Please don’t take the above photograph as any indication of indulgence.  I simply felt I missed a trick by posting “Marijuana and Porcupines” and including a photo of neither.  This image is a fine example of the road side bush discovered on a stroll late one night.  The branch was taken to the light of a security hut and photographed on my iPhone, then discarded (really) – to the amusement of the local armed security guards who observed the process.

My back of a fag packet/envelope style blogging came to an abrupt end in Islamabad as a) the wireless connection failed on all but my iPhone and b) I had no time to myself to indulge.  Any moments alone involved preparing for bed (which included fleeting telephone goodnights to my husband that were slurred with exhaustion) and preparing for the following day.  I did once or twice screw up my eyes and palm top blog, but frankly I didn’t find the experience satisfying enough.

So, sorry, my bad – not quite the live-from-Pakistan experience I had hoped.  I am back at home now, drowsily reflecting on my high speed visit to Pakistan.  Islamabad appeared to me to be a quiet, calm city and nothing like the Asia I know.  I rarely saw people on the roads and the streets were wide, clean and sensibly driven on.  Like New York, the ready-made capital is arranged in a numbered grid system.  Areas have innovative names like F7 and F6.2.    I understand that I spent most of my time in an affluent area – but why is it that the most soulless places on earth are those that are home to the wealthy?  And we still aspire to live in them.

I have never yearned to climb a mountain like I have over the past couple of days.  Islamabad may be flat and dull, but on one side of the city (the north I think) the horizon sits high above grassing hills and rugged peaks.  With every fresh, chilly early morning start – I glanced to the beckoning range and vowed one day to make an ascent.  I longed to get a view of the city from on high – feel some strength in seeing long distance and understand better where I was.  I began to feel very claustrophobic and more and more cross with the ever-increasing invitations from my friends and colleagues.  Why don’t you stay longer?  We should visit Lahore.  If you have time, I can show you better mountains in the beautiful Kashmir.  Why aren’t you in Karachi where the media is at?  Frustration isn’t a strong enough word.

I got over-excited by a trip to the “market”.  Longing for some hustle and bustle, I leapt out of the car to take pictures at the flower market.  Perfectly arranged, with an overwhelming scent in the dusk light, the flowers were being sold by quiet, polite traders who looked a little baffled by my desire to photograph them.  The child in the pictures used perfect English, allowed me to take his photo, but offered no real hard sell on the flowers (see album in my previous photo blog).  I’m not sure how comfortable my Pakistani/British friend felt about the photo shoot and whether she felt I was patronising her nation in my search for camera thrilling images.  She stayed in the car and seemed pleased when we headed off to do some proper shopping at the F7 market.

Anyone who knows – The F7 market isn’t really a market is it?  I wanted music and laughter, banter and barter.  Instead I got rows of glitzy shops surrounding a square in which were parked many, smart cars.  We were a group of four Brits, clearly not from round there, but people were generally uninterested in us.  I exchanged smiles and Salaams, and my friend had a hundred scarves shown to him (extremely excellent price), but generally we were left alone to point out funny shops names, ponder a nibble on some neat crinkle cut chips, and amble around in our own time.

Then I spotted the Marigolds.  In the centre of the square, in full bloom and my heart softened as I remembered how the same flower had greeted me at the airport.  What had I expected really?  Suicide bombers?  Hostility?  Or overwhelming pleased-to-see the foreigner friendship?  Cups of chai, pot holed roads, a country in chaos?  Who did I think I was, Greg Mortenson? Taliban leaders, horse-backed Mujahadeen (no sign of the lovely Art Malik), War-lords, Drug-lords, Time-lords?  I found none of this.  Not so much as a scuffle, or a raised voice.  No one spat in my direction.  No one was intrigued.  The most venom I saw was a poorly scrawled “Dow with USA” on the wall.   But what I had discovered was in fact a treasure. The majority of people were just getting on with life.  Getting on buses, shopping, going to work, loving their children, eating a meal.  It might have been an average experience for me, but I hate myself for expecting anything more.  I have written much about how we define peace and what the absence of violence might look like.  Well, for me – it looked like Islamabad.   And I won’t ever take it for granted again.  Not in Pakistan and not anywhere.  I must remember I am a nomad, not a tourist.

Marigold,  I’ll be back.

May Peace Be Upon You (and no, I’m not stoned).

A photo blog posting this time.  with little time for words – a few glimpses of my time this week in Pakistan – Islamabad and Rawalpindi in the main, with some out of this world images along the Afghan/Pakistan border.  For more and higher resolution images visit these FlickR pages.

Flash on colour in Islamabad

Islamabad street at dusk

Fabric shop in F7 Islamabad

F7 market street

street scene Rawalpindi

Islamabad airport departure lounge

By far the best set of images were taken from the plane – as we were lifted up above Rawalpindi, we saw snow capped mountains to the north and then flying south along the Afghan border, we saw the awesome sight of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas for ourselves.  We were speechless at their majesty.

I am writing this from my bedroom.   I have no idea whether I am going to be able to upload this online – so far my attempts to upload using the password “hotel1” have failed, so it may well have to wait for my return.  Funny to have connections problems when the research says that Pakistan has the biggest WiMax network in the world.  I guess no-one has switched it on yet.  It’s the communicators wet dream – the big red switch that opens up global communications…TURN THE WIMAX ON.

I thought  I would share with you some glimpses of my ride back from the airport in Rawalpindi.  Just a couple of average street scenes.  No dramas, no speeding, no jams.  Although I do love the image of the guy using his mobile phone on the road side as he tries to mitigate for the breakdown of his rather ornate vehicle.

The drive back was fairly dull – and try as I might to capture the dramas of the city out the window of the rather imposing bus I was travelling in, the dramas didn’t exist, and it was a fairly mundane event.  I blogged briefly before on my feelings that Islamabad is not the heart beat of the nation.  As every day goes by I am more inclined to believe this.  It’s more of a dull pulse. I did go a to two separate French restaurants two days in a row – which unsurprisingly still produced  no dramatic revelations.  French food was certainly not my choice – oh to ramble alone – but Nomadic has company this time.

The climate is sunny but tepid, still and fresh.  The streets are laden with security guards exercising their biceps by lifting ropey barriers.  Eagles circle and crows murder, but nothing really seems to happen.

The most exciting development was discovering that the streets are edged with wild marijuana. Begs the question why everyone isn’t more stoned.  And very late last night I spotted a rather brusque looking porcupine.  It looked like a character from “The Village”, and was the size of a Labrador, and merrily ambled on during closer inspection.

I really hope to report more next time, but one thing is clear in my mind – I want to come back.  To explore this nation beyond the bland capital, come mountain or valley (both plentiful), come rain or shine – I want to know more.

Some thoughts as we remember the anniversary of the Mumbai attacks next week http://blogs.worldbank.org/publicsphere/reflecting-mumbai

A cool late summer feeling as we stepped off the plane. The airport edged with terracota pots filled with marigolds and efficient ground staff. Imigration even had their mission and vision printed clearly on the wall for all customers to see. My alien appearance clearly received curious stares and a few polite questions from security, but nothing hostile.

Islamabad is a short drive away and I get a very clear sense that this is not where the country’s heart beat is. Broad clean streets dotted with sensible drivers and large gated homes displaying both wealth and lack of soul. I long to get out from this bland ghost town and explore where it’s really at. Talk here of cricket and trade, of bloggers and peaceniks.

Happy at least to have had a mountain of vegtable balti for lunch, even if I did spot a KFC a few blocks away.

More soon…. Nomadic x

Blimey. I’m not even at the airport yet and I have been overwhelmed by Pakistani hospitality…colleagues wanting me to visit grannies, people I have never met before offering family members who will show me around, an offer of a trip to Kashmir, a trip to Karachi, travel tips, eating tips, shopping tips, tak-tak advice, what-to-wear tips, insight into Rawalpindi, Faizabad, bloggers offering link exchanges/thought exchanges.  A big thank-you to all.  Now waiting for the taxi for the airport….. a few mentions below….I’m soooooooo excited!

Nx

Let Us Build Pakistan http://letusbuildpakistan.blogspot.com

Sabeen http://www.bitsonline.net/beanz

Peace Niche www.peaceniche.org

Teeth Maestro http://teeth.com.pk/blog

The Tea Break gang http://teabreak.pk/

“Positive Pakistan” Initiated by Dawn News http://www.dawn.com/wps/wcm/connect/dawnnews/dawnnews-test/event/risepakistan/rise+pakistan

Karachi beuatification http://pakipakipaki.blogspot.com/

Pakistan blog  http://world-beauty-4u.blogspot.com/

The Best Pakistani bloggers: http://www.islamabadblogs.com/

With a special big-up to Ibn Hanif who is a real virtual friend (if that’s possible) and blogs about Islam and humanity http://guidingfriends.blogspot.com/2009/11/favors-of-allah.html

Art Malik - My pin-up Pakistani from my youth

What baggage am I packing with me on my trip to Pakistan?

I have been thinking about my visit to Pakistan for a few weeks now.  I have never been before – and I want to take a snapshot of my emotional response and limited perceptions of the country in advance.  Previous travel has revealed the how-wrong-I-was factor loud and clear.  So allow me to be ill-informed, naive, and for a moment – if only to pick apart my prejudice at a later date.

Although I haven’t been to Pakistan, I have been to Afghanistan and India and spent three years living in Sri Lanka, so I have had some experience of the region.  That said, living in Sri Lanka was as much preparation for India as Germany was for France.  Same same but different, one might say.

I know from books that Pakistan is a diverse land.  The Indus valley civilisation.  A busy commercial hub in Karachi. A Baluchistan that floods too often sweeping away cattle and livelihoods.  Devilish mountains bordering China that challenge its inhabitants and thrill European mountaineers. The notorious FATA region – much in the news of late, I imagine to be full of mountain peaks, hidden fortresses and secret tunnels.  And of romantic figures on horseback (not unlike 007’s friend Art Malik as a Mujahadeen Commander in The Living Daylights).  And everyone has an automatic weapon.

People are what gives a country it’s heart beat.  Having never been there my perceptions of the Pakistanis are cast by the diaspora community in Britain (including Mr Malik).  This diaspora was invited to the UK to work when Britain had a labour shortage in the 1950s.  This diaspora were offered refuge when the Mangla Dam flooded villages in Mirpur.  A community invited to settle. And increasingly the diaspora consists of professionals – doctors – offered a managed migration route to help the sick in Britain.   They number nearly a million in Britain – and yet how is it I know so little about Pakistan?

At the school I went to in Bristol, we never stopped to ask each other where we were from.  It’s only looking back and with greater knowledge of the world do I understand from given names that my school mates were likely Tamils or Muslims or Indian or African.  One of my first boyfriends was half Pakistani and half Scottish and equally proud of both – but this was unusual in inner city Britain in the 70’s and 80’s nobody seemed to wear their heritage on their sleeves.   Besides, we were raised not to question where someone was from, lest we view people as “the other” and offend, so of the many colleagues and friends I have spent time along side over the years, I have rarely asked them about their roots.  I feel slightly ashamed that I haven’t now.  Perhaps going to Pakistan will be a starting point for a deeper understanding of my diaspora friends.

Next week I will be tentatively dipping a toe in Pakistan.  It’ll be hand luggage only and I won’t go far, but it will be a starting point for what I hope will be the beginning of a beautiful relationship with a country that I have longed to visit for years – and often wonder why I didn’t.  I’m happy to share my first impressions and better informed emotional response with you on these pages (as I have with Iraq and Afghanistan and even France).

Peaceniks do it.       Charity workers do it.    Those who dedicate their lives to community do it. “Social” media-ites and community journalist junkies do it too.

They promote hatred and negativity and undermine their own beliefs on a daily basis.

Bad news spreads fast, and now that we are all able to tweet terror attacks, share photos of dismembered babies on Facebook, or reveal corruption on our blogs – the barrage of bad news is overwhelming. We blame main stream media for pushing a damaging, negative agenda – but we are just as much to blame.  This is our responsibility now – we chose whether to share or delete. Be careful what you say, and how you say it and ask yourself whether the “information” you are sharing will help the cause that moves you.  This is not about being unrealistic – it’s about balance.

If you tweet bad in order to shock people into action – I question the effectiveness.  Shock is not always the best incentive for change, and sometimes your actions may generate hopelessness or worse  still hatred or revenge. “The world needs to know” is noble, but can be naive.  Our voices thrown together can distort.  And the perception of a situation may become based on vulgarities rather than actualities.  Have a quick search on your phone or PC under the words “Iraq, Pakistan or Somalia” and tell me how much light and hope there is on a single page.  Does this reflect the 99.9% of the populations in these countries that strive for peace and have goodness in their hearts?

As a mother I know that to raise my children on fear and negativity would be unhealthy.  If you genuinely want to heal something (like a community in conflict) – there is nothing better than shining a bright spotlight on the good and being fair and balanced about the challenges.  Tabloid doesn’t nurture.

So before you share bad – at the very least think also about sharing good.  Seek out dramatic examples of cooperation and kindness (see this Gaza blog).  Teach yourself where cohesion exists as much as where conflict exists.  Know as much about interfaith marriages and unions as you do wars.  Spread word of the brave and the kind as much as you do about the mean and the murderous.  Share news of empowered women – not just about the abused.

So Inspire.  And put the “social” back into social media.

Check out @thegoodbalance on Twitter

I’ve been sooo excited preparing to take my 4Nomadic travel blog readers  on a trip to Pakistan in the next few weeks, that I totally neglected to blog about perhaps the most crucial bit of travel in my life at the moment.

Considering many of you are off-shore readers (IE investing your time outside of the British Isles) I realise that my daily trips to London town may be worth sharing as something of a foreign commodity for you.

Over the past month I have travelled over 1,500 miles (2,414 km) making regular, sometimes agonizingly early treks from my sleepy village home on the Cambridgeshire/Hertfordshire borders into the heart of the city of London.  Since the clock change, I invariably tip toe out of my home under the cover of darkness (only once waking neighbours as my wing mirror hooked a forgotten wheelie bin and dragged it noisily down the drive way).  My children, in various states of awakeness suffer my departure with sleepy kisses, “can I borrow your hair dryer” or by pulling a duvet back over their heads.  My other half usually keeps me plied with green tea and kind words and then deposits me at the station (perhaps better he drives given the wheelie bin incident).

The trains run to several an hour and are generally on time (if they are delayed, early morning commuters tend to tut quietly – is all).  The ticket itself is bloody expensive – to buy an annual pass to cover my train miles costs £3400 ($5400, EURO 3780, 37,800 CNY, 262800 INR).  I know this is more than some of you earn in a year, let alone spend on trains.

Aside from the occasional tut, my fellow fare payers are generally wrapped up in their Blackberries, books, work papers or if it’s really really early are fast asleep (see picture taken this morning).  They travel alone and avoid eye contact and small talk.  occasionally work colleagues will travel together, generating passive aggressive sighs from fellow commuters as they break the dull silence by daring to talk.  And if it happens to be school holidays and you should decide to use rail travel with your talkative young, expect people to blatantly move seats to be at a distance from you or huffily plug their ears with headphones.  If you are American, it’s strongly advised that you remain mute, less you should offend – something about the tone of voice that carries and will disturb this sacred silent time.

The journey home on the same train is a little more animated.  A similar group of commuters, but this time wrestling under a sea of free newspapers handed out by low paid masses who thrust said paper in your face at every  train and tube station in London.  I sometimes can’t resist and after a hard days strategizing with government, I find myself drawn to  know more about Jude’s relationship with his illegitimate child, a Winehouse breast falling out at a party or Paris’s British Best Friend.  Actually I cheat, I pick up discarded papers from seats not from touts and consider my actions one of ethical recycling.  Besides I feel very uncomfortable with myself  straining to read tabloid filth over someones shoulder.

Sometimes when I arrive at King’s Cross in the morning I decide to walk all the way to the office.  Like I did this morning, taking far too long (50 mins) and generating bloody blisters on the backs of each heel.  Sometimes I wear proper shoes, fit for purpose – like many a suited officer walker, and can manage the distance in a 35 minute march.  The journey clears my head and I love to glimpse shop owners preparing for the day, and get wafts of Great British fry-ups from cafes, or encounter jet-lagged tourists awake far too early for anything to be open.  It reminds me of early mornings in Sri Lanka where people stretch and stand in the street brushing their teeth from a communal tap.  Seeing a place wake up is an intimacy not to be taken for granted.

Not far from the British museum I usually come across groups of labourers gathered over steaming polystyrene cups and cigarettes.  Their laughter makes me envious, as my own work colleagues aren’t as colourful or at ease with one another.  Walking through Convent garden, which seems entirely recession-free and littered with stupid boutiques selling quirky things that nobody needs, and onto Trafalgar Square where I quietly nod  a hello to an alledged relation on top of his column and head down towards Big Ben and the powerhouses of British Government.

Sometimes I don’t walk, I get the tube (subway), which unless I time it right involves some very close bodily contact with complete strangers (who still manage to maintain the silent no eye contact thing despite being an inch away from your face).  It’s a fear of loosing dignity thing I think – we simply pretend not to be there.

The good thing about the commute is the amount I read.  As  a mother of three with a full-time job, reading is an absolute luxury, so to have been able to fill  my heads with the mountains of the Hindu Kush and Britain’s immigrant community in the east end of London, as well as Winehouse, Jude and Paris as the shadows of British countryside flash past in the dusk and dawn light has been a thrill indeed.

So, just a glimpse at my daily travels.  I realise that if I had travelled 1500 in a straight line would have reached Azerbaijan by now.  But I like it this way, close to home for now.  See you in Pakistan in a few weeks!