairly well off. I was not in the mood to give him any money that day. As he cupped his hand at the van window, he looked down at my wallet, which I kept in the van’s central console. I had had enough and I was just going to joke around with him.
“You want my wallet, don’t you?” I said smiling.
“I’ll kick you ass if you try to grab it,” I said knowing that he would most likely kick mine.
He just smiled a big smile and nodded in agreement. He did not understand a thing I said.
I handed him some coins for being a good sport and letting me take the piss out of him.
But that was the one minor, solitary laugh related to begging that we had in a region inundated with poverty. The rest was just sad.
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| Banyon Tree |
Yorkton, Saskatchewan - 2014
I climbed the steps of Yorkton’s City Hall ready to pay my taxes. I approached the two women who took payments and offered a cheery greeting.
They seemed deflated, more likely they were worn down from complaints from the locals for our tax rate had just been increased.
“I like paying taxes,” I said.
They both looked at me strangely.
“I do, because I get services out of them. I get roads and police and fire and ambulance and hospitals and sewer and water so I like paying taxes.”
“You get value for them,” one lady piped up.
“Exactly, I lived in Asia for a long time and in some countries you don’t pay taxes but you get nothing in return,” I said.
“I’ll take this system any day of the week.”
They were about to close up for the day and I hoped that there would be no one after me. Both of the ladies seemed to need some gratitude, rather than attitude.
Alif Leila
But good things were happening in small measures. LAS helped to supply and pay tuition for students at a small, local school called Alif Leila. Through donations, we paid for the children’s tuition and provided books, pencils, and other school supplies.
It was our small way of making sure that these children would not have to beg or work but be able to get an education and have a chance at a better life.
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| Alif Leila Students |
Love Shit Round-A-Bout
Just down the street from our house sat a small round-a-bout with ‘love shit’ spray-painted on one side. It quickly became a landmark for us.
“Which way are we going?” I would ask Dana as we headed out. After having my directions turned around because of the faulty map, I relied heavily on Dana for directions.
“Go to ‘love shit’” was the usual reply.
We often wondered what possessed someone to paint that phrase there. And why?
Often, those who do not speak English as their First Language come up with the weirdest phrases.
Derwin is a Crazy Van Driver
I adapted to driving on the right side of the van that the school provided for us. In fact, I found it more natural to change gears with the left hand.
Adjusting to the windshield wipers and signal lights being on opposite sides of the steering column was more difficult. If I tried to signal left, I would turn the wipers on. This amused Dana who never drove in Lahore (we made a deal that I would do all of the driving and she would bear the children).
Part of the deal with the school was that they would provide a van for us to use. For the first three days of school, the school sent a driver to pick us up. On day four, the driver made me drive to school as a test.
I was nervous. I had never driven on the ‘British’ side of the road before but I wanted to impress the driver with my incredible Canadian driving skills.
I started out poorly turning on the wipers several times instead of signalling. I could sense his condemnation of my driving skills. Through the rear view mirror, I saw a critical, Pakistani face watching me.
I was determined to prove him wrong. I shoulder checked before changing lanes. I came to complete stops. I drove safely. I was courteous. I nailed the test…if it had been in Canada.
I later visited with the driver’s supervisor. I sat on a small wooden chair while he peered at me over glasses that hung on the tip of his nose. Files and papers were scattered across his desk. A filing cabinet sat in the corner behind him. I could see his white tank top underneath his neatly pressed, white dress shirt, which was customary for Pakistani men to wear.
The supervisor looked me in the eyes and proceeded to share the driver’s opinion of my driving skills with me.
“The driver said that you should never, ever be allowed to drive the van ever again! He said that you kept looking around. You kept turning on the windshield wipers and you seemed tentative.”
“Wow. Well, we are trained to shoulder check before changing lanes in Canada. That explains the looking around part. This is also the first time that I’ve ever driven on the ‘British’ side of the road. That’s why I kept turning on the windshield wipers all the time. I’ll get better with practice, I promise.” I replied to these allegations.
Regardless, the van was in the contract so he had no choice but to press the keys in my hand, reluctant though he may have been. I did improve over time.
And I quickly realized that the Law of the Road was: “he who has the bigger testicles goes first.” And my driving testicles grew on a daily basis.
Once you know that Law of the Road, everything falls in to place. Drivers do not cut you off. They just go where they want to because they are in front of you and it is your responsibility to react to them.
It was common to dodge bicycles, pedestrians, motorized rickshaws, motorcycles, cars, vans, buses (very brightly painted with lots of dangly metal decorations), dogs, donkeys, horses, goats, sheep, and whole families on motorcycles (five family members on one motorcycle was the record) on a single trip to the store.
One day, we saw two goat heads lying in the middle of the road. One evening, we dodged piles of hay that was scattered across the road. Another day, a man on a bike carrying a six foot high birdcage on the rear fender weaved his way through traffic.
The driving norms were very un-Canadian as well. If you had to pass a donkey cart, for example, and there is a motorcycle coming at you in the other lane, you just drive in the middle of the road and push the motorcycle driver aside. The motorcyclist will move and not complain.
After a couple of weeks, I estimated that for every car on the streets of Lahore, there were one hundred bikes, one hundred motorcycles, twenty motorized rickshaws, two ox carts, and one naked guy strolling down the street.
We did not stop to ask the gentleman why he was totally buck-naked. I moved overseas to see new things, but seeing some guy’s butt and dangly-bits was not on my list. Perhaps, it was on Dana’s list, but not mine.
One unfortunate day, I snapped. I went postal. I have no idea why I went berserk but I did. And I am not proud of it.
We had slowed down in our lane when an approaching driver turned left behind us. His vehicle scraped our bumper…barely.
I jumped out to see the damage. An old man gave me a dirty look and waved for me to proceed. The other driver started to get out of the vehicle, saw me, and jumped right back in to his car.
He took off.
I flipped and turned into an ugly North American. I followed him honking the horn. Where he turned, I turned.
At one point, he lost me so I took a shortcut and met up with him a minute later. I was relentless. I continued the chase.
Finally, Dana calmed me down and I let the poor man get on with his life.
To this day, I still think of that poor man and what an ass I was to him.
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Dana and I climbed in to the van after an enjoyable evening of socializing with our colleagues. The roads were clear of people, vehicles, and sheep. The headlights cut through the dark as I pressed down on the gas.
Trees and houses whizzed by when suddenly a sleeping policeman (speed bump) appeared. It was too late to slow down. Those policemen are hard to see in the dark.
The van launched into orbit. Dana and I levitated briefly before the tires crashed back to earth. The van bounced and rocked.
We laughed and kept going, grateful that there was no damage to the van.
Elders
One’s grandparents are an extremely important part of the Pakistani family unit. Our students were absolutely horrified that we would ever put our grandparents in an old folk’s home.
This was seen as very disrespectful to a family member that was so revered. The families chose to look after their elders in their own homes.
The difference that the students failed to understand is that in Pakistan, they could hire someone to care around the clock for their grandparents cheaply in their own homes. The economics of having a full-time employee in Canada to look after Grandpa was very different than in Lahore.
How to Pee Pakistani Style
Like many developing nations, public washrooms are not always readily available. It becomes very commonplace to see - whether you are in Jordan, Morocco, India, or Pakistan - men peeing anywhere, anytime.
From my very clinical observations of having seen men urinate in many countries, I must say that Indians have the best prostrates. Great range.
Here is how to pee in public:
1. Find a spot…any spot will do. You do not need any cover or bathroom. Park? Street? Canal? Outside a store? It does not matter. Walls are very popular.
Moroccans and Pakistanis seem to like to squat down like a baseball catcher. Indians and Jordanians like to stand.
2. Ensure that your shalwar kameez is raised high enough (this is not as easy as it would seem).
3. Ignore the dozens of people walking by. They will ignore you.
4. Just pee. Let if fly. Enjoy the view. Check sky to see if it’s going to rain. Nod and smile to a passerby. Just go for it.
There will be no judgement. No harsh looks. It’s commonplace. The key is to not care that you are peeing in public because no one else cares.
Language
Lahorians speak English with a lilting, tilting accent, which is influenced by Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, or any of the other languages spoken in Pakistan. The vocabulary, idioms, and slang was predominately British although influenced by Indian English as well.
American English was gaining in influence as TV shows and movies become available.
Students tried to teach me Urdu but language is lost on me. I have neither the ear nor the tongue for it. Hearing Urdu is reminiscent of listening to Ewoks talking in The Return of the Jedi.
I swore I heard someone say “boingo boingo” once. That is all I could pick up from the conversation.
Colloquialisms
In talking to an elder, it is polite to call them aunty or uncle, whether you know them or not. A speed bump is a ‘lazy’ or ‘sleeping policeman’. When reciting numbers, 11444 becomes ‘double one, triple four.’ And then nod your head slightly, side to side. Every morning, Manuel asked for the “chubby” or key so he could unlock our van.
Framer and the Ass
Over the course of our trips, Dana and I had collected artwork and masks that we wanted framed. We were referred to a local gentleman who came highly recommended.
He showed up at our house one evening and we talked about our artwork. He threw a lot of ideas at us on how the work should be displayed.
He was a younger man who took his work very seriously. He let us know that he was no simple framer. He was an artist.
He framed three pictures for 650 rupees (less than $10 USD). That covered time, glass, matting, and frames.
High Stakes Poker
Late one Saturday evening, a group of LAS staff and I were gathered around a table playing poker. During one hand, the stakes got quite high and one teacher ended up betting five-thousand rupees.
Everyone paused for a moment.
“This is my driver’s monthly salary that I’m betting,” he said.
We all paused to reflect on that economic fact.
“I’m sure that some rich people bet what we earn in a month,” a teacher said.
“Sure. But they’re rich. We’re middle class,” replied another.
“Not here. We’re considered rich here,” said another.
“That’s crazy. Think how much that means to your driver,” I said.
The hand proceeded but the economic disparity left a strong impression with us all.
With the evening nearing an end, we counted our chips. One teacher was beating everyone mercilessly for the first half of the evening. Unfortunately, a lot of Canadian whiskey affected his second half performance and he ended up losing money on the night.
It was my first poker game and I had no clue what I was doing. I ended up 50 rupees ahead and was more than happy with that.
Lahore Cricket
Men play cricket on side streets and vacant lots surrounded by Indian Rosewood, Ashok, and Peepal trees. The pitch is worn and packed by bare or sandalled feet. The men laugh and the play is intense. Their shalwar kameez are sweat stained in the humidity of the Lahorian summer. Sticks or small wooden crates act as wickets.
Pakistan’s love for cricket equals that of hockey for a Canadian. The country shuts down when their national team plays. The national team members are heroes. Their success in the international circuit is a source of national pride.
—
One day, a cricket match was on television. A player’s wife had just given birth.
“The new parents decided to name the child after the city were she was conceived,” said one announcer.
“Good thing she wasn’t conceived in Lahore,” said the second announcer.
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