I don’t believe in wrong turns in life, only that every decision has its eventual outcome and every action its consequence. Life is endlessly variegating. Outcomes and consequences simply do not exist until one generates sufficient preconditions and actions to bring them into existence. So one can never know what will manifest beyond the present moment, but me, I get inklings. They’re not usually substantial enough to articulate with confidence or clarity, but distinctive nonetheless.
For the past six weeks, I was stalked incessantly by one of these. It was saying, not very subtly at all, that I was headed for disaster. The most obvious signal was the ease at which I dipped into a seemingly inexhaustible pool of anger. Sometimes, the pleasantries and distractions of life were sufficient to keep me from plunging in, but mostly I found reasons to dive. Often the target was people who had promised me something at work. The poor guys at Telenor got the worst of it. They really did want to help. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to offer them anything monetarily enticing and thus the project was never actually on their agenda, but being nice, hospitable Pakistani friends they could never tell me this. Instead they strung me along in their spare time over the course of five weeks, promising things they would or could never deliver. When I finally realized the pattern, instead of acknowledging it and calmly moving on, I choose to lay into them with scathing generalizations about their incompetent and lazy work ethic. I intentionally burned all bridges to dust. Doing this of course had absolutely no value. Moreover it made me feel bad for them and worse about myself for not controlling impulses. Unfortunately, I could not have done it differently as I did not (could not) recognize the trajectory I was on until the deed was done.
The Telenor breakdown happened sometime in mid-September, then gradually my relationships with NRSP colleagues also began to disintegrate. This process was less acute, with no pronounced triggers. The cause was my consistent projecting of frustrations and feelings of failure onto other people to the point that I was noticeably unpleasant to be around. This wasn’t necessarily an everyday phenomenon, but it was enough for people to notice and talk. Ansa, the perceptive and outspoken NRSP-SHPP program officer with whom I worked most closely in those first two months, passed the word along and gave me gentle feedback which I appreciated but could never act upon fully. For by this point my energies had shifted completely to a reactive, maintenance-only mode.
I had naively assumed Groundcrew software would be perfectly functional once the local components were in place. The main local component is the message server, which receives incoming messages from local users, forwards them on to the global Groundcrew server in the US, then delivers local responses. Asim and I spent all of August and about a thousand dollars configuring this system. We installed it at NRSP offices using NRSP equipment, then within the first week realized we’d need independent power and internet supply in order for the system to function properly, uninterrupted. We then spent another week convincing NRSP to invest in these components.
They agreed and finally the local message server was live and uninterrupted. We began using Groundcrew software in Pakistan. We signed up the first two batches of clients and a few volunteers, sent messages, monitored the pilot groups, and pondered innovative use cases. But also within the first week of testing the system, we began to discover many software bugs, some related to the unique split server configuration, some purely a result of Groundcrew. At the same time, I started to perceive very reluctantly some basic inadequacies of a system that originally garnered my total (blind) faith.
Don’t get me wrong, Groundcrew was and remains an ingenious concept with valuable potential applications for social development and poor people. But unfortunately, a more pressing conclusion must be made. The system was not designed for developing country contexts such as Pakistan, and therefore does not automatically transfer or engender adoption. The two main context differences are: 1) less than 10% of the population here has internet access and therefore 90% couldn’t care less about the nifty visual functions of Groundcrew and will actually never experience anything Groundcrew related other than receiving and possibly sending SMS on their basic handsets, whereas the reverse is true in the US plus many people have Groundcrew compatible smartphones; and 2) Pakistani address data are not systematic and subsequently Google Maps are highly inconsistent and lack detail. Therefore the location-based functions of Groundcrew are essentially useless here, whereas street level map data in the US is extremely thorough, address notations are standardized, and everybody understands how to determine and state location effectively, almost anywhere.
I could have glossed over these big picture issues were it not for the presence of so many reoccurring bugs, confusing features, and downright useless components of the software which I had no choice but to document and try to resolve with the designers on the other side of the planet. Thus I became Groundcrew’s sole developing country field tester even though this was never supposed to be my job. See, Groundcrew is not an open source software, but a ready-made product that costs 450 dollars per month to lease. Therefore the assumption (and the business model) is that the deploying organization (me, NRSP) purchases the package, ready to go, fully functional or at least adaptable to the local context. I understood I would need to help build the local server, but not that I would have to troubleshoot the whole system once it was up. This realization, that I had purchased far more (less) than I had bargained for, was quite frustrating and pushed me further into the deep end of the pool. In retrospect, I should not have been shocked at all. Quite the opposite, I should have been expecting all of it and then some. I should have been prepared, patient, and persistent. I still can be.
I remember, I’m not operating in a vacuum. Things mostly go wrong here, take more time then expected, and suffer from a lack of transparency and abundance of incomplete information. This I understand. And I know what I have to do to make the most out of my time that remains. Mainly, stop exuding negativity to the world. Accept, ignore, or embrace challenges. Deal with them, at least – the mundane, everyday, absurdly contradictory and seemingly dysfunctional aspects of life. Stop ranting. Stop literally screaming from my rooftop at things that cannot be changed by me alone. Things like toxic smoke from burning refuse piles wafting up to my third floor apartment in sector F6 of Islamabad such that I can’t go outside in the evening without breathing incinerated hydrocarbons, namely plastic bags. Start a neighborhood public awareness campaign with fliers explaining the health effects of burning refuse and also threatening fines for violators. Things like the noise pollution of six mosques all blasting their distinctive brand of dissonant wailing directly into my bedroom at full volume, eight, ten times per day, starting at 4:45 AM, in disharmonious rounds. Kindly asked the mullahs to turn it down. Things like being run off the road by VIP convoys. Stop riding my death trap Honda 125! The VIP culture itself, its dominance over and stealing from the rest of society. Encourage civil disobedience. The lack of quality education and critical thinking, the rote curriculum and blatant profit motive behind it all. Teach for Pakistan. The intrusive public displays of religiosity. The “hijacking of Islam.” Women. Will Pakistanis ever figure it our for themselves?
Fortunately, I also know this is the country of contradictions and surprises. The vast majority (99.9% of people I’ve met) are generous, honest, warm-hearted, moderate in their social and political outlook. They’re not ignorant, but rather over-informed, and naturally hard-shelled because of the conspiracy theory scourge. Even the illiterate poor, of which the majority are, are acutely aware of the ineptitude and fundamental flaws in their systems. They see the pollution, the VIP culture, the lack of equitable distribution of resources but they are powerless actors, audience members in fact. They do not wish to be subjugated further nor subjugate others, but somehow the culture of subjugation persists. This is the elusive, as-good-as-you-make-it, as-bad-as-you-let-it, heaven unrealized, hellish, ugly, beautiful, idea of Pakistan. Which brings me to the point of this story, the disaster for which I was headed, and the surprising effect of being denied the object of one’s desire.
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I boarded the plane to Chitral at 7AM on Thursday morning. My pack was loaded with five days of food, tent, stove, boots, bag, ax, etc. The plan was simply to get as far away as possible, without actually leaving the country. The goal was the old standard for me; to let go by way of walking, leave everything behind, be enraptured by a place, even if only superficially. I was eager for this easy walkabout after canceling my previous, more ambitious agenda from Gilgit to Chitral via the northern Karambar Lakes/Wakhan Corridor. More than anything, I sought the antidote to six weeks of negativity and that irksome inkling. I assumed as always, it would wash away instantly. The itinerary was a five-day loop around Chitral Gol National Park then dipping south into the forested southern slopes of the Kalash Valleys and finishing with a one night stay in the supposedly pristine Kalash village of Bumboret.
After a smooth, sunny coast up and over Swat and Dir, our thirty seater PIA twin prop touched down in Chitral at 7:50am. I stood up, shook the remaining sleep from my head, reached into my pocket for my phone, then instantly realized I’d left it in the plastic basket at the third and final security station inside the Rawalpindi airport. Strangely I did not panic. I exited the plane in a daze, thinking if ever there was a week to be bereft of one’s Iphone… My next thought was, it’s probably still sitting there in the basket, I should call and make sure. My only lingering thought was, now I won’t be able to call my friend, Siraj Al-Mulk, the reigning prince of Chitral and owner of the regal Hindu Kush Heights Hotel. My heretofore undefined plan had been for Siraj to arrange my day-one transport to the trailhead and day-five pick up back to town, then spend my last night cleaning up in one of his plush rooms overlooking the Valley. Sweet and simple it was, just what I needed, so I thought.
Confused and anxious, I entered the dusty arrival hall to wait for luggage. I asked a friendly fellow passenger to borrow his phone. I called my number. A man answered speaking indecipherable Urdu. I passed the phone over to its owner, who explained the situation on my behalf. He hung up and explained to me what I had already gathered. My phone had been found and would be safely stored at the Airport Security Force (ASF) control desk until my return to Isb, at which time I could provide proper documentation and readily receive it back. I quickly relaxed and moved onto the next thought: how do I get hold of Siraj. I asked my friend with the phone if he knew of him. Of course he knew of the prince of Chitral, but did not have his personal number. He asked me if I wanted to call the Hotel land line. I thought for a moment and said no, I’ll just catch my own taxi straight up there – cheaper than having the hotel jeep come all the way down and pick me up. The Hindu Kush Heights is north of town, on the way to the trailhead, so this made perfect sense at the time.
Our bags arrived. I thanked my friend for his kind help and proceeded toward the parking lot in search of taxi. But before I could exit, the nice policemen hovering at the door kindly asked me to register, as all foreigners arriving in Chitral are required to do. I politely obliged. (It should be noted for all those not familiar with my prior tales of visa woes that my status was actually never resolved back in August. I submitted an application for 3-month extension but nothing came of it. Three days after submitting, I was told by my fixer that the Ministry of Interior would not be processing my request. The message was, we refuse to grant you an extension for no apparent reason other than your American-ness; stay at your own peril. Then two months passed, nothing doing. Many people told me this was standard protocol. I told myself I had followed all the legitimate procedures and technically no one had ever informed me directly that my application had been denied. I still had the signed stamped copy of the application which to me was proof enough that my application was pending. With that in mind, I happily presented myself to the registration desk at the airport.
The duty officer scrutinized over my visa page for what seemed like 20 minutes before asking me curiously “Sir, you realize you do not have valid paperwork?” I said, no, I do. Then I handed over the signed, stamped application. Had the duty officer been the sole authority figure in the Valley, he probably would not have cared at this point to proceed further and would have sent me on my merry way. But quite the contrary, he has no authority at all other than to follow instructions. I could immediately see in his eyes a look of doubt and concern, for both of us. This emotion then led him to make a phone call. He spoke in Chitrali Koh, but I gathered he was looking for a second opinion and authorization from higher up the chain of command. When he hung up, instead of speaking directly to me, he consulted with his fellow officers. I was clearly not going to be released merrily. The consultation ended and I was politely asked to take my bags to the police Toyota waiting in the parking lot.
Thus began my unplanned sojourn. The truck took us first to the office of the District Coordinating Officer (DCO), equivalent of Mayor, except that he is appointed not elected. The DCO refused to speak to me or listen to any explanation of my innocence. Instead, with surprising efficiency, he dialed the Ministry of Interior in Islamabad, explained my situation and received his orders on how to proceed. He passed the phone to me so that the Interior official could convey the message that my pending application is meaningless without an official letter, and that I have no choice but to leave Chitral immediately and return to Islamabad. The DCO refused to discuss the matter further once we hung up the phone.
At this point I began the process of resigning to my fate and let go the residual hope of being let free. We loaded back into the truck and headed to the Chitral police station where after sitting for two hours, I was cordially introduced to the District Police Officer (DPO). The DPO is a friendly chap who chain smoked out of the corner of his mouth and spoke English like a 1940′s villain. He seemed keenly interested in helping me and at the same time disbelieving everything I said. He called two of my NRSP colleagues to confirm all the details of my story. (They of course did not sound thrilled at being dragged into my saga) Then, after finding that my story checked out, he excused himself, and left me in the wood-paneled office with a cup of tea and a four-day old newspaper.
I sat, read, and sipped while waiting to be told what to do next. An hour later, the sub-deputy-secretary-assistant (servant) to the DPO, entered and informed me of a plan. The plan offered me two options: set off immediately for Peshawar by road, or wait for tomorrow’s flight back to Islamabad. I of course chose the latter. The sub servant secretary then generously informed me that I would not be placed “behind the wall” but instead kept under guard at the Pakistan Tourism Development Corporation (PTDC) Hotel just down the street from the station. By this point, it was 1PM.
House arrest started out quite fun. We arrived, dropped my bags in the room, and had a tasty lunch. After lunch I easily persuaded my two friendly police escorts to hire a taxi and bring me straight to the Hindu Kush Heights Hotel so that I could explain my situation to Siraj, perhaps find a solution, or at least relax and enjoy my nonexistent time in the Valley.
We arrived in the lobby where it was immediately clear that the Hindu Kush Heights hotel is fit for a prince, and also for Robert De Niro whose signed photo adorns the wall next to the concierge desk. (He stayed there in 1999 while scouting for a film that never got made on the Reagan/Zia Afghan war). The Hotel, ornate yet austere in design and accoutrement, is perched atop a hill at the far north end of the Valley. Each room has its own finely carved wood balcony with stunning views south. I was sad that I would not have the opportunity to indulge in one after a long trek.
Siraj Mulk emerged from the garden and greeted me with a reassuring smile and handshake. I quickly summarized my predicament, after which he promptly dashed all hopes of salvaging my vacation. He said that had I called him before leaving Islamabad, he might have been able to arrange a special pick-up and thereby avoid the registration desk at the airport. But now I had done “everything wrong.” He could not pull any strings higher than the DPO or the DCO of the Valley. And even if I had called, he would have advised me not to come at all, as police checkpoints dot the valley and there is no way of avoiding registration at some point. Siraj also explained the vigilance against foreigners in this far-flung frontier district is not new – it’s been official policy since Great Game times – but that today it’s mainly a result of the fear that foreigners will either be kidnapped and taken across the border or join the miscreants voluntarily, depending on which type of foreigner they are. Last year a Greek backpacker was taken from the Kalash into Afghanistan and held happily for six months, then released. Four months ago there was the case of the fox news dubbed “American Ninja,” a 50-something year old Californian who was found in Chitral carrying a dagger, night vision goggles, and in desperate need of kidney dialysis. He claimed to be on a personal hunting trip for Osama. Since these events, the Army has been more on edge than usual and have issued new directives to the local police. For example they now require that all foreigners, not only those under house arrest, have armed police escorts at all times during their stay in the district.
For me, the innocent backpacker with unintentionally invalid documents, none of this makes any difference. I talked to Siraj three weeks prior but never mentioned my visa situation because honestly, I never thought it to be much of a problem. Therefore it seems I would have knowingly walked into my fate regardless of forgetting my phone or not having arranged a pick up. That realization was actually somewhat of a relief. I then decided to try and make the most out of my 24 hours in Chitral. After a brief tour around the Hotel, I suggested/insisted that my two police buddies join us on a two-hour ride up the Valley to visit the town of Garam Chashma and the hot springs its name connotes. Siraj gladly arranged the jeep and off we went.
Garam Chashma hot springs is actually a over sized concrete pool in the courtyard of a dilapidated hotel just off the main road. The pool, pictured below, is about 25% full of scolding hot sulfurous water trickling down from the hillside. This rectangular catchment mechanism set against the brown and yellow walls of the Valley made for a surreal and not altogether pleasant experience. My two guards along with the several of the hotel staff watched in bewildered amusement as if they’d never witnessed anyone actually bathing in it. I finally did manage to ease in, but could only tolerate the 115 degree heat for five minutes at a time. Thus an hour and half later we were done with the hot springs hotel, and once again bouncing down the dusty track toward Chitral and the Hindi Kush Heights Hotel.
We returned at 6Pm to find an additional four police along with the original duty officer eagerly awaiting my return. Immediately they demanded to escort me back to the PTDC hotel. I protested. My idea was to stay at the Hindu Kush Heights for dinner and drinks with Siraj and make the most out of a shitty situation. The PTDC hotel was smelly and devoid of guests. While certainly preferable to prison, I still wished to avoid it. Unfortunately, the police were not amenable. So I phoned the DPO myself to clarify my intentions, but his phone was powered off. Then, as a stall tactic, I asked to use the internet connection behind the concierge desk. This, I later learned, is the only working connection in town, so it was fortunate that I was able to send a few messages when I did.
Finally, after dinner at around 9PM, we got the DPO on his land line. He said that if it were up to him, he would gladly have me stay as long as I like at the Hind Kush Heights, but now he was taking orders from “the Major.” He was embarrassed to say that “the Major” (coded reference to Army intelligence branch ie ISI) was not happy with my little unplanned excursion and was demanding angrily that I return to the PTDC hotel and remain there until the flight tomorrow. Finally it all made sense, and here was a perfect example of the effective jurisdiction of the Pakistani Army. At any given moment, anywhere, and with total impunity, the Army can step in and exercise complete control over any and all components of local government and police.
I was deposited back in my stinky PTDC room at 10PM. I turned on the TV with three channels coming in, one happening to be Aljazeera. I watched two rounds of repeated headline stories. Then just before 11 came a heavy pound at the door. I got out of bed and put on a shirt quickly, sensing my guests were not the friendly variety. I opened the door and without so much as a glance in my direction, the Major and his two henchmen stroll in and begin scanning the room. They ask for all my electronics. Incredulously, “you forgot your phone?’” Brusquely, “Demonstrate for us the use of this so-called UV water sterilization device.” Accusingly, “Why are you carrying an ice ax, are you planning to climb high passes into Afghanistan?”
And on it went for an hour. As a parting note, he suggested that I count my blessings as well as my time in Pakistan, because if he so desired his colleagues would be waiting to pick me up at the airport in Islamabad. I thanked him for the advice and went to sleep. I woke up at 7am, glanced outside to clear blue skies and assembled my belongings for a 9:30 departure. Then at breakfast, the police informed me that the day’s flight had been canceled. I could not understand why (something about “the air”) and demanded to be taken to the airport. Before that could be done however, the hotel manager kindly suggested that we call his friend the air traffic controller who explained the problem was hawa not air. Wind! No more than 10 knots of it at the Valley floor, so I assumed it must be vicious on the ridge tops. Or alternatively, as Siraj, a former PIA pilot himself later explained, just a convenient excuse for lazy pilots who get paid regardless of whether they fly.
After breakfast, I tried unsuccessfully to initiate another escorted excursion. This time, my friendly guards stood their ground and explained the house arrest was for real. It turned out that after interrogating me, the Major had then proceeded to scold the police boys for allowing me to romp about as I pleased. Bhen chot this, bhen chot that, I could now remember hearing as I was falling asleep. I apologized to the guys and felt like a complete asshole for selfishly forcing them to disobey orders.
Then Saturday, as if I’d been holding my breath ever so slightly without realizing, I acquiesced completely, got out my book (The Death of Vishnu by Manil Suri) and proceeded to read the day away. When not reading, I stared up at the mountains. When not staring, I chatted about religion, politics, etc with my police buddies, Ali and Zia. When not chatting, I sat and sulked. When not sulking, I sat and sat. Then dinner time came, darkness, and sleep.
Next day, again, clear sunny skies. Calm wind in the Valley. We drove to the airport. I walked in with my bags. Many people standing in the departure hall looking confused. I asked about the flight status. ASF personnel informed me the flight had not yet departed Islamabad. It was on wind hold. Another 30 minutes of waiting. They announced all flights canceled. No surprise. Two choices again: take road transport to Peshawar or wait for tomorrow’s flight. For a moment, impulsion nearly got the best of me. F this, I started to say to myself, anything is better than another day sitting on my arse at the PTDC. But no, the voice of calm wins today, I say. Before remounting the Toyota, I called Siraj to inquire whether his two British guests would consider traveling by road in a private vehicle. He said of course not, but not to worry, stay another day, tomorrow’s pilot is not lazy and will surely fly through up to 30 knots headwind. Fine then. Back to the hotel. No need to acquiesce further, situation normal. Rock bottom.
I had a second book with me, one that I had resisted reading for three years. But with the prospect of another 24 hours of idleness, there was no choice but to delve in. Three Cups of Tea: the story of the persistent, lovable American and his quest to do one thing. Something for me to learn there? How did Greg do it? What was so special about his character that enabled infinite patience and energy to deal with the continuous barrage of hurdles and disappointments that is a foreigner’s palette in Pakistan? I finished the book (some skimming involved) but I didn’t figure it out. I did however enjoy it. The story is appealing, compelling, entertaining. Perhaps a bit of fiction is mixed in, some embellishment. Regardless of the truth behind Greg’s story, the process of reading (and relating) helped me surrender to mine.
To conclude what is now amounting to a very long winded conclusion, the flight did fly on Sunday. I landed in Rawalpindi and no men in black were waiting for me. It’s been five days now and still no encounters. I’m in strange limbo. My cards are on the table, facing up. I have an opportunity to take stock, and reassess, but why would I choose that process unless there was a future for me here? I realize I may well have run through my Pakistani nine lives already. I feel bad for doing that so quickly and selfishly. I have to acknowledge at some level that I have failed. Things that ought to be easy are not. The basics have fallen apart – namely the server and subsequently my main link to NRSP. I’m back to square one, except in one respect. There are now a few people here – actually quite a few – that anchor and encourage me to stay. They are amazing and brilliant people. I want to make them happy. I also want, need to be happy myself, stay, and stay with it. But one can only persist in the face of repeated frustration and perceived failure for so long, before one must retreat. The unanswered question then is, is this a moment of reckoning with an outcome, or just the final lesson in my Pakistan Personalized?
