Chapter 9: Return to Lahore

 

Chapter 9: Return to Lahore

January 17, 2002

Bangkok, Thailand

We were safe and sweating in Bangkok. The next leg of our return to Lahore was soon to come.

To get to Bangkok, we flew Regina-Saskatoon-Toronto-San Francisco-Taipei-Bangkok-Lahore. In all, it was 28 hours in planes and 15 more hours in airports.

The process of flying, with airports and airplanes and the commotion that goes with it, used to excite me. Now, it was a mindless routine where my brain would go numb for the duration of the trip. Dana and I played a lot of cribbage in the airports.

In San Francisco, they took one look at our tickets to Pakistan and quickly escorted us to a private room. There, they asked us what we were doing in Lahore. 

“What’s Lahore like as a city?”

“How are the students?”

“Where do you live?”

“Why do you have bags of peas and lentils in your suitcase?”

Dana’s father had packed lentils and peas and shoved them in our suitcases. We were to give those to Manuel and his family as a gift.

It was obvious that we were not spies or terrorists. They just asked the basic questions to see if we were honest and let us go on our way. 

We did not feel slighted in the least. We were two white Canadians travelling to Pakistan post 9/11. We stood out. The customs officials were very friendly.

The rest of the trip was uneventful except for Eva Air’s vegetarian breakfast. I thanked the stewardess and looked down at my tray. Sitting there was a coil of dog poo. At least, that is the only comparison that came to mind.

And since I slept through them handing out earphones, I looked elsewhere for entertainment. A lesbian couple in the row ahead of us was very affectionate - that helped to pass some time.

I was also on the lookout for the individual who crapped their pants on a routine basis. The stench was unbearable. I could not pinpoint the culprit. They must have eaten the entire vegetarian/dog poo breakfast.

Stench aside, we landed in Lahore. We were exhausted but happy to be home. And near a shower.

Lahore was much the same - but there were some interesting and ominous differences.

January 17, 2002

Lahore, Pakistan

Manuel and Sammi met us at the airport accompanied by a grouchy school driver. Manuel pushed through the crowd to give us a hug while Sammi brought out a camera to take a picture.

The three months of camping out with our folks seemed so far behind now. It felt good to be home.

Temperatures were a balmy 15 degrees Celsius, much better than the Canadian temperatures that we left behind.

***

When we had left, the men and women of Lahore wore very moderate clothing. Very few women were covered. When we returned, we noticed that there were many more women who were covered. We were told that was due to the fact that many people in the more traditional western provinces moved east to the safe, quiet city of Lahore.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, Dana and I noticed a SWAT team suiting up outside some houses. Looking like a cross between a baseball catcher and a cricket wicket keeper (due to the helmets they wore and the pads covering their chests and legs), they were knocking down doors in our neighbourhood and arresting suspected Al Qaeda members. When I mentioned what we saw to staff at school, they mentioned that there were 150 arrests in our neighbourhood alone.

Top 10 Ways Of Knowing You Are Back In Lahore

10. Poverty.

9. Nicest and best kept beards anywhere.

8. People selling food on carts (the coconut seller has been replaced by a fish seller…huge fish sit on carts all day long).

7. Still ten donkeys and horses to ten motorbikes to three cars to our one van on the road.

6. Colourful public transportation buses that honk incessantly.

5. Wallas come to your door trying to sell you carpets and brass items.

4. I do not have to make my bed anymore.

3. Incredibly warm and friendly people; especially the staff at school.

2. While celebrating marriage; people fire off fire crackers that sound like gunfire or hand grenades; it shuts down the power in our house.

1. Our non-working lifestyle is over with and it is back to work.

January 22, 2002

Lahore, Pakistan

We gave Manuel and Sammi crosses and t-shirts for their entire family. It was a small token to thank them for looking after our house while we were gone. Since our return, they had been bending over backwards trying to help us - even more so than before 9/11. Atta, our ironing man, had gone missing though.

We had continued to pay their salaries during our absence, of course.

Tensions between India and Pakistan were on the rise once more. Lahorians seemed unconcerned. They said that happened twice a year and that nothing would happen. It is an election year in India and the current Prime Minister is just putting on a show.

It was great to get back into the classroom and teach again.

We were happy with our decision to return to Lahore even though the majority of our friends and family thought that we were batshit crazy to do so. It was difficult to explain why we felt we had to return.

January 26, 2002

Earthquakes

We experienced two earthquakes while we lived in Lahore.

The first earthquake occurred at night. The bed shook briefly. The lamp on the bedside table rattled.

“What’s happening?” Dana muttered, half asleep.

“It’s an earthquake,” I mumbled with great certainty.

I am a deep sleeper. How I knew it was an earthquake - my first ever - is beyond me. But I woke up sure that it was an earthquake.

For a brief second, I thought that maybe India was attacking. If they were, they would probably skip our house. My sleep was more important. So, we went right back to dreamland ignoring the thirty second tremor.

Later in the year, another earthquake hit as I was sitting on the toilet. The ground wiggled and jiggled and then stopped. I looked at the ground. I looked up at the ceiling. The walls seemed fine. The house was still standing. I paused to see if there would be another tremor. Nothing. I grinned an immature grin and returned to my magazine.

Armed Guard

An armed police officer was stationed outside our yard at all times. He was armed with a shotgun like our chowkidars were but he did not open the gate for us.

He slept in a tent pitched across the street. It was a boring job as he just stood outside all the time on our behalf.

Manuel’s Cooking

We were back to enjoying Manuel’s cooking - most of the time. There were still nights when we headed out for a quick McDonald’s meal.

For every meal, Manuel would insist on loading up my plate high with food.

My Mum always loaded my plate up as well. I soon came to look upon Manuel as my hairier, darker, pot-bellied, more masculine Pakistani mother. It was always nice to have things to remind you of home.

No sign of Atta.

Wedding Bombs

Completely caught up on work one evening, I settled down to watch some television. Indian music videos are always entertaining. Dana was busy prepping for classes in the other room.

Suddenly, the sound of bombs resonated through the house. The lights flickered. I jumped off the couch, ninja-like, and pinned myself to the wall. Pushing the curtain aside, I peered out of the living room window.

I saw no one. My heart was racing. I was expecting to see a fire fight in the street. Something was going down!

More explosions. Lights flickered again.

Dana came in, relaxed, and asked what was up.

“Stay away from the windows,” I commanded.

“I want to see what’s going on,” Dana said.

“Something is going on, but I can’t see anything,” I replied.

Still no action on the street.

Dana went to the window and scanned the yard without using the wall as a shield. Obviously, she knew nothing of urban assault tactics like I did. 

Nothing. No one. The quiet of the night took over Gulberg.

The next day at school, I asked what could have possibly caused the explosions.

“Oh, that’s common at weddings. There must have been a wedding celebration down the street from you. That’ll be fireworks or people shooting guns off at the sky,” replied one of our wonderful secretaries.

“Oh, I figured it would be something like that,” I lied, thinking of my cowardice less than twelve hours before.

That experience could not have prepared me for our first Lahorian church service.

Rockin’ Church Service

One quiet Sunday, we decided to attend the English Christian service at the church that Manuel pointed out during his city tour.

We arrived at a white building set amongst a large, neatly manicured lawn. Large trees held their arms out helping to frame a most picturesque site.

While the congregation was mostly Pakistani, there were a few Caucasian families mixed in the crowd. One of our student’s families was there. She seemed embarrassed to be seen.

We found two empty seats and sat down. A couple of fans tried to cut through the heat and humidity. Several hundred people were crammed in to the tiny room. The fans were not helping at all.

The choir consisted of two Pakistani youths and a Korean women. A Filipino rocked the guitar while a white guy played piano. The volume was on high.

Without warning, the band launched into a song and everyone rose to their feet. They sang…and sang…and sang…and sang the same song - for fifteen minutes.

They were into it. Heads were bobbing. Feet were tapping. Bodies were swaying. Musicians were grooving.

“Praise Jesus,” yelled an English elder.

“Open the gates,” he commanded.

“Alleluia,” he praised.

“Praise the Lord,” he said while marching in time to the music.

The lady in front of me danced so hard and made such wild faces that I had a hard time not laughing. Dana could not look at me for fear of laughing herself.

As much as I tried, I could not get in to the spirit of it all. I got the rhythm and clapped along but mostly people watched.

I looked around trying to find a cue as to when they would stop singing. One could not help but be impressed by their devotion. I could imagine no place in Canada where you would have a group of Christians so into a song…and for so long.

I grew up listening to the St. James’ Anglican choir. Not only could they not sing, there was no way the elderly choir could even stand for fifteen minutes at one time. Yet, these people kept singing and dancing in sauna-like conditions.

The band eventually shifted to another song. Neither the music nor the heat let up. In fact, they both intensified.

After 45 minutes of standing and singing (we were into our fourth song by then) Dana started to feel faint from the humidity and heat.

Dana needed to leave. She was going to pass out.

It was my turn to shout “ALLELUIA” and we snuck out amazed by what we witnessed.

Newspaper Interview

One day, Mum went to my hometown newspaper and mentioned that her son was living in Pakistan. Mum gave the local beat writer my email address and the reporter threw some questions my way.

What happened since December in the classroom?

We had kept in touch with our substitutes and had sent tests, exams, notes and other ideas to them throughout our time as refugees. My room was trashed. Things stolen. Everything written on or broken. From what the librarians told me, it was utter chaos. Classes went on as normal as possible though. Dana had a good sub.

What made you decide to return to Pakistan?

We had a contract to fulfill and we felt obligated to do that. Plus, it’s not such a bad life here. The money is good and we can travel a lot and we have a cook and cleaner. It’s pretty sweet. Plus, we were afraid of how it would look to other international schools if we broke contract. That’s very much frowned upon in the international scene.

How do you feel now that you’re back?

Busy. It was nice getting paid and doing little for all of those months. Now we’re getting caught up on missing assignments and tests and getting back into the swing of things. Everything here is calm. The people here are so used to tensions with India that they just shrug it off. The Afghanistan affair had them much more worried than India. The reporter in Karachi being kidnapped is disconcerting, however.

What is the feeling in your community/school?

Everyone was so welcoming and warm when we got back. It was a relief because I wasn’t sure how they’d react. As far as India goes, they just shrug and smile.

Are you planning to stay for next year?

Our contract runs through next year and then we’ll have to see what our plans are after that. They have a nice signing bonus for signing on for extra years and the travel around here is great.

Dana’s Turn to Get Sick

Dana came down with a bad cough and flu. We went to the Doctor’s Hospital, which was new and modern.

A Pakistani doctor came in to check her out and gave her a thorough exam.

Dana got x-rays taken of her lungs along with one week of medication. The total cost was 200 ($5.40 CDN) rupees for the visit, 300 ($8.11 CDN) rupees for the x-ray, 37 rupees ($1.00 CDN) for an anti-nausea injection, and 375 rupees ($10.14 CDN) for the medication. It came to a total of $24.65 CDN for the visit, x-rays, and medication.

Lahore Gymkhana Golf Club

The Lahore Gymkhana Golf Club, the oldest golf course in Pakistan, has fairways lined with beautiful Banyan trees. The sand traps and the water hazards are set among beautifully manicured grass. It is a course with a rich heritage and a very colonial feel.

One of the perks of golfing on this course is the fact that you could hire a caddy for around $2.00 to $3.00 USD. Most caddies are men between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. Caddying is their full time profession. Since they get paid so little, most golfers tip generously.

A colleague, Tyler (not his real name), was an avid golfer. One beautiful Punjabi Sunday afternoon, he and a few others were out enjoying 18 holes. On the 14th hole, our friend and his caddie walked ahead of the other golfers who stayed behind to look for their ball in the rough.

Tyler and his caddy turned to watch the other golfer take his shot. Tyler was standing in front of the caddie when the other golfer sliced rather badly.

The ball, a veritable laser guided missile of rubber core and dimpled plastic cover, sailed towards Tyler. As the ball neared, he deftly stepped aside. His poor caddy, however, had no way of seeing the ball’s trajectory.

The golf ball hit the caddy right in the scrotum. He dropped to the ground rolling and moaning in agony. One second, the man is out earning a living, enjoying a beautiful day out on the golf course. The next second, a golf ball traveling 185 kilometres per hour hits him right in the sack. Such is life.

Everyone laughed. The caddie finally stood up.

"Sahib, I must go home,” he said.

“Did you pay the caddy?” I asked after he finished telling me the story.

"No, he didn't finish all 18,” Tyler said.

The caddy limped away under the hot Punjabi sun unpaid and with swollen nuts.

Kashmiri Solidarity Day

The staff received the day off from school for Kashmiri Solidarity Day so seven of us went golfing. 

My golf game was (and still is) horrible. I caught Slicing Virus III, which left me in the rough most of the day. We joked that slicing is like herpes, it will never go away.

The highlight was seeing a horse drawn cart with poop piled thirty-five feet high.

February 8, 2002

Lahore & Islamabad, Pakistan

In mid January, Dana and I coached the LAS girls middle school basketball team. Our team nickname was the Buffalos. Nothing represents a sleek, athletic basketball player better than a slow, stunned looking buffalo.

After six weeks of practice, we were to play Karachi and Islamabad in a tournament that usually found LAS on the losing end. How were Buffalo supposed to compete against Cobras and Knights?

We split the ten girls that we had into Team A and Team B. That meant five players per team with no substitutes. Thankfully, the girls worked hard and listened well. They proved to be wonderful to coach.

In February, we flew in a Pre-World War II prop plane that bounced and shook the entire way to Islamabad. The bouncing was so violent that one passenger threw up in the back of the plane. Then a second passenger threw up a little closer. Then a third closer still. The stench wafted forward.

The seats were so close together that I was unable to put my feet on the floor. My knees were around my ears the entire trip.

After getting our luggage, we jumped on ISOI (International School of Islamabad) busses and headed to their sprawling campus. Students were shuffled off with their student hosts.

After all students were gone, we were introduced to our hosts who were from Saskatchewan. She was the elementary principal and he was the middle and elementary school counsellor. We could not have asked for nicer hosts.

Things started to come together as we played the games. In the end, both the A Team and the B Team won the championship. But it was not easy.

Early in the tournament, six of the girls came down with high fevers. Because each team only had five players, they could not count on substitutes. They played through the fever and the nausea.

The ISOI team had a few players who called our girls “sluts” and “bitches.” This was more than our students could handle. They would come to the bench in tears, understandably so.

Near our last game, one of their girls elbowed one of our girls in the mouth and called her a “slut.” No call. I had already talked to their coach about it and he thought it was quite funny.

I got up and shouted at the referee (for the first time in the tournament). The tournament director came over and told me to “zip it.”

“Zip it? Your girls have been calling us ‘sluts’ and ‘bitches’ all tournament and your coach thinks it is funny. I can hear them call my players that. And you’re telling me to ‘zip it’?” I said.

I was upset. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see an ISOI parent filming our conversation. Good, I hoped he got it all.

The tournament director looked shocked and promised to look into it. She came back later and said that she spoke with the Head of School, the coach, and the players but could find no proof. I appreciated that but we know what we heard.

The LAS “A Team” was down by 1 with 1.1 seconds left in the game. One of our post players was fouled. She hit her first free throw to tie the game. She missed the second free throw but our other post player snuck in for the rebound and quickly threw up a shot. The basketball hung on the rim for an agonizingly long time before dropping in.

The girls hugged and cheered. We won!

Dana and I could not have been prouder of the girls considering the name calling and the flu.

Basant

As spring descends upon the Punjab, the residents of Lahore flock to the shops to buy that special kite that will help them celebrate the end of winter. The festival of Basant is a time of yellow clothes, kites, and banners, for that is the colour of the mustard plant that blooms during that time of year.

The hard-core kite flyers add powdered glass, strips of metal, or some shards of glass to the twine that they use to fly their kites. Their goal is to cut the strings of other flyers sending their kites floating away with the wind.

It is also a time of rooftop or garden parties, where one can sit back with family and friends and watch the hundreds of kites flapping in the wind and the many duels to the death - of the kite, that is.

Unfortunately, people die during the festival. The deadly twine has been known to cut throats, people intent on watching the skies rather than where they are walking fall off the rooftops, or cars hit children chasing runaway kites in the streets. The government put bans on kite flying but the festival is far too popular and many fly kites regardless.

February 23, 2002

Eid

Eid, or Eid ul-Fitr, was upon us. Eid marks the end of Ramadan, the period where people fast during the day. During this time, Muslims around the world abstain from food, water, sex, and cigarettes while the sun is up.

In Lahore, herders bring in sheep, goats, cattle, and camels for sale to be slaughtered. A regular goat sells for 10,000 rupees. We saw that a 140 kg goat was listed for 85,000 rupees in the newspaper. That is the equivalent of $1400 USD. That’s one expensive goat.

Pakistani sheep look different than Canadian sheep. Their ears are huge and their noses are rounded like anteaters. They are like a cross with a goat’s body and a lop-eared rabbit’s face. Also, you could smuggle a couple of volleyballs in their scrotums.

Sellers tether the animals in grassy vacant lots throughout the city. A week before Eid, the herds can be quite large. Every day, however, the herd shrinks in size as people buy the animals. You know Eid is close when there are only a few lonely, but fortunate animals left tied up.

Once bought, they decorate the animals with coloured harnesses, ribbons, and dyed balls of cotton on their heads. Prayers are said and then they slit the throat and let the animal bleed to death. It is important to make sure that the blood does not touch the animal (quite often by hanging it upside down).

You can smell the blood in the city on the morning of Eid. Once the animal is dead, they prepare and cook the meat. The family eats some, stores some, and gives away the rest to the poor.

I told this story to some North American friends once.

“That’s disgusting,” they said.

“What do they think of us stuffing a Thanksgiving turkey?” I asked in reply.

February 1, 2002

Daniel Pearl

David Pearl, the Wall Street Journalist, was beheaded by his Al-Qaeda captives today. He had been kidnapped while investigating the “Shoe Bomber” in Karachi.

I tried not to use the term “Muslim Extremist Group” because no Muslim that I knew - and I knew a lot of Muslims - would ever condone what they did to him.

Despite this disturbing news, it did not shake our resolve. What happened in Karachi tended to stay in Karachi. Lahore seemed very remote and shielded from Pakistan’s largest city of twenty million residents.

After Eid

The streets were full of people selling the hides of animals that were slaughtered during Eid. Not only that, piles of guts lay everywhere and garbage dumpsters held the remains of the sacrificial animals.

International Club

Dana and I joined the International Club, which was exclusive to expats. If you were Pakistani, you were unable to join. You could work there, but not join. Yes, we hung out amongst the elite.

For $40 USD a month, we received access to the restaurant, bar, pool table, dart board, basketball hoop, swimming pool, and tennis courts. Although it was exclusive, the club itself was actually small and unassuming. Still, we felt comfortable and it was a good place to visit.

A lot of Nestle employees hung out there for the company had a large staff in Lahore.

I felt very colonial when we went there. We sat on the lawn and had drinks and food served to us.

March 2, 2002

My Grade 10 history class handed in their research papers. I sat down at our dining room table and corrected them all in one day. I was brain dead when I finished but it was worth it.

Unfortunately, several students decided to plagiarize.

One plagiarizer in particular was an athletic and very popular young man. He wrote beautifully and in great detail about using the loom in the late 1700s. As I read the paper, I could imagine him sitting at the loom and weaving.

I suspected this young cricket player might have plagiarized a little and a quick search on Google proved that he did copy the majority of his paper. His punishment was to be suspended from the next cricket game, a very harsh punishment. I felt bad for I liked the student. He was very personable.

His father came in to see me and I offered to show him what exactly his son had copied. He quietly said that was not necessary and he apologized for his son’s behaviour. He mentioned that he had been a problem at home lately as well and had hoped that this would teach him a lesson.

I had visits from members of the cricket team begging me to rescind his punishment, even though it was a punishment that was clearly spelled out in the school handbook. I was not the most popular teacher with some members of the cricket team, although other teammates told me that they were glad to see him humbled. The school upheld the punishment and he missed the game.

A couple of weeks later, his father returned and said that things were much better at home and thanked me. Not all parents were that nice, but he was very supportive.

March 4, 2002

School

Other than the plagiarizing, school was moving along nicely. End of term grades were do so we spent a lot of time at school.

The Director flew to the U. S. in order to recruit teachers for the next school year. After everything that happened in Pakistan this past year, his job would not be an easy one.

March, 2002

American Ambassador

Wendy Chamberlain, the American Ambassador, visited our school. She arrived in a bullet proof vehicle and was driven right on to campus.

We lowly staff members parked outside the campus and walked in to school.

She visited many of the classrooms but skipped mine. Why, after all, would she visit a Canadian’s classroom?

It was unfortunate for I saved her one of my chocolate chip cookies from my lunch. I wanted to say “would you like a cookie?” to an ambassador.

I did see one of the Ambassador’s security personnel. Wendy was in the main office for photos while a 6’5” security guard stood outside the door.  Legs shoulder width apart. Hands held in front. His suit must have been tailored for he was as wide as our van.

He watched me the entire way as I came down the stairs. I nodded a greeting and exited the building. (The staff washrooms were in the staff room and you could only get there by going outside.)

He made no reply. His eyes followed me the entire way out. Apparently, I had the look of an assassin and he was worried. He must have known my kill total for cockroaches.

Despite remaining expressionless, he had an air about him that was intimidating. He exuded a “don’t mess with me. If you do, I will kill you easily and I will enjoy it.”

To this day, I wish I had offered him the chocolate chip cookie.

Pummelling a Pakistani

LAS was participating in a cricket tournament. Teams from Karachi and Islamabad flew in to compete and dine on cucumber sandwiches.

The tournament was held at Aitchison College, our competition. Aitchison was Lahore’s British school and well known for being a bunch of wankers. Despite this poor reputation, Aitchison sat on a gorgeous 160 acre campus, had a 130 year old tree, and stunning buildings.

The visiting players stayed with our students. Visiting coaches stayed with staff members.

We hosted Australian Al, a cricket coach from the school in Islamabad. We were responsible for feeding him, dropping him off in the morning, and picking him up in the afternoon. It was a real nice way to meet people from all around the world.

Since the students were in the capable hands of the families, the coaches were freed up for a visit at the International Club for a beer or three.

Conversation focused on security and the situation in Pakistan.

A teacher from Karachi shared the Karachi American School point of view.

In order to leave the campus, all teachers had to be accompanied by armed guards (staff members lived on campus). Guards went with them even if they went across the street to buy bread or milk. The entourage was mandatory.

One day, he and his two guards were driving along when a Pakistani man was suspected of following them. At the next red light, the guards jumped out and threw a series of punches at the man’s head through the car window.

They proceeded to beat the driver mercilessly and then jumped back in the car in time for the green light.

I doubt our chowkidars would have ever done that for us. We should have gave them more tea.

Liberty Market

Liberty Market became one of our favourite places to shop. There, tailors, fabric shops, and cloth dying shops all congregated together in a horseshoe-shaped market. Our favourite was the Saleem Fabric shop, a large store that sold nothing but fabric.

On the main floor were the fabrics for the men while the basement held the women’s fabrics. The fabrics were stacked neatly on intricate, wood shelves around the store’s outer walls. There was also a large square counter in the centre of the store.

Large leather chairs were arranged in pairs facing the counters and the thousands of fabric rolls that were stacked behind them. A young man religiously brought us soda pop in a glass bottle with a straw in it every time we entered. As we sat down, a gentleman would show us various fabrics.

When you decided on the material, he would write a receipt. You would then see another gentleman to pay the bill. You would then return to your salesman with the receipt and he would hand you your fabric, already bagged. What a bloody marvellous system.

Downstairs in the women’s section is where it got more interesting. The multitude of colours and patterns available for women’s shalwar kameezes was beyond belief.

There are three parts to the beautiful shalwar kameez. The shalwars are the loose pyjama like bottoms. The kameezes is the tunic. The dupatta is the shawl. Both men and women in Pakistan wear shalwar kameezes however the men do not wear the dupatta. The styles differ greatly between men and women’s kameezes.

Dana would pick out a pattern and colour that she would like for the shalwar. The assistants would then look up and down the shelves and pick out material for the kameez and dupatta.

The first time they picked out the material, we were shocked. As they held up the new material next to the shalwar material, we just could not imagine how the patterns and colours would match. Once they were sewn together though, they made a beautiful outfit. We never doubted their selection again.

For our North American foodstuffs, we were directed to a small dingy store named Al-Fatah. Located in the basement of a run down building in Gulberg, it sold European and North American goods that were not available elsewhere in the city.

Every time we walked through the doors, two workers surrounded us. They were bag boys in their early 20s. One’s eye was silver in colour.

“Hello! Hello!” in perfect English.

One brought a shopping cart for us while the other fetched pop drinks in glass bottles with straws already in.

“How are you? How are your families?” they would ask.

“Fine, thanks. And yours?”, we asked.

This was unusual. Few customers, it appeared, would bother to ask about them let alone their family. We got the sense that they were used to being bossed around.

And then they got down to business. The shopping list was snatched from our hands. They poured over the list and then scurried off returning only once the appropriate items were found.

Often they would have to run and help others or to answer to their boss but they always came back to help.

After we paid, they grabbed all of our plastic grocery bags and hauled them to our van. We were not allowed to carry one bag. They loaded the van and waited patiently for their tip.

Typically, we tipped a couple of dollars each but that may have been the equivalent of their daily wage - we never asked. It was obviously a more generous tip than they were used to.

Once the van was loaded, we had a gauntlet to run. The parking lot for the grocery store was down the street facing a well-manicured park. It was on a busy street, tended by a guard, who was in charge of making sure everyone’s vehicle was safe while they shopped.

Since it was angled parking and the traffic was heavy, it was nearly impossible to back out unless you had someone to help guide you and stop the traffic. A generous tip to the parking lot guard took care of this problem.

As our friends loaded the van, I would walk over to the guard.

“Salam aliekum, how are you?”

He was a man of few words. I pressed several bills in to his hands. He may have not said much but he understood money.

The first time I tipped him, he nonchalantly took the tip and went to pocket it. As he walked away, he glanced down and added the bills up. Suddenly, he ran back to help us back out.

Risking life and limb, he motioned for me to back out. He then jumped in the way of any traffic and raised a hand. With a wave and a smile, we were gone. That was money well spent.

— 

There was a black market for weapons in Lahore. One of our Grade 10 students was the son of a high ranking police officer.

At the end of a class one day, we were joking around before the bell.

“So, can I go and buy a gun here?” I asked.

Everyone nodded yes.

“So I can go out and buy a pistol or rifle,” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” one answered.

“So, can I go and get a machine gun or a grenade,” I asked.

“Yeah, no problem,” the police officer’s son answered. 

“How about a rocket launcher or a flame thrower,” I asked.

“Yes, no problem. I will get my driver and we will take you there on Saturday,” offered the police officer’s son. “You can buy whatever you want.”

I never did take him up on the offer. Dana would not let me hang a rocket launcher on the wall.

—

Lahore American School ran a small store that was to sell school supplies and clothing like school shirts, umbrellas, bumper stickers, and cricket hats. One enterprising employee decided he would add to the store’s inventory and his own income by selling drugs, pornography, and condoms. Or so it was rumoured.

March 15, 2002

Wedding Dress

Although we were already married technically according to the state of Kuwait, we both wanted a wedding back home with our family and friends.

Dana got the name and phone number of a local designer named Maheen. She had a great reputation for designing beautiful dresses and she had a staff that would sew what she envisioned. 

To get to her studio, we had to drive half way across the city, passing a decrepit John Deere shop. She was young and filled with creative ideas. Our first visit was to see sketches that she had already created and to pick out fabric and embroidery samples.

Over the course of the next three months, we made several visits for fittings.

In the end, Dana had a beautiful wedding dress hand sown and designed in Lahore.

Holy Crap It’s Humid

As winter said good-bye, spring decided to party on and raise the heat. Thankfully, it  rained two nights in a row at one point, which helped to settle the dust and green up the city.

The thermometer commonly ranged between 28 and 30 degrees Celsius during the day but the evenings and mornings were nice and cool.

We did not dare complain for we knew that summer was coming and the temperature would get significantly hotter and more humid.