The oddest things that bring thoughts of home

I feel as if I am sitting in a Banjo Patterson ballad as the phrase ‘I am sitting in my grimy little office in the city’ keeps running through my thoughts – most Australians will recognise this as the first line of ‘Clancy of the Overflow’.

Having just returned from lunch, it is an unusually warm afternoon so I have turned off my heater and opened the large sliding glass door that opens my office onto the rooftop terrace. The sounds of an Islamabad afternoon waft in on the breeze and distract me from work and the deadlines I have to meet.

Being Friday, the mosques are calling the faithful to prayer. I am reminded of the times I have worked in Darfur, Somalia, North Sudan, Indonesia Turkey and Syria. Even in Kenya when the wind was blowing in the right direction we could hear the call to prayer from the mosque out on Kitengela. I smile at the thought of all the friends I have made and am still in contact with, in these amazing places.

There are the birds, big grey crows, ‘cawing’ as they do all day. Probably excited about someone’s lunch leftovers they have discovered; the distant hum of traffic, one of the staff singing as he walks down the stairs, and the rhythmic ‘plop’ ‘plop’ of the badminton game taking place on our small lawn. The staff plays every lunch time. They are extremely competitive. They are quite a sight with the tails of their shalwar kameez flapping and the girls’ scarves fluttering as they leap for the shuttlecock. The men wear grey, brown or navy, the girls are like butterflies in every colour of the rainbow.

However the sound that catches my ear and really sets my mind wandering is the consistent slamming of the screen door. It takes me back to my childhood to the farmhouse built by my grandfather when he arrived in Australia from Wales. The house where my mother and then my four cousins grew up and my brothers and I spent holidays each year. He named the farm Cambrian Grove after the country he had left behind. With seven children – my brothers, myself and our 4 cousins -  running in and out all day the screen door saw a lot of action. Just as well it led onto a small verandah and the actual door into the kitchen and the main house was always open. At my parents house we also had the screen door into the kitchen. It was a simple timber frame with fly wire unlike the very fancy metal security door that my mother now has installed. Nothing at all secure about it – the screen easily torn and the main door unlocked, by children arriving home from school before their mother was home from shopping!

The door banging again and again brings me back to the reality of where I am (in a minute I am going to turn into my mother and scream down the stairs ‘will you stop banging that door and close it properly!).

A military helicopter circling over head reminds me sadly that it is 16^th January, exactly one month since the Peshawar school was attack, and how this country has change so much in such a short time. The mosque starts its call again. Unusual for this time of the day even for a Friday but maybe the clerics feel the same as many of us, that with everything going on in the world at the moment, it needs all the help it can get and a few extra prayers never go astray.

 

Layer upon layer upon layer.....

No, it is not about the 1970’s advertisement for Sara Lee Danish! It is about having to get dressed every morning in a house without great central heating (we have the hot water wall radiators which have a mind of their own when it comes to efficiency) and the early morning temperature is still in low single figures. Kenya is cold in the winter but our house in Nairobi was built for it and despite the chilly morning, most days the sun was shining. Here, the houses are full of cold surfaces – tiled floors - and massive rooms which take so much energy to heat. Better suited to the tradition of extended family living rather than just five girls.

My nose is my thermometer – it is so cold it is painful, and when my feet hit the freezing ceramic tiles on the floor they ‘burn’ (time and funds have prevented the purchase of carpets so far). After steaming up the bathroom getting dressed is a race against time!

Several layers of tee shirts, woolly tights; the heaviest cotton Kameez that I own (a size too large to accommodate the layers underneath!);jeans; socks; my old bright green cashmere cardigan (a bit of taking coals to Newcastle as it was purchased in France) and to top it all off the pashmina shawl that wraps around twice!

 The debate between fashionista and dowdy but warm is one we have had to face in the past few weeks. It seems that Pakistani women suffer for fashion’s sake. There is no denying the newly released Winter Collections are beautiful but they are still only cotton. Corrinne is on a mission to own the men’s heavy wool suit (trousers and tunic much the same style as women but without the embroidery and colour) and the cream or fawn shawls. However, everytime she tries to sneak one past the shop attendants they shake their heads and say ‘no, no, madam. This is only for the gentleman, not for ladies’ and they direct her to the lighter weight garments. Our suggestions that she is buying for her brother or husband are not successful, the sizing is a dead give away – she is tiny and hardly reaches 5ft!

Ajin returns home one day, having been slightly more successful. She has persisted and has found a lovely very light wool with beautiful crewel embroidery (marking it as women’s wear). We all put it on our wish list for the new year shopping!

Leaving the house is not so bad as the journey to the office is by car. However, the time of departure determines whether we arrive to  slightly heated office or an ice box! My office has 2 walls of windows – lovely in the summer I imagine but not so at this time of year. The thermostat on the gas heater tells me that the room temperature is 10°C. A the day progresses, I watch the figure slowly climb higher – I know I don’t help by having the door open but I hate sitting in a box locked away from everyone else (in Nairobi, at the Wilson Airport hanger, I shared an office and it was also used as the meeting room so I always had company). By the time I am packing up to leave in the evening, the temperature of the room has struggled to an amazing 17°C! I feel a bit mean turning off the heater knowing it is going to have to start all over again tomorrow, but we all have our job to do!

Arriving home, we test the temperature – has the heating been efficient today? We move from room to room feeling the radiators and testing the hot water taps.

The warmest room is the sitting room as it can be closed off completely from the rest of the house and has heavy curtains. I assume my usual position sitting on the radiator until my hands and feet have defrosted.   

Escaping from the rush of everyday life

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! A dull monotonous sound although it shatters the peaceful quiet of the Saeed Book Bank as I push open the heavy glass doors and enter my idea of heaven – 3 storeys of books waiting to be discovered!

 
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! As I peer up the nearest aisle I catch sight of flying feathers. The attendants are carrying out their morning ritual. Sweeping away the fine layer of dust that has settled during the night on the shelves and thousands of volumes.

This is my first visit and I am initially overwhelmed, but quickly logic kicks in and I turn left into the first aisle, planning to weave my way around one side of the room.

I find myself surrounded by the glossy covers, of what are commonly known as coffee table books – textiles, jewelery, pashmina and shawls; architecture, geography, people, cities and countryside; Pakistan, China, Nepal, Afghanistan and India – it is all here. Luckily many are wrapped in protective plastic so my selection for browsing is limited. I settle myself on the floor and pull out a couple of volumes and for the next 20 minutes or so I am immersed in the peoples, culture and history of this fascinating region.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! – I am suddenly aware that the duster has entered my aisle and is standing over me. Not that he is concerned with me sitting and reading. I have always thought that the sign of a really good book shop is when the staff are happy for customers to read and appreciate the books rather than rushing in and grabbing the first thing that comes to hand. Books are like people – when time is taken to choose wisely, they are friends for life.

I realise that I am actually holding up the proceedings so with a history of the paisley shawl clutched tightly, I move on.

Travel guides and how to look after a wide variety of pets from goldfish to horses and on the other side ring binders and an assortment of stationary items (I slot this away in the memory for future reference). The wide variety of international magazines is tempting but not in today’s budget. Interesting to note Pakistan does have its’ own edition of ‘Hello’; this week is the bridal issue and it weighs over 1 kg!!!!

The back wall is lined with reference titles ‘The History of Islam’; ‘Understanding Islam’; ‘Women in Islam’ and editions of the Koran in Arabic and English. I linger here; Our Western perception of Islam and the peoples that live by the teachings of the Koran are so influenced by what we see on news bulletins and read in the papers. But the people I have met in the past few weeks, the friends I have made who have welcomed me to their country, are so far from the public picture of fanatics that I need to read and have my own understanding. I add a few books to my pile.

Pakistan is only 67 years old as a country but the number of titles on the next shelf would do a country 4 times that age, proud. The short but tumultuous history has been documented in minute detail.

‘Taliban, Jihad and Terrorism’ announces the sign hanging above the next aisle – not sure I really need to spend time here, tempting as it may be to see exactly how one writes about these subjects! Surprisingly, at the end there are two boys sorting through Christmas decorations – electric tree lights, shiny glass balls, tinsel, glittery stars and a memory from my childhood – multi-coloured tissue paper bells The ones that you have to fold back on themselves and secure with a paper clip. I make notes for future purchase.

I am just heading  to the novels and paperbacks, having spied two whole shelves of P.G. Wodehouse when my phone rings. It is Helle. She is coming to pick me up to go out to lunch. The next 2 floors of the shop are going to have to wait for another weekend. I sort through the books I have accumulated and choose 4 – History of the Paisley Shawl, Birds of Pakistan, A memoir of Kashmir and Women in Islam – they are packaged up, I hand over 4,500 Rupees (about $40), and reach the door just in time to see Helle pulling into the car park.

‘You must have known’ I say to her, ‘the next aisle was the cook books, you would never have got me out!’

 

JELABI, POMEGRANATES AND THE ART OF BAKING NAAN

 Saturday morning shopping at the markets, a familiar and enjoyable pastime around the world. Our driver turns into the market and maneuvers the car into a space next to a group of motor bikes.
The open fronted shops are arranged around the square, at the front bordering the road is a dusty garden area. It is early by Islamabad shopping standards, shop keepers are still opening up and setting out their wares. A few old men stand around enjoying the weak sunshine and reading newspapers.

 The fruit and vegetable shops flow out in to the footpath. The baskets woven from gold and silver foil and decorated with coloured sequins sparkle. I am excited to finally visit a proper food shopping area; they are not so evident when driving around the city if you are not familiar with their location.

Our first stop is the grocers. We are greeted by the attendant and he rushes to hand us baskets. The shop is tiny, lined with shelves, packed from floor to ceiling. It takes a minute or two to take it all in. As we look closer we realise there are goods from all over the world – Twinings tea, jasmine and Arborio rice, cheeses from Greece, Italy and of course Happy Cow; every Asian sauce you could ever need, exotic spices, and piled on the bench in the middle of the room, bags of local nuts, dried fruits and grains. We fill two baskets remembering the almonds, couscous and tinned cherries we will need for our Christmas feast.

Next stop is for fruit and vegetables – beautiful glowing colours and it all looks so fresh.

Corrinne is exclaiming about the array of Asian greens, especially the Chinese cabbages. I am already planning a Middle Eastern extravagance using aubergines and pomegranates; bananas, apples and guavas are added to the basket.

I press my nose against the window of the fish shop; clear shining eyes stare back at me – trout, snapper and cod, lobster, prawns and crab – why has it taken me nearly one month to discover this Aladdin’s cave?

But the best is yet to come.

Last stop is for bread. Not your run of the mill ‘loaf of sliced white please’ here you put in your order and then wait for it to be baked!

Helle orders 8 naans, a larger than average order and we notice that those ordering one or two are allowed to jump the queue. There are three men involved in the production line. The first is preparing the dough, forming it into fat rounds. He passes it through a hatch to the baker who sits on an elevated platform outside, where we stand watching the performance. The baker flattens out the rounds, places then on a large padded board which he then uses to slap the dough against the wall of a tandoor oven. I lean over the edge of the platform trying to look into the oven but it is so deep all I can see is blackness. With the queue jumpers, it is taking some time to fill our order so I wander next door to investigate vats of thick glossy syrup that an old man stirs occasionally with a wooden spoon.

Oh YUM!! I have found the Jelabi maker!

For the uninitiated Jelabi is a sweet made by piping a batter into hot oil. The result is a crisp lacey disc which is then soaked in sweet syrup. The batter is so fine the syrup fills the hollow centre without the crispness being lost. I cannot resist. I wander back to the naan shop clutching a brown paper bag and dripping sticky syrup all over my fingers.

 Our bread order is nearly done. The baked rounds of bread are removed from the oven using a long metal rod with a hooked end. The baker flings the bread across to the packer who carefully piles the steaming rounds in newspaper, carefully not to crush the crisp bubbles that are characteristic of naan. The package is then slipped into the inevitable plastic shopping bag, Helle hands over rupees in exchange for the bag and the ceremony of Pakistani bread purchase is complete.  

 

 

SUPER FOODIES AT WORK!