Magic Carpets and Eccentric Aunts

Did Scheherazade give Aladdin’s carpet the power of flight? Did he even have a carpet or was it all the inspiration of Walt Disney?

I can’t remember, it is many years since I have read the tales told on one thousand and one nights by a Persian princess to delay her execution.
I do know that from the very first moment you lay eyes on a genuine handmade carpet from this part of the world; whether it is a rustic one made by tribal nomads or the most perfect example in silk originating from the city of Qom, they are all certainly endowed with magical qualities.

My introduction to carpets, other than the wall to wall variety, was during my first visit to England when I was about 21 and I stayed with my Great-Aunt Joan in London. Being an artist she was slightly eccentric. The memories she recollected, of her life before and during her marriage to my Grandfather’s youngest brother Robert, certainly rivaled the tales of Scheherazade. The difference being, A.J’s stories were true, if slightly embellished for the benefit of her 40 or so great nephews and nieces!

On the floor of her apartment she had 2 massive Persian carpets. They were purchase in Persia in the days when the name Iran was not even a dream. At the time she and Robert were married (she in a gold dress carrying long stemmed dark red roses) her Godfather was the British Ambassador in Tehran. Where better to honeymoon? I can’t remember all the details. Apparently it was Uncle Robert who became the carpet fanatic and I like to think that I have inherited, if not the carpets, his passion for these beautiful works of art.

Since arriving in Pakistan I have resisted the urge to buy every carpet I see. I keep telling myself I am here for at least a year; I have time to look around. On Saturday afternoon a few weeks ago we headed out to a well known traditional furniture warehouse. We took a ‘quick’ stop at our regular shawl dealers which turned into several hours because, this visit, I went upstairs.

Upstairs is the carpet show room. Piles of folded and rolled carpets, up to the ceiling. Wool and silk, kilims or knotted, rustic or refined; whatever your hearts’ desire, and desire my heart did!

As the sales assistants cover the floor with each carpet we show an interest in and the owner keeps up a running commentary of history and qualities we realise that this is the magic of the carpet. They are alive with glowing colours, the stories contained within the patterns and the lives of the people who have spent at least one if not more years producing such amazing pieces.

Each one is more beautiful than the last and soon it is difficult to remember what we first saw. After several cups of green tea and much deliberation I settle on one that will fill the area of bare cold tiles in my bedroom.

Against one wall there is a pile of rolled carpets. They must be at least 3 metres wide and 5-6 metres long. I have been looking at the pattern on two of them. I turn to the owner ‘You know I am not going to buy any more today but would it be possible to look at those two?’

‘Madam’ he says ‘you have a taste for the most beautiful things’

As each one is rolled out we all fall silent. They are so, so beautiful. Words can never describe them. I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. They are both about 70 years old, I put my bare foot out to touch and it is like walking on – well, yes – silk. Maybe if I save really hard, resist buying shawls and kameez, but really, how would I ever get it home?  

So, as my friend Tara commented when I wrote that I had made my first purchase, my slippery slope of carpet buying has started.

I can’t remember which cousin inherited the carpets when Aunt Joan died. What I do know is that I have 5 nieces, 2 nephews and 4 Godchildren so I have the joy of 10 more carpet purchases to look forward to so when their children and grandchildren ask ‘where did that carpet come from’ they will be able to tell tales of the adventures of their eccentric Auntie Cath.      

  

 Footnote: I was intending to add photos but my internet connection this evening is so weak that it wont upload the photos. I will try again tomorrow, inchallah.

And 3 days later here they are!

The first purchase

With Yasin, the most persuasive carpet merchant!

Dream One

Dream Two

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!

            

Sometimes you just have to accept what life throws at you.

It is late afternoon and I am sitting up in bed nursing my first episode of travelers’ belly! It is a week before Christmas and if, a few months ago someone had told me I would be spending this Christmas in Pakistan I would have been the first one to laugh and say ‘don’t be ridiculous’.

However, here I am.

My life in Kenya is over. A very sudden and traumatic end to a life I thought would continue until literally my dying days. Saying goodbye to family, friends, the people and the places that have been part of my daily life for so long was probably one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

Why you ask? Enough to say, I guess we never really know someone as well as we think we do.

BUT, with the love and support of the amazing Pasta Mamas (who you will familiar with from previous post), wonderful friends in both Kenya and Australia and of course my amazing and ever supportive family, I have passed through the worst of it.

Most of my worldly goods are on the high seas somewhere between Mombassa and Sydney. Not that they even have a home to go to when they arrive. I will sort out that problem when it comes.

When I was offered a job in Pakistan, 2 weeks after arriving in Australia, I jumped at the chance – great job, beautiful country and it delays the inevitable – having to find a house and a job in Australia.

As my friend Becs said when she heard I had accepted my new job ‘I knew you would be doing something amazing before too long’.

The thing is, I no longer have an African Kitchen Table in fact I don’t even have a Pakistani kitchen table! What I do already have though is a note book full of jottings, frantically recorded and ready to be expanded into posts – bustling cities, stunning country side, outrageously decorated lorries, beautiful fashions, delicious food and incredibly welcoming and hospitable people.

Fate has handed me this opportunity. I am not sure it is quite what the friends who said ‘everything happens for a reason’ had in mind but right now I am grabbing it with both hands. I am one month into my stay here and my senses are already saturated with the experience. Who knows what will happen tomorrow.  

Just in case you are worried that I am lonely, here is proof that I did not come alone. Sitting on my bedhead is the little soap stone rhino given to me by my next door neighbour, Nadia, just before I left Kenya. She hoped it would always be a reminder of the rhinos who came to visit us in shared  our  'front garden' Nairobi National Park

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.