Toronto, New York, Abu Dahlia, Islamabad; after a full 24 hours of traveling, I had finally arrived.  Upon meeting Khadijah at the airport she asked if I would be able to endure another two hours driving to gather with friends at their village house in Murree.  Of course I was.

            A trip to the village house is an escape from the hectic pace of the city and the prying eyes of parents.  After picking up some supplies and friends, Khadijah, her sister, Hadjra, two friends, Hassan and Danish, and myself, loaded up the car and headed north to cottage country.

            Once the drive left the main highway we bounced onto a narrow paved road that wound its way up and into the mountains.  Whenever we meet any oncoming traffic one car would have to pull over to the side to allow the other to pass.  Cornering meant honking to alert any oncoming traffic, which could be pedestrian or livestock, of an impending altercation.  It was slow going, but worth it.

            As much as Pakistan is vastly different than Canada, their village house eased me back into memories of cottage life back home.  The view was stunning and an air of relaxation hit me as soon as we arrived.  It was instantaneous to feel at home amongst new friends in a new place.  We build a fire, shared a few drinks, and settled into a night of conversation.  Although on the other side of the world, people are still essentially the same.  We talked about the everyday average stuff:  the price of gasoline, the recent assassination of Bhutto and its effects on Pakistani politics, inflation and taxes, the purpose of a new education, living with your parents, regular twice daily blackouts, Chinese manufacturing, theology, history and more. Pakistanis love to argue, and I enthusiastically enjoyed fueling the fire.  I inspired a separate dialogue regarding what I should see and do here and abroad.  I recall a similar conversation in 2004, which resulted in me flying off to Karachi to attend a Mendie.  This time my plans ranged from traveling all over Pakistan to the merits of Goa versus Ankra and who everyone knows there to show me a good time.  I hope somebody took notes!  The energy of the evening kept me up past midnight, a decision my body would later reject.

            The following day was a slow one, and we meandered back to Islamabad before sunset.  The drive home reawakened my senses to life in Pakistan.  Although I can try to explain life here, it is incomprehensible to me; so I just sit back and enjoy.  Living is not fast paced, in any aspect, everything takes time, but the sheer volume of people makes it feel hectic.  A car ride seems to be a good metaphor.  The divided highway, I assume, was designed for three cars abreast.  Often it is four.  Five if you include donkey carts and people walking or on a bike.  Six if you include motorcyclists in the opposite direction.   Then add busses with people on the roof and donkey carts.  The incessant honking is not abusive, but rather an informative indication of overtaking another car on either side with little or no room.  Pedestrians sporadically cross the highway wherever they wish.  The shops along the side appear as cement dugouts with three sides and a roof.  They sell anything.  There is no parking on the shoulder, but of course it is done everywhere.  The hurry up and wait melee is like being in a cattle drive.  But you eventually get where you are going.   This is life in Pakistan.

            Upon our return Saturday evening to Khadijah’s parents home I finally got what I am really after here; a great meal.  With my internal clock still in disarray we went out to eat around ten o’clock, normal for families here.  It is wonderful to eat with my hands again, I slopped up curries and vegetables and kormas and sauces with naan bread until I had finished two heaping plates.  It was magnificent.

            Sunday, however, my body caught up with me.  I had not had a full nights sleep in three days and Sunday was an important day.  We were making wine.  Now the consumption of alcohol is illegal in Pakistan since it is a strict Muslim country.   On my first trip here I remember that getting a bottle required some effort, however on this trip bottles seemed everywhere.  We stopped at two hotels to get beer for the event.  Being a foreigner I can get a permit to buy a quantity of alcohol.   Our dilemma was: should we just buy the beer illegally from the government hotel, buy an illegal permit and then buy beer, or wait to get a permit on Monday.  While we were negotiating at the one hotel, we were also on the phone with Danish who was bartering a similar deal elsewhere.  All of this in front of the security guards.  The fact is that although drinking is illegal, it is a reality.  A system of bribes and a black market kept consumption alive during the prohibition era in American in the early half of the twentieth century, is does the same here now.  Even more ironic was that the beer we purchased was made in Pakistan.   The Murree brewery is on the same street as the Presidential lodge where Musharraf now lives.  The process is humoursly slow, but we got them.

            The winemaking experience in here is entirely different than what I experienced in Portugal.   Instead of picking grapes from the vine we drove around to shops to buy grape juice, apple juice, apples, strawberries, berries and even potatoes and onions.  The better part of ten hours was then cutting, peeling, boiling and adding yeast, pectic enzyme and tannin to our concoctions.    All this, in the hope that before I leave, we can have some drinkable stuff.  Thank you to the fine people in Chelsey’s wine store in East City, you have helped make many people happy.  (Incidentally later in the week most had spilled out the tops of the bottles we filled too full.)

            I feel that Pakistan is a process, not a product.  At the end of the evening I sat out alone on the terrace of Danish’s parent’s house which overlooks the city of Rawalpindi.  With the current power outage few lights were visible.  The mosque was lit up like a blinking Christmas tree as the call to pray sounded out over the entire landscape.  I am totally at peace and relaxed here.  Although we share the same planet, it is a different world.  It is well worth being unemployed.   Tomorrow start back in school.

PS Grama and grama, how are you?  I am alive and well, safe and sound.  I have not met any Talibans (yet).  With love. Aaron