Chapter 5 Karachi
"I ask myself: what to do about my carrier? It is a haddock!" During the three days we had been together, I had frequently admired the vivid English of this Pakistani salesman, but slight differences in stress, intonation and vowel sounds made close concentration necessary if I wanted to follow him all the time. As he had embarked on the story of his life, I had allowed my attention to wander and was now caught with this haddock.
After listening carefully and interposing a discreet question or two, I established that what he had actually said was: "I ask myself; what to do about my career? It is a headache!" We were outside Karachi on a rough, dirt track, jolting and bouncing around in a jeep. When I cautiously hinted that this was not the best of roads, the Pakistani explained that we were in the bed of a river, which most of the time is bone-dry and is then graded into some semblance of a road for use by quarry vehicles which were busily carting away sand and gravel. It seemed unlikely that water ever flowed here. Burning sands, blue sky and the sun beating powerfully down, gave me the illusion of being in a vast desert, rather than within a dozen miles of the centre of Karachi.
The annual rainfall is about five inches, though many locals refuse to believe that there is so much, and Karachi lives on water from the Indus.
It is a fascinating city, growing rapidly and changing rapidly. At this point in its transition, several centuries exist side by side, but in a few years the old will have disappeared and Karachi will be a duller city. In wide, modern streets, flanked by now multi-storey buildings, camels wend their way among hooting taxis and cars. In old Karachi, tiny ponies, harnessed side by side, with trappings jingling to their dainty trotting, pull little carts with big loads. Beggars and traders crowd the market area; multitudes of swarthy faces beneath a fiery sun.
There are several good hotels, but the Karachi Intercontinental is generally considered the best, as well as the most expensive. In air-conditioned luxury its guests eat, drink and sleep well. It is redeemed from being just another American hotel on foreign soil by its staff, in native costumes, and by the first-class local food available. There is a swimming pool where guests can bask in the perpetual sunshine.
On one of my evenings there, a reception was being given for the visiting head of a neighbouring State, and security guards, brandishing revolvers and automatic weapons, prowled the lobby. I have an aversion to gunmen, whatever their excuse. Probably an innocent action such as reaching for a fountain-pen, would have been misconstrued by some trigger-happy thug, and I decided to dine at the hotel opposite.
The "floor-show" consisted of a belly-dancer whose speciality it was to dance non-stop for forty-five minutes to the deafening accompaniment of about sixty watts of over-amplification. Her act was disappointing, but I was assured by a fellow diner that ten years previously she had been "terrific". Though I had a book in my pocket, politeness in a foreign city prevented me from reading. This was probably as well, because as a grand finale, the dancer leapt on to the tables bordering the room and pranced along them, and I would undoubtedly have had my fingers trodden on. The applause was almost as prolonged as the act. The dancer moved around, stopping to face anyone who seemed apathetic, and indicating by a glare and an imperious toss of the head that, she was entitled to better applause than that. I clapped; my hands were quite sore.
"Pan" for chewing can be bought ready-made at roadside stalls, but the well-to-do, many of whom chew in private, prepare their own. An evening meal with a Pakistani family ended with the preparation of pan by the wife - an elaborate ritual involving the smearing of the betel leaves with lime, camphor, areca-nut parings and other nameless substances, and the wrapping of this into a chewable wad. It was somewhat reminiscent of the elderly English lady's fussing with rows of caddies in the blending and preparation of her pot of tea.
I accepted a pan and found it larger than expected; it certainly inhibited conversation for a time. One of the ingredients colours the lips, tongue, saliva and eventually the teeth too, a bright red, which accounts for the sight of Pakistanis in the street apparently spitting out great gouts of blood, as well as for the red and fearsome smiles of many chewers. If the pan contains tobacco, it is necessary to spit, hence the occasional spittoon in office or home, but ours were tobacco-free. While coping with the unfamiliar package in my mouth, I swallowed a nut which felt like a razor-sharp five-jack and cut a series of grooves down my gullet.
The lady of the house had just returned from a pilgrimage to Mecca. This, of course, is something every Muslim hopes to achieve, but because of the shortage of foreign exchange a limited number may go and these are selected each year by lottery from all applicants. As she described the pilgrimage it sounded regrettably over-commercialised and reminded me of the comment that "Christmas would be all right if they didn't insist on dragging religion into it".
The taxi-driver had not set his meter, but I did not notice this until we had reached the Embassy of the U.S.A.
I pointed it out and the driver gave me a red-toothed smile. "I not set meter for friend! You are my friend - you pay me three rupees, four rupees, five, maybe!"
"I pay you two rupees," I said, "and that's too much." It was; a second journey to the Embassy next day cost less than a rupee.
The Embassy has an efficient and comprehensive commercial section, staffed by Americans and Pakistanis. One of the Americans dashed around for me very energetically and helpfully. He was a likeable man of the type often referred to as a "human dynamo". Perhaps he also rather conveyed the impression that he believed this to be the way an American should behave and that until something burst, he was determined to keep up the pace, He finally whisked me upstairs for a drink of 7-up and expatiated on the advantages of this canteen as we waited for our cold drinks.
"Make use of it any time at all," he said generously. "You can have coffee or a sandwich, prepared by our own staff and know that you're not going to pick up any bug here."
While he was speaking, I watched one of the Pakistani canteen staff, tearing meat from a chicken carcase with his fingernails, and making sandwiches with the results.
"Or if you want ice in your drink," continued my friend, "why, you can be sure it was made with water that isn't going to give you an upset stomach."
Pat to his cue, the attendant picked up ice with his fingers and dropped it in our drinks.
I walked from the Embassy to the "Chicken Inn" at the Metropole, a few hundred yards away, for lunch. Just as I had crossed the road a crack like a revolver shot made me jump. Two more followed before I realised that a boy with large, soulful eyes was demonstrating a whip.
"You buy!" he said, cracking it dangerously close to my ear. "Best camel-leather - only twelve rupees.'
I do not have the slightest need for a whip, but it was beautifully made, cheap at the pound he was asking and I felt safer with it in my hands than in his. After bargaining down to ten rupees, I bought it and also a newspaper from one of the interested crowd which had gathered. Then, camel-whip and newspaper in hand, I entered the hotel for lunch.
All visitors to Karachi are expected to have a ride on a camel and so I complied with the custom despite some inner reservations. I was not impressed; the centre of gravity seems too high, it under-steers and the brakes fade badly. For no known reason, my beast broke into a trot and hauling back on the reins produced little effect because of its long, flexible neck. Similarly, pulling on the offside rein in an attempt to turn right, brought the camel's head round until we were looking each other in the eye, but still he continued his forward motion. I could well understand why Lawrence of Arabia is said to have preferred being photographed with camels, to riding them.
Sometime after leaving Karachi I received a letter from my Pakistani friend:
"As promised, I was at the airport to see you off, but unfortunately I did not reach the counter until 7.17. You can imagine my disappointment and I confess that it had a very sickening effect on me. It so happened that my scooter was out of order and much to my surprise there was no taxi available nearby. I had to catch a bus immediately and after travelling half a mile I hurriedly got down and was able to hire a cab which, in spite of good endeavour, could not reach airport before 7.17. I had a feeling that I might still be in time as you had told me that you may be called in at 7.30. I am at fault, but had all the desire to be with you."