Messi's Magic and the Spirit of Football

Brazil vs Argentina (June 9th, 2012) at the Metlife Stadium, East Rutherford, New Jersey. You get match reports all over the internet, this is the matchday experience report. :)

As I sat in the subway train, en route to New Jersey for the big game of football, two men entered the train at one of the stops and started playing a Spanish song. The South American flavor early in the morning set the tone for the day, as my excited father, siblings and I looked on at their performance in delight. Street performers and interesting subway passengers are a common sight in New York which I have come to expect at every visit. But as far as sport goes, even after many visits to the United States, the stereotype persisted that the major sports were basketball, baseball and the OTHER football. THE sport of football as we know it, and soccer as it is known there has a relatively smaller following. Even though the beautiful game has largely grown in popularity and following in the United States over the past few years, my expectations of the game atmosphere were largely influenced by the stereotypical image of the average American Sports Joe.

As the Spanish song ended, and the performers parted ways at a following stop, one of the Joes entered. With every stop, the number of Joes in football jerseys became a recurring sight on the train, making me excited about the game. Joe, who is a big sports buff in America, is mostly focused on the NBA and NFL for the most part, but is a casual follower of soccer. Hence, Joe would appreciate the big game not like the frenzied crowds of Europe, Africa or South America, but the casual first-timer on the way to his first football game, very much like me. Even though I am a football fanatic, I soon discovered that a football game in the stadium is very much different from the games I watch on TV.

At the New York Penn Station, where we had to catch the final train for the stadium, long queues for train tickets abounded, the station packed with fans. I immediately knew I was in the right place as I got in line behind all kinds of people clad in different football memorabilia. Time passed quickly in the long queue as fans shared their thoughts on the game, the players, and placed some bets.

“You’ll buy a Brazil jersey when Argentina wins,” a guy challenged his friend standing in front of me in the queue.

“Right!” he replied, “And I expect the same from you: money on the Argentina jersey when Brazil lose.”

The waiting lounge for the train was packed, and a stampede followed as soon as the platform number for the first train was announced. We joined the throng, eager to beat the traffic to the stadium. As the crowd started moving toward the train, the magic started. The Joes had started to cheer and sing anthems, which raised the ambiance of the train station considerably. Once we were part of the flowing traffic, there was no need to even take a look at the direction signs above us. We sang and cheered our way to the train, and climbed on board.

Queueing outside the Metlife Stadium.

Twenty emotionally charged minutes later, the excitement spilled outside the train as we walked toward the Metlife Stadium, which now loomed over us. Making our way to the entrance, I saw that the audience for the game composed of a varied mix of people. The wide appeal of a Brazil and Argentina game was not to be under-estimated, I thought. The melting pot of the Big Apple had spilled out its global mix of populace, who had all formed their alliances in yellow, or blue and white.

Every Asian, Christian, child, African, Muslim, European, Jew, woman, American, atheist, man, and Arab got neatly into new queues outside the stadium gates. A loud cheer erupted from this diverse assembly of enthusiasts, all clad in the colors of football; we were nearly in. The unanimous roar from the crowd was like a vuvuzela honk that jolted my sixth sense awake. There was an unearthly presence rising up around me which I had never experienced before. My soul felt elated and excited as I spun my head in all directions. The people went in one by one, but those waiting in line were rejoicing: colored wigs were put on with cheers and laughter; some musical notes were played on trumpets and drums. A large group of people had already made it inside the gates, and a loud cheer could be heard from their direction; the groups waiting in line followed, louder this time. The light clouds parted, bathing us in sunlight for a brief moment in the pleasant afternoon. It was the spirit of the beautiful game, the crowd’s rituals and excitement had summoned the spirit of football in all its high energy.

The fans climbing the escalators in the stadium.

The last barriers parted, and we entered the sea of fans making its way up the escalators to the stands. The spirit was much stronger here, and the escalators were packed with energy. Fans above us, below us, all waved their flags in the air; and then came the singing. In the melodies above me, I could make out a few words like: “Ole Aalay Oa Argentina!” but most of the words dissolved into the spirited ambiance. The Brazilians below us on the escalator heard some of the Argentine songs, and started off louder with their own as we continued to move further up. On the outside, we could see the queues at the gate getting longer, a field of yellow and blue getting bigger and bigger. The American Joes proved my stereotype wrong, and I saw that the football spirit was alive in America as well. In fact, she dictated an ambiance of unmatched energy and enthusiasm which can only be found in a football match.

I was nearly jumping on the escalators with excitement; a weird voice in my head wanted me to push the guy in front of me off the escalator so I could run on ahead. On the landing, we searched frantically for our stand. I spotted the directions and marched on ahead, leaving my brother to catch up behind me. Other fans darted from side to side in front of me, buying hot dogs, beer and popcorn from the concession stands. Loud music started blaring from inside the stadium as I counted the stand numbers passing over my head: 327… 326. Suddenly, the queues for the food disappeared as the fans started running.

THE TEAMS WERE ENTERING THE ARENA!!!!!!!

325…! 324… FINALLY!!! The atmosphere suddenly spiked as some of the loudest roars I had heard erupted around me. All the games I had ever watched on TV, all the FIFA matches ever played on my PlayStation, all the football documentaries I had ever seen, had never prepared me for THAT moment. As I turned left into the stand entrance, the high sun glare blinded my vision for an instant before I could catch sight of the field. One blinding glare later, I stood dumbstruck. Numb. Feet frozen. Jaw dropped. Eyes popping out of their sockets.

The flair and energy of a packed stadium, so alive, cheering, screaming, and singing, just coming out of a dark tunnel and hitting you in the face for the first time was a mind-blowing moment. I just stood there and took it all in, the sea of fans above me, below me, all around me; all seated around a gleaming, green football pitch with two shining goalposts at each end. The loud orchestra music overwhelmed the stadium into a state of frenzy, mixing in with the roar of the fans; the loud cheers fueled the game’s spirit as she ushered out the two titans of football. Both teams filed out in the center of the bright, green pitch as we looked on, frozen for a moment at the stand entrance. My heart had never beaten faster, and I nearly dropped my camera to the floor. As I opened my mouth to say “OH MY GOD!”, “Woah!” or “WOW!” the desi in me took over and what came out was a long, “OYE HOYE HOYE HOYEE!!!”

As the national anthems for both teams began, I started walking up the stairs to find my seat. Walking upstairs, I noticed how many of the fans knew the words of the instrumental national anthem music playing. The audience was not merely composed of casual fans, but hardcore Brazilian and Argentine fans from their native countries. This made the atmosphere even more exciting, and I felt the adrenaline rush as I took my place on my seat and geared up for kickoff. What followed in the next ninety minutes was one of the best games of football in recent history.

Kickoff!

The game kicked off, and the spirit went to work immediately. She used both, the action on the pitch as well as the sea of fans, to command the power and excitement of the arena. The tempo for the game was set in the opening minutes when both sides started playing some high quality, fast paced and open-ended football. The Brazilians commandeered the ball in the opening minutes to push Argentina back into their own half. The spirit was an invisible puppeteer in the arena, pulling on the strings of her players with one hand and pushing up the sound levels of the crowd higher with the other. Considering it was my first experience watching a football game from the stands, it became hard for me at points to pay attention to the action on the field. The surrounding chants, shouts and cheers were too enchanting to ignore and I succumbed to their magic as a stranded sailor to a siren’s song. The spirit flew around the stadium as the fans rose to create Mexican waves. A giant oscillation of magic, you could see her move as the fans’ arms shot through the air. I rose up excitedly as she went the entire length of the stadium and gave my raised arms a high-five.

Metlife Stadium, June 9th. 81,994 fans were in for a treat.

Ba-ba-ba ba BANG!! *whistle*

A man further down the row on my left was drumming hard on the plastic seat in front of him. The seat’s occupant was standing, whirling a blue and white scarf in circles above his head, oblivious to the drumming on his seat.

The drummer, with a Brazil flag tied around his head like a bandana, went at it again: Ba-ba-ba ba BANG! Two rows down, directly in front of me, another spectator took notice, and put a whistle to his lips, a shrill note escaping his lips after the last bang. They caught each other’s eye, and the drumming went louder this time: BA-BA-BA BA BANG!!! *WHISTLE*.  Among the flurry of colors and people, more banging on seats joined the chorus, always followed by a whistle.

Brazilian fans rejoice after the scores level at 2-2.

Down below us, the action on the football field grew more fluid and dynamic. The enigmatic Brazil side pulled a series of good passing moves to push past the Argentine defense and shot an attempt on goal. Each pass fueled a nerve of adrenaline in the stands, the drumming hands seem bent on breaking the seats, and the whistle got lost in the moment when everyone reflexively jumped after the final pass of the move, the striker closing in on the keeper. Sighs of relief and disappointment followed from both sets of fans as the ball went wide of the posts.

Similar displays of fan power followed in the mercurial game, the balance shifting from one side to the other. Brazil took an early lead but Argentina recovered to make it 2-1 at the break. The stadium was abuzz at half-time, long lines for food and the restrooms ensued; nobody wanted to miss the second half. The atmosphere was exciting, and the spirit seemed to be at work brewing something special for the second half.

Her presence was overwhelming as the crowd roared louder than at the start of the game, and both teams upped the ante after the break. Brazil bounced back to make the score 3-2. But within a few minutes, Argentina shocked everyone by coming back into the game to make the score 3-3. The spirit flew high around the stadium, a smile on her face as half the people in the stadium jumped to their feet.

Had we seen it all? The crowd’s chants were resonating; the noise could hardly be any louder now. Most fans, including myself, did not sit down after that point in the game; there was not much time remaining.

The cheers were not dying down! I questioned myself again: will there be a winner? The spirit’s smile broadened with every passing minute as the stadium of yellow and blue fans glittered, cheering their heroes in the afternoon sun. The banging on the chairs had died, and the man with the whistle had taken over, shrill notes escaping his lips: fee- fee- fweep fweep fweep! Nearby fans started hooting with the whistle, many took to swirling flags and scarves over their heads.

An Argentina fan waves a scarf in the air after their 3rd goal.

Time slowed down, and the minutes crawled by as both teams continued to give some breathtaking displays of football. The spirit seemed to be orchestrating all the sound in the arena now, the players matching the tempo of the game with the noise level of their fans. Her eyes glinted; did she have a final secret in store? It was on the center of the field, in the dying minutes, when Messi got possession of the ball; her broad smile stretched from ear to ear as Messi dodged the first player. I instinctively rose up from my seat, along with everyone else around me. Should I make a video? No, my hands were too rubbery to hold the camera. He started sprinting with acres of space in front of him. My brain lost contact with the rest of the mortal world, my eyes fixed on the action unfolding below me. The spirit’s orchestra was rising to a crescendo, her puppets and performers all mesmerized in the final act.

Messi was flying… My mouth was half open… The spirit soared high above the stadium!

Next moment: the ball had wings… My hands were reaching to pull out my hair in disbelief… The spirit had tied the Brazilian goalkeeper’s strings in a knot and fixed him in a halfhearted futile dive.

The football was in the back of the net…  The spirit was pulling my invisible strings, forcing me into uncontrollable jumps… A volcano erupted as the crescendo peaked! The lava was finally flowing now, a mosaic of blue and white, all jumping, cheering and singing. A clash of the titans indeed, the game between these two giants lived up to all its hype.  

The match experience was simply above and beyond my level of expectations. All the roars from the crowd, the wild jubilation and energy was simply magical. I figured the spirit of the beautiful game held an eternal presence, from the streets of Karachi to the shores of America. That day was just one of those days when she was out stronger and clearer than before. 

And a very Happy Belated Birthday, Lionel Messi! Your hat-trick that day added the perfect seal to one of the greatest experiences of my life. May your performances keep blurring the boundaries that define the great and the impossible. :)

My siblings and I... Hat-trick!

366 Nights and an Eluding Fantasy

In the vent in my bathroom outside the screen window, lies a small nest between the metal grill and outer glass pane. Bits of straw and hay gathered over many days carefully assembled together form a shelter from predators and the elements. It is not the prettiest sight to see once you enter the bathroom. It’s been present for a long time, but something always stayed my will to ask our cleaner to sweep it off from the outside, even though it was a barren collection of straws with no resident.

The nest reminded me of my own barren devotion to a project I had taken up, a project that would have been dead if it were not for the little lessons I learnt along the way. It was a project that I took personal responsibility for, setting an ambitious goal which seemed to be a highly daunting task. To publish one of my own works has always been a far-fetched dream of mine, one that I have often talked about but never really worked on. However, I learnt that with all your talk you need to deliver on something concrete or it ends up as a barren and desolate dream, never realized and much like the empty nest that I have kept seeing every day for months on end.

Today, it has been exactly a year since I started writing my case study for AIESEC’s Experience Pakistan initiative. An exact three hundred and sixty six nights ago, I sat up late at night writing down the first draft after long interviews with a few key people in AIESEC. It was in those dark hours that I finally decided to give that project a special shot. I honestly gave it my all thinking that if done properly, some findings may actually be able to help the organization. Also taking into account my short duration spent in the organization since I joined in senior year, I intended to make up for that gap because I felt indebted to AIESEC. Instead of one of those hasty assignments that you work on and try to get over with, I devoted a full, sleepless night to carve the draft to narrative perfection.

It was later that my course instructor saw the effort and agreed that AIESEC indeed had a story to share, and invited me to work more on this project if I wanted, and perhaps give it a shot at publication by entering it in a case writing competition. A bell rang somewhere deep in my head; an opportunity to chase my fairy tale dream? Another motive slowly took to my heart as well: the opportunity to make a lasting contribution to IBA, my business school, by contributing a case study. The bittersweet feelings of entering the corporate world and leaving the student life behind had consumed me. My decision to go forward with this project beyond graduation was based on emotion rather than logic. I had never fully realized the pains of putting a piece of work under a stress test for publishing.

After graduating last June, I took a break and kept the case study on the backburner. Procrastination soon ensued, and the dream seemed set to remain a fantasy. It was hard to force myself out of my static state and start working on a new draft, the worst part being that I had to do it alone. I started the slow and painful process of working again, evaluating the findings one more time and tried to apply concepts to get to a suitable solution. The case study was revised multiple times under the careful criticism of my instructor at IBA, the only other person who was helping me with that case.

Perhaps the only thing that served as my primary motivation at that point was the approach of AIESEC’s July Leadership Conference (JLC), and I saw that as an opportunity to enlighten the executive body with my findings so the weaknesses of Experience Pakistan could be corrected. I soon discovered that if your primary motivation is something more fulfilling than a personal fantasy, a greater hand from above guides you in your tasks you face on the ground. Actually directing my efforts to deliver a presentation at JLC helped me gain more satisfaction than writing the case itself, and the feedback gained from the others was invaluable. The case was revised with all the feedback, this time with more flair and motivation, and setup for a practical test.

Although I had left IBA, my instructor worked hard to run the case study in class the following semester. With the case competition’s deadline approaching in October, she integrated her test results and submitted our case entry for Experience Pakistan. Ironically, I spent the month of October on a work trip of the country, experiencing parts and flavors of Pakistan I had never seen or tasted before. This was a point where I literally felt that I was living the AIESEC embodiment of the experience we promise to our interns here in Pakistan, and really hoped that our case would come out as a top entry in the competition.

Come February, an email in my inbox alerted me to the result of my case study submission; nerves tightened, emotions peaked, and prayers escaped from the soul, all hoping for something positive as I clicked on the email subject “ECCH New Case Writer Competition”. Alas though, it was not meant to be and my dreams stayed a fantasy as I went through every word of the email carefully: “Thank you for your entry… the judges faced a difficult decision… we regret to inform you…” However, it contained a line inviting me to submit my case for publication.

I relayed the news to my instructor in IBA, who still suggested on more testing and further revisions. This time though, I was at more of a loss. I thought I had possibly done all to convey a solid marketing problem, and understood how best to strategically tackle the issue. I could not think of how best to proceed. My attempts to gain some insights from fellow AIESECers in Karachi could not garner much help, and I slumped into another period of procrastination. It’s hard to go the distance alone.

However, reports from proud fellow AIESECers in IBA last month, who were happy that an AIESEC related case was being taught in classes served as a major morale booster. And it was then that I decided to go over all the material one more time to find how best to improve our standing on the case. I figured that it was the small and pure things that served as primary motivators to push you over that finish line. The feedback from peers at IBA as well as the little wonders during my recent travels in Pakistan served as fuel that pushed me to write a more compelling case study for Experience Pakistan.

The nest outside my bathroom vent recently started ringing with the little chirps of baby sparrows. After the cold winds of winter subsided, the barren turban of straw I used to consider removing from the vent had become a home. It was one of the many little sounds of springtime that change the way you start your day. A gloomy Monday morning can’t remain that way if you listen to that little singing, with the elder birds flying in and out of the vent with a worm or two; a vision so sublime yet powerful that you feel motivated to start your day with meaning as you witness the blooming life around you. I learnt that it’s the little things that help you over a long and arduous year of ups and downs: the motivation from friends, the pursuit of a sincere and noble objective and the thought of contributing to a community you have been a part of, rather than the raw pursuit of your personal fantasies.

Yesterday, I saw the baby sparrow for the first time as it popped out of the nest and climbed on to the grill. It shook as it planted its two twig-like feet on its perch, and tried spreading its new God-gifted wings. Raising its little feathery head, it sang again in a hopeful tune, possibly contemplating flight in the days about to come.

Three hundred and sixty six nights later, I have also just finished putting in my final touches on the case, a long work in progress. With another attempt at submission in the works, I can only hope that it breaks through. Maybe such accounts are best told after one succeeds, but it is those little things you need during your trial, the push from those who can help you get over the finish line, that really matter. Dawn is approaching and the distant sound of early birds is already filtering into my room; I wonder once more if this is the morning when the sparrow takes flight.

There and Back Again: Of Kababs and Culture

Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 8 of 8

The whole story in the past few posts has taken its time; this is my last post which caps off my travels of Pakistan last October. A nomadic experience of a month with work as well as cultural and exploratory experiences in new places left me with loads to choose and write about, hence most of the delay. Just hope the stories are worth the delay. :)

“Pakhair Raghla!” The only thing I managed to learn in Pashto during my stay in Peshawar. The Suzuki Bolan sputtered to a stop at the side of the road and the driver killed the engine. A rich aroma swept into my nostrils as I stepped out into the cool, late October wind. An orange glow from a row of hanging bulbs drew the boundary of the restaurant’s dining area with an aura of light, which faded with distance from the few tables in the area. The sound of loud chatter and laughter came from the occupants of most tables, mixed with the soft chinking and clinking of cutlery. Chefs sat on their knees on an elevated platform, baking nan in the tandoor and grilling other food. Another chef stood next to the platform, frying food in a large pan.

One of the staff members walked toward us from within a thick, white cloud of smoke emanating from the open air kitchen. “Pakhair Raghla!” he said in Pushto, shaking hands with all four of us. One of my colleagues, who knew Pushto as well, conversed with him as we were directed to a table for four. The waiter, upon learning that I had come all the way from Karachi and had stopped for a meal at his restaurant, shook hands with me again more energetically and said, “You are our guest tonight, and we shall treat you to one of our specialties of Peshawar.”

Blending into the culture on the first night in Peshawa

The warm welcome was followed by some really quick service by two new waiters. The plastic table gleamed under the orange light as one of the waiters wiped it clean with a small cloth; the next moment, plates and cutlery were neatly spread over the table by the second waiter with the addition of complimentary salad. I pulled my traditional pakol cap further down on my head to feel more comfortable in the mild, chilly wind and felt a sense of solidarity and warmth among all the laughter and talk surrounding me.

Within a few minutes, our table was laden with chappal kababs, a full pound of greasy, lamb and beef patties, served with some, buttery, Kandahari nan. The aroma that wafted from the cooking area was suddenly more pronounced, and we all gave in to the temptation as it overwhelmed us. Even though I have tasted nan and chappal kababs at home in Karachi, but the ones I tasted in Peshawar were a class apart. The meat was juicy and tender, and the kababs had just the right amount of spice; add to it some crispy, white nan, and I had one of the most unique dinners during my stay on the road.

Following local tradition, my Peshawari colleague suggested a cup of kahwa after dinner referring to its importance in cleansing the throat and helping in digestion especially after a heavy, fried dinner. He eagerly called for the waiter again as I reluctantly agreed to the offer, and ordered four cups of kahwa in Pushto. Although their talk was incomprehensible, a regretful expression on the waiter’s face and the disappointment in my colleague’s voice alerted me to a problem. My colleague turned to me and said, “they do not have kahwa on their menu.”

The waiter looked at me for a moment, then exclaimed to my colleague in Pushto and left with a determined look on his face. As he motioned another waiter to come quickly, I asked my colleague what was happening. In a pleased and proud tone, he replied, “he honors our traditions and has agreed to make kahwa for us especially since you are a guest from outside the city. He just asked someone to get the ingredients for kahwa from outside.”

It was an immense surprise to learn this fact as no restaurant I had ever been to around the world had ever gone so far in providing customer satisfaction. In about fifteen minutes, a transparent, crystal-green tea was served to us in glass cups. The herbs and sweet scent that emanated from it exhibited an extra sense of care and homeliness offered to a traveler. I had held a very apprehensive image of Peshawar before arriving there, and had imagined the people to be sharp, hostile and highly critical of outsiders. Sip after sip of the hot, sweet kahwa spread warmth inside me which opened up my opinions about Peshawar; the traditional pakol cap I was wearing along with my black shalwar kameez helped me feel at ease and at one with the locals. Such unprecedented hospitality, value for traditions and immersion in culture gave me just a glimpse of what Peshawar was about during my first night there.

As I opened up to embrace the city, it started to reveal its many secrets and stories, long neglected and overshadowed by the recent presence of terrorism in the neighboring areas and the more progressive nature of other major cities in Pakistan. Peshawar holds the title of being one of the oldest cities of Asia, and was thriving long before Lahore and Delhi. Akbar the Great formally gave Peshawar its present name, which in Persian means “City on the Frontier.” Peshawar used to be the connecting hub to Central and South Asia along the ancient Silk Road from Persia in ages past.

A market square in Bara Market, Peshawar

The next few days were followed by the pitter patter of rain drops in Peshawar. On a gray Sunday morning, my colleagues took me to visit the famous (or infamous) Karkhano Market, also known as the Bara Market. The well paved city roads eventually gave way to a slightly rougher track which was busy with traffic of huge cargo trucks. Eventually, many market squares started coming up on the right, open spaces covered with shops on three sides and a path on one side which led from square to square. Every market square carried a different category of products: electronics, cosmetics, clothing, dry fruits, groceries, and so on. Many hawkers ushered us to their wares set up in the open plaza close to the main shops.

As we walked on the wet ground after a morning downpour, my colleague told me about the market, “Right now we are close to the city border of Peshawar. The market continues beyond the border but there is a security check post situated near the last plaza within the city boundary. This is recent because of the continued security concerns in Peshawar.”

I jumped over a large, muddy puddle in the way, and then went back all ears to listen more closely. He continued, “This market forms a major trade link between Afghanistan and Pakistan, where many wholesalers and distributors transport goods to Afghanistan. The area of FATA starts just a kilometer or so from here and the famous landmark of Baab-e-Khyber, the archway which marks Khyber Pass is about a fifteen minute drive from where we are. The trucks load up with goods and head that way towards Afghanistan.”

“How far away is the actual border from here?” I asked, my curiosity escalating. We stopped at a shop where one of my other colleagues was looking for a good camera to buy. My Peshawari colleague, distracted for a moment by the camera choices on offer, replied, “From where we are, the actual border is about a forty five minute drive, a place known as Torkham. Between the Baab-e-Khyber and Torkham, there are tribal villages all around, which govern themselves mostly according to traditional laws which have been transcended by their elders over centuries. Many small traders from that area also get their wares from here.”

“Another interesting stop before Torkham in FATA is a border town called Landi Kotal. The town used to be a popular tourist destination until times got bad, and a train also goes there. Landi Kotal is famous for its food, hospitable albeit rugged tribal people, contraband and arms shops,” he explained. Images of a new Wild West floated in front of me with tribal people in 4x4 jeeps with their AK-47s. “It is the highest point of the Khyber Pass from where you can have a view of Afghanistan below you toward the west, just before the road descends into Torkham. Then the nearest Afghan city of Jalalabad is about two more hours from the border. I would have taken you to Landi Kotal but it’s not safe these days.”

A sense of that “it’s-a-small-world” feeling overwhelmed me as I wondered how close I was to a different country and engulfed in their culture. The market was buzzing with scores of people, traders as well as shoppers, who flooded the market around us. An old man with a large, round tray on his head went about selling dry fruit; women in burqas haggled with shopkeepers over their wares and a shop selling audio systems put on Pushto music to give a demo to his customers. Over the din of the loud, lively melody now filling the entire market square, my local colleague pointed out some of the second-hand and counterfeit electronics on display. “One needs to be careful of what they buy here though. This is a market without many regulations, and a lot of goods end up here. Some people find record bargains here, but mostly people end up selling their used electronics in this market, which are put on sale again.” I struggled to hear his voice over the loud beats of the rabab music which was now attracting excited expressions on passing faces, “A lot of goods which are supposed to go to Afghanistan end up back here instead of completing their journey because there are no real checks in FATA.”

“I expected some really good bargains and interesting deals here on things like cameras,” I joked, referring to the mostly below average merchandise on display. My colleague responded in a challenging way, “Alright then, let me take you to another part of this market if you want to see something really interesting.” Intrigued, my other colleagues and I followed behind him through the pathway that joined all the market squares. It started raining once more, and the hawkers lining the pathway adjusted the cloth covers that formed the roofs over their little shops. As I walked, trying to avoid the fresh puddles forming on the ground, orange light bulbs came on in the darkening street. Their glow highlighted the diverse wares behind them which were hidden in shadow due to the darkness of the day. We approached a place filled with the sizzling sound of samosas in a frying pan and the wafting smell of fresh tea, the crowd of shoppers thickened and I struggled to catch sight of our guide ahead.

Breaking through the throng of lively shoppers enjoying a midday tea break, we joined our guide in a new market square. His eyes shone with a secret which he seemed eager to share with us, “You must have often heard on the news that NATO supply trucks get burnt and destroyed on their way to Afghanistan?” he questioned like a teacher who expected an affirmative from their students. We all nodded, and he continued, “Well, haven’t you ever wondered where all the stuff from those trucks ends up?”

We exclaimed and looked about. This market square did not have proper shops, but a lot of hawkers. Lined up on their shop curtains were military grade binoculars, daggers, shades, belts, boots, jackets, shovels, torches, compasses, and other equipment, all with the insignia and make of what seemed like US Marines and NATO. It was certainly not Pakistani. I was awestruck for a moment as I tried to take it all in. Finally, I mustered, “How?”

My colleague smiled at his checkmate move and said, “It’s all set up. The truck drivers are paid to leave the trucks peacefully with their contents when threatened. The stuff is ransacked, sold in this market and the FATA tribal people pay a share to the truck driver so he can keep his mouth shut.” I still could not believe it but the ample military grade equipment on display did not seem like an accident. Copies of the Bible, magazines, comics, and some manuals on battlefield tactics with the U.S Bald Eagle on them also lay in a carton.

Supposed military grade equipment salvaged from destroyed NATO trucks

I went up to a hawker and tried to find something useful. A pair of Oakley shades, complete with extra lenses and a zipper casing, caught my eye. “Rs. 600 for this,” said the boy in charge. My colleague haggled with the boy in Pushto and played the guest-from-Karachi card to get me a discount. He agreed to two pairs of shades for Rs. 800, now that was a bargain, I thought.

Our guide took us a bit further and pointed a few meters ahead; some armed guards patrolled at a check post on the road. “Okay, so right now you are standing on the border of Peshawar and that barrier marks the start of FATA and the road that leads to Khyber Pass and on to Afghanistan.” I looked on in awe as he pointed to the pathway running between the market squares, “As you can see, the market continues beyond the Peshawar city limits.” I nodded after him; “This is the part where the rules of the market change significantly; from this point, everything from heroin, opium, hashish, AK-47s, M-16s, RPGs, Klashnikovs and any other arms and drugs you can think of are on sale freely.” My eyes widened with each item he named and left me grounded to the spot in shock. “But this is as far as we go,” he said, turning back.

But the fact that got to me most was the consistent hospitality offered by strangers, much more pronounced here than in other cities I had traveled to. Acquaintances we met during the day insisted on treating us for dinner and took it as an offence if refused without a valid reason. Over the coming days, we witnessed the pride held by Peshawar in its offer of a range of fulfilling culinary experiences. Stories of drug lords that run FATA’s opium trade told over delicious dinners filled with cheese-garlic nans and handis; and stories of the old and famous Namak Mandi and centuries old Qisa Khwani Bazar over a dinner of namkeen karhai were common.

Throughout the week, Peshawar continued to surprise me with its many such secrets, stories and cultural lore of old. Old fortresses, now used for military purposes and medieval architecture decorate the city. On another rain drenched evening, we were in a market close to the famous Sunehri Masjid. It holds a place in the relatively more recent history of Peshawar because its foundation stone was laid by Pakistan’s founder, Muhammad Ali Jinnah. Being in the vicinity, I decided to visit the landmark.

Inside the prayer hall of Sunehri Masjid, Peshawar

It was dark that evening due to the cloudy sky, a premature dusk was filling into the hustle and bustle of Peshawar’s markets as the downpour ceased. The red stone and marble work on the Masjid walls shone bright in the lights that had been switched on earlier than usual. The Masjid seemed empty upon arrival save for a poor man sitting just inside the Masjid doorway. I went in and offered my Asr prayers in the main hall first before taking a look around. The main hall, empty save for a few worshippers, was dressed in white walls and rugged mats, a portrait of humility. The mihrab or recess in the wall was the exception which carried the signature red stonework of the outer walls, with elaborate white flowers and pillars carved in marble.

A fresh breeze was blowing in the well-lit courtyard as I walked out into the corridor from the main hall. The evening bout of rain had left the red courtyard surface with a glassy layer of water, which painted a clear reflection of the Masjid hallways and pillars on the wet floor. Peshawar’s beauty shone through that reflection, inverted red silhouettes of pillars against the hallway lights; a spectacle both grand as well as humble in nature. The secrets and traditions of the city revealed themselves in the inverted image; like a hidden window which opened up momentarily in a rare evening shower, just in time to offer a fleeting glimpse to a wandering outsider disguised in a traditional pakol cap and shalwar kameez.

Reflection of the Masjid in the wet, glassy surface of the courtyard

The Masjid’s grand façade paid tribute to Peshawar’s age old form of architecture, part of a rich and unique culture often overlooked. The rain drops started pouring again, sending the beautiful reflection in the courtyard floor into a blur; the window closing again on Peshawar as I turned to leave. As I crossed the poor man who was still sitting in the doorway, I half expected him to ask for money but he sat by himself, with his back against the door, staring into the courtyard. Peshawar’s soul seemed lost and forgotten in the recent turmoil afflicting the region, yet its proud heritage, hospitality and rich traditions still stood strong. It's dark secrets also remained hidden in the blur raised by the falling rain drops.

The old man in the Masjid doorway.

“Pakhair Raghla” was the only thing I managed to learn in Pushto during my stay. “Welcome!” They said. A welcome to an extremely hospitable place that challenged my stereotypes to the extreme and gave me an experience that offered multiple perspectives on life. My travels last October in all were a surprising and eye-opening “Pakhair Raghla” on their own, an introduction to my professional career that has me considering the ground impact of decisions in the workplace in a way I never thought I would. Four months from October now, a 360 degree impact of a decision in the workplace for me has taken an entirely new meaning, a meaning never experienced before graduation last summer. It has been an eventful “Pakhair Raghla” for me into the professional world and into the greater heart of Pakistan.

A Fool's Paradise

Epictober 2011: Experiencing Pakistan - Post 7 of 8

The truck art in Pakistan is a thriving culture on its own. If we pay close attention to the brush strokes on the metal body of a tanker or truck, we would notice mostly a stream, some green mountain slopes sketched in the back ground, a few trees and houses. A heavy yellow brush stroke often marks the sun, adding light and color to the sketch on the truck. Going through the busy city roads and traffic, that piece of scenery is strongly reminiscent of the art I used to draw back in primary school in my art class. The smiling sun I used to draw signified the nirvana of the perfect setting, a sense of calm and peace where life would look perfect. On the trucks that go through the major metropolitan cities of Pakistan, this art signifies memories of the mostly Pukhtoon migrants who come to work in the cities. The art they carry on their vehicles reminds them of the home, their perfect setting that they have left behind, and choose to carry with them wherever they travel. I never paid much attention to that art, but one needs to visit the mountains in the north to understand their sense of longing and what they left behind to make it to the big cities.

The view while descending into the valley

As our car swerved through a hard bend in the mountain road, and started its descent into a valley, that understanding finally hit me hard in the heart. Those paintings on the trucks, with all their fine details from the little houses, the trees, and the stream flowing far, far below had come to life. The road still turned and swerved with the mountain face we were driving on, but it took us gently down the green slope, closer to the heart of that beautiful valley. The green vegetation on the mountain slopes on both sides gave way to gravel and rocks near the banks of the blue stream. Its flow through the valley was ever so calm and graceful; it seemed to dictate the pace of life around it. Its influence stretched across the vast expanse of the valley, the landscape unadulterated by any signs of major human activity. The stream was below us on the right side of the road, and a point came where there was a good path for us to walk down to the bank.

Nature's true grace in a valley hardly touched by man

The car stopped, and the moment I stepped out, the sound of flowing water surrounded me. What had seemed like a calm torrent was actually raging fast and strong, raising white spume against the stones that protruded from the bed of the stream. The blue of the water changed to transparent crystal as I went and sat down on a stone on the bank, and even though it was moving fast, my excited reflection gazed back at me as I looked into the water. It was shallow, scattered with smooth, round stones at the bottom which faded from view towards the middle of the stream, where the white foam could be seen moving fast. My gaze went upwards, and beyond the farther bank, littered with more round stones, fields of green stretched upwards to the mountain slopes far away, marked with tall pine trees, all under a deep, blue sky.

Taking in the sights and sounds

As I sat on the large stone surrounded by water, I felt part of the unique audience of a surreal symphony surrounding me. The music started somewhere farther up north on a mountain I knew not, as it spilled its snows into the stream. The sloping relief further carved the tune as it cradled the water down the valley, and the stones and rocks placed at perfect intervals in the water channel weaved the full melody. Nature itself orchestrated the brilliant sound of the roaring stream, so beautiful to the ears that one needs to hear it in order to appreciate it. My front row seat on the stone was perfect, and as I sipped the cold water through my cupped hands, its purity filled my soul with tranquility. Far from the reaches of men and the world, the valley offered a moment of peace so sublime and heavenly; it was as if I had stumbled into paradise itself.

My three colleagues and I got up to say goodbye to the stream, and had a last look around. My eyes caught sight of three children playing on the bank a little way to our left. It was odd, because the nearest houses we had seen from the road were several kilometers away and they were alone. On our approach, they stopped throwing stones in the water and to my surprise, came to us with hands outstretched, asking for food. Beggars were common in the cities, but out here?

Three little strays playing near the stream

One of my colleagues noticed my reaction, and ignoring the little, outstretched hands said, “This area was hit hard by the earthquake in 2005. The nearby village of Balakot we are going to right now was nearly destroyed.”

He had built a little bridge out of stones

As I added one and one, I realized that these children must have grown in a world after the disaster took place, getting used to receiving help from the relief teams and outsiders who came here. All three of them seemed less than seven years of age. It was a half-hearted request, and without waiting for any sort of reply from us, the children went back to the stream. We went closer to see exactly what they were up to; one of them had had made his own tiny stream by making a channel in the gravel with a little bridge of stones going over the trickling path.

“This place has not been the same since the earthquake, and the construction of New Balakot, a town close to the original village has still not been completed,” my colleague said. “These people have merely been making ends meet here, and although things are better now, they are still not the same.”

Another colleague asked the kid what he was building, but he remained silent with a nervous look on his face. We left the kids near the stream and walked back up to the road. It was hard to imagine people not living in happiness in this piece of paradise, and looking back at the children, I realized it was their greatest irony.

We continued on the road to Balakot; we had begun from Mansehra earlier in the afternoon and had driven for more than an hour to get there. This was the same road that led to Naran, Kaghan and on to Lake Saif-ul-Mulook. Looking out the window once more, I could see that the round stones stretched for several meters on either side of the stream. In the summer, the stream would be even wider and the scorched October grass on the mountain slopes would be a bright green.

Livestock on the road as we headed to Balakot

Soon, more shepherds could be seen on the road with us than passing cars, all taking their livestock with them for grazing. The car had to be stopped on several occasions to allow the sheep and goats to pass without worry. The stream continued to accompany us below on the right, as we drove further north. Soon, small settlements could be seen on the far side of the stream and we passed a large wooden bridge on our right which went over the stream into the village of Balakot. Instead of turning right for the bridge, we continued along the same road to the Balakot market place, which was on the outskirts of the main village.

The market of Balakot warranted our study, the main reason why we had actually traveled so far. Balakot was on the far end of the valley, and its market was on the edge of the village, so we were actually at the end of the valley, and from there, the road started to ascend into the mountains once more. A sign on the straight road had an arrow with the words “Naran”. If only we had more time on our hands, I thought, I could actually explore more of the natural beauty as the scenic wonders grew in beauty exponentially from that point.

A shepherd chases after his sheep in the market of Balakot

The afternoon was spent in the high street, where we went through several shops completing our study. The market continued into the back of a few streets on either side of the high street, which was about a kilometer or so long. The market was more neatly organized than the cramped shops of Mansehra, and seemed like an important trading place. Balakot was frequented by many tourists and backpackers, who stopped on their way to Naran and Kaghan. While passing one of the many shops, I came across a place selling “pakols”, the traditional Pukhtoon caps worn by people in these northern areas. In appreciation of their culture and hospitality, I decided to buy one for myself.

 

The bridge and the fairy tale village

On the way back, we stopped the car near the bridge which led to the main village, and walked down to it. It was a sturdy, narrow, wooden structure built high over the stream. The village next to the stream, with the bridge leading to it seemed to have been pulled out of a fairy tale. The wooden boards creaked a little as we stepped on the bridge, the foaming blue water visible below. On the far side of the bridge, Balakot’s residents went about their daily lives. The stream’s music played louder here, and the humble village life seemed to sing along with it, going hand in hand; a symphony of romance celebrating the rare harmony between nature and civilization. As women collected water in large pots on the banks below, and children passed by us on the bridge with their goat and cattle, it almost seemed that nature was making up for the death and sorrow caused by the recent disaster. The song of the fast-flowing water drove me into a reverie of my own as I stood above the stream, hands on the bridge rail, just watching the streak of blue going down the green valley. The shelter of the mountains on the other three sides comforted me, with the modest dwellings of Balakot resting on the slopes to my left.

The sudden, heavy reverberations of the bridge jolted me to my senses and I turned to see a 4X4 jeep coming out of the village. We had to squeeze ourselves against the rails to allow it to pass on the narrow bridge. We continued behind the jeep back to the main road and I had one last look at the fairy tale village. The sun was low on the horizon as we resumed the journey back to Abbottabad. I thought that the magic of the fantastic day was at an end, but as we left through the valley pass and come out on the high slopes on the other side, the setting sun’s glare shone through the car windows. The driver was urged to stop the car once more, and we went out for five minutes just to sit on the grassy slope next to the road.

At this view point, the whole world literally spread out in front of us like a large carpet. The last rays of the sun danced on the distant horizon behind the silhouettes of a few peaks. The veil of night slowly enveloped the green mounds and pine trees below us in shadow, rendering my camera futile to capture the true beauty of nature suspended in twilight. The green of the day gave way to hues of violet and purple for miles around, while the horizon shone gold and pink. Directly above me, the sky opened up in stars and the last pink shades on the horizon swept away the violet spirits from the valley. The shift from light to dark was ever so graceful that those few minutes seemed divine, and as we prepared to go, lights from human settlements far below started coming on like shining, scattered dots.

The colors in the mountains after the sunset

That week of October spent in the mountains was a soul-lifting experience, with so many unexpected treasures that I was left awe-struck, and to think that I had never even gone to Gilgit or Kashmir yet, places labeled as heaven on earth. After Nathia Gali, Abbottabad and Mansehra, the experiences in Balakot provided the last major exploits in the mountains. That sunset was the memory I wanted to keep as the blissful reminder of the adventures in the north before heading out to my final stop of Peshawar over the following weekend.

But alas, the bliss was not meant to last. Those moments of happiness where the soul is elated beyond concern for any kind of worry are too good to have in this world. On our last day in the mountains, tragedy fell upon us at work. I was with another colleague in Mansehra when he received a phone call. With a grave face, he informed me that one of the workers of the agency we were working with had just passed away in a freak accident in Abbottabad. We abandoned everything and rushed to Abbottabad. Despite our best efforts to reach in time to help, we could not do anything. I had to while away the afternoon with a heavy heart as the agency took care of its late employee.

Into the west...

 My colleagues paid their due respects to the agency worker before we left that Friday evening. It was a silent journey for me as we traveled into the west along the old Silk Route to the ancient city of Peshawar. The evening sun blinded me as we exited the last of the mountains, their green slopes washed pale in the dazzling sun rays. The great pine trees on the roadside sighed a heavy goodbye as the sun went down over the horizon in front of me, its bright rays shining bright on the grey asphalt, blinding me. Although it carried its own beauty, it was not the sunset I had imagined to take away with me from my stay in the north. Colorful trucks passed in front of me, their rear metal ends crudely painted with green valleys. True nirvana eluded these drivers as they left their homes for their hard journeys. I thought of the playful children by the stream, growing up begging in a blessed land. It was not the sad death of the worker that weighed heavy but the suddenness of how it came that delivered the hard lesson home. To get lost in the pleasures of this fragile life, no matter how pure, is to live in a fool’s paradise.