The Arrival

I am final here.

After 4 weeks of anticipation I am stepping off the plane in a country that is to be home for the next 12 months. It is 2am and the autumn chill is very present as, with my fellow passengers, I make my way by bus, from the plane to the main terminal. As promised, there is someone waiting at the arrival gate, holding up a paper with my name. He guides me effortlessly though immigration and customs – probably the smoothest arrival I have ever had in all my years of traveling. Of course there is the usual wait for the baggage to be unloaded but finally it comes through the flap. The conveyer belt has seen better days, but it does the job and with relief that they are all still intact, I retrieve my 3 bags.

Contrary to what I have been told, my ‘Mr Fixit’ does assist with pushing heavily laden luggage trolleys!

Emerging from the arrivals hall into the crowd waiting to greet family and friends the contrast could not be greater. My fellow passengers are mostly decked out in jeans and leather jackets (except for the few ladies who prefer the comfort of traditional dress). I have to stop for a couple of seconds to take in the scene before me, it is now when I realise that I really am here in Pakistan. As at arrival gates around the world the crowd is 5 of 6 deep. Men young and old dressed in their traditional shalwar kameez, traditional Pashtun hats and well wrapped up against the cold in their beautiful embroidered Kashmiri shawls.

Moustaches! Everywhere I look there are amazing moustaches. I am guessing they do not shave them off at the end of Movember!

 

Whoops! I am hurried along to the waiting driver, who piles the luggage into the pickup and we are off in to the Islamabad night. Not a lot to see in the dark unfortunately but to be honest all I really want is to get to the house.

As much as I want to fall into bed, I always need to take time to explore my surroundings. Even if it is only my allocated room. I change out of my traveling clothes and ‘claim my space’ by unpacking my belongings into cupboards and shelves. The room itself passes muster – the bed is comfortably firm and the shower gushes boiling hot water within a seconds of turning on the tap.

 I wake to the midday call to prayer. I am not sure what time I finally fell asleep and even now I could probably sleep through the day but I make the effort to get up realizing that I need to get into a normal routine as soon as possible. With coffee in hand, I find my way up to the rooftop terrace. It is a beautiful autumn day, clear and crisp with the sun shining and making a gallant effort to warm the air. Our street is quiet, lined with trees. Our house is at the end of the cul-de-sac and across a waste area I can hear boys playing cricket – yes, I am definitely in Pakistan! The Margalla hills surround the town, appearing to rise up directly from the houses on the opposite side of the street. They are barren and brown and unfortunately will not be covered in snow during the winter although they will provide some much needed exercise.

Down on our very small patch of lawn, the watchman looks up and waves as the peace is suddenly shattered by 10 generators along the street springing to life as the town power goes down for a couple of hours. Oh well, not everything can be perfect.