One one things

I got into Islamabad mid-morning and slept through most of the day after watching a bit of the test match. I remembered the first time I was in Islamabad - pater had a conference so the family tagged along. We got into the City late in the night and went straight to sleep - the next morning when the hotel room curtains were opened the most spectacular mountains emerged from the mist. I also remember the food, tasty and exotic (lamb brain soup was not one of the things I dared to try as a 10 year old) and of course the cricketers. Zimbabwe was touring Pakistan at the time and both teams were staying at our hotel. I remember being in the same lift as Heath Streak and big Inzi. For our luck Ranjan Madugalle was the referee for that game and being pater’s classmate, he got us some tickets to the neighbouring Rawalpindi test match. I recall two things about the cricket - Stephen Peel (off spinner?) practicing in front of us and whacking a lofted drive that thudded into the seat below mine, and the news item the next day that read “Madugalle raps Inzi over wrist band” - I pictured Ranjan hitting Inzi’s wrist with a ruler the way school teachers did back home.

Back to the present - the presentation the next day was not one of my favourites. The audience was again full of NGO types who didn’t understand economics - I really need to start being more selective in the conferences I accept. Once that was over and done with there was an amusing administrative matter to be dealt with. The invitation letter had instructed me to bring along 4 passport size photos for registration purposes. Now most conference registration things require a signature and a phone number - but 4 photos? there was no way I was going to humour them. And then I’m told that the photos are for police registration. wtp? Apparently all citizens of SL, India, Bangladesh and Nepal must get registered with the cops if they visit Pakistan (or was it just Islamabad). I also found out that Indians get a visa only for the state that they visit, not for the entire country - so the Indian chaps had visas for Islamabad. There’s some pretty serious animosity and paranoia in this region.

Anyway, I couldn’t dodge the photo op so I was piled into a tiny van resembling half a loaf of bread and shuttled off with one of the admin guys to the nearest photo studio. We drove into town in the dark and stopped at a place called Apara market. It’s a large street market with shops arranged around a square. We walked into the studio and the admin guy, Shahbhaz, exclaims at the cost of passport photos. Nonetheless I’m taken upstairs. The studio looks like something from the 80s, huge cameras on tripods and elaborate backgrounds including what resembled a forest scene. I was shown a mirror and asked to do my hair - I laughed and shook my head, Shahbhaz shrugged and grinned back. “Your photo shoot” he said. A couple of clicks and we’re done - 15 mins we’re told. Shahbhaz had been unimpressed by my failure to bring the pictures, but now he relaxed since the matter was all but sorted out. We stepped into the makeshift kitchen next door and he asked me if I would like something to eat; “Chaat, burger, samoosa, soup?” It was cold so a soup sounded suspiciously like a plan. “Egg or plain?” I said i’ll have what he’s having and two egg soups were called for. Just then it occurred to me that eggs from a street vendor may not be a great idea - but if Shahbhaz was having it it can’t be all bad. We sat down and he helped himself to a large glass of water straight from a thoroughly sketchy looking jug that had been placed at the two foot tall table we sat at - maybe the eggs weren’t such a great idea. But the soup tasted great, thick and peppery - perfect in the cold.

We still had about 10 mins to go so we walked around the market a bit. They were selling everything from refrigerators and flat screen TVs to second hand shoes and toy guns. I loved the little food stalls with chaat (assorted nuts and similar looking things), roasted flesh, kebabs and more vats of soup. Despite it being close to closing time there were ppl scuttling around the place making last minute bargains, children crying that they were denied that fetching toy and girls with pretty eyes that followed their fast moving feet in a bid to hide away from a cruel world. Everyone was wrapped up, friends chatted over beedis in urdu, smoke wafted here and there and the smells of street food were everywhere. I loved the atmosphere. Shahbhaz said that the market was frequented by middle class ppl and govt. servants - I think the definition of middle class is very different to what we use over here. We got chatting and and he started talking about the political economy in Pakistan.

“Inflation over here is too high - nobody can afford to shop the way they used to”
“Really? about how high is inflation now?”
“Hmm..about 100% maybe”
“oh.”

It’s actually about 7.5% - but if expectations have anything to do with real inflation, they might be in for some trouble. A quick aside. I was in Delhi last week and had an opportunity to listen to Prof. Ajit Singh of Cambridge speaking on the global economy. During question time I asked him something that has puzzled me for a while - we live in an age of massive commodity price hikes - oil, food (wheat, milk, sugar) leading the way, unprecedented demand from the emerging economies of China and India, but yet global inflation has hardly murmured. His answer was pretty much what I expected but I wanted confirmation from an eminent voice. He replied in the context of India - saying that the business community and the public in general have confidence in the management of the economy (which he said was run by 3 ppl - Manmohan Singh, Chidambaram and Reddy (head of the RBI - I think) and therefore despite running high budget deficits, economic agents are confident that things will not go out of control. India’s inflation is around 4.5%. So expectations seem to have a hell of a lot more to do with modern global inflation than in the past. A lot of this possibly has to do with the independence of Central Banks. Which is why I feel the key to reducing inflation in SL is institutional reform at the Central Bank - as long as the governor is perceived to be politically malleable, economic agents will always expect inflation to be a problem - there needs to be credible independence of the Central Bank from the government - till that happens we’ll always suffer from high inflation - and chaps will blame it on things like oil prices and imported food prices - which is rubbish, really.

15 mins were up and we picked up my photos - not too shabby. I had a little stub as well for a souvenir. We dropped by Shahbhaz’s office on the way back and we ran into a colleague of his who, like every other Pakistani I’ve met, spoke to me in urdu - refusing to believe I was a foreigner. Eventually he gave in when I said I’m from Sri Lanka for the 4th time. “Ohh Sri Lanka! Are you Sinhalese or Tamil? Always fighting fighting fighting, yeah? There’s a war in the North and Eastern parts - and there’s a town called Jaffna there - lot of fighting, am I right?” I was impressed - yes he was right. He said that his English is weak and I said that my urdu is weak and he laughed again - hugely energetic despite it being 8 in the night. Shahbhaz grabs the man by his shoulders and punches him in a friendly manner, “He is a good guy you know - but he is a Pashtun” he announces and the Pashtun grins and goes into mock boxing mode, “Like Sinhalese and Tamils, we are also fighting here and there” More laughter - despite the inaccuracy of the statement - Sinhalese and Tamils aren’t fighting. Enough of that. The friendly Pashtun (I’ve forgotten his name) offers to give me a ride around Islamabad on his motorbike the next day but unfortunately my flight was leaving before that would be possible. I got back to the hotel - apologized to Shahbhaz and thanked him for his assistance. There was an evening of Ghazaals to supplement the dinner that night - both were excellent. The food was fantastic all along - great sindhi buriyani (the big bite stuff is pretty much on the mark in terms of authenticity - specially at the Rajagiriya branch - yum), lamb dishes and grilled chicken - wonderfully spiced and despite the fair share of ghee, extremely palatable.

I flew back the next day after enduring a couple of hours at the airport with easily the most annoying person I have ever had to deal with. This Nepalese brother refused to stop talking - even when I elaborately whipped out my book and began to read. He also insisted that we take a vehicle to the airport a whole hour before we were scheduled to leave in the hotel vehicle. What a muppet. The security guy took my passport and, surprise surprise, spoke in urdu. I said for the nth time that I’m from Sri Lanka and he says with a surprised grin, “No! really? Sri Lankan - Pakistani same, same, no?” I smiled and said “Same, same - but different.” He grinned even more and waved me off. There was thankfully no long Karachi transit this time - and I took my seat on the SLkan airlines flight back to SL, happy to hear voices from home and familiar phrases.

I was next to a fascinating chap who was flying to Malaysia - I’m sure he was a Mullah of sorts based on his attire and beard length. He introduced himself as “Mohammad Yousuf - not the cricketer” The first thing he asked me after my name was my “qualifications.” I was surprised - maybe he was trying to hire me. I gave my qualifications and asked him his in turn. He started counting fingers, “Masters in Islamic Studies, Masters in Urdu, Masters in Arabic and Masters in Islamic History” Followed up by a rich grin. I liked Mohammad Yousuf - but I drifted off to sleep sooner rather than later - dreaming of more buriyani. When I stepped off the plane at Katunayake and went to get my luggage I was thrilled to see 4 large vats, in which they traditionally cook buriyani, meandering along the conveyor belt. It looks like the boys at Big Bite maybe opening another branch - Inshallah.

I was not looking forward to Pakistan from the time I heard about it. I wasn’t 100% on the topic, I didn’t like the type of conference and most importantly it was bang in the middle of the SSC test. I was due to fly on Sunday evening around 6 so I spent the day at the match till around tea time. Vaughan was playing superbly in the first innings - crisp cover drives and flicks through midwicket. I was annoyed that the barmy army had taken over the HSBC stand - some tour group had booked out the whole 3rd tier - the best spot in the whole ground. Bloody cheek. Settled for the Lanka Bell stand (despite the incessant screaming of a kid “Ian Bell Lanka Bell, Cook go back to the kitchen”) but it wasn’t SL’s day at all - until of course I left the ground when, just like that, 4 wickets fall. Nice. Anyway I got to the airport to run into a massive queue at the check in for Karachi. Actually it wasn’t massive, it just refused to budge. After a while it became clear that something was wrong. I was asked to step up. “Sorry sir it looks like the flight is a bit overbooked - we’re trying our level best to get you a seat.” Now at this point i’m not too sure what to think; half a mind says this is the escape route i was subconsciously craving. The other half is worried about getting severely delayed. And then the bribery begins.

“Sir if you stay back we’ll give you a free flight to Karachi”
“You can’t be serious? I have no interest in going to Pakistan unless I have to”
“Sir you can go to North India instead”
“I’m in Delhi next week”
“It’s valid next year also”
“I’m back in Delhi mid Jan”

She smiles in defeat - I was being a bastard. I said that I would have taken her offer if I was going on holiday but bc it’s work I can’t. She eventually says that she can give me cash - and my eyes light up for a moment but things would be too complicated so I say i’ll hang on. In the meantime an Indian lady was throwing an absolute bitch fit - she was letting the counter girls have it - despite them having nothing to do with the overbooking policy of the airline. Eventually I got a seat, with an upgrade to boot, but most of the others were left behind - I have no idea what happened to them. After settling in I was again told that my seat is incorrect and am promptly demoted to cattle class. UL - got to love them. For my luck the flight was taking home a huge contingent of Pakistanis who were in Colombo for some Lion’s conference. And they were loud, boisterous and full of energy. I was next to one of the loudest who was also blessed with a more than healthy laugh - which, unfortunately, he wasn’t shy to exhibit. Despite the banshee I was able to sleep for about an hour out of the 5 and a half hour trek via Mumbai. Not fun. We arrived in Karachi around midnight, and within half an hour I had sorted out the immigration stuff and picked up my suitcase. My connecting flight to Islamabad was at 7am, and I didn’t want to book a hotel bc it would be pointless getting one for 3 hours between 1am and 4am. I figured I’d kill time in the airport - I had Carl Muller (reuniting with the Jam Fruit Tree after many years) to keep me company. And what fine company he makes. So I rock up to the domestic terminal, sleepy all over again and looking forward to kicking back before heading off to the capital.

The chap at the gate examines my ticket - raises his eyebrow and says something in Urdu. “I’m sorry could you speak in English, I don’t speak Urdu” he nods understandingly and promptly continues in Urdu and then points at the clock. Turns out they don’t open the terminal till 2 hours before the flight. Ok, not part of the plan, but surely I can just sit inside? Apparently not. I ask him where I can wait and he points to a set of chairs outside in the cold. And it was cold. I looked at my watch - 12.45 - bugger. There were about 30 chairs and there were chaps sitting on about a third of them, well wrapped up in jackets, long kurthas and headscarves - like Afghans in winter I thought. There was a kiosk selling tea and snacks, a tv perched on some ledge blaring urdu music, just about drowning out the chatter. I was really tempted to have some tea to get through the cold - specially wearing a short sleeve shirt and an old well worn pair of trousers - but I was afraid tea would keep me awake, and I felt my best chance to get through this in any sort of comfort would be to sleep it out. After what I thought was about half an hour I looked at my watch - 12.55. This was turning into a very disagreeable situation. I wanted to get my mind off the time so I began to read - Totoboy Von Bloss falling into a grave after 6 too many tipples. I slowly relaxed and began to take in the surroundings a bit more - the various ppl; men, women and children - huddled together with their luggage, talking, drinking chai, smoking and glancing my way every now and then. It was 1.30 - a bit of progress. I fell asleep, laptop strung around my neck, suitcase between my legs - head in hands. I woke up about an hour later - amazed that I had slept through the bustle, but the cold had really got to me so I took my coat out of the suitcase and wore it - tough luck if it got dirty. A quick glance around and almost all the ppl were different to those I had seen an hour ago. Fellows with newly purchased items from some Middle Eastern duty free, a guy with a neatly wrapped guitar, a couple of families with what looked like all their possessions wrapped in big plastic covers and an old man with a walking stick who grinned at me through his two remaining teeth. The new ppl looked at me curiously - wondering what the devil this foreigner is doing sitting in the cold for hours and hours. I dozed off again - and despite regularly waking up, I slept till almost 4 a.m. I was thrilled. Within half an hour the light started flashing next to Islamabad - PK 300: proceed for check in. Hooray.

So a while back I wrote something about the sexual pursuits of my dog (I would say bitch but I’m much too cultured for that). In a nutshell, things with Sam didn’t work out. He just was not interested, and it was later disclosed that he had some hormonal problem (shock). My fellow was, in the words of the vet, “hari unanduweng hitiya”. The horny git. What to do. Anyway, after two days with Sam we decided to try another fellow and the vet suggested two names - one was called Brutus and the other Rinoldo - both Labs. Brutus’ owners came over and wanted 30k to pimp their dog - naturally I showed them the gate. 30k for a shag..inflation, I tell you. The next day the other prospect turns up (it was a Sunday, it felt like a proper marriage visit - I must digress at this point to tell a quick story). I was reading the marriage proposals a couple of weekends back as part of my Sunday amusement and came across a gem. “Young, slim, fair (of course) muslim lady, recently divorced after a very brief marriage, innocent party” (now in Sri Lankan marriage proposals there are no guilty parties - everybody who is divorced is the innocent party). And here’s the clincher - “However she remains a virgin.” I mean this is what we need - no more bullet proof cars and what not, just figure out what that hymen is made of and nothing will get through. Marvelous.

So anyway - Rinoldo comes over with pater, mater and a rotund little bugger who grinned and waddled back and forth. I liked them instantly - and family is very important. Rinoldo was friendly if a bit saliva prone. My fellow however was having none of it - she barked and barked and almost bit Rinoldo so we decided to try an introduction at the male’s place - which is how it should be. The next day I took her over to theirs and again no luck - major aggression by Teq and we couldn’t get them off their leads. Tough luck - it wasn’t set to work on this heat. We just hoped she wouldn’t have another pseudo-pregnancy. Unfortunately within a couple of months she again started her digging and whining so we gave her an injection to tone down the hormones. It wasn’t quite as bad as last time. All of this happened late last year.

In September she had her next heat and again the vet said to give it a shot - so I took her over to Rinoldo’s. Again there was aggression but this time the vet persuaded me (with much difficulty) to let her off the lead and for me to go out of sight. Naturally this was quite difficult but I had to do it. As soon as I let her go and went inside the bugger tried to hump her - but she was having none of it, barked and growled till he backed off. I all but cheered in delight. That’s my girl! Don’t let the bugger get in your nickers! Eventually I was told that I should leave and pick her up in a few hours. It was really sad leaving her - it was the first time I had left her alone in a strange place and I couldn’t look her in the eyes before going. I got the boy’s mobile number and kept checking on her even before I reached home. It was even stranger going home and not have her do her usual greeting at the top of the stairs - wagging her tail and with it her whole body. About 4 hours later I picked her up - nothing had happened, she had not let him mount her and they had both gone to sleep eventually.

On my way back home, with her happily in the front seat, the vet called me up and asked what happened. I explained the story and he said, “ehema thamai, aayeth karanna oney ballige spirit eka kadena kang.” That just sounded completely wrong to me. I wasn’t going to keep her there until she could no longer fight him. I mumbled something and left the phone. It was a huge dilemma - the parents were abroad so I called them up and explained the situation - they agreed that we should call it off - it just didn’t feel right. Unfortunately this would mean she’ll be likely to have further pseudo-pregnancies and possible complications later on. I’m still not sure what we’ll do on her next heat. It’s now two months since the last heat and she’s already showing signs of distress. Last night she started whimpering and licking the pillow - which was followed by what looked like a false labour. It’s extremely distressing watching her - not being able to explain to her what’s going on in her body. We’ll probably need to give her another hormone shot, though I’m somewhat skeptical about the effects in the longer term. Decisions decisions.