tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11417974250032849802024-03-11T03:09:40.773+05:00Footloose'If you do not travel ... if you do not listen to the sounds of life, you start dying slowly.' [Pablo Neruda]Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-1046512977834609742017-04-22T19:08:00.001+05:002019-03-04T08:20:10.063+05:00Into the Deep Blue Sea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he excitement of diving into the sea was almost childlike, as I had waited for five anxious days undergoing academics and ‘confined water training’, a requirement of the world-renowned Professional Association of Dive Instructors (PADI).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instructors at Indus Scuba, the first Karachi-based licensee of PADI (and a licensee of National Association of Underwater Instructors, NAUI) had stringently grilled me with quizzes after I had gone through the ‘knowledge pack’ issued earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If truth be told, I had waited not just five days, but it had actually been over five decades that I had been swimming in the pools (and many years flying over the sea), waiting for a chance to ‘go down and deep’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I was going to dive with the Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, off tiny Churna Island, an hour’s boat ride from the waterfront at Manjar village located on the Hub River delta.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To get to Manjar village, or the more exotic sounding Sunehra Beach, which is about 40 km from Keamari Harbour, we had to wend our way through crazy traffic, with motorcyclists and vans vying for space with trucks, the latter having a complete hold over the roads. Wayside <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dhabas</i> offer tea and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">desi</i> food to weekend visitors like us, and to their regular clients, the truckers. As we proceeded further west, we had to endure a forlorn landscape blighted by litter, plastic bags and pye-dogs. The Karachi politicos and municipal staff never seemed to have paid attention to this sparsely populated area. Fisherfolk’s villages or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">goths</i>, interspersed all over the area, are bereft of any civic amenity whatsoever, as they have been for centuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tourism, as in the rest of the country, seems to be on permanent hold. It was a wonder that a serious recreational sport like scuba diving was still on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nearing Manjar village, we could see the mouth of Hub River forming a well-sheltered cove, which has a small fish harbour with scores of boats anchored on the coast. Absent from view were the bare necessities or infrastructure expected at even the smallest of ports. Hub Power Station is just 3-km away, across Hub River, which marks the boundary between Sindh and Baluchistan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was particularly intrigued by the fish harbour, as history books mention a small thriving port by the name of Kharak Bandar, ‘at the confluence of Hub River and the Arabian Sea’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silting of this harbour led the Hindu merchants to abandon the locality, and resettle in Kolachi-jo-goth in 1729. A small fishing village with a few potable watering holes, Kolachi grew into the maritime trade megapolis of today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When we arrived at the Sunehra Beach, a couple of modest resorts came into view, along with some private boats and water scooters parked ashore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merry-makers started to throng the place in sizeable numbers in no time. Our group of divers also arrived in small batches, and soon after, we started to load one of the hired boats with diving gear. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The divers broke up in groups and boarded two more boats whose noisy motors puttered into action, and we were on our way to Churna Island. The sea was somewhat choppy, as the diving season, which lasts from September to March in the north Arabian Sea, was coming to an end. Mustafa Hassan, a highly rated Master Scuba Dive Instructor with over 1,000 dives to his credit, was in charge of the day’s outing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The svelte Nameera Ahmed, a film-maker and freelance Dive Master with an experience of about 100 dives, was also at hand to train a group of intrepid girls who had taken on the scuba challenge. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[Map courtesy <a href="http://nameeraa.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Nameera Ahmed</span></a>]</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Arriving at Churna Island an hour later, the boats were anchored, and the waters tested. On getting an all clear from Mustafa, everyone donned the scuba kits, with dive buddies checking each other’s equipment for any faults. Diving is always done in pairs to make sure help is available in case of equipment malfunction, or some troublesome medical condition cropping up. Scuba diving is strictly for the medically fit people, especially on the cardio-vascular side. This aspect cannot be taken lightly because when you are deep down, you are under extreme physical pressure, causing nitrogen in the body to force its way into unwanted cavities and tissues.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As we readied ourselves to take the plunge, I imagined myself exuding the mystique of the speargun-wielding James Bond in Thunderball, a thrilling scuba flick that I had watched as a teenager. One by one, our diving pairs did the ‘roll backs’ from the sides of the boats, checked their breathing systems, and vanished with nothing but a trail of short-lived bubbles. The visibility was not too good because of sediments kicked up by freak winds and currents over the past two days. Nonetheless, my instructor and dive buddy Mustafa and I, were able to exchange hand signals with ease. I did the mandatory ‘nose pinch and blow’, for equalisation of pressure in the middle ear, without which a descent can get very painful. I was quite comfortable while going down, and was also spared the claustrophobia and disorientation that sometimes afflicts first-timers. My only concern was the stinging jellyfish, as my ‘shorty’ wetsuit left the arms and legs bare. Luckily, it was off-season for these critters, though they are known to invade warm tropical seas in astronomical numbers at odd times, as they did last December.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Arabian Sea is a haven for several species of whales including the baleen and toothed types. These are harmless, as long as one isn’t whacked by their gargantuan fins, that is! Closer on the continental shelf are found smaller marine animals like turtles, dolphins, porpoises and dugongs. The north Arabian Sea is rich in corals and kelp seaweeds that provide breeding and nursery habitats for Crustaceans like crabs, shrimps and lobsters. The environs of Churna Island are a well-known habitat of these clawed and spiky creatures, as well as many varieties of edible fish. Night dives, part of the advanced diving course, are usually rounded off with seafood barbecue on Sunehra Beach, I was told.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Surfacing after the dive, we found that many divers had drifted off because of fast currents. Getting them aboard took quite a while. Many snorkelers could be seen swimming around the island. A boatload of scuba divers went past, and we were dismayed to learn that it was one of more than a dozen unlicensed start-up dive centres that are in operation in Karachi. For safety reasons, there is an urgent need of a proper regulatory and licensing body in Pakistan. For the time being, the only two PADI licensees are Indus Scuba, and Scuba Adventures. PADI is the world’s largest scuba diving outfit, having certified over 25 million divers since its inception in 1966. There are over 6,200 PADI-licensed dive centres and resorts the world over. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During my training, I learnt that there was a lot of stress on marine conservation and protection of underwater environments. “Do not touch anything, but photograph everything,” are said to be the watchwords for scuba divers. Unfortunately, protection of underwater environments south of Karachi is terribly lacking. Industrial waste is discharged into the sea without treatment, and except for a couple of multi-national industries, no one seems to care. As a consequence, marine life has been badly hit. The harbour area is a huge toxic dump site for merchant ships, so much so that the water has turned into a horrid sludge, unfit for dipping even an ankle. It is a wonder that industrial divers work in the harbour under such conditions. So far, the area around Churna Island has remained pristine for scuba diving. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“How much does it cost to qualify as a basic open water diver?” The roundabout answer is that it costs a lot, but still much less in Pakistan than anywhere else in the world. The cost goes up if one plans to buy his/her own equipment. For reasons of hygiene and personal fit, a wetsuit, fins and mask are recommended for purchase, while the rest of the items like the buoyancy jacket, cylinder, regulators, dive computer, etc, are best hired from the dive centre. Once certified, one tends to log more dives for higher qualifications, so the expenditure keeps on spiralling. There are, however, cheaper options of doing a short introductory course with hired equipment, for no other reason than to experience the ‘fourth dimension’, a truly majestic world of exotic flora and fauna that can never be experienced on land.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During the diving sessions, I came across gadget geeks who had fancy equipment including underwater cameras, torches, compasses, computers, and large knives wrapped on their legs for easy reach, though mercifully, no shark encounters have ever been reported in our seas! Unable to resist the call of the gizmo geek in me, I have already started a collection of diver’s equipment and tools, that promise to see me through the advanced course, which comes next season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the long term,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>marine archaeology might be an interesting speciality to take up, as Mustafa and I have shared some thoughts about exploring the waterfronts of some ancient coastal sites on the Makran Coast. Who knows with our scuba skills, we might discover some long lost Harappan vessel that ran aground while hauling goods to Mesopotamia!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International </strong></em>on <em>23 April 2017.</em></span></span></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-53852625901584992012017-04-03T10:03:00.002+05:002017-04-04T17:25:36.090+05:00Hidden Jewels of Lahore - III<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><br />Having seen one tomb too many during our recent cycling
trips, we thought a visit to Chauburji would give us a break from the ghosts
and ghouls of the Mughal nobility. Pedalling on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Jail Road</st1:address></st1:street> till Qartaba Chowk, we turned
left on to <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Bahawalpur Road</st1:address></st1:street>,
which runs athwart the huge Miani Sahib Graveyard in Mozang. A few minutes
later, the four turrets or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">burjis </i>of
the famous gateway appeared through a mishmash of ugly billboards, and equally
unsightly wires and cables that cluttered the skyline. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mian Bai must surely be turning in her grave,
we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Several monuments of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>
– as in the rest of the country – have a controversy about the occupant of a
tomb, or the builder of a mosque or gateway. Chauburji is no exception, and the
inscription above the arch is of little help. “.... Bestowed on Mian Bai by the
pleasure of Sahib-e-Zebinda, Begum-e-Dauran”, left me perplexed, though mention
of the year of completion ie, 1056 Hijri (1646 AD) turned out to be a good clue
for some sleuthing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Zebinda has been thoughtlessly assumed to be another name
of Zebunnisa, the daughter of Emperor Aurangzeb, without paying heed to the
fact that she was only eight years old in 1646. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was an accomplished poetess in her own
right, but that is about all she is renowned for. A more likely candidate is
her aunt, the suave Jahan Ara Begum, Emperor Shah Jahan’s eldest daughter, who
had a much wider canvas of activities that included poetry, writing, fashion
designing, building of Agra’s famous mosque, and several landscaping projects
at Shahjahanabad, her father’s new capital north of Delhi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With such accomplishments under her belt, she
quite fits the titles: ‘One Endowed with Elegance <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(zebinda)’</i> and ‘Lady of the Age <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(dauran)</i>’,
the latter having been especially bestowed by her father after the death of
Mumtaz Mahal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Mian Bai Fakhrunnisa, perhaps a lady-in-waiting and confidante
of Jahan Ara, is said to have supervised the laying of a garden in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>, of which Chauburji
was the entrance gateway. She must have earned the pleasure of her mistress, who
bequeathed it for the services rendered. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may speculate, though, that Mian Bai could
well have been rewarded for nursing the princess back to health, after serious
burn injuries suffered in an oil lamp accident in the palace in 1644. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh411HJ-bZDwQD4FK6y5upcH4P8hjatXh1VDjoHhpQEGTsAXz0BtoNQ38LPzwxdYPp3TdkGmiemiKzkfWPcVCV3duCrdiIpqCsF1ZHj3UQPvKZRoDXOUOPHfspOf9dc6ydOujvZY5n4N5FG/s1600/Kashi-kari+mosaic+panels+on+one+of+the+burjis+of+Chauburj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh411HJ-bZDwQD4FK6y5upcH4P8hjatXh1VDjoHhpQEGTsAXz0BtoNQ38LPzwxdYPp3TdkGmiemiKzkfWPcVCV3duCrdiIpqCsF1ZHj3UQPvKZRoDXOUOPHfspOf9dc6ydOujvZY5n4N5FG/s200/Kashi-kari+mosaic+panels+on+one+of+the+burjis+of+Chauburj.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">As at most historic sites in Pakistan, we were dismayed to
see scruffy vagabonds sprawling on the Chauburji premises, posters pasted on
its walls, and litter everywhere around. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The remnants of brilliant floral-themed
Kashi-kari panels on portions of Chauburji could do little to alleviate the
mess. Nobody seemed to be in charge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The Chauburji Gateway is quite similar to the Gulabi Bagh
Gateway in Begumpura, except for the absence of turrets in the latter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chauburji’s east-facing main entrance arch (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peshtaaq</i>) is flanked by four smaller
arches; of the latter, the two on the ground level are simply deep-set alcoves,
while those on the upper storey are openings of balconies set with stone-carved
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jaali</i> guardrails. The turrets are of octagonal
shape and these flare upwards, possibly having been surmounted by Rajasthani <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chhatris, </i>since lost. In fact, the
north-western turret fell off during the earthquake of 1843 and was replaced in
the 1960s, the gateway having seen life as a ‘Sehburji’ for nearly 120 years. Today,
there is no trace of the garden that the Chauburji once opened into.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 13pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another Mystery Tomb<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28wg8Q6KRd0v3Hi_6zyQR9YNQu4Aq4Mhe3tidWiJy0gnNoTUlM34QLSjTYi-52cL3-0AvA8XcwKWWjlJnweG1TAPpkL_tBrQYebAio3cLzF6aNm3SbJUUp4PL8WITYHkbYOJkbYHJrkcW/s1600/Mian+Bai%2527s+Tomb6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28wg8Q6KRd0v3Hi_6zyQR9YNQu4Aq4Mhe3tidWiJy0gnNoTUlM34QLSjTYi-52cL3-0AvA8XcwKWWjlJnweG1TAPpkL_tBrQYebAio3cLzF6aNm3SbJUUp4PL8WITYHkbYOJkbYHJrkcW/s200/Mian+Bai%2527s+Tomb6.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">From Chauburji, we set off south on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Multan Road</st1:address></st1:street> to look for a mystery tomb,
again rashly attributed to Zebunnisa. After covering 1.7-km, (about 200 metres
past the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Samanabad Main Road</st1:address></st1:street>
and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Multan Road</st1:address></st1:street>
intersection), we came across a fenced enclosure on the left, amidst a row of
wall-to-wall shops; it had a steel-grill gate locked by a loose chain. With no
one to guide us in, we helped ourselves through the narrow gap in the gate,
only to be surprised by two families who seemed to own the premises. A small hand-painted
board claims the tomb to be of Zebunissa, with another one sardonically notifying
the public of its ‘protected’ status under the law!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">It is well documented that Zebunnisa was confined in
Salimgarh Fort on charges of colluding with her brother Akbar II, against their
father Emperor Aurangzeb. She spent her last 21 years in confinement, and on
her death in 1702, was buried in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">garden</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">Thirty</st1:placename></st1:place> Thousand Trees
outside Kabuli Gate in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her remains were re-interred in the tomb
of Emperor Akbar in Sikandara, when a railway track was laid across her
previous resting place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">With Jahan Ara also buried in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city> (Nizam-ud-din Auliya Graveyard), the
only remaining subject known to be associated with Chauburji is Mian Bai, which
makes her a credible candidate as the tomb’s occupant. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The tomb was central to a funerary garden in the Nawankot
locale. Only the gateway and two corner kiosks of a wall that enclosed the
garden are extant, while the garden has been completely subsumed by the
concrete jungle all around.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq96jxRj3zrYFS_Qh9Fax_0DD5nMdze3BE0haTbQPuI0nY82qU8YI0SP7yM6mt3tmSB46ooYu7nsLVaPSlsAoZ3KOi1xoGQ-ZQZ2pv8TESbWl1Alfmyc9RtDqeaF92-6htm5IXWh3dm3h/s1600/Marble+floor+of+Mian+Bai%2527s+tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq96jxRj3zrYFS_Qh9Fax_0DD5nMdze3BE0haTbQPuI0nY82qU8YI0SP7yM6mt3tmSB46ooYu7nsLVaPSlsAoZ3KOi1xoGQ-ZQZ2pv8TESbWl1Alfmyc9RtDqeaF92-6htm5IXWh3dm3h/s200/Marble+floor+of+Mian+Bai%2527s+tomb.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The thick-walled tomb is a small square structure built on
a brick platform. It has three arches on each side, with the central main arch
flanked by two recessed ones having small oblong openings. A cenotaph lies on a
partially broken marble floor that still displays a beautiful pattern of eight-pointed
interlocking stars, and each star set with an eight-petaled daisy. The roof of
the tomb is of an unusual pyramidical shape on the outside, but is
hemispherical on the inside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The immediate threat to the tomb is by encroaching
residents as well as some shops of timber cutters, which lie within the
premises of the supposedly protected building. Additionally, a huge pipal tree
grows a few feet away from the tomb, and its sub-terranean roots are likely to
damage the very foundations of the tomb. The beautiful marble floor has already
been uplifted in several places. Something will have to be done urgently about
these issues if the tomb is to be preserved. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">About 95 metres east of the tomb is the gateway to the erstwhile
garden. We had to approach it through a narrow street behind the tomb, with the
neighbourhood watching us with some amusement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The design of the gateway is very similar to
that of Chauburji, except for four squat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chhatris</i>
that embellish the corners of the roof. We were extremely dismayed to see the
gateway used as a garbage dump by a nearby marriage hall, what with cats and
dogs prowling around. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chowkidar</i>,
along with a few shady characters emerged from the upper storey, which got us
wondering if that part of the gateway was being used as living quarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The two remaining corner kiosks of the garden wall were in
no better shape than the gateway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
kiosks are 100 metres away from the gateway, in a northerly and southerly
direction, each being located in an empty plot surrounded by houses. People in
the neighbourhood seemed surprised at our interest in what they thought were
useless relics in their midst.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">I thought the final resting place of Chauburji’s
construction supervisor, the good old Mian Bai Fakhrunnisa, needs to be
well-looked after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A similar good turn
is also in order for Dai Anga, who gave the Lahorites a beautiful mosque … if
we care, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International </strong></em>on <em>8 Feb, 2015.</em></span></span></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-283833531708515972017-04-03T09:57:00.001+05:002019-11-30T10:31:29.013+05:00Hidden Jewels of Lahore - II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;"><strong>S</strong></span>unday being a regular ‘working’ day for our cycling group
of young professionals – with this able old hand alongside – we proceeded on
our second tour to discover some lesser known monuments of the Mughal era. This
time the destination was Mughalpura, a locale that carries its name after the
Mughal nobility and aristocracy of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>
which had set up an exclusive residential estate, replete with gardens, mosques
and tombs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We shall use the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">GT Road</st1:address></st1:street> as a loose
dividing line between Begumpura in the north, and Mughalpura to the south, to
differentiate between the two locales.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">Enigma of a Strange Tomb<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Starting from the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Shalimar
Link Road</st1:address></st1:street> intersection with the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">GT Road</st1:address></st1:street>, and heading west, we stopped
after exactly 2.6-km and easily spotted a domed tomb just south of the road,
inside a fenced enclosure. The dilapidated state of the tomb was deplorable,
though the fascinating architectural elements of what remained were worth a
brief scrutiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But first, we had to
settle who is the actual occupant of the tomb.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzNCvvEq-thsdmqAZ2EsEIHViC9QPlbTewbQd-0FUX-o7hVJwYgWun904bNUFvOhtAXiJwxUUi1YHrRGUTjPlfwsA0a50d7lcY9L11kjO6emUX_dcIkVSCw-3Wfsqp3JrrYXZv2WbBOjn/s1600/Khan-i-Dauran3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQzNCvvEq-thsdmqAZ2EsEIHViC9QPlbTewbQd-0FUX-o7hVJwYgWun904bNUFvOhtAXiJwxUUi1YHrRGUTjPlfwsA0a50d7lcY9L11kjO6emUX_dcIkVSCw-3Wfsqp3JrrYXZv2WbBOjn/s200/Khan-i-Dauran3.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That the mandarins at the Department of Archaeology are
clueless, can be confirmed by the display of two conflicting information boards
at the entrance. One of them claims it to be the tomb of Buddhu, a brick-maker
who lived in the mid-seventeenth century; the other board says that it is the
resting place of the wife of </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="OLE_LINK1"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Khan-e-Dauran Bahadur Nusrat
Jang</span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">, a favoured noble of Emperor Shah Jahan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For want of her maiden name, we shall call the
lady Nusrat Begum for this discourse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">While Buddhu’s influence to be able to muster a plot of
land amidst the prized estates of the Mughal nobility must seem outlandish, his
having left a fortune for the construction of a grandiose tomb is equally incredible.
His nearby brick kiln (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buddhu ka ava</i>),
whose remains can still be seen, could have led to the erroneous association
with ‘Buddhu’s tomb’.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Khan-e-Dauran Bahadur Nusrat Jang was a favourite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amir </i>in Shah Jahan’s court, having
gained the goodwill of the emperor for suppressing a rebellion in <st1:place w:st="on">Deccan</st1:place>. He died in 1659 and was buried in a tomb which
lies 1.5-km to the south-east of his wife’s tomb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since his own tomb lies squarely in Pakistan
Railways lands and is not accessible to the public, some people have further added
to the mystery by assuming Nusrat Begum’s tomb to be that of her husband’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Intriguingly, a second grave in the begum’s
tomb brings this riddle to a head. Not yet done, the enigma gets really knotty
when we learn that Khan-e-Dauran’s own tomb has been re-purposed as a mosque
and a shrine by employees of the Railways under the name of Khawaja Hasan’s,
though the Khan’s real name was Khawaja Sabir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One wouldn’t be surprised if the Railways employees yet again re-purpose
the tomb-shrine in the name of one more Khawaja!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1e9QTU2ZtP38nwSR0GnCakJL8gSzsFSyo0Z-MIR7Xup4WYqH8jqjGqUFi9LbMFNcWptyoCER3NtzwYu8-bSItgoryvgKaHvZ98lmskNfsxdiGqrFMm3p-jyIo4eM6QgY6gyMt7vVj0i2/s1600/Remnants+of+tilework+on+the+dome+of+Khan-e-Dauran%2527s+wife%2527s+tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1e9QTU2ZtP38nwSR0GnCakJL8gSzsFSyo0Z-MIR7Xup4WYqH8jqjGqUFi9LbMFNcWptyoCER3NtzwYu8-bSItgoryvgKaHvZ98lmskNfsxdiGqrFMm3p-jyIo4eM6QgY6gyMt7vVj0i2/s200/Remnants+of+tilework+on+the+dome+of+Khan-e-Dauran%2527s+wife%2527s+tomb.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The much ado about Nusrat Begum’s tomb occupancy is less
significant, I thought, than its architectural composition which needs attention.
Square in shape, the main chamber is constructed
in massive brick masonry, with an arched opening flanked by two recessed arched
panels on all four sides, creating a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">baradari</i>
effect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The low dome rests on a high
circular drum, which in turn rests on a short octagonal base, resulting in a
gradual ‘smoothening over’ from the main square structure upwards. On the whole,
the tomb has an overbearing appearance, which must have been softened somewhat by
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kashi-kari</i> mosaic tiles, remnants of
which are visible in some portions of the dome. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="font-size: 13pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>Ali Mardan Khan’s Tomb<o:p></o:p></strong></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Backtracking about one kilometre from Nusrat Begum’s tomb,
we turned right, heading south on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Wheatman
Road</st1:address></st1:street> (corrupted to ‘Wehtmun’ by the Punjabis). After
about half a kilometre, we came across two boards alongside a wall, indicating
Ali Mardan Khan’s tomb and the nearby Hamid Shah Qari’s shrine. A steel gate
opened into a strange narrow vestibule with an iron lattice for a roof, all 400
metres of the way. A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chowkidar, </i>who
had done us a special favour to let us in on a Sunday (closed to public),
welcomed us heartily, for we had coordinated earlier and had promised to be
good to him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Ali Mardan Khan was a Persian Governor of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kandahar</st1:place></st1:city> who became a turncoat to his master,
Shah Safi I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Persia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, after
having been bribed handsomely by Emperor Shah Jahan in 1638.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ali Mardan quickly found favour in the new
court as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amir-al-Umara</i>, and was
granted governorship of <st1:place w:st="on">Kashmir</st1:place> and <st1:place w:st="on">Punjab</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is best
known for his engineering skills in various public works, including a canal
running from River Ravi to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Shalimar</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and a similar
canal in Shahjahanabad, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>.
He died in 1657 and was buried in the tomb that he had built for his mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKlzTLyPgT7427NIjk03F4FCb29kSRAXeB_srkJNu31HncFRNukzW2S1eWopI3K-XED6F2z_x2uUHZDbsFylMxTkJr0zyl6aNRM97Rs1OJUijWaEFwj_p4InPkZFTPWGMShANt85jorYG/s1600/Ali+Mardan%2527s+Tomb_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKlzTLyPgT7427NIjk03F4FCb29kSRAXeB_srkJNu31HncFRNukzW2S1eWopI3K-XED6F2z_x2uUHZDbsFylMxTkJr0zyl6aNRM97Rs1OJUijWaEFwj_p4InPkZFTPWGMShANt85jorYG/s200/Ali+Mardan%2527s+Tomb_2.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The tomb is an imposing structure, with an octagonal main
chamber, with eight arched, deep-set alcoves, all opening to the interior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Atop the corners of the octagon once stood
Rajasthani <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chhatris, </i>of which only
two survive. The dome stands on a high drum in Timurid style. We discovered a
remarkable double-shelled feature of the dome when one of the youngsters called
us from somewhere above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We followed his
calls, climbing up a special stairway, which took us to the top of the inner
dome. There we stood in the dark and dingy gap between the two domes, much like
school children who had discovered a secret passage to a treasure trove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were surprised to see candles, a prayer
mat, and knotted ribbons on a streamer, and wondered if these were signs of transition
to a shrine. Indeed, the subterranean chamber of the tomb which houses the
grave, had been treated as a shrine – as well as a pot-smoking den – by
unscrupulous characters, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chowkidar</i>
revealed, which is why entry to the public has been restricted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Keen to know more about double-shelled domes, I later
learnt that these were a construction compulsion for large domes, in which the
inner dome was constructed first, allowing the supporting framework and trusses
to be placed on top of it. Thus supported, the bigger outer dome could be built
with ease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better acoustics (for mosques
and cathedrals) was an added bonus. The smaller and relatively flatter inner
dome also simplified ceiling artwork.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyFqiS9X7YVeqF2V5Rgxi-3sVG0OEGaUQtefRwtXzMvvh8ZqJSQ_XtiejiFXPh1TQWgYRS-HoR432DteZML1UcHdoqTernvXsXk_0B-85IQekuS0w547lEtiNSjW5Ru8HptnFf5-maQCr/s1600/Ali+Mardan%2527s+Tomb9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyFqiS9X7YVeqF2V5Rgxi-3sVG0OEGaUQtefRwtXzMvvh8ZqJSQ_XtiejiFXPh1TQWgYRS-HoR432DteZML1UcHdoqTernvXsXk_0B-85IQekuS0w547lEtiNSjW5Ru8HptnFf5-maQCr/s200/Ali+Mardan%2527s+Tomb9.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">About a hundred metres north of the tomb is an utterly
dilapidated gateway to the funerary garden, that once existed. It has remnants
of Kashi-kari mosaic work, and is quite similar to the one at the Gulabi Bagh
Gateway in Begumpura. The designer of the ‘Versailles of Punjab’ as <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Shalimar</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place> have been called, deserved a
better-kept tomb complex, we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>Nawab Bahadur Khan Kokaltash's Tomb</strong></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Going along the <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Canal
Bank Road</st1:address></st1:street>, past <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Zaman</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and Royal Palm Golf Course, when a road from Garhi Shahu (left side) is
intercepted, a large domed structure can be picked up over the left shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A simpler map location would place it just
outside the Railways Carriage Factory, at the southern limit of Mughalpura. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0KS_nBAsaHfQ13R_BsfPt8to1BxzxKw60EavTeJLDs71Rt2des5rrFBTkwtJUIX4_M4qzCPEW598E_RglAmsT1911sd3BWXPFXaGFs3OZQp6i4oQUPwEzAyJD_9QfO9z0Ioc8IPTH6zf/s1600/Bahadur+Khan%2527s+Tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip0KS_nBAsaHfQ13R_BsfPt8to1BxzxKw60EavTeJLDs71Rt2des5rrFBTkwtJUIX4_M4qzCPEW598E_RglAmsT1911sd3BWXPFXaGFs3OZQp6i4oQUPwEzAyJD_9QfO9z0Ioc8IPTH6zf/s200/Bahadur+Khan%2527s+Tomb.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Arriving at our destination in a swarm of over a score
cyclists, and with the neighbourhood in complete awe, we went through our usual
motions of photography and a bit of adventure. Some clambered up secret
staircases and discovered another double-shelled dome, while others explored
the upper floor galleries full of graffiti that Pakistanis must always bless their
imaginary beloveds with.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The occupant of the tomb carries a long-winded title viz,
Khan-e-Jahan Nawab Bahadur Zafar Jang Kokaltash. He found favour with Emperor
Aurangzeb for capturing his recalcitrant brother Prince Dara Shikoh, who was promptly
executed for heresy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bahadur Khan was then
put in charge of <st1:place w:st="on">Deccan</st1:place> to bring matters under
control there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also served as
Governor of Punjab. He died in 1697. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
is often confused with another Khan-e-Jahan, a nobleman in Emperor Akbar’s
court.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubkPp6j7OlTTmdTG2T5P6Kb7kqDYqJ05-1NErdZOCMT3lihumQAx3XLWOMBJqasNYX1lAoTrmZdxovuw7syOtKWGzug4iaunkmOBfpPC9uDaMf0X1ar8sUdOj4Z-DfgeNAsEN-EmWFb8U/s1600/An+array+of+decorative+recessed+geometrical+shapes+flanl+one+of+the+scalloped+arches+of+Bahadur+Khan%2527s+tomb..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhubkPp6j7OlTTmdTG2T5P6Kb7kqDYqJ05-1NErdZOCMT3lihumQAx3XLWOMBJqasNYX1lAoTrmZdxovuw7syOtKWGzug4iaunkmOBfpPC9uDaMf0X1ar8sUdOj4Z-DfgeNAsEN-EmWFb8U/s200/An+array+of+decorative+recessed+geometrical+shapes+flanl+one+of+the+scalloped+arches+of+Bahadur+Khan%2527s+tomb..jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The tomb is octagonal in shape, with eight deep-set alcoves,
each having an entrance arch at the ground level, and another arched opening at
the upper level. The brick tomb is bereft of any outward embellishment, though
pigeon holes all over the building suggest a marble facing, since removed by, who
else but, the Sikhs! The dome is slightly higher pitched, with an inverted
lotus finial on top, giving it a more sinuous appearance than the classic
Timurid ones that we had seen earlier. The historian S M Latif wrote in 1892, that
the tomb was “surmounted by turrets with cupolas”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>none of which exist today. He also mentions that the tomb was
used as a theatre for the British military officers, when the adjacent Mian Mir
locale was established as a cantonment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We noted that the two noblemen Khan-e-Dauran and
Khan-e-Jahan were essentially loyalists to their emperors, while Ali Mardan
Khan did great public service to the Lahorites. In a fund-constrained regime,
it is the latter whose tomb deserves major renovation, while the other two
tombs could do with simple preservation, for the time being.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International </strong></em>on 1 Feb, 2015</span></span></span></div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-68405877376845789662017-04-02T10:14:00.003+05:002023-01-14T11:14:40.221+05:00Hidden Jewels of Lahore - I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">F</span>or those intent on exploring the cultural heritage of Lahore, there are the well-known sites like Lahore Fort, Badshahi Mosque, and the Shahdara Tombs, all easily accessible by a vehicle. However, I, along with a group of young cyclists, have been pedalling about for the past few months, and have unravelled some curious monuments that are, regrettably, not the usual ‘must see’ items in travel guide books. While their location in narrow alleys and congested bazaars may be a reason for their inaccessibility, their dilapidated state may be a better explanation of why few are interested in sparing time to get there. Sunday being a regular ‘working’ day for our cycling group of young professionals – with this able old hand alongside – we started with Begumpura area. The locale carries its name after Begum Jan, the mother of Nawab Zakariya Khan, a Governor of Punjab during the reign of the lesser Mughal Emperor Muhammad Shah.<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>Gateway to a Pleasant Garden</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0VyZW7BBgrIJDxS65lkqp7vbKT6w78y7S-7jwLI6VfQVQroGrbHOGGmtRf_7sxJ9dB2dROmd8PQgGCL4Phl4tJabEN26yec9vAH-_5Rw-Hv2QHunIr6oYhqrv2dXlCaiTaiwdUBAtX_h/s1600/Gulabi-Bagh-Gateway_resize.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir0VyZW7BBgrIJDxS65lkqp7vbKT6w78y7S-7jwLI6VfQVQroGrbHOGGmtRf_7sxJ9dB2dROmd8PQgGCL4Phl4tJabEN26yec9vAH-_5Rw-Hv2QHunIr6oYhqrv2dXlCaiTaiwdUBAtX_h/s200/Gulabi-Bagh-Gateway_resize.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">Heading west on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">GT
Road</st1:address></st1:street>, I watched the distance on the bike GPS
computer roll up to 1.8-km from the preceding <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Shalimar Link Road</st1:address></st1:street> intersection. As
expected, this is where the striking two-storeyed Gulabi Bagh Gateway,
profusely decorated with brilliant, floral-themed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kashi-kari</i> mosaic tiles, came into view on the right side. The
gateway appears reasonably well-preserved, compared to many other monuments of
that era. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Gulabi Bagh was laid out in 1655 as a pleasure garden by
Mirza Sultan Beg, a cousin of Emperor Shah Jahan’s Persian son-in-law, Mirza
Ghiyas-ud-din Beg; the latter helped Sultan Beg climb up the nobility ladder, to
the rank of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mir-ul-Bahar</i> in the puny
Mughal Navy. Fascinatingly, the words ‘Gulabi Bagh’ are said to be a chronogram
whose hidden numerical value stands as 1066 (Hijri) – or 1655 AD!</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Besides the main entrance arch (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peshtaaq</i>), the façade has four smaller arches; of the latter, the
two on the ground level are simply deep-set alcoves, while those on the upper
storey are openings of balconies set with stone-carved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jaali</i> guardrails. This Timurid ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aiwan</i>’
design of the gateway is common to many pleasure and funerary gardens of the
Mughal era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roof of the structure
is, however, not topped with any minarets, kiosks or turrets, as is the case
with most other Mughal garden gateways. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As we passed through the entrance arch, the
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chowkidar’s</i> unkempt bedding and
slippers, scattered shabbily in one of the two open side chambers, seemed to mock
appallingly at the lyrical Persian stanza inscribed on the entrance:</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> In a garden so pleasing, the poppy sullied itself
with a stain of envy,</i></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Thence appeared the flowers of Sun and Moon as lamps for adornment.</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8wHZryp5UpsKPHvPDB_hWyuiNkzdzzjr-pu8gh3xAlzIgHEpis1afqVVK7CvVCDFOmyw5R1qNdKIzCPAK0vKyzr4zE6R3GphbEE42NjN6W_ClmZKawCNvSOjKlIKzRTzmwv8ECcWhLl2/s1600/15683507140_0eba708451_b.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ8wHZryp5UpsKPHvPDB_hWyuiNkzdzzjr-pu8gh3xAlzIgHEpis1afqVVK7CvVCDFOmyw5R1qNdKIzCPAK0vKyzr4zE6R3GphbEE42NjN6W_ClmZKawCNvSOjKlIKzRTzmwv8ECcWhLl2/s200/15683507140_0eba708451_b.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Gulabi Bagh is no more extant in its
original size and splendour. The present-day gardeners have, however, made a modest
attempt at creating a garden with clipped hedging plants arranged in geometric
patterns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With unsightly residential
buildings encroaching on three sides, what is left of the garden is actually a
narrow stretch leading up to the tomb of Dai Anga, about 100 metres ahead. If
the tomb was constructed in the centre of a square garden, as was usual, the
area of the original Gulabi Bagh works out to be about ten acres.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>A Tomb Amidst the Garden </strong></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">Walking up to the squat tomb of Dai Anga,
we first went around it to check the commotion. To our surprise, children who
were playing cricket just behind the tomb scurried away, and some women hastily
shuffled indoors, adjusting their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dopattas</i>
in the presence of strangers who, they thought, were trespassers on their
property! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When Emperor Shah
Jahan’s wet nurse, Dai<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Anga, died in
1671, she was entombed in Gulabi Bagh. Mirza Sultan Beg, whose pleasure garden
was appropriated for funerary purposes, was most likely her son-in-law, for a
second grave of a certain Sultan Begum lies adjacent to Dai Anga’s. This grave
is wrongly attributed by some to Shah Jahan’s daughter, for he had none by that
name. Mirza Sultan Beg, had not lived long to enjoy his garden, nor was he
interred in it, when he died in 1657 in a firearm explosion during a hunting
excursion at Hiran Minar, near Sheikhupura.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EcoZosKNNpCgZnU9CI0LmYX7HpMSVxhdyT_RYDqNU6GeXzZjX5pmCMWk2SpWzn0BIX2Mv9IbVxHXNlbNimhVvYe1Y0gfANPPNmpPwLyMQCBsNYQG-UoYnddvQ7SbokGhlLBWpbaoxTOx/s1600/Shorn+of+Kashi-kari+tilework%252C+Dai+Anga%2527s+Tomb+presents+a+picture+of+neglect_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2EcoZosKNNpCgZnU9CI0LmYX7HpMSVxhdyT_RYDqNU6GeXzZjX5pmCMWk2SpWzn0BIX2Mv9IbVxHXNlbNimhVvYe1Y0gfANPPNmpPwLyMQCBsNYQG-UoYnddvQ7SbokGhlLBWpbaoxTOx/s200/Shorn+of+Kashi-kari+tilework%252C+Dai+Anga%2527s+Tomb+presents+a+picture+of+neglect_.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When viewed from
afar, something appears odd about the tomb; it does not take long for a keen
observer to note that the corner kiosks (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chhatris</i>)
atop the roof are over-sized. Or perhaps, the Timurid low dome on a high drum,
the Rajasthani <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chhatris</i>, and the
Persian cusped arches, are fusion of one style too many for subtlety. The walls
of the tomb, now shorn of ‘richly decorated enamelled pottery’ (which the
historian S M Latif noted in 1892) give a rather bland appearance. Remnants of
a chevron patterned mosaic on the dome are visible; arabesque and floral-themed
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kashi-kari</i> mosaic tiles can also be
seen to run along the top of the tomb. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJoh9PyDYBDyZEZo2D5jiOgcbakj9yQ7j8zdBXqtjJuvWxk_Co6HCbJuWvhvjO7Xo4CeSOnrCgoUAQ4ZVGELc1qdgRO2KP1FdFvqAikf42fNU2fwSJKMBF4J_PQaFqRdM5VVWdcqY_mS3/s1600/Main+chamber+of+Dai+Anga%2527s+Tomb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMJoh9PyDYBDyZEZo2D5jiOgcbakj9yQ7j8zdBXqtjJuvWxk_Co6HCbJuWvhvjO7Xo4CeSOnrCgoUAQ4ZVGELc1qdgRO2KP1FdFvqAikf42fNU2fwSJKMBF4J_PQaFqRdM5VVWdcqY_mS3/s200/Main+chamber+of+Dai+Anga%2527s+Tomb.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Entering the main
chamber of the tomb, we were careful not to step on the low brick cenotaphs,
which had been put up after the original marble ones were removed, purportedly
by Sikh vandals. The actual graves are in an underground chamber, now sealed
and inaccessible. The upper walls of main chamber are richly embellished with
Quranic calligraphy, while the inside of the dome depicts an apt celestial
theme. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main chamber is surrounded by
eight interconnected smaller ones, based on a floor plan known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hasht-Bihisht</i> or Eight Paradises. How
convenient, I thought, to have such a walk-in convenience for the Hereafter! </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Suckling the infant
Khurram (future Shah Jahan) certainly boosted Dai Anga’s family fortunes, for
her husband Murad Khan, a magistrate in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bikaner</st1:place></st1:city>,
became a favoured courtier under Khurram’s father, Emperor Jahangir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dai Anga’s name also lives on for her
services to the public, as she built a mosque in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>’s Naulakha area in 1649, before she proceeded
for Haj. It is a pity that someone who bequeathed <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lahore</st1:place></st1:city> with one of its most beautiful
mosques, lies in an utterly neglected tomb.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong>Cypresses for Eternity</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRnyQ44XJCG9VGej5wmwAhfHb6jGEBunhzs8vj-fjId1pB2YnSQaIKBUo-ker1TtrbKQmoywvZM0jWFbtwY91pjlt0U_yQBXajNjt2IDvFTw2BbwoefFCmzWyCpv0uRavTzJFu4ZgwULT/s1600/Gate_of_the_tomb_with_Art_of_Cypress_tree.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRnyQ44XJCG9VGej5wmwAhfHb6jGEBunhzs8vj-fjId1pB2YnSQaIKBUo-ker1TtrbKQmoywvZM0jWFbtwY91pjlt0U_yQBXajNjt2IDvFTw2BbwoefFCmzWyCpv0uRavTzJFu4ZgwULT/s200/Gate_of_the_tomb_with_Art_of_Cypress_tree.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: black;">Sarv-wala Maqbara, always had an oddity about its name, so
after doing the Gulabi Bagh, we pedalled on to find out more. Winding around
some narrow streets, we soon got to the tomb, which is actually just 200 metres
north on a crow’s flight from Dai Anga’s tomb. Were it not for the decorative
tiled panels with the cypress motif, one could mistake the square structure for
an overhead water tank. The tall green cypresses, with an undergrowth of
brilliant blue irises, make the tomb unique, for the cypress symbolism of
eternity and agelessness so common in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Persia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, has rarely been expressed
in the sub-continent’s funerary architecture. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sharf-un-Nisa Begum, the occupant of the tomb, was the
unmarried sister of Nawab Zakariya Khan, the Mughal Governor of <st1:place w:st="on">Punjab</st1:place>. Given to piety and religious ritual, she used to
recite the Quran each morning in this tower, climbing and descending by a
ladder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On her deathbed, the virtuous lady
expressed her desire to be buried inside the tower, up and away from the inquisitive
eyes of the passers-by. A Quran and a bejewelled sword are said to have been placed
on the sarcophagus at the time of burial. All openings were bricked up and the
upper walls covered with cypress-themed ceramic tile panels, four to a
side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyRJZGA7LxeCaM8ksG_kTaBT6N-4-JeG-h5UKbk8TX7ZVAGTbpYJzlwQiAgZd2JMd68P1_OH-aSMFzTlhObQtcJQXyJ-yC3yh5lIdoprFUOgrLdKWgc3-cCedh5Jvq6lVolTnbmysq9m4z/s1600/5417387219_9021a50dbc.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyRJZGA7LxeCaM8ksG_kTaBT6N-4-JeG-h5UKbk8TX7ZVAGTbpYJzlwQiAgZd2JMd68P1_OH-aSMFzTlhObQtcJQXyJ-yC3yh5lIdoprFUOgrLdKWgc3-cCedh5Jvq6lVolTnbmysq9m4z/s200/5417387219_9021a50dbc.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Though much has been made of Sharf-un-Nisa having designed
the tomb herself, it is more likely that it was already an elevated garden lookout
of the Nawab family, and was improvised as a tomb on the lady’s desire. The
tomb was built in the first half of the eighteenth century, though some sources
are more definite about the year being 1745.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During the Sikh reign in <st1:place w:st="on">Punjab</st1:place>,
the tomb was pried open and ransacked to hunt for supposed hidden
treasures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was also stripped of
bronze facing on the lower portion of the walls, leaving them with a battered,
forlorn look.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Keen to peep inside from the single arch that remains open
after the Sikh vandalism, we arranged for a ladder from one of the nearby
houses. Since the ladder was not tall enough, and several ‘Spiderman’ attempts
had failed, we thought we might have been spared an unwelcome reception by bats
and creepy crawlies in a dusty cavern. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Hemmed in by houses, criss-crossed by overhead electric
wires, and used as a cricket playground in its immediate surroundings, one
wonders how long before Sharf-un-Nisa’s tomb cypresses wilt away, bringing her
quest for eternity to a poignant end.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">© KAISER TUFAIL<span style="color: black;">. </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";"></span></span><br /> </span><em><span style="color: #660000;">This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News International</strong> on 25 Jan, 2015 </span></em> </o:p></span></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-21077628303319010692016-11-06T09:28:00.000+05:002016-12-21T09:53:13.482+05:00Across Taklamakan to Urumqi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><br />After completing a gruelling 1,000 km <a href="http://kaiser-footloose.blogspot.com/2016/10/biking-silk-road_9.html" target="_blank">cycling expedition</a> from
Sost in northern Pakistan to Hotan in Xinjiang last August, my friend Shahid
and I thought it wise to switch to a more reliable means of transport to cross
the dreaded Taklamakan Desert. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gifted
away our bikes to two guides who had been of help in Hotan, and then booked our
seats on what promised to be the best luxury bus service in Xinjiang. The bus
terminal at Hotan was as elaborate as any airport terminal, with sparkling
floors and stylish steel furniture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sooner the announcement of departure was made,
we walked to the bus parked just outside the waiting hall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After stashing the luggage in the cargo hold, the
passengers were handed polythene bags by the driver, which got us wondering if
these were some kind of air sickness bags. As we were boarding the bus, the
driver told us to take off our shoes, put them in the bags, and enter barefooted.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The excitement of entering a luxury
cruise bus was rudely jarred by the sight of what we saw inside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were thirty-odd stretchers in three
rows, with half of them slung from the ceiling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The passengers seemed unfazed by the queer
accommodation and promptly lay down, ready for the journey. The driver asked
everyone to fasten the stretcher belts, lest there were falling bodies and
broken bones. To someone not used to such luxury ‘sleeper’ buses – which are
said to be common for inter-city travel in China – one could be excused for
mistaking them for mortuary cadaver transports.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The 9-hour journey to Kucha (or Kuqa) across Taklamakan
Desert offered just one monotonous view of sand dunes and occasional shrubbery
– when not masked by a hanging blanket or a dangling leg from the upper berth.
We had to go through police security check four times during the journey, with
all passengers having to disembark and go through body scanners and scrutiny of
documents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inter-city travel in Xinjiang
involves formalities no less than those at international border crossings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Irritating as it was, the security check was also
a welcome break from lying down continuously and staring at the upper berth
occupants, who had nothing better to do than gawking down in a similar
wide-eyed fashion. Privacy as we know it, is little cared for, something we had
unmistakably noted during our stay all over Xinjiang.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Short
Stay in Kucha<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We reached Kucha at night and checked in at the Kuche Grand
Hotel. Well rested by next morning, we sauntered around the neat little city that
was once a populous metropolitan centre of the northern Silk Road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The afternoon was spent at the rather decrepit
mosque and tomb complex of Maulana Arshad-ud-Din Khan, a revered Sufi saint of
the 14<sup>th</sup> century. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Maulana
is famous for converting the first ruler of the Moghul Khanate, Tughluq Timur
Khan along with his nomadic subjects, to the Islamic faith. This Mongol tribal
confederacy held sway around the Tarim Basin and the steppes further north, for
over two centuries starting 1347 AD. Before the advent of Islam, Kucha was an
important Buddhist kingdom on the northern Silk Road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We had several hours to spend at leisure, as our train to
Urumqi was to leave late at night. After a late lunch at the aptly named
Maulana Restaurant, we idled in a small peaceful park, with none of the
boisterous public activities to disturb us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We noted that the farther east one went from
Kashgar, less conservative the Muslim Uyghur lifestyles became, as was quite evident
on the streets of Kucha; this was perhaps due to the growing influence of the more
secular and worldly Han Chinese (the majority ethnic group in China), whose
numbers in Xinjiang have continued to increase over the years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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at the Railway Station<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Late in the evening, we left for Kucha Railway Station to
board the train for Urumqi. After collecting snacks from shops outside the
station, we queued up for scrutiny of our tickets and passports, followed by a
thorough luggage and body scan. The waiting hall was jam-packed with passengers
of many hues – Kirgiz, Kazakh, Uyghurs, Han Chinese, Europeans, Japanese, and
the two of us from Pakistan. After waiting for two hours, the announcement
about arrival of the train was made. Almost two hundred passengers shuffled up
the stairway to the elevated platform. Used to our chaotic multitudes storming
the railway stations, we were surprised to see not a soul on the platform, no
hawkers selling snacks, nor any busy-looking railway officials. Before the
crowd could break off into disorderly flocks, a young uniformed policewoman
emerged from nowhere, and ordered everyone to form up in a perfect square,
pointing at the painted lines on the platform. Next, she started a harangue on
her cordless microphone, which blasted her voice on loudspeakers in the middle
of the night. We could not understand a word, but going by her vociferous
commands for everyone to stay quiet and not to use the cell phones, we knew she
meant serious business. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her instructions
would take a menacing tone every now and then, much like that of a drill
sergeant. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The high pitched lecture
continued for good fifteen minutes, and we figured out that she was probably
telling the passengers about the dos and don’ts of travelling on train, much
like the cabin crew do on airliners. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We heaved a sigh of relief when she finished her sermon on spotting
the arriving train’s gleaming headlamp at a distance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All was quiet when another young policewoman
with a red band on her peak cap, marched across the platform right up to the
edge, and stood at attention next to the railway line. As the train slowed down
to a walking pace, the engine driver craned his neck out of the window and
saluted the lady, who reciprocated with a crisp salute. When the train halted,
about 20-odd uniformed conductors alighted, one from each compartment, and
helped the passengers board the train. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
precisely five minutes, over two hundred passengers had boarded, the engine
driver and the policewoman again exchanged salutes, and the train was on course
to Urumqi.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We had a very comfortable night in the deluxe train, a far
cry from the ‘sleeper’ bus that we had travelled in, two days earlier. We woke
up to the view of Tian Shan Mountains in the distance, which was much better
scenery than the uninteresting Taklamakan Desert. Windmills for power
production could be seen for miles before we neared Urumqi’s industrial zone on
the city’s suburbs. As the train closed in on Urumqi, we could see a riot of
skyscrapers in the modern capital of Xinjiang-Uyghur Autonomous Region. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No building older than fifty years remains, we
were told by a local contact who had come to pick us up at the station. Winding
his way through thick morning traffic, Mr Liu dropped us off at the Tamaris
Grand Hotel, popular amongst the Uyghur community for its halal food and
central location.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Urumqi – a
Mishmash of Faces</span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">With no business meetings to attend to, nor financial deals
to cut, Urumqi offered us little by way of sightseeing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For starters, we chose the Urumqi Regional
Museum, which showcases local ethnography under the theme of ‘one China, many
faces.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The famous Tarim mummies dating
from 1800 BC to the first century AD were also on display. The mummies are said
to belong to speakers of the defunct Tocharian language, who purportedly came
from the Bactrian (Balkh) region in present-day Afghanistan. Colourful mannequins of all ethnic minorities
of Xinjiang depicting scenes of daily life, were also on display. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">In the evening we made a round of the International Grand
Bazar, within walking distance of our hotel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An attractive brick mosque with a green dome, stands
out in the middle of the bazar, in a scene reminiscent of Timurid Samarkand or
Bukhara. The wares sold at the bazar include clothing, jewellery, carpets, and handicrafts.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roadside eating stalls run mostly by
women promise mouth-watering skewered kebabs and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laghman</i> (noodles), while street hawkers sell everything from almonds
to water melons, to all-purpose potions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">For the better part of next day, we were guests of a
well-heeled Pakistani businessman. The gentleman is well-connected too, for he
is married to a once famous Uyghur actress. He enriched us with his knowledge
of local customs, culture and society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
learnt that there are more than a hundred Pakistanis in Urumqi who bring in
handicrafts and sundry items, and sell them off profitably. Friday prayers at a
nearby mosque were widely attended, with Pakistanis outnumbered only by the
local Uyghurs. The Hui Muslims (converted Han Chinese), do not pray alongside
Uyghurs and have their own mosques, we learnt to our surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Together, the Uyghurs and Hui Muslims form less
than a quarter of Urumqi’s population, while the Han Chinese are in a majority with
three-fourths of the total. The Uyghurs seem to be outsiders in their own
capital city.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Nearly a month had passed since we had started our <a href="http://kaiser-footloose.blogspot.com/2016/10/biking-silk-road_9.html" target="_blank">cycling expedition</a> into China. It was time to pack up and go, by yet another means of
transport – the aeroplane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a most
memorable adventure, we were soon on our way to Islamabad, overloaded with
stories of discovery that have been told and retold, ever since. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am reminded of novelist Margaret Thien’s
observation about the people in China, that ‘you learn a lot from what they
don’t tell you.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was just as well
that we could not communicate in their language, for we would have been told
much less than what we discovered all by ourselves!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International</strong><strong> </strong>on 6 Nov, 2016.</em></span></span></span></div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-78658002977045879162016-10-09T08:26:00.001+05:002018-03-03T19:17:06.468+05:00Biking the Silk Road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK28h6-Cg3ZBBsLkIiOKkd62pGpdsypzuPfwmFdHTq_zIoJHR0MrmcrwWO3zcQxlrNv5Ionbh5F6Tnyo-z0N3l2D7Vohhcw3fdiPo5toTcrCbFBXn1BpZMDqdelqE4YDYatyG4fXMr-Dov/s1600/%253DSost-Kashi-Hotien.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK28h6-Cg3ZBBsLkIiOKkd62pGpdsypzuPfwmFdHTq_zIoJHR0MrmcrwWO3zcQxlrNv5Ionbh5F6Tnyo-z0N3l2D7Vohhcw3fdiPo5toTcrCbFBXn1BpZMDqdelqE4YDYatyG4fXMr-Dov/s320/%253DSost-Kashi-Hotien.bmp" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Having undertaken several <a href="http://kaiser-footloose.blogspot.com/2012/06/biking-to-x-treme-north_02.html" target="_blank">extreme cycling expeditions</a> in the
Northern Areas of Pakistan over the past few years, I and my perennial cycling
partner Shahid Dad felt confident of pedalling a portion of the legendary Silk
Road inside China’s Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We planned to visit the historical oasis towns
along the rim of the dreaded Taklamakan Desert, where a wind-blown sand dune can
still expose a hidden skeleton of a forlorn explorer, or his camel or two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting at Sost in Pakistan, we were to bike
across the 15,400 ft high Khunjerab Pass into China, and continue till Hotan to
complete our target of 1,000 km. The important way stations to be routed
through were Kashgar, Yengisar, Yarkand, Karghilik and Hotan, which, along with
Kuqa, were once known as ‘Altishahr’ or six cities that rimmed the sandy Tarim
Basin in Xinjiang.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The Silk Road, a term coined by the nineteenth century
German explorer Ferdinand von Richthofen, is actually a network of several trade
routes between China and the West that has existed for over two thousand years.
Starting at the ancient Chinese capital of Chang’an (present day Xian), the
road bifurcated into two prongs at Anxi to skirt the Taklamakan Desert, and
then met again at Kashgar on a further course to the west. Today, high speed
expressways cover the same routes, more or less. To say that we were excited
about journeying in the footsteps of Marco Polo would be an understatement!</span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">After staging through Abbottabad,
Chilas and Hunza by a pick-up van, we did a test run of our bikes on the new
portion of the Karakoram Highway that tunnels through the mountains at five
places. The turquoise Ata’abad Lake formed a picture-perfect backdrop during
the test ride; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>happily, we found both man
and machine in good working order. After reaching Sost, we checked in at the
PTDC motel, where the old faithful Shams-ud-din welcomed us warmly. An
excellent handyman, he had been of great help in a previous expedition, and was
again at his best this time. After a two-day stopover which involved tying up
loose ends, and some coordination with immigration authorities at Sost, we set
course for Khunjerab on 12 July. We had been granted a rare special permission
by the Chinese authorities to cross over into China on bicycles, which is otherwise
almost always done on an authorised public vehicle, or an escorted private one.
The <st1:metricconverter productid="85 km" w:st="on">85 km</st1:metricconverter>
journey had to be spread over two days, as the very steep climb cannot be
negotiated in one go without altitude sickness getting the better of any
cyclist. The route to Khunjerab winds through stark mountains, which seemed rather
claustrophobic due to their proximity. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Callously
dumped mineral water bottles and unsightly graffiti spray-painted over rocks – mostly
of the ‘X loves Y’ variety – was disconcerting to watch all along the route.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Ice cold and oxygen-starved air greeted us at Khunjerab
Pass, commonly known as Zero Point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
baggage arrived in an accompanying pick-up, and it was promptly rigged onto our
bikes. In no time we had a mini bedroom, kitchenette, pantry, pharmacy and a
workshop each, all mounted on two-wheels. As we crossed the joint Pak-China
border post that looked like a huge drive-through mausoleum, a small crowd of
visitors cheered us off. We had to bike another three kilometres before we got
to the Chinese security post where preliminary security clearance is done; the
detailed immigration and customs formalities are completed at Taxkorgan, 125 km
away. The descent from Khunjerab to Taxkorgan was an ear-popping 5,000 ft, though
the eyes were treated to beautiful scenery all along, with the Taxkorgan River
flowing parallel to the road, and the Kunlun Mountains forming a stunning backdrop
towards the east. The lush green pastures were dotted with yurts (tents) of the
semi-nomadic Kirgiz, many of whom continue to prefer a pastoral to an urban
lifestyle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Arriving at the Immigration and Customs facility in
Taxkorgan, we were dismayed to discover that the computer network had developed
a major fault. We had to wait for six hours before the system was in order, but
during this while we two were given preferential treatment and the VIP waiting
rooms were opened for us. Some officials detailed to give us company told us –
in passable English – that according to their records, we were the first
Pakistani cyclists to have crossed over from Khunjerab into China. When all
formalities were complete, an officer was nice enough to guide us to the Crown
Inn, as we speed-biked behind his car in a midnight drizzle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="font-size: small;">The Hunza
Connection<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Taxkorgan, the seat of the sparsely populated county of the
same name, is the Western-most Chinese town, almost abutting the Tajikistan
border. Its population speaks Sarikoli, though the language is officially referred
to as Tajik, despite being quite different from what is spoken in Tajikistan. Taxkorgan’s
historical links with Pakistan were noticeably advertised through many roadside
billboards and buntings celebrating 65 years of Pak-China diplomatic relations.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salaam</i>
greetings were always pleasantly responded to by the surprised locals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The small sleepy town has no high-rise
buildings or flashy shopping malls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some
gemstone shops run by Pakistanis from Gilgit and Sost could be seen in the
marketplace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Government bureaucracy and
Communist Party offices were abundantly evident all over the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We noticed that mosques were nowhere to be
seen, only to discover that the majority people belong to the Ismaili sect who
make do with inconspicuous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jamaat khanas</i>
for religious services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some cultural affinity
with the people of Hunza-Nagar District was evident in women’s headgear, which consists
of a colourful pillbox hat held in place by a headscarf. The custom of women
shaking hands with male acquaintances was also found to be similar. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The small town has little to offer to tourists except the
ruins of the 13th century ‘Stone Fortress’, which is what Taxkorgan means. We
decided to take a tour of the town on our bikes, starting with a visit to the
Stone Fortress. With the museum closed, and finding nothing more than rubble in
the so-called fortress, we biked across to the adjacent Golden Grasslands, a
soggy pasture with wooden walkways to saunter around. Since it was a working
day, none of the amusement facilities, including an open air theatre, were
functional. Pretty much done with Taxkorgan, we decided to continue our journey
towards Kashgar, the next morning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">In Kaperelli’s
Yurt<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Soon after leaving Taxkorgan, we were confronted with a very
tough ride involving steep climbs, and a monotonous landscape pummelled by a merciless
sun. The stillness was occasionally broken by two-humped Bactrian camels grazing
over meagre shrub, with distant yurts testifying to their Kirgiz ownership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we neared Kalasu Dry Port that leads to
Tajikistan, we found a gushing stream and promptly decided to camp in its
vicinity. Soon after pitching our tents in the shelter of a rocky outcrop, I
strolled across and took an invigorating bath in the ice cold stream. Shahid
had prepared hot coffee over our petrol-fired stove, which was the right tonic
to round off the day. Windy as it was, we struggled to catch a wink, but
unfortunately, had a restless night.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuGnzf_T9mr6Cb7oL7JVnzzxWH5-elRLDy_EauMV2_n__zbZZJ_QEInWZIAbzJR4mLPHD6mnUpM1gDXRWfBUAUyVaTbpWKDyUPZuENrNb8yScUbKWOC1BK2yGVKAkZbXEYpWsO0456Yvx/s1600/Kaparelli+and+Bakht+Gul+at+their+yurt+near+Karakul+lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtuGnzf_T9mr6Cb7oL7JVnzzxWH5-elRLDy_EauMV2_n__zbZZJ_QEInWZIAbzJR4mLPHD6mnUpM1gDXRWfBUAUyVaTbpWKDyUPZuENrNb8yScUbKWOC1BK2yGVKAkZbXEYpWsO0456Yvx/s200/Kaparelli+and+Bakht+Gul+at+their+yurt+near+Karakul+lake.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">An oatmeal and coffee breakfast set us up for another day’s
very tough ride. Ice cold winds blowing down from the snow-capped Muztagh Ata
(‘Father of Mountains’), and an excruciatingly steep gradient had us panting by
the afternoon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were in no mood to go
through the tedium of finding a suitable camping spot and setting up camp, after
another gruelling day. While we stopped at the Muztagh Ata Viewpoint for a
photo session, an enterprising Kirgiz by the Italian-sounding name of
Kaperelli, offered to take us as paying guests in one of his yurts. We agreed
on condition that the yurt was neat and clean, and that it would be exclusively
for us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His son Mahmood led us to the
nearby Kirgiz settlement located at the edge of the serene Karakul Lake, with
Muztagh Ata looming in the background. The well-carpeted yurt was inspected and
found to be perfect for a good night’s rest. Kaperelli’s wife, Bakht Gul was
delighted to be the hostess, and hastened to take our order for dinner, while her
children arranged for a load of mineral water bottles. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jashilcha </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> naan </i>were
just the right words out of our handy smart phone translator, and in no time
Bakht Gul had prepared a delicious vegetable stew served with bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We joined the family for the meal in an
adjacent yurt that doubled as a kitchen and dining room. Small talk over dinner
was restricted to hand signals, but we were able to please the Kaperellis for
sharing their Muslim faith, and thanked them for the hospitality. Well-fed and
well-rested, we were done with the domestic chores at first light, next
morning. After clearing the bill, we took leave for yet another day on the
road.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Eventful
Night in an Orchard<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Starting off from Karakul Lake, the road was one long
stretch of rubble as the new highway, a part of the recently announced CPEC,
was under construction. After some very strenuous pedalling we stopped at a modest
Kirgiz hotel for lunch. Declining a traditional snack of ice-cold and stone
hard <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">naans</i> dipped in green tea, I
requested a round of the kitchen to which young Muneera and her sister Zaman
Gul readily agreed. Spotting some buns, tomatoes and cucumbers, I put my rusty culinary
skills to good use as they watched with much amusement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In no time sizzling veggie burgers were ready,
which their brother Alauddin served with ‘Abida’, our favourite ice cream soda.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">After riding for a challenging 85 km in the mountains, we
had difficulty finding a reasonable camping site. To our good fortune, a Kirgiz
village (whose name I later learnt was Keluge Ate) appeared in the distance,
and we decided to camp there for the night. Knocking at the door of the first
house that came our way, we were greeted by children who hurried to call their
mother. I promptly rattled out a well-rehearsed Kirgiz line, seeking permission
to set up our tents somewhere for the night. Prompted by her excited children,
the lady somewhat reluctantly agreed to our request, and pointed to a nearby apricot
orchard as the campsite.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The sooner we had pitched our tents, with the kids helping
us, a man in military uniform appeared and started a discussion with the lady,
who had permitted us to camp in the orchard. After a while four Han Chinese –
two men and two women – clad in civvies appeared from nowhere, and demanded to
see our passports. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the women
could speak good English, and she advised us to move out, as foreigners were
not permitted in the village. Our pleading that we had travelled a long
distance, and were in no shape to bike any further, had no effect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finding ourselves in a hopeless situation, we
pulled out our ex-military identifications which were closely scrutinised and
photographed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently the pictures
were sent to some higher headquarters via their smart phones, followed by a
phone discussion that lasted for some time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, their countenance changed and they
were all smiles; we were informed that we could stay on, and that it was ‘just
a misunderstanding’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To atone for the
fuss caused, they promised all help that we might need during our stay, starting
with a supply of mineral water bottles that arrived in minutes! After sleeping
well during the night, we had a breakfast of apricots off-the-boughs, downed
with coffee; we then broke camp and said goodbye to the hosts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We later learnt that in the past, foreign extremist elements
had infiltrated some Muslim villages to subvert the prevailing order, which is
why the government had posted Communist Party operatives to keep an eye on the
goings-on in various settlements.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">A good road on a steep downslope tempted us to squeeze two
days of cycling in one, so we set course for a long ride. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After about two hours of cycling, we were
clear of the Kunlun Mountains, and soon caught sight of lush green orchards. The
people also started to look different than the Tajiks and Kirgiz we had been
seeing so far. Women wearing colourful headscarves, and men donning the
four-cornered ‘doppa’ (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">toppa</i> or cap) were
signs that we were in Uyghur territory, and Kashgar, the hub of the Silk Road
trade was not far away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">At the
Fabled Oasis Town</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Arriving in Kashgar after pedalling a 115 km long leg, we
were exhausted and hungry, but the first thing that we did after checking in at
Radisson Hotel was to take a frenzied shower, followed by a much-needed laundry
session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having been camping in the
boondocks, the sheer luxury of the hotel acted like a soporific, and the next
thing we knew, it was breakfast time the following day!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Mamat Tudajim, a young guide turned up on time to take us
around the city’s few remaining historical places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some years ago, the Chinese government had
started a modernisation drive, demolishing much of the old city, and with it,
centuries of heritage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of what remains,
Mamat chose the Afaq Khawaja (corrupted to Apak Hoja) tomb complex, for a start
of the tour. A 17th century religious Sufi leader, the Khawaja was also
involved in power struggles and ruled ‘Kashgaria’ some years before his death.
His massive tomb includes 72 graves of his relatives, alongside a commoners’
cemetery that is still functional. The complex also includes a mosque with
ornately carved wooden pillars and a beautifully painted ceiling of wooden
rafters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to the mosque is a defunct
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">madrassah, </i>an institution that has
been officially made to go into disuse in Xinjiang, as it is seen to breed
religious extremism. There being no forum for Islamic studies for children, it
is left to the parents to impart whatever little they can, at home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">A visit to China’s largest Idgah Mosque was instructive in
many ways. The entrance portal of the 15th century mosque is a well-preserved
imposing structure, while the inside of the mosque is equally impressive. We
learnt that all mosques in China are open for only half an hour before and
after prayers. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Azaan </i>is a low decibel
affair, and the Friday <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">khutba </i>by
state-appointed<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> imams </i>is strictly
state-controlled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An interesting feature
of the biannual Id prayers is the distribution of sweets by women, who also
sing and dance outside the mosque to welcome their men, after the supplications
are over. Traditionally, Uyghur women do not enter mosques for prayers, unlike
in most Islamic countries. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The nearby Grand Bazaar is a covered market for cheap home
wares, spices, cosmetics, fabrics and footwear, much like our Anarkali and
Bohri Bazaars. Every night the area outside the Grand Bazaar turns into one
large open-air food bazaar, where a choice of sesame-studded lamb skewers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laghman</i> noodles, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">naans,</i> soups, and ice creams are on offer at cheap prices.
Irresistibly, we sampled several items that were comically ordered in sign
language, much to the amusement of the friendly vendors. To us, it seemed that
Kashgar housewives seldom cook dinners, and families love to eat out regularly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Kashgar’s old town is a crumbling quarter that has a few
stubborn residents who are not ready to move out to the steel and glass
structures of the modern city. An assortment of antique shops, an odd pottery
maker here, a sweetmeats seller there, all hark back to times long gone. The
tour of the old town was followed by a hearty lunch at Altun Orda, an upscale
restaurant that starkly highlighted how Kashgar has modernised.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Next morning I took a short bicycle ride to the city parks.
A noteworthy feature of the outing was an admirable street side music
performance, in which a trio played the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">naghra</i>
(kettle drums) and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sunay </i>(a kind of
traditional oboe).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought a memory of
Kashgar could not be better evoked, than by listening to that bewitching Uyghur
music.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Police
Encounter at Yengisar<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">After Kashgar, our next destination was Yengisar, a neat
little town famous for manufacturing knives and daggers. Though we had planned
to camp for the night, the sight of Oriental Holiday Hotel was too tempting to
pass up, so we decided to give ourselves a well-earned break after a hard day
on the road. While Shahid amused a group of children who had gathered to see
our fancy bikes, I went inside the lobby to check in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was going through the process, I heard a
wailing siren, followed by a police car halting in front of the hotel, with red
and blue flashers lighting up the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I joined Shahid to see what had happened, four black-clad armed
policemen emerged, and heading towards us, demanded to see our passports. While
they were scrutinising the documents, another patrol car screeched to a halt in
front of the hotel, with four more menacing policemen joining the earlier ones.
After a lot of discussion on walkie-talkies with their superiors, they turned
to us, and in broken English, told us to leave the hotel. Unable to converse
and find out the reason, we decided to leave, but not before trying the
military card. As they all jumbled around to see our ex-military identification
papers, we saw their expressions change, and a salute or two followed. Another
flurry of calls on the walkie-talkies followed, and to our surprise, yet
another police car arrived with some senior functionary, to take stock of the
situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The newcomer was briefed, but
he seemed unable to take a decision, while we fretted what the hullabaloo was
about. We could not believe when a fourth police car arrived at what seemed
like a big crime scene, with scores of curious locals watching from a distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The latest arrival, apparently the
Superintendent of Police, got into a discussion with the hotel manager, without
any outcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now we were quite fed
up, and decided to leave anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
collected ourselves to go, the hotel manager suddenly handed me his cell phone,
and told me to speak on. A lady on the other end (probably an interpreter)
surprised me in passable English, that the police chief wishes to apologise for
the confusion, and that we could stay at the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So after a ten-versus-two bout, we had
incredibly won!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">It was only the next morning that we saw scores of Han
Chinese VIPs emerging from the hotel, leaving for some business in
police-escorted vehicles. That is when we figured out that their security had
been of utmost concern to the police, for Yengisar had been the scene of some
vicious knife attacks in the recent past. An evening out in Yengisar’s food
street attested to the tight security, as heavily armed police patrolled every
warren and alley.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">On to
Yarkand<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">After a day of biking in unremarkable scenery, and camping
by the roadside poplar plantation for the night, we started early for Yarkand.
Drifting sand from Taklamakan Desert blew all the way, but as a welcome
tailwind. The Yarkand oasis is spread well over 100 km along the highway, and
stretches up to the city of Karghilik. Endless orchards of walnuts, apricots,
peaches and water-melons fed by the gushing Yarkand River, could be seen all
around. By afternoon we were in Yarkand, but it took us quite a while to locate
Super-8 Hotel. Every passer-by or taxi driver that we asked, gestured in the
negative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having biked around much of
the city, and quite fed up by then, we inquired from a policewoman who readily
pointed at a tall building a mere 100 metres from us. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suba It”, </i>she replied stridently, almost implying that we had
faulty peepers.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>If only we had got our pronunciation
right, we mused!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Yarkand city has a distinct, well-laid out modern half on
the western side, and a congested, old eastern half. The proportion of Han
Chinese in Yarkand appeared more than what we saw in Kashgar, perhaps a quarter
of the population. The mutual loathing of Uyghurs and the Han Chinese was
obvious, as the former do not seem too happy about the changing demographics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One could feel a palpable tension in the city
streets due to heavy police presence. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzpZr2ht5-pcOH-6X3oFyl78pNx9I1gObfEFPMsFjHg2GzS3TUTu9mkA6iSfcWOWh2ezW9kZHccWEcj7K1tZdefzIZ8sGmGLwpv-VGcV54q27GRrDZu2Mc0Y3ALbXTsB1iVJXrJt2idIB/s1600/The+beautifully+restored+Yarkand+Khans%2527+Palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzpZr2ht5-pcOH-6X3oFyl78pNx9I1gObfEFPMsFjHg2GzS3TUTu9mkA6iSfcWOWh2ezW9kZHccWEcj7K1tZdefzIZ8sGmGLwpv-VGcV54q27GRrDZu2Mc0Y3ALbXTsB1iVJXrJt2idIB/s200/The+beautifully+restored+Yarkand+Khans%2527+Palace.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The next day we went down to the Palace Complex and Cemetery
of the Yarkand Khans who ruled between 1514-1705. The complex had survived the
fury of the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, and remains the only worthwhile
heritage site of the city. The beautiful blue-and-beige tiled façade of the
recently renovated palace was all that could be seen from afar, as the palace
is not yet open to the public. The nearby Altun Mosque is badly in need of
restoration, though some work was underway on its entrance portal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tombs of the Khans lie next to the mosque
in a serene arboreal setting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside
the Khan’s cemetery compound lies the tomb of Aman-un-Nisa Khan, the wife of
one of the rulers, and a poetess and musician in her own right. Many old Uyghur
men and women had gathered at the tombs, in a daily ritual to seek benedictions
from the dead Khans who are revered as saints. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our Travel
Travails<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">From Yarkand we set course for Karghilik, where we had
planned to camp for the night. After a day-long ride along the orchard-lined
highway, we found a plantation next to a stream on the suburbs of the city,
which fulfilled all the requirements of a good campsite. After setting up camp,
I was gathering the loose articles when suddenly, I picked up the sound of
gushing water. Horrified to see a huge flood heading towards our campsite, I
shouted to Shahid that we had to act quickly and do something about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our tents were just a few feet from being
washed away, so the first thought was to quickly shift camp. However, there was
no suitable place nearby, and the only option was to somehow divert the flood
by breaching an embankment. Without any tools, we frantically started to dig
with our bare hands, and in a few minutes had opened up a sizeable opening
through which the water started to flow into an adjacent plot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In no time, the pressure of water had widened
the breach, and we were much relieved to see it inundating the adjoining
plantation, while we were on dry land. We later found out that the spillways of
a canal had been opened for irrigation of the roadside poplars, and we just
happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">No harm done by the flood, we were able to ride out next
morning, only to discover a puncture each, probably after having picked up some
thorns at the campsite. Repair was done and we continued with the ride in a
blazing sun. The next campsite was in a thicket of bushes strewn with pebbles,
as a result of which we had an uncomfortable and restless night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we were having coffee for breakfast, we
both spotted flat tyres, and went through the repair operation that we had
become quite adept at, by then. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a very bad
start, and by midday, we had had four more punctures. Each repair taking about
half an hour, we had been set back by three hours, and there was no way we
could reach the next oasis destination by nightfall. Caught in the middle of
the Taklamakan Desert, we had to spend the night on the dunes, without dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">At around 10 o’clock at night, I heard a strange whistling
sound followed by a strong gust of wind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peeping out from my tent, I could see nothing
but sand in the air. In a few minutes we found ourselves in the midst of a
fierce sandstorm, and the outer flies of our tents flew off like kites. Both
Shahid and I ran after the fly sheets like hobbled camels struggling to trot in
soft sand. When we finally caught the flies and turned back to fix them on the
tents, we were dismayed to find that the tents had collapsed and had rolled off
in the dunes. The rest of the night was spent awake, virtually exposed to
barrels of sand pouring from the skies. Tired, hungry and grimy, we packed what
remained of our tents, and rode off in a huff at first light.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aE8-4ZVqAN0/V_sVH62TYII/AAAAAAAADic/DlNCY_WgxIogzHTuImUwP5V_t1E5uy-sQCEw/s1600/IMG_20160728_100801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aE8-4ZVqAN0/V_sVH62TYII/AAAAAAAADic/DlNCY_WgxIogzHTuImUwP5V_t1E5uy-sQCEw/s200/IMG_20160728_100801.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Though two legs remained to get to our final destination of
Hotan, Shahid wisely decided that we ought to cover two days’ distance in a
single day, if we were to avoid another night on the dunes. Aided by a tailwind
but tortured by a fierce sun, we had to brave three more punctures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite replacement of the inner tubes with
spare ones, we had to continually inflate the tyres due to faulty valves. We
were luckily spared the ignominy of arriving in Hotan on a rented pick-up,
after all the effort that we had put in over the weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hotan
Finally!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">By the time we pedalled into Hotan (or Khotan), we looked like haggard,
emaciated and cruelly sunburnt figures that had arrived with some medieval
camel caravan. Twelve hours on the saddle, we had completed the longest leg of
120 km in one day. We had also reached our expedition target of cycling for
1,000 km!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pVMeljUvEFVOarREqXwZbK1KiRpZF_HhVVMrXNiEML-I5l2StnspbhNRFIzWVZbsX-dJ8cIhFrrlHwShVbZfopWesq5V-CCk84a9SUAkaJFPghBw3SX_sMJzqtsXPDl8EorgQi8qRe-T/s1600/Statues+of+Chairman+Mao+and+Qurban+Tulum+mark+the+Unity+Square+in+Hotan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pVMeljUvEFVOarREqXwZbK1KiRpZF_HhVVMrXNiEML-I5l2StnspbhNRFIzWVZbsX-dJ8cIhFrrlHwShVbZfopWesq5V-CCk84a9SUAkaJFPghBw3SX_sMJzqtsXPDl8EorgQi8qRe-T/s200/Statues+of+Chairman+Mao+and+Qurban+Tulum+mark+the+Unity+Square+in+Hotan.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">As we entered downtown Hotan, we caught sight of the
towering statues of Chairman Mao Zedong meeting a local farmer Qurban Tulum,
which mark the entrance to the Unity Square. Qurban’s love for Mao led him to
trot across on his donkey, all the way to Beijing, where he was given an
audience by the Chairman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, Qurban
is immortalised for his madcap venture, which is interpreted as an effort at unifying
the Uyghurs and the Han Chinese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to
the Unity Square is a huge golden dome, which at first sight seems like the
dome of a mosque. A sign of changing times, it is a temple indeed – not of
faith, but that of commerce – the city’s biggest shopping mall. Hotan has
changed immensely from a dusty, sleepy town of the sixties that PAF pilots
recall, when they first ferried Chinese fighters to Pakistan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much like Kashgar and Yarkand, it has turned
into a city of concrete and glass built over the debris of mud brick villages.
The old quarter of Hotan now consists of just a few streets and narrow alleys,
where the bulldozers <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">could arrive any time. We wondered if it was the same fabled city of silver-lustered maidens whose
tresses wafted fragrant ‘musks of Khotan’ (immortalised in the famous Pakistani song, <em>‘zulfein
teri mushk-e-Khotan, ay jaan-e-mann, jaane-baharaan,’</em> by Saleem Raza).</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvN2Ygcr0_YOvXkfOvEv5znR6ylea_ftC743v0mpTg5IrXpbHiBkCOd9dfLc8dX957vSKE1OLzTWvIdUk3ALGj9cDO_vBu8PX8RfCo_SGvLAYEtwSlvTrcAhlICiVQKLd_qYz1BHfWRj-/s1600/A+Uyghur+farmer+at+the+Sunday+animal+market+in+Hotan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvN2Ygcr0_YOvXkfOvEv5znR6ylea_ftC743v0mpTg5IrXpbHiBkCOd9dfLc8dX957vSKE1OLzTWvIdUk3ALGj9cDO_vBu8PX8RfCo_SGvLAYEtwSlvTrcAhlICiVQKLd_qYz1BHfWRj-/s200/A+Uyghur+farmer+at+the+Sunday+animal+market+in+Hotan.JPG" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Qurban Jan, a tour guide at our Yudu Hotel took us for a
tour of some traditional crafts, including a mulberry bark paper factory, a
water mill, a silk spinning and weaving factory, and a hand-woven carpet
factory. These dying arts and crafts are popular with Western tourists,
essentially, though we tolerated the tour as a reasonable pastime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the evening we walked down an old street,
sampling sweet water melons from Hotan’s vast fruit orchards fed by the Karakax
and White Jade rivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later at night,
we took a round of Unity Square to watch groups of Han Chinese who regularly
congregate for open air ballroom dancing and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tai chi</i>, a martial arts discipline that is supposed to increase
longevity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were lucky to find Medina
Restaurant run by a Pakistani, and managed to avoid the repetitive fare of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">laghman</i> noodles that are a common
offering at Uyghur eateries.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJk099upmHJKwsmZvZ5CqD8N_QQahE8QVaTO62WSAMVZ8b7jKPG5vofpvKdie_xjmEqIHqxVyQ4DCpY-RqrDDczReRjcyWxElySWsFo5sQhp7ZNmwCg5HQxIT6Bcq7DSZM9Eku3JgpoNv/s1600/At+62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXJk099upmHJKwsmZvZ5CqD8N_QQahE8QVaTO62WSAMVZ8b7jKPG5vofpvKdie_xjmEqIHqxVyQ4DCpY-RqrDDczReRjcyWxElySWsFo5sQhp7ZNmwCg5HQxIT6Bcq7DSZM9Eku3JgpoNv/s320/At+62.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The time had come for winding up our cycling tour, so we disposed off our bikes, gifting one to Qurban and the other to Mamat of Kashgar, who would collect it later. We purchased bus tickets for Kuqa, from where we were to go by train to Urumqi and then leave for Islamabad by air. What remained with us were memories of the wonderful Uyghurs, a genetic bridge between East Asia and West Asia. Their colourful dresses contrast with their simple lifestyle, their Turkic Uyghur language vies with Mandarin for a place in the world ethnologue, and their Islamic faith survives in a sea of material culture. Our cycling trip, besides being an extreme physical challenge for two 62-year olds, was also a fruitful study in ethnography and nature, in a beautiful part of China.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International in </strong>two parts<strong> </strong>on 2 Oct and 9 Oct, 2016.</em></span></span></span><br />
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-19106867823934370562015-11-08T18:07:00.001+05:002016-10-10T11:05:31.531+05:00To the Head and Heart of Istanbul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span>fter you have seen all of <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>,
there is still more to see. To make sense of that seemingly contradictory proposition,
I had left <st1:place><st1:placename>Galata</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and <st1:street><st1:address>Taksim Square</st1:address></st1:street> for the
last on my itinerary. After three consecutive years of visits that had covered
miles of wandering in the streets of the city, I wanted to see more. What
better way than rounding off the series with a bird’s eye view that captures
much of history and geography, and then to feel the pulse of a city that beckons
you to visit yet one more time. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fatih, Yusuf and Tugrul, three eager young <st1:place><st1:placename>Turkish</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Air</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Force</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Academy</st1:placetype></st1:place>
cadets, part of a group detailed to look after the visiting delegates, joined
me for a weekend jaunt to see the city’s remarkable history come alive in an
incredible panorama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After waiting in
line for the steeply-priced tickets at the base of <st1:place><st1:placename>Galata</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> for about twenty minutes, we
decided to forego the lift and use the spiral stairway, huffing and puffing our
way 150 feet up to the observation deck. The sooner we reached the café on the
uppermost floor, we were utterly surprised by a little five-year old girl who
was following us up the stairs. She was beaming delightfully for having
accomplished what the hardened military men plodding ahead of her had done with
so much effort. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">G</span>alata is a former Genoese quarter of old <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
(<st1:place>Constantinople</st1:place>) across the <st1:place>Golden Horn</st1:place>
waterway. This neighbourhood was actually a walled Genoese enclave within <st1:place>Constantinople</st1:place>,
having been ‘granted’ to the powerful <st1:place><st1:placetype>Republic</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Genoa</st1:placename></st1:place> by the Byzantine Emperor
in 1267. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The enclave was fortified by a now
non-existent citadel, and the landmark <st1:place><st1:placename>Christ</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> (as it was then known), was
built in 1348 to reflect the influence of the Genoese in the Byzantine capital.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the midst of plagues, earthquakes and fires, the tower had
stood witness to the sorrows and the sufferings of humanity. It was no wonder
that it got converted into a fire look-out after yet another devastating
firestorm swept the city at the beginning of the 18<sup>th</sup> century. Now,
happy times were here, it seemed, going by the merry hordes of tourists whose
waiting lines could be seen snaking far into the streets below. To us, it was
an observation tower that<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brought into
view the shimmering waters of the <st1:place>Bosporus</st1:place>, the
seraglios and palaces of the Sultans, the slender minarets of exquisite mosques,
and the terra-cotta tiled rooftops harking back to the Mediterranean cities
that were once part of the <st1:place>Ottoman Empire</st1:place>.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The tower also found use as a prison during the reign of
Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent (1520-66). It was put to more productive use as
an observatory by the royal astronomer Takki-uddin Effendi towards the end of
the sixteenth century. The observatory was helpful in scheduling royal events
in accordance with favourable astrological conditions, as well as visual moon-sighting
for Islamic festivals without any fuss.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fatih, Tugrul and Yusuf, who had not yet started their
flying training, brought up the subject of how much fun it would be to jump off
the tower in a hang glider. I was not sure if they were hinting at the legend
of their very own Turkish birdman, but I knew that every tower had a tale or
two about intrepid characters who had broken more than a limb trying out man’s
eternal dream to take to the skies.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Being a flier myself, I took delight in relating the story
of the ‘man with a thousand skills’, Hezarfen Ahmet Chelebi who had flown
across the <st1:place>Bosporus</st1:place> on eagle’s wings glued together,
turning him into a birdman. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After nine
short trial runs, he fearlessly jumped from the tower as the Ottoman Sultan
Murad Khan was watching from his nearby mansion, sometime in 1632. Landing in
Uskadar after a three-kilometre ‘trans-continental’ flight without as much as a
scratch, he was feted with a sackful of gold coins by the Sultan. To his
discomfiture, Chelebi was soon to learn that he had been sent into exile by the
capricious Sultan for his ‘ability of doing anything he wishes’. Perhaps, the farsighted
Sultan was scared by the thought of Chelebi flying into his palace grounds, and
overthrowing him in a first-ever regime change through air power alone! The
story of Chelebi’s feat has great currency in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
I was told by the cadets. After all, <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>’s
third airport is named after Hezarfen for good reason.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVha4voZ8Tj2YG0ZvmSZbS6Tqdz1yJpZSiDppuguCMMdJdpl4DEDoGwLrnXsKvn00yNhyphenhyphentke0HutYuHKZ91ZlrV3IomkSmnfhzsui__M-p9y5nXE9huBfdTxih1NslhKDhf85OqASx8N5Z/s1600/Istiklal+Avenue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVha4voZ8Tj2YG0ZvmSZbS6Tqdz1yJpZSiDppuguCMMdJdpl4DEDoGwLrnXsKvn00yNhyphenhyphentke0HutYuHKZ91ZlrV3IomkSmnfhzsui__M-p9y5nXE9huBfdTxih1NslhKDhf85OqASx8N5Z/s200/Istiklal+Avenue.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">I</span>f <st1:place><st1:placename>Galata</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place>
looks like the crowned head of <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:street><st1:address>Taksim Square</st1:address></st1:street> feels like
its throbbing heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The artery
connecting the two is the famous <st1:street><st1:address>Istiklal Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>,
largely a pedestrian-only street, except for the historic tram that runs up and
down its one-and-a-half kilometre length. We decided to walk along the avenue
lined with trendy boutiques, cafés and pubs, cinemas and theatres, and many
churches, mosques and synagogues. Every once in a while a tram would slowly
rumble past, with a ringing bell warning pedestrians to keep clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had seen similar trams in <st1:city><st1:place>Karachi</st1:place></st1:city>
of the sixties, but sadly, none could be kept operational as traffic increased
enormously, while no one had the good sense to limit a few roads to pedestrians
and heritage trams.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We passed by the <st1:place><st1:placetype>Church</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>St Anthony</st1:placename></st1:place>, the largest Roman
Catholic <st1:place><st1:placetype>church</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Istanbul</st1:placename></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That one of its preachers rose to be a Pope
(Pope XXIII, 1958-63) came as a surprise to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was fondly called the ‘Turkish Pope’ for his fluency in Turkish, though
his association with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>
came about only when he was <st1:country-region><st1:place>Vatican</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
ambassador to the country.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was pack-up time at the prestigious <st1:place><st1:placename>Galatasaray</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>High School</st1:placetype></st1:place>, and suddenly <st1:street><st1:address>Istiklal
Avenue</st1:address></st1:street> was swamped with children. Founded in 1453,
it is <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
oldest high school, and entrance is restricted to the best of the best; this
was evident by the well-groomed and disciplined students, even when out of
sight of their hard taskmasters.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our walk terminated at <st1:street><st1:address>Taksim
Square</st1:address></st1:street>, the central point of the city, and the hub
of its transportation system. Taksim or ‘division’ is named after the water
distributory system of the late Ottoman era. Today, the square houses the
famous <st1:place><st1:placetype>Republic</st1:placetype> <st1:placetype>Monument</st1:placetype></st1:place>
crafted by the Italian sculptor Pietro Canonica in 1928. It portrays Kemal Ataturk
and other founders of modern <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>
in heroic poses. Statues, as most people might know, are not at all kosher in secular
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ygZNIsjnBJc/V_suAbvVKCI/AAAAAAAADkw/4qYZC-YJScEVCb-9W-x3d4NvgmXn51XBACLcB/s1600/Republic%2BMonument%2Bin%2BTaksim%2BSquare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ygZNIsjnBJc/V_suAbvVKCI/AAAAAAAADkw/4qYZC-YJScEVCb-9W-x3d4NvgmXn51XBACLcB/s200/Republic%2BMonument%2Bin%2BTaksim%2BSquare.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The square was encircled with the Turkish flags called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">al-bairak</i> (the red banner), giving the
whole area a festive air, even though it was no national day. Display of a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">l-bairak </i>is a national fad indulged in
with a passion by the Turks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During political
rallies, mass meetings of activists, and Republic Day celebrations, the square
is awash with national flags and banners of all kinds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There have been some violent protests in
recent times, but we were lucky to find a placid environment to relax after a
hectic day. The cleanliness of the area was as much a reflection of the
efficient municipality, as the discipline and fastidious nature of the Turkish
people at large.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The three cadets were very pleased that I had thoroughly
taken to the city in which their Academy was located. They were also excited to
have visited Chelebi’s launch pad that had him soaring, and they looked forward
to be up in the air one day, soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
assured them that it would be a good pretext for me to be in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
once again to watch them soar high. From Galata to Uskadar next time!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 8 Nov, 2015.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-18885144077726782902015-09-20T09:24:00.001+05:002017-02-26T09:27:29.220+05:00Kuala Lumpur Without Hassle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>s the airplane set up on the
final approach for landing at <st1:place><st1:placename>Kuala Lumpur</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
a vast jungle of palm oil plantations came into view. The loquacious passenger sitting
next to me told me about <st1:country-region><st1:place>Malaysia</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
position as the world’s largest exporter of the culinary commodity. When I
added that Malaysia was also the number one producer of tin, he smiled and
proclaimed with great pride that Malaysia will soon be number one in many other
fields too. “You will see for yourself in <st1:city><st1:place>Kuala Lumpur</st1:place></st1:city>,”
as he hurriedly crossed his heart in Christian prayer, just before landing. He
was of Chinese origin, and though his community mostly practised Eastern
religions, his family had been converted by missionaries, he told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sensing my somewhat curious demeanour, he
assured me that there was no problem in his country as far as religious
diversity was concerned. Then, in an almost uncomfortable whisper, he said that
sometimes racial issues do crop up, because, “we Chinese work harder and others
get jealous”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On my assurance that I was
not one of the ‘others’ – for there are many South Asian settlers in Malaysia –
he was much relieved, for he seemed to have realised his imprudence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After
prompt completion of arrival formalities at the very modern and impressive
airport terminal, I was driven 50-km away to my downtown Shangri-La Hotel, by a
most courteous taxi driver. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The modern
high-rise buildings with Oriental motifs were a welcome departure from the commonplace
concrete and glass structures. One could, however, also note that Kuala Lumpur
was driven by the universal corporate insatiability, and it would only be a
matter of time before it got stuck in the mires of modernism like other ‘global
cities’.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In-processing
at the hotel was very swift and professional, as would be expected in a city
much frequented by tourists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Namaste-like
salutations, with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>palms touching
together, were common as in much of <st1:place>Far East</st1:place>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in <st1:city><st1:place>Kuala Lumpur</st1:place></st1:city>
as part of a group participating in a South Asian Security Conference. Expecting
to be mostly stuck in the conference rooms, I decided to go sightseeing while I
was free and the weather was good. The sooner I had stepped out of the hotel, a
cloudburst opened up a heavy downpour, and drenched me as I huddled under a
covered bus stop. The spell of thunder and rain lasted just fifteen minutes,
and the sun was out soon again in a peek-a-boo monsoon game.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1lwPAlEJBdsczdQrdqH1WxlfGiOHcuLPzBOoIhqCeiRefS7RQEQlISAXX1PQICPB2PlRyfB84EM3BhPiVOQG2CK5Ds5qDK9D_wtfRGuSKR-vnuzzH94xkD2b8xkjX4LS_0e5Kn5V69wq/s1600/The+splendid+colonial-style+building+of+the+Pakistan+High+Commission..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1lwPAlEJBdsczdQrdqH1WxlfGiOHcuLPzBOoIhqCeiRefS7RQEQlISAXX1PQICPB2PlRyfB84EM3BhPiVOQG2CK5Ds5qDK9D_wtfRGuSKR-vnuzzH94xkD2b8xkjX4LS_0e5Kn5V69wq/s200/The+splendid+colonial-style+building+of+the+Pakistan+High+Commission..jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYj2LrUXr5d6LWE1Nfq3KBAY3Sbri2vJXUof5PJHFh9yJJCWnCiB8QOqlg41OFtbqZ4POTxTbJQ-g9WgnN0zpHyMRWxcVjRJdOroGUfA1VoL818KNRVvzVfwj0BpO8KNR5qfTgbzO_sQy/s1600/The+splendid+colonial-style+building+of+the+Pakistan+High+Commission..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Walking
on Jalan Ampang (Ampang Road), I was quick to spot the <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
flag flying on a splendid little colonial building, complete with a terra-cotta
tiled sloping roof and a turreted cupola. It was the Pakistan High Commission,
undoubtedly an architectural gem amidst some tall hotel buildings. We were
later hosted by the High Commissioner, H E Syed Hassan Raza, whose
encyclopaedic knowledge about any subject, included a complete history of the
High Commission building, as well his own residence. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Walking
further, the iconic <st1:place><st1:placename>Petronas</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Towers</st1:placetype></st1:place>
came into view. I carefully framed the famous building with some palm boughs in
the foreground, and tried a ‘selfie’ which had more of my face than desired. I
requested two passers-by if they could help with the picture. They were smartly
dressed and looked like Iranians but they communicated in what sounded like Pashto.
On inquiry they surprised me in chaste English that they were Pakistanis, which
immediately resulted in warm handshakes and small talk by the roadside. I was even
more surprised when they told me that they were ordinary labourers, for I had
taken them to be university students. They resignedly told me that it was ‘kismet’
that brought them to Kuala Lumpur, but they were happy as things were much
better than in the Gulf, where one of them had done some drudgery for an year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True to their Pathan credo, they insisted
that it was respect that mattered not ‘paisas’.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On
the way back I went past the sprawling KL <st1:place><st1:placetype>City</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, with its picturesque <st1:place><st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Symphony</st1:placename></st1:place> beckoning an early morning
visit, as the evening weather was getting sultry after the rain shower. The park
was a study in harmony and order amongst the human species, with every
community intermingling without any fuss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a wonder that no litter, not even a small wrapper, could be seen
anywhere. An efficient municipality had ensured that <st1:city><st1:place>Kuala
Lumpur</st1:place></st1:city> could easily vie for cleanliness with the
famously disciplined <st1:country-region><st1:place>Singapore</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBL8bchM9mo26L85YIpso9p0t3-7c9CYjuElQi_IX33vFzxP9oDYCqhDRL6ZxQr88GaRM-8gu4UI58LBMfJyDNi8LS2J9pCvKkxNhau5n2kfDZPUrMzi7u5wML9Zz5rY8q8eWng-Thuyer/s1600/Counterfeit+watches+on+sale+from+a+car+boot+in+Chinatown+%2528Petaling+Street%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBL8bchM9mo26L85YIpso9p0t3-7c9CYjuElQi_IX33vFzxP9oDYCqhDRL6ZxQr88GaRM-8gu4UI58LBMfJyDNi8LS2J9pCvKkxNhau5n2kfDZPUrMzi7u5wML9Zz5rY8q8eWng-Thuyer/s200/Counterfeit+watches+on+sale+from+a+car+boot+in+Chinatown+%2528Petaling+Street%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIs0uADo0KjAD_hsw8T6rxHIieEA-2VgqXgybBy8y4ceesjwvGFf-j7wzxUvNEXCHFJ5ydM3UxxRBTEhJFSt-RHxm-r3viikYnRFjHC457aFgdKGDTf6V-kWxZsDFD8T_ox8j5JNfLXS7/s1600/Counterfeit+watches+on+sale+from+a+car+boot+in+Chinatown+%2528Petaling+Street%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>aving been founded around 1857
as a tin collection and distribution town serving the nearby Ampang tin mines,
Kuala Lumpur has rapidly transformed into Malaysia’s economic, business and
financial centre. The numerous banks and five-star hotels testify to the
international business interests and investments in the country. <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Kuala Lumpur is also host to many multi-national
companies' regional offices, particularly for finance and accounting, and
information technology functions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
modern face of Kuala Lumpur is evident everywhere, but the traditional side
thrives in the famous Chinatown on Petaling Street. I decided to take a look at
this famous locale, where pirated wares, CDs and DVDs, counterfeit watches
(besides the regular authentic stuff) are on offer, and haggling is the norm. The
evening crowds and the sultry weather can be a bit suffocating, but nerves
never fray as the people, especially shopkeepers, are extremely polite as I
found out during my short stroll in the area. </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">I was looking forward to
the Friday prayers, more out of curiosity about the religious mores and
behaviour of the Malaysian Muslims. Our group of five Pakistani delegates hired
a taxi to the Wilayah Persekutuan Masjid (Federal Territory Mosque). A large
multi-storeyed complex, the mosque is surrounded by gardens and small lakes.
Though well-embellished in marble and wood carving, the grotesque structure can
be heavy on the eyes. The sermon started in a fashion that we in Pakistan are
not used to at all. The imam would read out a few sentences from the Quran,
which was followed by a slow and clear translation in Malay language. The
translation was also displayed on large projection screens inside the spacious
mosque. Later, just before the start of prayers, notifications about any
funeral prayers and scheduled weddings in the mosque’s community centre were
displayed on the large screens. After the prayers, we were introduced to a
pleasant custom of handshakes and a short greeting by the adjacent ‘namazis’,
as we do annually, only on Eid. We also learnt that other than Juma prayers,
many women join in the congregation prayers in the mosque. In fact, a day
later, I saw two young women riding a scooter, who parked it outside a mosque
and went in for the evening prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Besides mosques, there is
a profusion of Buddhist and Hindu temples and some churches too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Kuala Lumpur, the Muslim Malays number
about 50%, Chinese Buddhists are about 35%, while the remaining Indians and
other indigenous people include a smattering of Hindus, Muslims, Christians and
Sikhs. I noticed that religious beliefs of all communities are highly respected
both at the government and individual level. We happened to be visiting in the
midst of the Chinese New Year celebrations, this being the Year of the Goat.
All religious communities enjoyed the festivities with relish, as we could see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Having heard about some
famous shopping malls -- which number over seventy huge ones in Kuala Lumpur alone --
a few of us decided to go around the
Bukit Bintang (Starhill Walk) area. Some of the famous malls that are located
here include the Pavilion KL, Berjaya Times Square, Starhill Gallery and the
Sephora Duplex. Perfume-drenched rich Arabs who frequent these malls the most,
seemed at home in the chic fashion houses and mouth-watering eateries. The
former prime minister Mahathir Muhammad’s own bakery, ‘The Loaf’ is located at
the entrance of Pavilion. We were pleased to see our very own ‘Khaadi’ clothing
retail store in the upscale Bintang area.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">One week in Kuala Lumpur
passed by quickly, and at the end of the conference, we had a farewell in the
restaurant atop the Kuala Lumpur Tower, commonly called KL Menara. We arrived
before sunset to catch an all around view from the highest vantage point in the
city. It was amazing to see high-rise buildings all over, with the few empty
spaces filled up with public parks. If the slowly rotating restaurant
restaurant did not make us dizzy, the gluttonous riot at the dining tables did,
and we had to fend our way back to the hotel on wobbly knees.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">From a pioneering tin trading town, Kuala Lumpur
has transformed itself into a thriving modern city. It seems to be headed in
the same capitalist direction like other major Western cities, but with a
difference. Races and religions intermingle without any hassle, and Kuala
Lumpur, as much of Malaysia, is the perfect example of tolerance and
co-existence, something that we in Pakistan would do well to learn more about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: xx-small;"></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
<div style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 3; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span>
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<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 20 September 2015.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-59089592294590156432014-12-07T18:52:00.001+05:002016-10-11T08:17:47.219+05:00Car-free Days in Lahore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2s4GVJrXJyQl_CvXrwCQpyx7kOMj8CvYLf2DTcFnNFreNcAkPRez2RmqA277Dk46YWtU3uYsmNRLkHblomihcbwM71ooimglmCSMwf83bpBw7j_WlByPzmf_nzz4Ai89NsEmUw4nF0pu8/s1600/CML72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4cfJG87hP92srb4sGpXK-1M2skb230EsRJAaMO8tsnX3tdAm1UgCyGs9TBI3cqT2LQtfmwSxGvC6R9rFzQoNcm6fNI13tdvWxUHZxV5R3n88Pi1sTm0NZ2Vo8TYesHd1jGs0W5XerlZ2/s1600/CML72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4cfJG87hP92srb4sGpXK-1M2skb230EsRJAaMO8tsnX3tdAm1UgCyGs9TBI3cqT2LQtfmwSxGvC6R9rFzQoNcm6fNI13tdvWxUHZxV5R3n88Pi1sTm0NZ2Vo8TYesHd1jGs0W5XerlZ2/s200/CML72.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t has been called one of life’s great freedoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I discovered it when I bought a <st1:city><st1:place>Raleigh</st1:place></st1:city>
and pedalled off one Sunday morning, the silence broken by a cacophony of bird
song and water mills in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An
auburn sunrise never seemed so enchantingly beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time seemed to stand still even though the bike
computer continued to calculate the cadence, speed and stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I was back home, I was hooked on
to a passion that has seen my retirement years reverse into an unbelievable
twenty-something feeling, full of youthful liberty of yesteryears. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been in <st1:place><st1:placename>Never-Never</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Land</st1:placetype></st1:place> for the last five years!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had to check out if the sentiment was for real, and there
was no better way than to join a weirdly named cycling group called Critical
Mass Lahore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having received an anonymous
invitation via Facebook, a click is all it took to be part of a group that is
now a close-knit family of amateur cyclists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It would be worthwhile digressing a little, and explain to the readers
about Critical Mass.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Critical Mass is a world-wide cycling event held on
weekends in over 300 cities. It started in <st1:city><st1:place>San Francisco</st1:place></st1:city>
in 2003 as a protest movement to reclaim the streets by the cyclists, though
the participants insisted that the event should be viewed as a ‘spontaneous
social gathering’. This stance allowed Critical Mass to defend their legal
position for not pre-notifying the municipal and law enforcing authorities, who
termed it as an organised protest. For the same legal reasons, the event’s date,
time and route, is not publicised in <st1:place>North America</st1:place> and <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>.
The cyclists just trickle in small numbers at a predetermined meeting point, and
then ride out when reaching a sizeable number or a ‘critical mass’.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
Critical Mass has three chapters, viz <st1:city><st1:place>Islamabad</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Karachi</st1:place></st1:city> and <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>,
each independent of the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The apolitical
movement did not have any legal issues to contend with, as the number of
cyclists was never large enough to ruffle the traffic, the law enforcers, or
the politicos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Critical Mass <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>
(CML) has, for instance, an average turn-out of 20 participants for a typical Sunday
ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the record, the biggest
turn-out for a Critical Mass event was in <st1:city><st1:place>Budapest</st1:place></st1:city>,
where 80,000 participants rode out on <st1:date day="20" month="4" year="2008">20
April, 2008</st1:date>.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While Critical Mass has no organisational set-up, nor an hierarchy,
the three Pakistani chapters do have their respective Facebook pages managed by
their administrators. It is here that news and views on cycling are exchanged,
and forthcoming events (rides) are posted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Membership is by request, without any fees or
any other pre-requisites to be fulfilled; even bike ownership is not a requirement,
and I know one cyclist who has been happily riding on borrowed bikes for a
couple of years now!</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40f1J_vnlKKaQF4hNmoQU_07k3PPLJsJOxTJHsJR1yfijf0OT7NjyMa3sDNRP0dhAsq-iToaTEDOw4wB82UTYI2nRH54TOXiYSjd3TVMN27VlUJ9T3Xtbvml8E5SqAagDaqHrpOvV3vXO/s1600/CML20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40f1J_vnlKKaQF4hNmoQU_07k3PPLJsJOxTJHsJR1yfijf0OT7NjyMa3sDNRP0dhAsq-iToaTEDOw4wB82UTYI2nRH54TOXiYSjd3TVMN27VlUJ9T3Xtbvml8E5SqAagDaqHrpOvV3vXO/s200/CML20.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>aving tried to visit the Inner City a couple of times, I had
to give up for a trivial reason – I had nowhere to park the car safely. Not so
since I took up cycling. Thanks to our CML rides, we have visited the Wazir
Khan Mosque, Wazir Khan Hamaam, <st1:place><st1:placename>Fakir</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Khana</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and Sunehri Masjid. We have ridden the narrow alleys, sampled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">halwa-puri</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">siri-paye</i> breakfasts, and exchanged early morning greetings – always
a hearty <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">khair hovay</i> – with
good-humoured locals.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="clear: right; color: black; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_K16eknkGopFdf2UTVpGj5oztn7Fjb9yBNhGCq2iWRgmFYba9K5pcdvsqtrjzANKZKqIiBoXuT6a05_QY7gEF0phGiioPBUvYnfy8dLiN0lmG3AS4XmRL9HGZoqOTEtxGhNo8diZCzekt/s1600/CML46a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_K16eknkGopFdf2UTVpGj5oztn7Fjb9yBNhGCq2iWRgmFYba9K5pcdvsqtrjzANKZKqIiBoXuT6a05_QY7gEF0phGiioPBUvYnfy8dLiN0lmG3AS4XmRL9HGZoqOTEtxGhNo8diZCzekt/s200/CML46a.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">CML rides have taken participants to virtually every
locality of <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>, and each time
there has been a sighting of some monument or a historic building that was
hitherto unknown to someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>,
culture and heritage can be just a few pedals away, so to speak, as we have
discovered. While the average distance covered on each ride is about 25-km, CML
regularly goes beyond the city limits. Rides to <st1:place><st1:placename>Changa</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Manga</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
Ravi Siphon, Wagah and Ganda Singh Border Posts, and even Hiran Minar in
Sheikhupura, have featured on CML’s itinerary. These longer rides are, however,
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not wholly covered on bicycles; a
pick-up truck is usually hired for these, to cover part of the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have had delightful company on trucks many
a time, and have even celebrated a member’s birthday on the motorway, with a lashing
wind constantly blowing out the candles. It is
on such occasions that I joyfully discover my senior citizen status mixing
quite well with the youngsters’ pranks and tomfoolery.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A keenly awaited annual CML event is the tough 100-km
Lahore-Kasur-Lahore ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A group of
16-18 participants usually turns up, though half the number complete the full
distance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lunch break in Kasur’s main
bazaar, and a visit to Bulleh Shah’s shrine usually stirs up the locals in surprising
ways. I recall the last time when a group of children tried speaking to us
‘foreigners’ in English, only to hear our replies in Urdu with utter disbelief.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also not usual for some of the
fair-skinned local cyclists to come under special scrutiny at police or
military pickets, what with the few foreign tourists being a novelty in the country’s
prevailing security situation.</span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVw_CxdTJSHgq31XRan-qe5Q0ZHukh5JsT7sIG27hPwAPuAwqIeLxcFc84b4dpQ3GrHTngD6L7Lv21u6i5LlRm1aXEQBlXTPjWK6LrYjNiogI569F1kt6v0gNwB4CvGZYINotqP7b5o7XB/s1600/CML82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVw_CxdTJSHgq31XRan-qe5Q0ZHukh5JsT7sIG27hPwAPuAwqIeLxcFc84b4dpQ3GrHTngD6L7Lv21u6i5LlRm1aXEQBlXTPjWK6LrYjNiogI569F1kt6v0gNwB4CvGZYINotqP7b5o7XB/s200/CML82.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">CML rides have
served as excellent history and culture field trips, and Lahore continues to
throw up an endless mélange of mosques, mausoleums and shrines to be discovered.
The convenience of a bicycle in getting through narrow streets, and without any
parking issues, makes these trips even more popular. Ride participants have
also had the opportunity of taking some spectacular photographs;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the fun of it all has been to post them on
social media sites within minutes, providing virtually a live coverage of the
event to fascinated friends and relatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Though the CML rides are undertaken at an easy
pace due to constraints of vehicular traffic, the distances covered are enough
to get the riders panting and sweating. It is no coincidence that all cyclists of
the group are absolutely fit, and always in good humour, I may add.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">O</span>ne of the objectives of CML is to support gender equality
in outdoor activities like cycling. On
this account, CML has done reasonably well, with about a quarter of the
participants on every ride being girls. They have managed to talk their parents
out of any apprehensions, learnt to negotiate through atrocious traffic, and
also know how to deal with the stares of an awe-struck public in a completely nonchalant
manner. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far there have been no
issues, and the group looks like an extended family wheeling around on jazzy
bikes! Breaking with the stereotype cyclist does raise a few eyebrows, however,
for Lahorites are used to seeing no more than the <st1:country-region><st1:place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">malis</i></st1:place></st1:country-region>
or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chowkidars</i> hunched over their beat-up
roadsters. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Aneeqa Ali, who has been cycling with
CML for almost four years, finds her cycling experience thrilling.<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> <span lang="EN">“It has
been an amazing experience pedaling on the streets of Lahore with a diverse
group of people, who come together from different parts of the city, and
different walks of life. CML is not just a platform for promoting cycling, but
it also provides a wonderful opportunity for making new friends and sharing
amazing experiences with them.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Aneeqa thinks that riding in a group is quite
safe, but that still doesn't help in getting rid of the stares. “I guess
sometimes these stares are just out of curiosity, and very few times even
appreciation. Riding in a group helps avoid any difficulties, but for a
girl/woman to ride a bike alone on these streets can pose big problems, and I
have had some bad experiences a few times. But that does not make me lose hope,
and I am still determined to fight against the odds; with time I have even
gotten better at tackling such situations.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">E</span>nvironmental and social issues have been prime concerns
that led Rafay Alam (an environmentalist himself) to organise Critical Mass in <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>.
He is of the opinion that,<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> <span lang="EN">“</span></span><st1:city><st1:place><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Lahore</span></st1:place></st1:city><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> has sprawled
on the back of cheap agricultural land and automobile financing, and has been
designed for the benefit of car owners. Public transport, cyclists and
pedestrians – the majority of commuting Lahore – find their city no less than
dangerous to traverse. This development elitism fosters social and sexual
discrimination. We have become a society that finds it perfectly acceptable
that half of its population –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>women,
children, senior citizens and the physically handicapped – are effectively
removed from social and economic interaction. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Critical Mass Lahore, for me, was an answer to
these issues.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Rafay would like
to see the city of Lahore formally accept the vision of CML. “It would be a
dream come true if the city of Lahore took the first step that so many other
cities have taken, to safer streets and more equitable and sustainable cities:
A car free day. I would appeal to the city of Lahore to consider closing a
major artery one Sunday morning a month, from 6 am to noon, to allow pedestrians
and cyclists to ‘reclaim’ their city. Shops and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">khokhas</i> along the artery could support local businesses and
recreation activity.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Whether Rafay’s idea of closing a major road to
vehicular traffic one Sunday a month gets a nod or not, his vision of CML is,
happily, here to stay. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 7 December 2014.</em></span></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span>
<br /></div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-75449482798205332072014-09-22T08:46:00.000+05:002016-10-12T11:01:56.442+05:00In the Heart of Germany<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">L</span>ocated on the border of former <st1:country-region><st1:place>East
Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>, Geisa was once the western-most
town of the former Warsaw Pact countries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, it lies in the central <st1:place><st1:placename>German</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>State</st1:placetype></st1:place> of <st1:place>Thuringia</st1:place>,
a forested region with shallow hills, undulating meadows and several gushing rivers.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the days of the Cold War, these
terrain features could ostensibly stop or slow down any possible Soviet armour
advance towards <st1:place>Frankfurt</st1:place> and beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the Fulda Gap allowed a free run to the
Soviets, with the result that its defences figured predominantly in NATO war
plans. A study tour of the Gap was, thus, central to prudent defence planning
in the South Asian context, as the US Naval Post-graduate School’s brief for us
stated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is how five of us former
armed forces officers ended up for a week-long jaunt in the heart of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
last March.</span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIaK566zh9GLbzdTaIa3Gyo4zQtEmDvpuXlabJBx5Eu3mkzYHsOWuP0KRYAcKDhw3c8iNDaQoaRMRKuXJg0qbvHEx0WQnY0xGtsz9t5gJaXtiQJbfX0JXqmsHthxtPxXs9p0TsryP9C52/s1600/Modern+skyscrapers+in+Frankfurt%2527s+banking+district.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIaK566zh9GLbzdTaIa3Gyo4zQtEmDvpuXlabJBx5Eu3mkzYHsOWuP0KRYAcKDhw3c8iNDaQoaRMRKuXJg0qbvHEx0WQnY0xGtsz9t5gJaXtiQJbfX0JXqmsHthxtPxXs9p0TsryP9C52/s200/Modern+skyscrapers+in+Frankfurt%2527s+banking+district.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Arrival and pick-up at <st1:place>Frankfurt</st1:place>
airport was flawless, as was the drive to the hotel on the no-speed-limit
autobahn (motorway).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed that the
neatness all around was, in no less measure, due to the absence of ugly
billboards that have blighted the skylines in our own cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An oddity compared to many other European
cities, <st1:place>Frankfurt</st1:place>’s high-rise glass and concrete buildings
were visible on the skyline from afar. With over 200 international and national
banks, as well as one of the world’s largest stock exchanges, <st1:place>Frankfurt</st1:place>
is indeed well-structured to be <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>’s largest
financial centre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While checking in at Le Méridien Park Hotel, I was surprised
by a classic blonde German-looking bellhop, for he was actually an Afghan who had
stayed as a refugee in <st1:city><st1:place>Peshawar</st1:place></st1:city> for
many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Umar, who could speak fluent
German as well as Urdu, turned out to be a handy guide during the stay at the
hotel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the domestics were done I hastened
to the city centre, for it was a Sunday and it would be fun to watch the
weekend revellers, as Umar suggested. While walking down the streets, I was pleased
to know that Germans continue to put up with my namesake, for quite a few roads,
plazas and apartment blocks carry that name. Wilhelm-I was proclaimed the
Kaiser (emperor) when <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>
was first unified into an integrated nation state in 1871. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is one of the few old-time leaders whose
name lives on in the city, despite zealous renaming of streets and squares in
post-war <st1:country-region><st1:place>Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">As soon as I stepped out of the hotel, I was overwhelmed by
the grandeur of the nearby 126-year old Frankfurt Central Station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why, I sadly rued, could we not similarly
preserve the splendour of our own 154-year old Lahore Railway Station and its
environs, now a messy reflection of its former colonial glory? Walking on <st1:street><st1:address>Münchener
Street</st1:address></st1:street>, which starts from the station, one could
be excused for thinking that this was somewhere in the <st1:place>Middle East</st1:place>;
almost every shop sells either Turkish or Arab food and groceries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Heading towards the Innenstadt (Inner City), I decided to
first walk along the green belt that forms its perimeter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cyclists could be seen pedalling in specially
marked cycle lanes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sunday was also a
day for showing off their exotic cars, and many a nutty motorist raced past in his
roaring convertible or coupe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stroll
on <st1:street><st1:address>Goethe Street</st1:address></st1:street> was
eye-dazzling,<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> as it has some of the
most prestigious fashion shops in the world, and caters to the rich and the
famous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being neither, I strode off to
the commoners’ city square marked by the Hauptwache (Guard House), once a
prison and now simply denoting the city centre. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A prominent landmark of the Innenstadt is the
baroque St Catherine’s Church, the largest Lutheran church in Frankfurt, which
stands in the midst of many modern buildings. Like all European inner cities,
the square was awash with holiday gaiety and liveliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Street musicians heartily played trumpets and
accordions for bystanders. A curious contraption seen in the square was the Velotaxi,
a three-wheeled cycle rickshaw cocooned in a light aerodynamic shell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was meant for tourists and could be taken
into pedestrian-only zones without any hassle.</span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Near the
Hauptwache is the famous MyZeil shopping mall, a modern glass-panelled
structure with its trademark vortice-like hollow on the façade, that almost seems
to suck one in. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mall houses over a
hundred stores, besides play areas, atriums and restaurants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It marks the beginning of the Zeil, Germany’s
most crowded, pedestrian-only shopping street, that has famous retail stores
selling items twice as expensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">On my way back
to the hotel, I was suddenly accosted by two Turkish-looking men who claimed to
be plainclothed police undercover agents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They promptly displayed their ID cards which seemed too blurred to be read
without glasses. In a bit of a tizzy, I asked them what they wanted. On being
unable to produce my passport, which I wasn’t carrying, they asked me if I had
cash on me. Ah, so this was my first-ever mugging, I realised!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I told them, with some derring-do, that
I was a military man, they asked if I had any ID. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On being shown one, they immediately
apologised, and said that drug peddlers usually had hordes of cash on them,
which is what they were checking for. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
told me that Taunus Street on which we were standing, was the seediest one in
Frankfurt, and that it was surprising that I was walking about merrily in such
a hazardous locale. One of them volunteered to escort me to the hotel, which
was not too far off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I thanked him
in Turkish – having a 20-word vocabulary – he was momentarily not sure if I was
an illegal immigrant, but finally replied back in good humour, saving me yet another
interrogation!</span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">N</span>ext morning, the
bus for Geisa arrived outside the hotel exactly five minutes before departure
time, reminding us of our precise military time-keeping of yesteryears. Since
public transport is quite efficient in Frankfurt, the traffic on the city roads
was not congested and we were soon on the autobahn. The beautiful views of
rolling hills and lush cultivated lands was often broken by patches of dense
forests. Soon after getting off the autobahn, we passed by Wasserkuppe, a small
mountain in whose shadow, glider pilots have flown for over a century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lately, paragliding has also become popular
as the thermals in the woodless valleys offer excellent soaring possibilities.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpf6xosv3YEbBN-9ngzKKRFep8AFu4VMvVIdSSARP6N-q4URhqwMDFJl6Ni6G7LIzQusWEhe51Jxfe_9JCc_mGCYIrHjnYf5c1XEZ1IJEExOOWwYbO52euyIuxO-y_1-Zwlch5Zd1tuJA/s1600/Geisa+castle+courtyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpf6xosv3YEbBN-9ngzKKRFep8AFu4VMvVIdSSARP6N-q4URhqwMDFJl6Ni6G7LIzQusWEhe51Jxfe_9JCc_mGCYIrHjnYf5c1XEZ1IJEExOOWwYbO52euyIuxO-y_1-Zwlch5Zd1tuJA/s200/Geisa+castle+courtyard.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">When we reached
Geisa, we were not expecting it to be a town as small as it was, with a
population of less than 2,800.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a quaint
little settlement with small terracotta-roofed houses, and neat cobblestone
streets. The town was heavily fenced and garrisoned when it was part of East
Germany. Now, Geisa is one of many small towns preferred by Germans, who want
to be away from the hectic life of big cities to which they commute only for
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were struck by the serenity of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Geisa’s city centre with its old market place,
town hall and dainty flower shops. Geisa seemed quite religious in its outlook
if one were to go by its 14 churches, one for every 200 inhabitants. In fact,
we could see church spires in small towns all through our trip, though that is not
necessarily an indicator of godliness in today’s Germany, or most of Europe,
for that matter.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">We were lodged
in what was once an eighteenth century castle, with its prison right across the
castle courtyard. The castle overlooked a mysterious wooded stretch which hid
the ruins of the town’s thousand-year old settlement of Gongolfiberg, as a
later walk in the woods revealed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The renovated
castle building is the seat of Point Alpha Foundation which holds memorial
conferences and organises tours to the Point Alpha Museum and memorial, a short
distance form Geisa. Point Alpha, once manned by the US forces, was the NATO
counterpart of Geisa, just as Wagah is to Attari in our context. We visited the
museum, which has dioramas of life in former East Germany under a stifling
communist dictatorship; it has many murals and photographs of people who managed
to cross the heavily guarded border and escaped into West Germany.</span></span></span> </div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Several days
were spent in the fields around Fulda Gap, poring over military terrain maps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not an unusual sight to see groups of
students and even senior citizens busy in similar study trips, though their
interests seemed more aligned with Nature than the military.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Rhon Biosphere Reserve, of which Geisa
and Fulda are a part, is among the biggest natural parks and recreation
landscapes of Central Europe. Its basalt plateaus, moors, forests and streams
are popular amongst hikers as well as bikers, who use specially designated
trails. There was no garbage to be seen anywhere, no billboards, and no
unsightly messages scrawled on rocks, as is the case in our mountainous
areas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Chitral Gol National Park and
Karakoram National Park could qualify as Biosphere Reserves (a title granted by
UNESCO for keeping Nature ‘intact’) but sadly, our people have neither the
learning nor the interest in preventing harm to the environment.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Our visit to
Geisa came to an end with a series of briefings in the castle’s modern conference
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we had learnt about NATO
defences against a sudden Soviet-led attack, the trip was also an excellent
sampling of a fast-paced Frankfurt and a laid back Geisa, with unspoilt Nature
seamlessly connecting the two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">A return to
Frankfurt was rounded off with a farewell dinner at a remarkable restaurant, a short
distance from our hotel. It was the </span>Druckwasserwerk Restaurant, which
was once an old water pumping station, at the edge of Main River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its cavernous interior, vaulted ceiling
and dimmed lighting, it beckons the honeymooning couples, as much as the golden
agers like us. After a sumptuous dinner, we walked back along the Main, and
parted on a unanimous note that few things could be more salubrious than a trip
into the heart of Germany.</span> </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 21 September 2014.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-47753069206078510402014-08-17T11:22:00.001+05:002016-10-13T08:22:30.901+05:00The Changing Kalash<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>aving been reading about the
fascinating Kalash people for over three decades, I finally got a chance to
visit some of their villages in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Bumborat</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place> this past June.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The visit, short as it was, focused on the
transformation that has taken place in the Kalash lifestyles over the
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My guide was a worldly-wise Mir
Azam, a fair blue-eyed Kalash, who worked in a Chitral hotel that I was staying
in. His utterly polite and cheerful demeanour seemed to indicate that he was at
peace with the world, quite like his Kalash folk, as I was to discover soon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Detouring off the Chitral-Dir road at Ayun, we constantly struggled
over the rock-strewn and potholed track, with Bumborat Gol (river) gushing in full
fury alongside. It was a wonder that our driver did not flinch once while
negotiating the perilous bends and precipitous climbs, as he drove an
ill-suited <st1:city><st1:place>Toyota</st1:place></st1:city> station wagon.
Approaching the first <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Anish</st1:placename></st1:place>,
I was surprised to see a bevy of young Kalash girls in traditional dresses, but
with their faces covered in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chadars</i>.
What had led to this new-found modesty? Mir Azam explained that times had
changed, pointing to a nearby <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">madrassah </i>and
a mosque. He said that some Kalash girls prefer to cover their faces when
passing through the main bazaar, though no such restraints apply in the
villages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explained that over the
years, many Kalash had converted to Islam of their own choice, and local
lifestyles had been influenced to some extent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no friction over such matters, however, as the Muslim converts
and the Kalash were all related, and a live-and-let-live attitude prevailed.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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of <st1:placename>Brun</st1:placename></st1:place>, we came across a
beautifully constructed multi-purpose building which serves as a primary
school, a dispensary and an ethnographic museum. It has been funded by a Greek NGO
which, obviously not well-versed in genetics, has associated the supposed stay-behinds
of Alexander’s army with the ancestors of the Kalash. The school had a sizeable
strength of neat little children in their traditional attire, and everything
about the premises was trim and orderly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was just in time to take pictures of shy giggling children as they
left school at pack-up. The educational standards have improved tremendously,
and a sizeable number of the Kalash children are finishing high school, I was
told.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mir Azam was eager to take me to his home in the <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Karakal</st1:placename></st1:place>, located a short
distance away at the south-western end of <st1:place><st1:placename>Bumborat</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove down to a dead end and walked to Mir
Azam’s two-room house on the first floor. The houses abutting the hillsides are
stacked in such a way that the roof of the lower house serves as the terrace of
the upper one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lady of the house was
unwell and would be back from the community quarantine after five days, Mir
Azam explained without much ado. His brother-in-law, a shepherd, along with his
wife, were the other occupants of the room which had four charpoys in the
corners, the arrangement almost mocking at the urbanites’ concept of privacy. The
room also served as a winter kitchen with a central hearth, and an adjacent
room housed the dry rations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mir Azam’s
delightful son, a four-year old named Wazir-e-Azam amused us with his antics.
His elder brothers are Mughal-e-Azam and Sikandar-e-Azam, the latter studying
in Class 10 at the <st1:place><st1:placename>English-medium</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Langland</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>School</st1:placetype></st1:place> in Chitral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was to meet Sikandar later in Chitral, and
was able to extract a promise from him that he would strive to be the first Kalash
officer in the armed forces or the civil services.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mir Azam then took me to the house of his cousin, a person
of sufficient means with a modern house. I was told that he hosted General
Musharraf for tea at his home during the latter’s visit to Karakal village. Musharraf
is fondly remembered for a grant that helped repair the derelict village
community centre, the Jestak-An, where funerals and annual festivals are held. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We visited the Jestak-An, an unlit hall with a central
hearth for lighting a fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cooking of
sacrificed goats, and burning of aromatic juniper sprigs are essential to the
festivities that take place here. The big door of the Jestak-An, flanked by a
pair of carved ram’s heads, was the only remarkable item and its interwoven
swirling patterns carved in walnut wood bespoke of superb craftsmanship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="color: black;">Sadly, Kalash woodwork is a lost art now, as
cheaper machine-crafted doors and other wares are easily available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, intricately carved wooden coffins
– which were once left out in the open in a cemetery – along with wooden totems
and effigies of the deceased, have all gone into disuse, as burials in the
ground are getting popular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cost of
wood as well as the workmanship has simply become unaffordable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only wooden item left on a gravesite is
an upturned <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">charpoy </i>on which the
deceased was brought for interment. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">W</span>alnut and mulberry trees are in abundance in <st1:place><st1:placename>Bumborat</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>, as are apricot and apple
trees. Grape vines readily clamber up every wall, pillar and trellis. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mulberry and grape have other bacchanalian uses
too, as I was soon to discover. Mir Azam suggested that we walk to his friend’s
house in Brun village, to which I readily agreed, as I would be able get a
closer look at yet another Kalash household.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As we entered Qamra Khan’s house, the salutation involving shaking of
hands and then kissing them, males and females alike, came as a bit of a
surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Austere as the house was, the
amiability of the occupants was overwhelming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As we settled down, Mir Azam was served a heady mulberry drink called <st1:place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tara</i></st1:place><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>while I settled for plain spring water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Qamra Khan had been one of the few Kalash men
who had served as a soldier in the Army and his home exuded discipline and
orderliness. A father of four girls and a boy, he was doing his best to educate
them properly. Two of his younger children, a boy and a girl, wanted to be
pilots. One of his daughters had converted to Islam and had married a man who
worked in a travel agency in <st1:city><st1:place>Peshawar</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Qamra told me that with a high school education,
young boys and girls did not want to work as shepherds or small-time farmers anymore,
and would rather move out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was glad
that his married daughter was happy, though her conversion caused some dismay
at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="color: black;">When I asked Qamra if marrying
off the remaining daughters was a responsibility of some kind, he told me that
fortunately, boys and girls find mates of their own choice, and parents have
little say in the matter in present times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mir Azam, high-spirited by now, added that during the upcoming Uchao autumn
harvest festival on 22 August, many eligible young couples would be tying the
knot during the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>dance and drink revelry.
Diana, Qamra Khan’s eldest daughter, who was within earshot, was quite delighted
at this prompt and hastened with another peg of<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> tara</i> for uncle Mir Azam.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As lunch time neared, we begged leave, though Qamra Khan’s
family insisted that we eat with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On promises of another visit with my wife in the near future, we were
let off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a moving gesture, the lady
of the house presented me with a hand-woven sash, signifying that I was now a
member of their household. Mir Azam explained that hand woven articles had a
special value nowadays, as these had been replaced by cheap machine woven
pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mass-produced women’s robes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(sanguch) </i>and men’s caps <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(pakol)</i> are now available in the local
bazaar. Hand-crafted silver jewellery, much prized in bygone days, is also a
rarity as silversmiths, like woodworkers and weavers, are a vanishing breed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">A</span>s we walked to the nearby Alexander Point Restaurant for
lunch, I was reminded how important it was to dig deep into the ancestry of
Kalash, and dispel the persistent Greek connection in the process. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could relate the Kalash to some specific geographical
locales on the basis of genetic hotspots that I had studied, having a keen
amateur interest in genetics.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Many studies have revealed that 75% of Kalash women belong
to European DNA haplogroups (unique groups) and 25% belong to Mid-Eastern/Caucasus
ones. Interestingly, the males belong to a more assorted grouping, including
South Asian (45%), Mid-Eastern/Caucasus (30%) and European (25%).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite obviously, outside males – including
South Asians, in recent times – have shown conjugal interest in these women of
European origin, as the male DNA studies clearly show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the genetic studies have found a
Greek strain, particularly amongst the males, who are purported to be the descendants
of Alexander’s army or the later Greek satraps that held sway in <st1:city><st1:place>Balkh</st1:place></st1:city>
(<st1:country-region><st1:place>Bactria</st1:place></st1:country-region>)
between 255-168 BC. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">A tantalising clue lies in the Kalash female mitochondrial DNA
lineages, of which the Haplogroup U4 is the ‘flagship’ group, with a high
incidence of 34% amongst Kalash women. This group is presently found in the faraway
Baltic and Scandinavian countries, as well as nearer to us, amongst the West
Siberian peoples north of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Kazakhstan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
In particular, the Khanty-Mansi people in the Russian autonomous republic of
that name, have a high incidence of U4 amongst their females.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An even more intriguing happenchance is the persisting
tradition of wooden totems and effigies made by the Kalash, which
are quite similar to those made by the Khanty-Mansi people . I am inclined to believe that
the Kalash originated in the northern reaches of <st1:place>Central Asia</st1:place>,
and moved south, possibly fearing the Hun, Parthian and Saka hordes that swept
into today’s <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
<st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region> and
<st1:place>Northern India</st1:place> around two millenia ago. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of these marauders found their calling in
subjugating, and then mixing with the local populace; others like the unassuming
Kalash, found the prospects of farming in remote water-fed valleys blissful
enough for a sedentary life that also helped preserve their unique culture and
beliefs. Only religious persecution in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
in the late 19th<sup> </sup><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>century drove
the Kalash into out-of-sight valleys, in what is now Chitral District.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hile the genetic imprint shall
stay forever etched in the genes of the Kalash, their culture and traditions
are fast changing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A subsistence economy
based on farming and animal husbandry is not durable enough to sustain the demands
of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>material culture they see around
them. Almost 10-15% households have satellite TV, and the buzz is that there
exists a magical world filled with every amenity, beyond their valleys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Educated children are unwilling to continue
the grind of the village life, simple and idyllic as it might be. Lastly, the
inroads made by Muslims, both converts and outside settlers, are influencing
the local mores and customs, and there is a clear change in the free-wheeling
ways of the Kalash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My estimate is that
within about two to three decades, Kalash culture would just be a page in
history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is nothing to rue about:
that is how history charts its way through the maze of time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 17 August 2014, under the title <strong>A Page in History.</strong></em></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-1413398002908353472014-05-19T09:11:00.001+05:002019-05-06T07:34:54.028+05:00Allure of the Bosphorus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">T</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">he Turkish Air Force had showcased itself splendidly during
the International Symposium on Air Warfare, held at the <st1:place><st1:placename>Air</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>War</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>College</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city> this April. With over 200
delegates from 60 countries to take care of, Turkish hospitality was at its legendary
best, and it was no wonder that the participants found the event to be an unqualified
success. The hectic days in the huge <st1:place><st1:placename>War</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>College</st1:placetype></st1:place> auditorium – one of the
most impressive I have seen – were quite thoughtfully rounded off with a gala
dinner by the Bosphorus waterside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A nippy
drizzle added to the allure of the shimmering waters, as we munched on
appetisers at a swank restaurant next to the <st1:place><st1:placename>Fatih</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Sultan</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Mehmet</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>
– commonly called the <st1:place><st1:placename>Second</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>
– on the Bosphorus. (Interestingly, the restaurant is run by <st1:place><st1:placename>Yildiz</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Technical</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and the profits are used to administer scholarships to needy students).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The meal was a multi-menu, multi-course
affair, low on fats but with enough harm for those with a sweet tooth, as the
Turkish<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> lokum</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">baklava </i>can be taken in heaps, unabashedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chai</i>
– always without milk – served from huge brass samovars by
traditionally-dressed waiters, completed the Ottoman gastronomy fest by the
Bosphorus. All that remained was a cruise down the strait, but we had to wait
till next morning, for the Turkish Air Force had planned a deluxe tour for us.</span></span></div>
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</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I peeped out of my window at daybreak, I saw a huge
pleasure craft anchored by the quayside of our beachfront hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thinking that some visiting Arab sheikhs were
ready to launch off on one of their pleasure jaunts, it took me a while to note
that the cruiser was surrounded by military police and coast guards; the likely
passengers were, hence, none but us!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was not long before we were ushered on to the triple-decker cruise craft by
smart Turkish Air Force escort officers. The weather was partly cloudy, which
was just as well to keep the reflected sunrays from discomforting us during the
planned three-hour cruise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he Bosphorus is a 31-km long channel that connects the <st1:place>Black
Sea</st1:place> to the north with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
inland Sea of Marmara to the south; the latter is in turn connected to the <st1:place>Mediterranean</st1:place>
through the <st1:place><st1:placename>Dardanelles</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Strait</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
The Bosphorus forms the boundary between <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> and <st1:place>Asia</st1:place>,
while also cleaving <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city> into
European and Asian parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we started
the tour, huge tankers could be seen plying through the Bosphorus, which at one
place narrows to a mere 700 metres and involves rather acute turns to
navigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During winter fog, navigation
through the channel can be extremely risky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Bosphorus has been notorious for accidents which have included
vessels running aground, collisions with other vessels, spillage of
petrochemicals and even the drowning of a consignment of 21,000 ill-fated sheep
into its waters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank goodness, we
didn’t have to be bothered about any mishap<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>as our senses were too overwhelmed by the allure of the scenic
Bosphorus. </span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our tour started from <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>’s
Sariyer locale towards the <st1:place>Black Sea</st1:place>, in a northerly direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The population started to thin out beyond
Sariyer and half an hour later, we were at the fringes of the vast <st1:place>Black
Sea</st1:place> that has lately been in the news due to the Crimean crisis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After notching up an ‘I was there’ claim, we
turned around and hugged the western bank, alongside the famous waterfront
properties. Known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yalli, </i>they
belong to the rich and the famous. We were told that the average price of the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> yalli</i> alongside the Bosphorus runs into
millions of liras, and one of them fetched the fourth highest price ever for a
waterfront villa, anywhere.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo39n8l_TNzzfVwU5WiSCUe2BkPt3csXL2gOJQoc-5e0oFrzdkqEY0_UvbWmDcTkf5AFLDtvsLwrXT1IIwPORJzPQ0_96KZSfLNnpFXvP-PkagCUpt691Ipzh4QbG3PMORpdKt50K20_NR/s1600/A+pleasure+craft+goes+past+Rumeli+Hisari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo39n8l_TNzzfVwU5WiSCUe2BkPt3csXL2gOJQoc-5e0oFrzdkqEY0_UvbWmDcTkf5AFLDtvsLwrXT1IIwPORJzPQ0_96KZSfLNnpFXvP-PkagCUpt691Ipzh4QbG3PMORpdKt50K20_NR/s200/A+pleasure+craft+goes+past+Rumeli+Hisari.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpn-TDtwHhH0smCpKHS7ZU5sasEwpE0JvOoUAGwi8Z1XeZL_RwU_Uq5M9XldalnXHtpsF688IBhG029XDk05vgUlLfTlYCH6jUPVEVLKjD7gvT_JnoVaJRC5tKUHLCp0mjVieg0MOfdhyH/s1600/A+pleasure+craft+goes+past+Rumeli+Hisari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On the way south, we went past the <st1:place><st1:placename>Fatih</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Sultan</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Mehmet</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
in whose vicinity we had dined the previous night. Half a kilometre from the
bridge is the Rumeli Hisari, a fortress built by Sultan Mehmet in 1452, shortly
before his conquest of the Byzantine capital <st1:place>Constantinople</st1:place>
(<st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city> of today).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An earlier attempt by his predecessor to
capture the capital had been stymied, due to a blockade of the Bosphorus by the
Byzantine fleet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the event, the
fortress garrison proved useful in warding off any maritime threat, and Sultan
Mehmet was successful in bringing down the <st1:place>Byzantine Empire</st1:place>
after all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Rumeli Hisari and the
modern bridge evoked recollections of our Attock Fort and the adjacent bridge
over <st1:place><st1:placename>Kabul</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
though the similarities did not go much beyond the placid riverine scenery
against a hilly backdrop. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As we approached the <st1:place><st1:placename>Bosphorus</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place> (or the <st1:place><st1:placename>First</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>, as it is commonly known), I
started to look out for the beautiful Grand Mejidiye Mosque at Ortakoy, a
locale quite popular with the tourists. The Neo-Baroque style mosque completed
in 1856, had been under repair for the last several years. During my previous
visit three months earlier, I had heard that it would be inaugurated in April
after renovation was complete. Unfortunately work was still continuing, and
scaffolding obscured what might have been a most mesmerising sight of the
waterfront mosque, that is best viewed from a boat in the Bosphorus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">S</span>ultan Abdul Mejid-I, we are told, was not too pleased to
learn that European palaces were far grander than Topkapi, where previous Ottoman
Sultans had resided for four centuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lacking style and luxury, Topkapi was to be abandoned in favour of a new
palace along the Bosphorus. Completed in 1856, the <st1:place><st1:placename>Dolmabache</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> was a huge drain on the
Ottoman economy, what with 35 tonnes of gold and the richest furnishings,
carpets and chandeliers lavishing its interior. I had been awed by the interior
of the palace during an earlier visit, but what was left to savour was its
magnificent view from the Bosphorus. This time around, we cruised past the vast
palace, imagining the Sultans and their harem populace cavorting in an earthly
garden of Eden. Alas, the construction of the magnificent palace had
contributed to the weakening of the Ottoman treasury; the opulent lifestyle and
luxury of the court could last a mere 68 years before the Empire disintegrated
in 1924.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today the showpiece of the
decaying Empire is a major tourist attraction both from within, and from the
banks of the Bosphorus. </span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2odAJ35UttiFE4q95E9zGzLroiKfx1Ma1biG-VKGmDn3O7-JxX6TevFJ0GQ3yyikxQRn_vrW7X_drUrFoibTmimrMoFqzDhKl2ubxEp26aNYS5jPKmNgQgh4eyPmDiSMQeHxpoSG25D9/s1600/Maiden%2527s+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2odAJ35UttiFE4q95E9zGzLroiKfx1Ma1biG-VKGmDn3O7-JxX6TevFJ0GQ3yyikxQRn_vrW7X_drUrFoibTmimrMoFqzDhKl2ubxEp26aNYS5jPKmNgQgh4eyPmDiSMQeHxpoSG25D9/s200/Maiden%2527s+Tower.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ImjvPSat0j0/U3l5dqSjp2I/AAAAAAAAA54/3T5q7VeSFIw/s1600/Maiden's+Tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Still within sight of <st1:place><st1:placename>Dolmabache</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>, we felt quite like the
Sultans as our pleasure craft was being outridden by Coast Guards speedboats that
were ensuring a security cordon all around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was past mid-day and lunch was announced. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a rich and lavish menu to choose from, we
sampled a bit of every offering from the Turkish cuisine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hearty fill was good fuel topping too, for
we had another four hours to walk through Istanbul’s historic quarters, once
ashore. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our boat zigzagged the final
lap, going past a legendary lighthouse known as the Maiden’s Tower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sited on an islet, it is purported to have
been an ancient Customs tower later converted into an observation post by Fatih
Sultan Mehmet following the siege of <st1:place>Constantinople</st1:place>. It
was reconstructed after a fire had gutted the older structure. Today it serves
as a lighthouse as well as a popular café, and private boats make regular trips
for an evening soiree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was
a good idea to disembark there for a cup of coffee, but with no private boat to
wait on me, I joined the rest of the crowd for the trip that remained to be
covered on foot.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIAKzo4MEobr2aWUw85qjd_Et_WkUxQjT9gWfQQ-5LGorarGj_2Cymixy3TNCzJh6oOdbAIK3CYhS4UiMmVJ2aro8_r_JO9oJ88l8Xec5_67lXI4Txxk9JEbtCMyz9huoGgj9tyybuuiy/s1600/IMG_20140412_144626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Bosphorus cruise ended at an exclusive pier just next
to <st1:place><st1:placename>Topkapi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
from where we disembarked and walked across for a guided tour of the
palace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After doing Topkapi, we moved on
to Hagia Sofia, the grand Eastern Orthodox cathedral commissioned by the
Byzantine Emperor Justinian and completed in 537. The third ‘must-see’ site was
the nearby Sultan Ahmet Mosque (also known as Blue Mosque) completed in 1616.
We could see the mosque rather briefly, for the caretaker took his time to give
us a historical rundown, along with a takeaway sermon. We learnt of an
interesting snippet, that the five daily calls to prayer are chanted in five
different tonal variants, so as to keep the faithful attracted to the religious
duty. The caretaker claimed that the congregations had grown ever since this
new innovation had been incorporated!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A full day it was, but the trip was most enjoyable as most
of the sites that I had seen earlier from inside, had now been viewed from the
shimmering waters of the Bosphorus. If a traveller has just one day to spare in
<st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>, a cruise on the
Bosphorus, followed by a visit to the three grand structures in the historical
quarter, is highly recommended for capturing the essence of <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 11 May 2014.</em></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-43843007332707302682014-03-10T09:57:00.001+05:002016-10-14T08:20:52.072+05:00Istanbul Today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span> drive from <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
airport to the hotel started with a polite permission by the taxi driver to
turn the radio on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My nod triggered a
husky but sonorous voice that streamed out of the speakers, most sensually. “She
is Ebru Gundesh. Have you heard her songs before?” the driver asked me in
passable English. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I could answer
him, he lowered the volume in deference to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">azaan</i>
blaring out of loudspeakers from a nearby mosque, and swiped his face with
cupped hands while muttering holy verses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was quite in contrast to my last visit to
Istanbul over a decade ago when, on more than one occasion, even my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salaam </i>greetings were answered with
raised eyebrows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A regional security workshop was to start two days later,
so I had time to sample the neighbourhood of Beshiktash district, an upscale
area of Istanbul in which our hotel was located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A walk down the <st1:street><st1:address>Chiraghaan
Street</st1:address></st1:street> on the western banks of <st1:place>Bosporus</st1:place>
took me to Ortakoy, a locale once famous for its cosmopolitan outlook, with
Jews, Orthodox Greek Christians and Armenians (all since emigrated), living in
harmony with the majority Muslims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
went past the Ayos Fokas Orthodox Church as well as the Ezt Ahayim Synagogue,
which are located not far from the beautiful 19<sup>th</sup> century baroque Majidiye
Mosque, by the coastal pier of Ortakoy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
rain and lashing winds on a cold January morning, tourists had started to
congregate at the pier. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shops serving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lokum</i> (a Turkish sweetmeat that is a useful
complement to the hellishly bitter <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kahva</i>),
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">falafels, kebabs</i> and fruit cocktails,
were ready for their daily business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
majestic <st1:place><st1:placename>Bosporus</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>
formed a picture perfect backdrop while the morning fog still hung in the air. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDfeIbByNs7J2aT-Y2g5jXF7iqlWsDklgbuIrp4vmv5hCjVN0xFlFDbPlxZzBe78L8tJYaTorDJ_IZbXfryOaxBaiQbRgr4NLlCPutIfetik9yi01wDDel0Wi9VRBdazw1Op7bKgRDro1/s1600/Chiraghaan+Palace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDfeIbByNs7J2aT-Y2g5jXF7iqlWsDklgbuIrp4vmv5hCjVN0xFlFDbPlxZzBe78L8tJYaTorDJ_IZbXfryOaxBaiQbRgr4NLlCPutIfetik9yi01wDDel0Wi9VRBdazw1Op7bKgRDro1/s200/Chiraghaan+Palace.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On my way back, I walked past the imposing <st1:place><st1:placename>Chiraghaan</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>, now leased out as a
heritage hotel. With plenty of time at hand, I decided to visit the sprawling <st1:place><st1:placename>Yildiz</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, which is very similar to the <st1:place><st1:placename>Shakarparian</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city><st1:place>Islamabad</st1:place></st1:city>.
Except for some anxious moments caused by a pack of stray dogs whose intentions
I could not read clearly, the outing in the park was absolutely salubrious. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like the rest of the city, the park was as
clean as it could be; beautifully laid out petunia flower beds caused a delightful
riot of colours. The rain had picked up again, so I decided to take a taxi to
Nishantashi, a posh street with all the ritzy fashion and glamour shops located
there.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Out of my carefully rehearsed vocabulary of a dozen Turkish
words, I chose the right ones to tell the taxi driver of my intended
destination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, he took me for a
local and started off a monologue, which I thought wise to interject with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">evet </i>(yes) at regular intervals. Reaching
<st1:street><st1:address>Nishantashi Street</st1:address></st1:street>, the
driver asked me where exactly did I wish to go. Having run out of the right
words for further instructions, I blurted out <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tamaam</i> (okay, enough). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
fluke couldn’t have worked better, for he was immensely pleased with his
passenger, but my abrupt disclosure about being a Pakistani evoked such
amazement that he did the double handshake, and froze in the hands-on-heart act
for a while. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Men and women clad mostly in jeans and jackets were to be
seen in equal numbers, testifying to a high level of women’s participation in
the work force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>number of women smoking cigarettes, but this
habit could be endemic to the trendy locality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At most shops, getting by in English was not a problem, unlike a decade
ago, when Turkish was the preferred language everywhere. The demands of
economic development, including the ability to converse with global business
partners, as well as the ability of Turks to compete in the international job
markets has led to a premium on learning foreign languages, principally English
and German.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">W</span>ith the biological clock skewed, I was up at <st1:time hour="5" minute="0">5:00</st1:time> on most mornings. A good way to while away
time was to get done with the domestics, and take a walk to the nearby
Beshiktash Pier, from where ferries ply to and from Uskadar across the <st1:place>Bosporus</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old men would be at the pier to feed the
gulls just as in movies, or would simply huddle up on the benches watching the
fog lift up and reveal the Asian side of the city beyond the waters. By the
time I’d walk back to the hotel, the bus stops would be crowded with people
ready to start another work day. I saw two parks where open air exercise
machines had been installed, and men and women were busy with some morning
bending and stretching.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The traffic in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
is quite orderly, helped by an excellent road network all over the city. Discipline
on the roads is notable, and is a reflection of the overall discipline one
expects in a people who are highly educated. I also wondered if it had anything
to do with the men folk having been through compulsory military service. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
metro bus, which inspired the one at <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>,
is very popular, with packed Mercedes buses plying all over the city in
designated bus lanes. Taxis, mostly Fiat models, are available at reasonable
rates, with high-tech digital meters visible in the rear-view mirrors. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>European cars are as popular as Japanese
models, most being manufactured or assembled locally. Mercifully, motorcycle
menace as seen on our roads is almost non-existent in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>;
the few that are spotted occasionally belong to courier services or pizza
deliverymen, with a lone rider going about his business fully kitted like the
Knight Rider of the TV series.</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z49V_A3OD0g/WABOTmi__6I/AAAAAAAADqY/DgDoJD2pTCAC3d-o8_zD2hBuNBhiMGXrwCEw/s1600/Beshiktash%2BSquare%2Bwith%2BSinan%2BPasha%2BMosque%2Bin%2Bbackground.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z49V_A3OD0g/WABOTmi__6I/AAAAAAAADqY/DgDoJD2pTCAC3d-o8_zD2hBuNBhiMGXrwCEw/s200/Beshiktash%2BSquare%2Bwith%2BSinan%2BPasha%2BMosque%2Bin%2Bbackground.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
attacting the bulk of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
45 million annual tourists, the city gives a festive and cosmopolitan look at
all times of the year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>National flags and
buntings can be seen displayed on roadsides, shops and apartment blocks on any
given day, giving the impression of perpetual national day celebrations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A good place to sample the nationalistic
pride is at the <st1:street><st1:address>Barbarossa Square</st1:address></st1:street>,
adjacent to Beshiktash Pier and the <st1:place><st1:placename>Naval</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The Ottoman Admiral
Khairuddin Barbarossa’s statue is flanked by Turkish flags and the square is
bedecked with several naval cannon. The nearby Sinan Pasha mosque evokes the
grandeur of Ottoman times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
evenings, street musicians attract crowds who revel in the glory of their much
adored city.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One notes many subtle changes in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>,
though much of it remains as it has under a secular dispensation for nine
decades – liberal, to the point of being irreverent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The present Islamic leaning government has
been in power in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Turkey</st1:place></st1:country-region>
for 12 years, and has struggled to balance the increasingly materialistic
culture of a free market enterprise, with the moderating influence of Islam
that stresses a more austere lifestyle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ottoman-era mosques that were once locked in the not-too-distant past,
have been renovated majorly and are in full service, though seldom overcrowded.
Nonetheless, if the high decibel level of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">azaan</i>
and the increasing numbers of women in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hijab</i>
are any indicators of piety, secularism is facing some challenges in modern day
<st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">C</span>leansing one’s soul and uniting it with Allah is the
ultimate aim of sufis, and this spiritual journey is expressed by the
well-known dance of the ‘whirling dervishes’. Though the centre of Sufism is at
<st1:city><st1:place>Konya</st1:place></st1:city>, the dance is performed for
the benefit of tourists at major cities, including <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One evening, the participants of the workshop
decided to attend the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sema’a</i> (listening)
as it is known. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took taxis to Sirkeji
area of the historical peninsula where the Hodja Pasha Hammam (public bath) is
located. The 550-year old Ottoman-era hammam has been restored as a dance
theatre, and is quite popular with tourists and locals alike.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sema’a</i>
started with a series of supplications and ‘salutes’ by five dervish dancers,
with music and chanting provided by an ensemble of four men, and surprisingly,
a woman at the drums. The much awaited whirling started after about fifteen
minutes and continued with frequent pauses for salutes. The ceremony was rather
slow and repetitive, and to most of us, the only wonder was that the dancers
had not lost their spatial orientation after whirling for nearly an hour. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sema’a</i> was rounded off with a most apt
verse of the Quran: “The East and the West belong to Allah and wherever you
turn, you are faced with Him”. As we were leaving after the performance, we
found a crowd ready for the next show – this time, a raunchy belly dance! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sacred and the profane still seem
inseparably intertwined in <st1:city><st1:place>Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>
today.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #ffefe0;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published
in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 9 Jan 2014, under the title <strong>Istanbul Ten Years On.</strong></em></span><br />
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-16678988420019577942013-12-01T08:57:00.000+05:002016-10-14T17:22:39.986+05:00Sibipura, Ancient Shorkot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he rather unremarkable town of <st1:city><st1:place>Shorkot</st1:place></st1:city>
is usually associated with the nearby Rafiqui Air Base. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many an Air Force officer has had a heartburn
on hearing of posting to a place that is sizzling hot, off the beaten track,
and has little to show except a rustic landscape interspersed with odd groves
of date palms. Shorkot stands as a last outpost of fertile <st1:place>Punjab</st1:place>,
west of which lies the cheerless <st1:place><st1:placename>Thal</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Desert</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The two contrasting eco-regions
are separated by the <st1:place><st1:placename>Chenab</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
which meanders a few miles west of the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Except for the roar of supersonic fighters flying overhead, life seems
slow as the bullock carts steadily wend their way past an eroding mound, around
which Shorkot town sprawls today. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rising
80-odd feet above the adjacent buildings and surrounding fields, the lofty
mound known locally as a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bhir,</i> is
square in shape, testifying to obvious human intervention in what was once a massive
natural outcrop of mud-rock. What remains of the mound after erosion by
elements and encroachment by land-grabbers, measures about 11 hectares in area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I first saw the mound many years ago, my
query as to what the structure might be was promptly answered by a passer-by, “Sikander-i-Azam
ka qil’a”. Always a little sceptical of Alexander’s overblown exploits – at
least in what is now <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
– I decided to dig deeper, so to speak.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">An appointment with a local
school teacher, the late Mr Jamil Bhatti, saw me at his house at the foot of
the mound. An amateur collector of artefacts from the mound, Bhatti had become
an authority of sorts on Shorkot’s antiquity. Since the mound is not an
officially protected monument, Bhatti thought it proper to collect various
items that surfaced after rains, which would otherwise have been pillaged by
the locals – a practice that continues, nonetheless. He had converted his
living room into a little museum, in which were displayed several copper and
bronze utensils, numerous coins, a large quantity of beads and the usual terra
cotta potsherds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His collection (now
displayed at the newly constructed, private <st1:place><st1:placename>Lyallpur</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>) has been a convenient
source for determining the chronology of the site, at least at the upper levels
of occupation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Archaeologist and anthropologist Jonathan
Mark Kenoyer, the premier authority on the Indus Valley Civilisation, has had a
look at Bhatti’s collection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his
book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ancient South Asian World</i>,
Kenoyer postulates that agate and carnelian prayer beads with painted stripes
similar to the ones shown by Bhatti, became common in <st1:place>Northern India</st1:place>
around 600 BC. Similarly, he thinks that the multi-coloured glass beads found
at the Shorkot mound are similar to the ones found in Greece and the
Mediterranean area; these may have been brought in by Persian traders as well
as Greek mercenaries hired by Persians when Cyrus the Great conquered parts of
Afghanistan, northern Indus Valley and the Punjab between 558-529 BC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Greek figurines and coins found at the site
indicate that some Greek soldiers may even have settled at the site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next time you spot an olive-skinned and hazel-eyed
local from Shorkot, you wouldn’t be wrong in assigning him a Mediterranean
pedigree! </span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Much later in 326 BC, Alexander
is said to have passed by Shorkot on his way out of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
along the <st1:place><st1:placename>Indus</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
His army would, however, have been too fatigued and in much of a haste to tarry
longer than a few days. After all, his incessant campaigns had lasted several years
and had taken their toll. This was evidenced by a mutiny of his exhausted troops
when Alexander was prevented from campaigning in the Indian heartland, after
hitting <st1:place><st1:placename>Beas</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>.
It is, therefore, unlikely for these later Greeks to have left behind any enduring
biological or material vestiges during their fleeting passage out of <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>n 1906, some men digging the
foundations of a house near the mound, chanced upon a number of copper and iron
utensils of considerable antiquity and uncommon design. The artefacts were
acquired by <st1:place><st1:placename>Lahore</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
and were catalogued and properly cleaned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was only noticed then, that a mid-sized copper cauldron (not too
different from our ‘degs’) measuring 21” in height and 22” in diameter had a Sanskrit
inscription on its shoulder. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Written in Brahmi
script, it reads: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“The Year 83, (the
month of) Magha, the bright fifth day, dedicated by the administrator Buddha-daso-thapita
(Buddha’s appointed slave) to the community of monks of the universal Sarvastivadi
Order belonging to the Radhika Monastery in Holy Sibipura”.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Gupta year mentioned corresponds to 403 AD
which was the peak of the Golden Age of Guptas. A similar copper vessel found
in a monastery near Tarbela in 2000 attests to a Gupta cultural imprint, as far
as the Gandhara domains centered around Taxila-Tarbela area.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The citadel of Shorkot housing
the monastery thus marks an important religious, and possibly the political
centre of Sibi country, Sibi being a prominent tribe often mentioned in Sanskrit
literature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sibi people (also written as
Sivi) are mentioned in Rigveda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Jat
clan by the name of Sibia, still exists in <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
today.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnGQAney2oF0kuXIbF7Qja1BFnK4m-G8AY5E4586ifLBWXcQwnaqTN4WeZU2Z6mYDCkmf0v1t2kZuvHjmK_2tQqAwJsfMeYn87Z6XMroG_LMAcFrOwK228R0fMZkANfR1Qp0JJi0zmU1e/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnGQAney2oF0kuXIbF7Qja1BFnK4m-G8AY5E4586ifLBWXcQwnaqTN4WeZU2Z6mYDCkmf0v1t2kZuvHjmK_2tQqAwJsfMeYn87Z6XMroG_LMAcFrOwK228R0fMZkANfR1Qp0JJi0zmU1e/s200/2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While the Ayodhya-based Guptas
had overrun much of central <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
present day <st1:place>Punjab</st1:place>, Sindh and Rajasthan remained feudal
tributaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To keep the annual tribute
from the Sibis flowing, as also to keep an eye on possible Persian forays, a
frontier garrison at the western-most limit of Gupta influence was in order.
The Shorkot citadel may, thus, have been the handiwork of any of the first
three Gupta Kings under whose rule, the Gupta Empire continued to expand. Evidence of this citadel appears as a baked brick circular bastion,
besides other brick structures towards the north-western side that have been
exposed by rain erosion, as well as earth removal by the locals.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>s Bhatti took me for a walk
around the mound, he confided that he owed part of his collection to his school
children. “They are allowed to go off from classes and hunt for coins and other
artefacts that wash down whenever it rains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You have seen the results”, he continued, almost urging me for an endorsement
of his unusual methods. I did agree that the interest of the youngsters in
archaeology must have increased manifold with such field research!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">According to Bhatti, the Shorkot
mound had been disgorging artefacts from times immemorial, and his hunch was
that his city represented the continuing Harappan tradition after the functional
order of the <st1:place><st1:placename>Indus</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
cities had broken down. He hoped that more organised archaeological work could
be undertaken at his cherished site.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The erudite Kenoyer (who interestingly,
speaks Urdu and Punjabi with relish) explains that the social and political state
of affairs of the Indus Valley Civilisation started to ‘transform’ after about 1900
BC, known as the Late Harappan Era. This was due to complex processes of change,
including overextension of economic and political networks and changing river
patterns along with periodic floods, that disrupted the agricultural base of
its major centres of production. This transition from an integrated and
centralised political structure of the Mature Harappan Era (2600-1900 BC), to numerous
competing local polities continued till about 600 BC, when various Indian and
foreign dynasties started to take hold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
Kenoyer’s words, these were ‘multiple centres of influence’ compared to the
earlier ‘integrated’ order.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shorkot,
like over 200 similar sites in Pakistani Punjab that are marked by prehistoric
mounds, attests to this localisation of the Harappan tradition. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will have to wait for the Department of
Archaeology to organise a digging project in earnest, to be sure about Shorkot
mound being rooted deep in the Late Harappan Era.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKu20iKfkexVLD8ADRtCSOEIILKxmmePJNcP4Ym9gleGOXMXxbAE9rLho9zx1A-2w9Jgvf0R-S4NJMzDh_aLny5qLqkD-3AGWWtH5xD9OkF4wdwA5W3fPRO-xTRbiJQLqurlPgPA55Yh8/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKu20iKfkexVLD8ADRtCSOEIILKxmmePJNcP4Ym9gleGOXMXxbAE9rLho9zx1A-2w9Jgvf0R-S4NJMzDh_aLny5qLqkD-3AGWWtH5xD9OkF4wdwA5W3fPRO-xTRbiJQLqurlPgPA55Yh8/s200/5.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>his brief Sibipura narrative
would have remained incomplete if I hadn’t seen and described the copper vessel
that was supposed to be lying at the <st1:place><st1:placename>Lahore</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I was, however,
disappointed to learn that there was no trace of it and the senior staff told
me that, “it must have been transferred to <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
in 1947”! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite obviously something was badly
amiss, since I had read a research paper written in 2004 by Harry Falk of the <st1:place><st1:placetype>Institute</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Indian Philology</st1:placename></st1:place> at the <st1:place><st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename>Berlin</st1:placename></st1:place>, in which he says this about
the vessel: “Today it is on display in the <st1:place><st1:placename>Lahore</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>”. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To me, it was more than just an empty cooking cauldron that
was dedicated to the monks of Radhika Monastery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would like to think that it contained a lavishly
cooked offering for religious purposes; perhaps it was saffron coloured rice
sweetened with brown sugar (‘gurr’) – complete with a garnish of coconut
slivers and luscious raisins – which the monks had partied on. Would not that
event in Sibipura make it one of the oldest recorded instances of ‘deg
charrhana’, I wondered?</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></span></div>
</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was
published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 1 Dec, 2013 under the title <strong>Walking Around an Ancient Mound.</strong></em></span></div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-83841487866689817052013-08-18T09:13:00.001+05:002016-10-15T09:26:28.081+05:00Mystery Fort in the Indus Delta<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqv32Q5BMmRwiM8AxbvKcH0v41mHGhEjdtFVSc7KsBwwWiYATQV1QL3-S4LRDi5v0N2ugSkCzGumw3TDu9ENyJNnA4l9cjx4ZmQRLwhNKFmPl8ZGD-MXwUlUxkPLNPCt4DoU1MQWt-coz/s1600/Satellite+picture+of+fort+at+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqv32Q5BMmRwiM8AxbvKcH0v41mHGhEjdtFVSc7KsBwwWiYATQV1QL3-S4LRDi5v0N2ugSkCzGumw3TDu9ENyJNnA4l9cjx4ZmQRLwhNKFmPl8ZGD-MXwUlUxkPLNPCt4DoU1MQWt-coz/s200/Satellite+picture+of+fort+at+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span> couple of years ago, while
observing satellite pictures of the Indus Delta, I spotted a tiny reddish speck
on one of the islands. Zooming in, I noticed that it looked like the remains of
a square fort-like structure. Its location on a marshy mangrove island
confounded me no end, and megabytes of Googling could not help me come up with
an answer. I consulted my friend Adil Mulki, who is basically a banker but with
a flair for excellent research on anything of historical interest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew of the island and the remains of a
fort on it, but was equally unsure about its origins, so we decided that on the
next opportunity we should explore the place together. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhES8Hw5BCRVLrOnI8bpCyB84ccCUdK1rztYFWISVxMq3ZsKjUvZ8fJPxwrpMS4Sog9UUj8d_9H1HMsgiDcaA0ZWOOqaPURJGOTwNw5EaEE4XxuzaCszz-a0XPSONPYrg_lKtWnU9UqKQuB/s1600/In+the+creeks+at+the+crack+of+dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhES8Hw5BCRVLrOnI8bpCyB84ccCUdK1rztYFWISVxMq3ZsKjUvZ8fJPxwrpMS4Sog9UUj8d_9H1HMsgiDcaA0ZWOOqaPURJGOTwNw5EaEE4XxuzaCszz-a0XPSONPYrg_lKtWnU9UqKQuB/s200/In+the+creeks+at+the+crack+of+dawn.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That opportunity
came last February, when I was visiting <st1:city><st1:place>Karachi</st1:place></st1:city>.
Adil had done some meticulous planning for the trip, attending to each and
every detail, including coordination with the boatman, and arranging for a load
of fruit, snacks and plenty of bottled water. He had also roped in his friend
Sharjeel Ahmed for bigger company. Our initial destination was Bhanbore, to
which we set off in Adil’s car early at <st1:time hour="5" minute="0">5 o’clock</st1:time>
in the morning; after a little over an hour we reached Bhanbore via the <st1:street><st1:address>National
Highway</st1:address></st1:street>. The car was parked in a shed near the
small jetty, and we promptly transferred the eatables in the boat that was
waiting for us by the banks of a muddy creek. The diesel engine puttered to a
noisy start and continued to rattle our ear drums till we got back in the
evening. No luxury yacht, our boat reeked of dried fish and diesel fumes, and was
dirty as a gutter but we couldn’t complain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, one couldn’t expect much from the crew
of the boat, themselves wretched souls like many others plying the Indus Delta.</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDjACl498_Nl9DKP09QQEc3sbcCbNUXzOAbXSbVFbZ4Y-bMEjoyeh9PeXBJcg1pBgHsUbJm77vEh8Ox0mp7_EmgNVW_w6pSLCZ0DSvv87UIC1A_FQwBpJHuIdRbmCEZngGe7B4Jjlr422/s1600/Boat+route+from+Bhanbore+to+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDjACl498_Nl9DKP09QQEc3sbcCbNUXzOAbXSbVFbZ4Y-bMEjoyeh9PeXBJcg1pBgHsUbJm77vEh8Ox0mp7_EmgNVW_w6pSLCZ0DSvv87UIC1A_FQwBpJHuIdRbmCEZngGe7B4Jjlr422/s200/Boat+route+from+Bhanbore+to+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We were headed
to Jhaki Bandar which is, supposedly, a port of sorts on the island and a mere
20-km as the tern flies from Bhanbore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Meandering around the creeks, however, it is 35-km away. The Indus Delta
is a placid network of waterways, thick with silt picked up by Indus River during its traverse of 3,180-kms, starting from its source at Senge Khabab in
western <st1:country-region><st1:place>Tibet</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the delta, this silt forms mangroves
swamps with a rich aquatic bird life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Curious-looking
darters and cormorants perched on mangrove branches could be seen drying their
outspread wings, absolutely motionless almost like cardboard cutaways. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for the boat’s outboard motor, nothing
seems to have changed since ages and the scene around us could well be harking
back to several millennia.</span><br />
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEt2P2dCVg_8XCB9Nrw2chRjxMtwMLMBz4Qpf46KH4q8xy6Ii_GGeeb-1Tj6xxtKuh4BxN5KuOEyjwDvSLTQ77z2XwugM4oVdQYWfrfae_6rplVCC0xBvxF4WUqgBiQASVWogAVhoxOl_/s1600/The+ruins+of+the+fort+as+they+appear+from+a+kilometre+away.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEt2P2dCVg_8XCB9Nrw2chRjxMtwMLMBz4Qpf46KH4q8xy6Ii_GGeeb-1Tj6xxtKuh4BxN5KuOEyjwDvSLTQ77z2XwugM4oVdQYWfrfae_6rplVCC0xBvxF4WUqgBiQASVWogAVhoxOl_/s200/The+ruins+of+the+fort+as+they+appear+from+a+kilometre+away.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It took us three-and-a-half
hours to get to Jhaki Bandar, and it was a while before we reoriented ourselves.
The ruins of the fort stood out as a low red wall from a distance. A fishing
boat was docked nearby and there was no sign of a port or any other structure,
for that matter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jhaki Bandar, we
concluded was just a way station where the fishermen stopped to refuel from
their jerry cans, or stopped to cook some sea food for lunch.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The
boat was stopped short of the muddy beach with barge poles, and we all got off
with our trousers rolled up to the knees, trudging a few yards in what was
water, then sludge and finally soggy land. It was decided to first take a
walking tour of the fort walls, utterly ruined as they were. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLNpEBrkGxt5JLKT0N1LQrexOG1BbsV8V-vuMdJHVv5bT7gXa2ICHhs0GnfMRp8x7DMkEXVW15GKNePBPpHhyphenhyphenpoukTNDY7ptszKzeDNIsE1cZVWypxtJ7W5c2jofZJOdnAND6kJgdqM13/s1600/Wall+of+the+fort+showing+remnants+of+a+bastion.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLNpEBrkGxt5JLKT0N1LQrexOG1BbsV8V-vuMdJHVv5bT7gXa2ICHhs0GnfMRp8x7DMkEXVW15GKNePBPpHhyphenhyphenpoukTNDY7ptszKzeDNIsE1cZVWypxtJ7W5c2jofZJOdnAND6kJgdqM13/s200/Wall+of+the+fort+showing+remnants+of+a+bastion.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At their base
the baked brick walls are about one metre thick, and the height of what remains
of the walls is about two metres at most. The bricks were quite unusual, being
about the size and thickness of an average paperback novel, similar to Mughal
bricks but somewhat larger.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The square fort
has sides roughly 100 metres in length, with four corner bastions and another
eight in pairs on each wall. The south-eastern quarter of the fort indicates
the remains of what may have been several rooms. The fort opens to the East and
is located at the tip of a triangle whose base is formed by a line joining the
towns of Gharo and Mirpur Sakro, about 22-km away at the perpendicular. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The area between
the Eastern wall and the beach is littered with thousands of potsherds. The
designs painted on the terra-cotta pottery include zigzag patterns, six-spoked
circles, inter-locking S-shaped motifs and chevrons. Some of the designs were
etched instead of being painted. Many glazed pottery pieces with blue painted
patterns on a white background could be also be seen. No human or animal motifs
were visible on the potsherds. Intriguingly, more than one object could be interpreted
as a lingam. Many perforated pottery pieces, similar to the colanders seen at
Harappan sites, were also visible in the debris.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObgm5HtXXMXXE80a2pxCRcxm7trZTizcSNbRx0ZX2VFicly_RtmZsarzn6E0b1Hzcm61rL7OBdf6LCdJURfr0YAMoYC-ajgJJq3ZtIh7HJM9V0djURxnkh3tIbqkdJmXyVbCJ1MXch2k7/s1600/A+punch-marked+%2527coin%2527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObgm5HtXXMXXE80a2pxCRcxm7trZTizcSNbRx0ZX2VFicly_RtmZsarzn6E0b1Hzcm61rL7OBdf6LCdJURfr0YAMoYC-ajgJJq3ZtIh7HJM9V0djURxnkh3tIbqkdJmXyVbCJ1MXch2k7/s200/A+punch-marked+%2527coin%2527.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Potsherds were
the major debris seen at the site. An exception was a round metallic object which
looked like a punch-marked coin. The boatman assured us that it was indeed a
coin and he had picked up many which were lying at his home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Having to leave
before the low tide set in – with the risk of the boat getting stranded in
sludge – we shuffled back to our vessel before mid-day. It was also time for a
meal of shrimps that was to be cooked on board for Adil and Sharjeel (me having
a dull palate for crustaceans).</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">F</span>or what purpose was the fort built,
by whom and when? Neither of those questions elicits a definite answer from any
known write-up, except for a brief mention of the “fort of Bandel at the
entrance of the river (<st1:place>Indus</st1:place>)” in <i>History and
Discovery by Portuguese in the New World</i> by P J François Lafitau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As it happened,
in 1555, a locally deployed Portuguese fleet of 28 vessels with 700 marines on
board, sailed towards Thatta. It was to provide relief to Mirza Isa Tarkhan,
the ruler of <st1:place>Lower Sindh</st1:place> who had requested help in his
impending showdown with Sultan Mahmud, the ruler of <st1:place>Upper Sindh</st1:place>.
In the event, fighting was averted after some sort of a compromise between the
two Sindhi rulers, but Pedro Barreto Rolim, the Commander of the Portuguese Fleet
insisted that he be remunerated in full, as agreed earlier. The Thatta chief
was apparently adamant that the Portuguese were entitled to the cost of the
journey only, as no fighting had taken place. Whatever may have incensed Pedro,
the fate of Thatta was sealed. In eight days of wanton slaughter, eight thousand
locals were killed and the town was put to ashes, in what was the first ever
maritime attack on a location in Sindh. “The fort at Bandel made some
resistance, but being taken was demolished,” continues the passage in Lafitau’s
book. (Bandel apparently implies erstwhile Lahari Bandar, it being a mistake for
Bandar.)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This brief
account at least confirms that the concept of coastal forts in Sindh was in
vogue some time before 1555. It is possible that in the wake of the sack of
Thatta, a lesson had been learnt, and more forts at the mouths of Indus Delta
estuaries had been built for defensive purposes. Quite similar in purpose to
the modern day Coast Guards outposts, these forts may also have served the
purpose of customs offices to extract duties on goods being brought into Sindh
coastal waters. After all, much needed revenues had to be shared with the Sultans
of Delhi and later the Mughals, under whose suzerainty and patronage the rulers
of Sindh held power till the independent Kalhora rule started in 1701.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Four such forts
have been mentioned by the Sindhi scholar Dr N A Baloch, viz Manhora (<st1:city><st1:place>Karachi</st1:place></st1:city>),
Ratokot (Gharo Creek), Vikkur (near Jati) and Kotri (off Kori Creek), all
attributed to the Talpurs, though the source of this information has not been
quoted. The fort at Jhaki Bandar has intriguingly been missed out by Baloch,
but it has to be granted that the modern day locations of forts may not
correspond with the names that have been recorded by historians. This is
because of relocation of the ports due to silting, which has been the bane of
the Indus Delta since eons. The matter is also complicated by the fact that the
forts being of red brick, are commonly known as red fort or <i>rato kot </i>in
Sindhi, while the actual name of only one is Ratokot. If you can’t tell one
from another, the blame is not yours.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">There has been
some mention of the fort at Jhaki Bandar as being a forward stronghold for the
defence of the ancient town of <st1:city><st1:place>Bhanbore</st1:place></st1:city>.
Suffice to say that the former is of baked bricks while the latter is
constructed of quarried stone, and both are widely apart in shape and the
design of ramparts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To us it seemed that
there was no connection between the two and couldn’t have been contemporaneous
by any stretch of imagination. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
boatman, however, suggested that it was Raja Dahir who was the mastermind
behind the fort at Jhaki Bandar. We won’t be surprised – in a sign of the times
– if we next hear of it as being Muhammad bin Qasim’s handiwork!</span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibasHTBqxpoGme1riLeFBI0BlRl8B7Lmkro4Lbgj4Z6wL3ddCDGO1jZrUOlS2H6yel-v0MBpUWIaQWMDpYZ2vqCnZ1kE0lPTwe9d17WeFy46CpKgyNJm7-Ly2xNXAD9KVf1kQxzeInwjag/s1600/Docking+at+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibasHTBqxpoGme1riLeFBI0BlRl8B7Lmkro4Lbgj4Z6wL3ddCDGO1jZrUOlS2H6yel-v0MBpUWIaQWMDpYZ2vqCnZ1kE0lPTwe9d17WeFy46CpKgyNJm7-Ly2xNXAD9KVf1kQxzeInwjag/s200/Docking+at+Jhaki+Bandar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">W</span>ith heavy tans, parched lips and
muddied legs, we disembarked from the boat, paid off the boatman and drove off
to nearby Bhanbore. After guzzling some much needed beverages, we did a quick
survey of the site and also visited the small museum. We got back to <st1:city><st1:place>Karachi</st1:place></st1:city>
after a full twelve hours, though the tiredness vanished as Sharjeel regaled us
with some amusing stories.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During our short
trip to Jhaki Bandar, we may not have been able to come up with any definite
answers; yet having studied the issue a little more since then, it can be surmised
that these coastal forts belonged to the 16<sup>th</sup>-18<sup>th</sup>
centuries CE. They served the dual purpose of guarding the entrance to the creeks,
and housing customs offices at the rudimentary ports of the Indus Delta. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Further research could be centred on study of potsherds to determine the cultural affiliations of the people who used them, along with a study of the coins to help confirm the era. Only then would the mystery of the fort in the Indus Delta be unravelled satisfactorily.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER
TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions
of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use,
distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and
source are credited.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was
published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 18 Aug, 2013 under the title <strong>Mysterious Speck in the Indus Delta.</strong></em></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-51949880216311908442013-07-12T09:42:00.000+05:002019-10-09T09:14:44.682+05:00Biking the Road to Siachen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">H</span>aving
successfully undertaken an <a href="http://kaiser-footloose.blogspot.com/2012/06/biking-to-x-treme-north_02.html" target="_blank">arduous bicycle trip</a> from Gilgit to the
northern-most latitude of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
at <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in May 2012, I and my former Air Force colleague Shahid Dad pledged to keep our
fast-aging sinew and muscle in action over the coming years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So thrilling was the previous wind-in-the-face
biking expedition – with camping halts in the midst of snow leopard trails –
that we promised ourselves a perennial treat in the <st1:place>Himalayas</st1:place>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was decided that for 2013, Baltistan’s
<st1:place><st1:placename>Shyok</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
would be the place to explore, via the road from Skardu till its termination at
the base of Siachen Glacier near Goma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, Army contacts would take care of our forays into operational
areas if we could make it that far.</span> </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tuiHRCD3K5A/WAsBKjdwMTI/AAAAAAAADuY/2IMZi4fZmVcP94wAcXCGOld0yDdDb6MVwCLcB/s1600/Lower%2BKachura%2BLake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tuiHRCD3K5A/WAsBKjdwMTI/AAAAAAAADuY/2IMZi4fZmVcP94wAcXCGOld0yDdDb6MVwCLcB/s200/Lower%2BKachura%2BLake.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Arrival at Skardu by PIA’s ATR-42
aircraft – aptly named Hasanabdal, for that is where my alma mater was – would
have been a happy occasion, except for the rude discovery that our luggage had
been left behind at <st1:city><st1:place>Islamabad</st1:place></st1:city>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a lot of string pulling and a bit of good
luck, the luggage arrived the following morning while we waited it out in an
Army guest house amidst the serene surroundings of Lower Kachura Lake, on the
outskirts of Skardu. Our bikes, which had been earlier booked by bus, also
arrived and we managed to assemble them for a test ride the next day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The stark desert landscape and the hot weather on the way
to Shigar did us no good as we pedalled our way over some gruelling terrain;
the Shigar<st1:place> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>
that meandered alongside was some relief for our eyes, though. On the outskirts
of Shigar a notice board caught our attention; it advised “all visitors to
avoid playing all types of immoral audio-video songs and ladies are requested
to please use vail (sic) during visit to Shigar.” </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Shigar evoked memories of a wondrously vigorous Air Force colleague
of yesteryears who carried that surname, so a visit to his fabled land would also
satisfy our curiosity about his community, we thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the event, it turned out the Shigaris are
less energetic than our friend who was one of his kind, though a hardy and
stout people they certainly are. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
three hours of cycling we were lucky to stumble into a store which kept ice-cold
beverages, and we made sure that dehydration wouldn’t rear its head again as
bottle after bottle was guzzled in front of amused onlookers in the shabby Shigar
bazaar.</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x9RnvgjQbiw/WAsBp2Bdu1I/AAAAAAAADuc/Qfl0W0T_b68KPaumozF4zpUadLWy6VaPwCLcB/s1600/At%2BShigar%2BFort%2BResidency.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x9RnvgjQbiw/WAsBp2Bdu1I/AAAAAAAADuc/Qfl0W0T_b68KPaumozF4zpUadLWy6VaPwCLcB/s200/At%2BShigar%2BFort%2BResidency.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The <st1:city><st1:place>high point</st1:place></st1:city>
of our trip to Shigar was the discovery of an ultimate getaway in the form of
Shigar Fort Residency, the palace of the former Rajas and now a renovated
heritage guest house run by the <st1:place><st1:placename>Serena</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Hotels</st1:placename></st1:place> chain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The exotic 17<sup>th</sup> century fort-palace
at the foot of a mountain is highly recommended for honeymooners, as well as
seniors who might want to revitalize their sagging proclivity for fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being on a serious expedition, tired and
hungry, we could do no better for ourselves than ordering a nourishing lunch. While
it was being readied, we took a guided tour of the palace, which included a
peep into the prisoners’ hellish dungeons in the basement and a stroll through
the Raja and Rani’s heavenly bedrooms, separate as they were. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sumptuous lunch by the side of a hill
torrent cascading out of <st1:place><st1:placename>Thalle</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
could, unhappily, not be prolonged as we still had a laborious journey to
complete on utterly spent muscles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank
goodness, by the end of the day we had completed the 55-km trial run, the bikes
had behaved perfectly and we were well in time at Skardu to tend our sore limbs.
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyARMbayTVgggr4ZYR7tAcLAIT_9fEOR_5Xr0VCSwYvMYoCu8fzEvC5ztHFRKYzVvavaAUjGIZi-HVOEKjPt_iUcMd1KEP-LZsr3YSiyukrP9UdGHYyBDa6Q9A4lEiGWRpGwDuDT28D8mu/s1600/Our+campsite+at+Keris.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyARMbayTVgggr4ZYR7tAcLAIT_9fEOR_5Xr0VCSwYvMYoCu8fzEvC5ztHFRKYzVvavaAUjGIZi-HVOEKjPt_iUcMd1KEP-LZsr3YSiyukrP9UdGHYyBDa6Q9A4lEiGWRpGwDuDT28D8mu/s200/Our+campsite+at+Keris.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our
expedition proper started next day, the 13<sup>th</sup> of June, with the first
of the six 50-km legs terminating at Keris, a village where <st1:place><st1:placename>Shyok</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place> joins the mighty <st1:place>Indus</st1:place>
during the latter’s north-westerly traverse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somehow, the limbs sprang back to full pedalling efficiency, and by late
afternoon we were in the village scouting for a camp site. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shahid was able to convince a friendly
villager to allow us to camp adjacent to his orchard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sooner we started to pitch our tents,
hordes of children started to congregate, for the novelty of seeing camping
tourists – even though natives – in their midst was too much to let go. The
colourful tents surrounded by even more colourfully dressed children gave the
impression of a gala event in Keris. By evening, word had spread about the
visitors and almost every boy and girl of the village had managed an awe-struck
glimpse of our campsite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most touching
was a gesture from three little girls who brought handfuls of sweet mulberries
for us. An early supper being heated on the camp stove was also very entertaining
for the onlookers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon after we had
retired, a thoughtful local brought a heavy jerry can of drinking water which could
have sufficed for our bathing needs as well. </span><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After a restive
night – as anyone who has been sandwiched in a sleeping bag would know – we
were woken up by an incessant melodious whistle that was bird song at its
best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Blue Whistling Thrush (<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Myiophoneus caeruleus</span></i>) had taken
upon itself to wake us up at <st1:time hour="4" minute="30">4:30</st1:time> in
the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon we were at the nearby
stream for a wash up, followed by stove-cooked breakfast of oat meal and hot chocolate.
Camp was then broken, and everything packed and trussed up on the bikes. By <st1:time hour="7" minute="0">7 o’clock</st1:time>, we were on the road again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Khaplu, nestled amongst lush green orchards of apricots,
apples, cherries and walnuts, was our next stop. The small town was once the seat
of another petty principality, to which the splendidly restored Khaplu Fort
Residency testifies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is from Khaplu
that most mountaineering expeditions veer off towards various base camps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A well stocked single-street bazaar caters to
their basic requirements. The consumer lifestyle of the locals was surprisingly
in evidence, perhaps a result of the influence of these trekking groups and
climbing expeditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Too tired for sightseeing in Khaplu, we decided to take a
day’s break on the return leg and hastened to the PTDC Motel where we had a
booking. The beautiful structure looks like a Swiss chalet from afar, but we
were disappointed to discover appalling house-keeping and general apathy that now
seems to afflict every government-run organisation in the country. After some livid
dressing down administered to the staff, we made sure that the bathroom taps worked,
dangling curtains were re-hooked and the bed linen and towels were
changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a much needed bath,
laundry and lunch out of the way, we reviewed our plans for the next day as the
climb gradient was getting to be steeper on every leg. Since the next two
nights were to be in the Army Mess at Dumsum (Dansem), we decided to leave the
camping gear at the motel, to be picked up on return.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">T</span>he
third leg started with an entry into areas where the Army was deployed, but since
the authorities had been informed earlier, getting past the quizzical eyes of
the sentries at various check points was never a problem. A cool rainy morning
and a much lighter bike load helped negotiate the steep slopes with
considerably less effort. The terraced emerald-green fields steadily crept
upwards as we climbed, and the fruit orchards started to give way to the more
hardy turnips and potatoes. Traffic had thinned out and only military vehicles,
or those of civilian contractors provisioning the Army garrisons could be seen
on the road. Just when six hours of rigorous cycling had started to take its
toll, an MP post came into reassuring view and the sentries smartly paid their
compliments. A few kilometres further, we caught sight of the Dumsum garrison
buildings. As we approached the entry gate, a flurry of whistles and rifle
slamming salutes welcomed us; even more surprising was the reception by the
Officer Commanding of the deployed Unit who, along with all his officers, had
lined up to receive us. Thereafter started an unending round of Army
hospitality of which a hot bath, hot tea, and a multi-course dinner are still
etched in memory. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">While we had planned to pedal up to
Goma garrison the next morning, the Army authorities offered us a ride on their
daily mail run vehicle all the way to the Siachen base camp at Giyari.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since this could not have been done on bikes,
given the very steep gradient as well as the high altitude, the offer was
gladly accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After an hour-long
drive, we had a short stopover at Goma where the smart Brigade Major was there
to receive us. After a change of vehicle, we were on course to Giyari, a
further eight kilometres away. The place made morbid headlines on <st1:date day="7" month="4" year="2012">7 April 2012</st1:date>, when an avalanche buried
140 personnel of 6 NLI Battalion, perhaps one of the biggest disasters of its
kind, anywhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"></span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWA3rEsiFm-a_YLRdgBthXmOrofit41Mib2U6G-D868PhE9PrrffoLdn15p8fABlCaSEYxoqPwmIlWCVxi3kY5vTlF7XOG7s341muSQ5nBZ-VdOoQqLOQ2jympU7xwSZAWycxH7r_Nf1O/s1600/With+Capt+Shirazi+who+supervised+the+excavations+for+many+months+after+the+avalanche+hit+Giyari.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWA3rEsiFm-a_YLRdgBthXmOrofit41Mib2U6G-D868PhE9PrrffoLdn15p8fABlCaSEYxoqPwmIlWCVxi3kY5vTlF7XOG7s341muSQ5nBZ-VdOoQqLOQ2jympU7xwSZAWycxH7r_Nf1O/s200/With+Capt+Shirazi+who+supervised+the+excavations+for+many+months+after+the+avalanche+hit+Giyari.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mention must be made of Captain
Sherazi of the Army Engineers, who had been part of a recovery team looking for
the dead bodies for more than one year. Various foreign rescue and recovery
teams had suggested giving up the dead, due to the extremely harsh conditions and
near impossibility of bringing in heavy machinery to such a remote location.
Undeterred, the Army decided to take on the challenge, and under the passionate
zeal of Sherazi and his team, 132 bodies had been recovered by the time we
visited. A closure ceremony, including the unveiling of a
memorial monument, had been planned as a final tribute to the
‘shaheeds’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trip to Giyari ended
with a gracious send-off by the Deputy Brigade Commander and one of the local
Battalion Commanders.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After
relaxing for the rest of the day at Dumsum, we took leave from our hosts the
following morning and set course for the return leg to Khaplu. The downhill
bike ride was great fun and we even notched gale speeds of 55-kph. It was
decided that we needed a break from the unceasingly tough regimen, and some
sightseeing in Khaplu would be therapeutic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A visit to the Khaplu Fort Residency – also run by <st1:place><st1:placename>Serena</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Hotels</st1:placename></st1:place> – was an education in
heritage conservation; its renovation by Aga Khan Trust was quite similar to
the one at Shigar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had lunch and some
delicious Lavazza coffee, before setting off to see the old Chaqchan Mosque not
too far from the Residency. The wooden mosque is said to have been commissioned
by Mir Syed Ali Hamdani in 1381 AD (783 AH according to the plaque), making it
one of the oldest in the country. The structure is rather decrepit and needs
renovation on the lines of Khaplu Residency; however, being an in-use mosque of
the dominant Nur Bakhshi Shia sect, the Ismailis' Aga Khan Trust would hardly be welcome
to undertake the project.</span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Next day, the ride from Khaplu to
Keris was a familiar and unremarkable one. We decided to camp in a secluded
spot by the riverside at the edge of Keris, to keep away from the prying eyes of locals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow, a dozen youngsters still managed to
spy us; perhaps it was the aroma of the noodles being cooked on the stove that
attracted them, or maybe they had caught a flash of the colourful tents from
afar. After shooing them off, we retired early to be up at dawn for another
day’s slog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">The tenth day of the expedition
turned out to be the toughest, if for no other reason than the sun being absolutely
merciless. On the way we stopped by a huge tree and were pleasantly surprised
to see its boughs laden with ripe, dark red mulberries. Much like overgrown
schoolchildren, we had a hearty fill devouring every mulberry within arm’s
reach. Still some distance from Skardu, we were surprised to hear the noise of
fighter aircraft which had deployed for an exercise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The nostalgia was boundless when we spotted a pair of the old faithful Mirages
piercing the azure skies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was to be another hour before we actually got to Skardu, choking on diesel fumes that have heavily polluted the city’s pristine air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vehicles have been converted to the high-torque diesel engines with non-existent emission standards, and nobody seems to care as long as they can easily spin up a mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A consumption-oriented society is on the rise, as was amply evident from the array of consumer goods in the smallest of stores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were, however, quite pleased to note that sectarianism, as it exists in other parts of the country as well as nearby Gilgit and Chilas areas, is non-existent in all of Baltistan. The people are friendly and peaceful, and seemingly the only curiosity about them is linguistic, for the Balti language belongs to the Sino-Tibetan family, unlike the rest of the country where languages belonging to the Indo-European family are spoken (the other exception being Brauhi of the Dravidian family).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baltistan surely has a place on the ethnographic map of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">While we waited for our return flight to <st1:city><st1:place>Islamabad</st1:place></st1:city>, we had a couple of days to saunter around so a tough bike ride to <st1:place><st1:placename>Satpara</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> and a jeep ride to Deosai Plains was also undertaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All in all, the Baltistan expedition was a total success and the wonder was that at our age, we could manage it on muscle power. Let’s see if we can pull off another one next year to celebrate our official entry into the Seniors’ Club!</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"></span></span> </div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">©
KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and
conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits
unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the
original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: x-small;">
</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was
published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International
</strong>on 21 July, 2013. It was also published in <strong>Pamir Times, </strong>in two parts, on 22
July and 25 July, 2013.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-80662341730089984382013-04-05T10:00:00.000+05:002016-10-17T14:28:53.266+05:00Colombo Calling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span>s our aircraft landed with a
thump, I woke up to be utterly surprised at finding myself in Mal<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">é</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">, th</span>e capital
of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Maldives</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
instead of <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city> in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri
Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Unknown to me, a connecting flight
via <st1:country-region><st1:place>Maldives</st1:place></st1:country-region>
had been hurriedly cobbled up in <st1:city><st1:place>Dubai</st1:place></st1:city>
after the original one got missed due to a late start at <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The embarrassing feeling was like having
boarded a wrong bus, but it did not last long as we took off for <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>
after an hour’s stopover.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Business in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>
pertained to a workshop on South Asian Stability, sponsored by the US Naval
Post-graduate School and, involved Pakistani and Indian armed forces veterans and scholars, along
with members of various think tanks and institutions from the <st1:country-region><st1:place>US</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Driving from the airport to
the city, one could see shops lining all 35-km of the distance, with old terra
cotta roofed buildings and quaint Victorian churches completing the colonial
scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Orderly traffic was the first
thing that struck me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buses were
strictly following the bus lane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
motor-cyclists were wearing helmets, including pillion riders, whether men or
women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The taxi driver would brake every
now and then at zebra crossings, something I was quite pleased with when the
same courtesy was extended to me later as a pedestrian on many an occasion.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I got off at the Taj
Samudra Hotel, the taxi driver reminded me that all cricket teams stayed there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said that the most popular of them all was
the Pakistani team and the Sri Lankan fans often caused a traffic jam at the
hotel premises while seeking autographs and pictures of their favourite players.
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Before the workshop started, I
had a complete day to myself, so I decided to roam the streets of <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>.
The municipality seemed to be working most conscientiously, for there was no
garbage to be seen anywhere and the streets were as clean as could be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All roads are being turned into one-way
thoroughfares to ease traffic congestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The serene <st1:place><st1:placename>Hunupitya</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>
has a tree-lined walkway all around it and the young and old, jog and walk
early in the mornings and late in the evenings.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A facility known as ‘Friends
in Need Society’ is a 182-year old institution located in downtown Colombo,
dedicated to the care of the handicapped, especially the amputees of the civil
war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disabled adults and children are
provided every possible medical help, including dignified reintegration into
society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was no surprise that there
were no beggars to be seen in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea of such a benevolent institution is
certainly worth emulating in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
if there are philanthropists willing to help.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As the sun’s rays became more
piercing, I hailed a rickshaw to take me back to the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver asked for a rather huge sum of Rs
1,000, but after some haggling, came down a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not impressed, I suggested something more
reasonable, but when he learnt that I was from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
he immediately slashed the fare down to Rs 200.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While driving back, he gave several reasons for his generosity: firstly,
that <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
helped <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region>
quell the murderous insurgency, secondly, that our cricketers were very popular
in his country and finally, that he was pleased to meet a fellow Muslim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thanked Tasleem for the flattering comments
which were offered in immaculate English which was no surprise, as the literacy
rate in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is over 93%.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Though religious tolerance is generally evident in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo, there have been some instances of bigotry, of late.</st1:place></st1:city><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">The
majority Sinhalese Buddhists (70% of the population) have objected to meat being certified as
<em>halal</em>. Even the Muslim <em>hijab</em> is coming under criticism from some radical Buddhists and, there have been odd instances of attack on mosques. Despite this recent
acrimony, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims and Christians have a long history of peaceful co-existence and mutual respect of religious places, practices and traditions. This is evident as a mosque stands next to </span></span>the famous Murugan Hindu
temple; another main mosque and the Baptist Church Community centre share a
common wall; yet another church and mosque stand on the two sides of a main
road.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that extreme courtesy flows out of a
tolerant attitude borne of a multi-faith and a multi-cultural society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not be off the mark in claiming that
Sri Lankans are some of the most polite and considerate people on the globe and hopefully, they will be able to maintain this wonderful tradition in the future.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During a visit to the <st1:place><st1:placename>Buddhist</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Gangaramya</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Temple</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
I happened to watch a wedding party receive the benedictions of the priests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dressed in maroon saris (the colour of the Theravada
Buddhist faith, also reflected in the national flag), the bridesmaids escorted
the rather fat bride for a <i>pooja</i> ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was followed by a photo session, much
like our never ending ones, in which every family member is roped in and forced
to smile under sweaty brows or melting make-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A stuffed elephant, which was a temple mascot when it lived, is still
revered and the faithful make it a point to pray for its comfort in the Hereafter.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">W</span>hile the workshop was in
progress, the very appetising South Indian food started to take its toll on the
waistlines, so evening walks had to be resorted to with vigour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During rush hour, walkways were full of
people, with working women being in evidence in large numbers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Odel, an upscale shopping mall, was thronged
with well-heeled Westerners who were willing to pay the inflated prices of
the clothing and other items on sale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tourists abound in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>,
which serves as a springboard to other places of historical, botanical or
zoological interest in the rest of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dozen top class hotels within a square mile
of central Colombo attest to the increasing popularity of Sri Lanka as an
affordable holiday resort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">One day when we got an early
off from work, a hunt for the fabled Sri Lankan gemstones turned out to be
successful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though this blue sapphire
for a necklace pendant set me back by a fortune, the recipient of the gift (my wife, of course) was more than happy,
as it turned out!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One of the famous getaways of <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>,
especially for socialising couples, is the vast <st1:place><st1:placename>Vihara</st1:placename>m<st1:placename>ahadevi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
whose coconut palms, huge banyan trees and dense herbage provide much needed
cover from the sun, as much from prying eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A golden statue of Buddha lords over the park, while the Town Hall,
popularly known as the White House, forms an impressive backdrop. On one end of
the park is the Cenotaph War Memorial built by the British in memory of the
Ceylonese soldiers who fell in World War I; it later came to commemorate the fallen Ceylonese soldiers of World War II and, still later, those who laid down their lives while fighting the recently ended insurgency.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The oddly-named Galle Face
Green is a mile-long beach front promenade lined with palm trees, at the
western end of the <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a popular strip for jogging, as well as
family outings on weekends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The elegant Galle Face Hotel dating back to 1864, is a prominent landmark on the Green. </span>I went out
for late night walks a few times and was quite amused to see kite flying at
that late hour, with colourful kites having long streamers shimmering in a
flood-lit sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drumming concert was
underway, with hundreds of youngsters enjoying the merriment with abandon.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">Security in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>
is flawless and, given the 25 years of insurgency that had badly racked the
country, it is indeed commendable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smart
and courteous policemen can be seen at virtually every traffic crossing. During
a VIP movement near the Presidential Secretariat, I was most politely told by a
policeman to take a detour, “if it is not a problem, sir.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except for military installations, roadblocks
and checkpoints are non-existent. Even the GHQ, located right behind the Taj
Samudra Hotel, gives a welcome look, with a bevy of military policewomen
alongside their male counterparts guarding the main entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During my stay in <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>,
I noticed a virulent tirade by the media against <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and US, for passing a UN resolution against supposed human rights violations by
the government during the last stages of the counter-insurgency campaign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that the resolution had more to do
with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region>
cosying up to <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
than anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The inauguration of
the <st1:place><st1:placename>Chinese-built</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Hambantota</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Port</st1:placetype></st1:place> in south <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri
Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region> seems to have rubbed the two powers on
the wrong side, I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sentiment
against interference by outside powers is strong for another reason too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four and a half centuries years of
exploitative rule by the Portuguese, Dutch and the British, has left an
anti-colonial mindset amongst the Sri Lankans, and they strongly feel that they
can handle their own affairs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To me, the short <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>
experience was a very pleasant surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The 18th century English man of letters, Horace Walpole, coined the word ‘serendipity’
describing such accidental discoveries which the heroes of the Persian fairy
tale, <i>The Three Princes of Serendip, </i>were always making.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To relive those discoveries – or to experience serendipity – one must first
hearken to <st1:city><st1:place>Colombo</st1:place></st1:city>’s call and then
delve deeper into enchanting Sarandib of the Arabs and Persians, which is none other than the beautiful <st1:country-region><st1:place>Sri
Lanka</st1:place></st1:country-region> of today.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">© KAISER
TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions
of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use,
distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and
source are credited.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This
article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong>
<strong>International </strong>on 19 May, 2013 under the title <strong>Serendipity in Essence</strong>.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-90031818249183463372013-02-17T12:26:00.000+05:002016-10-24T12:33:28.818+05:00Muscat - Jewel of the Arabian Tropics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g6NWHTvlm_a3zTvhIWyuMsBfxDnZ7oBu__Eo-coU6Ir4ssq8_tJCMAsBQxnSZNWV2UXCZOEcki5Lz8WTvdDuoW_3g5b1SLEJwfEVZjJDuAprUI0GVuQUMWykTMx9Ny9Om-HgT2YOgbmz/s1600/Al-Mirani+Fort+in+Muscat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g6NWHTvlm_a3zTvhIWyuMsBfxDnZ7oBu__Eo-coU6Ir4ssq8_tJCMAsBQxnSZNWV2UXCZOEcki5Lz8WTvdDuoW_3g5b1SLEJwfEVZjJDuAprUI0GVuQUMWykTMx9Ny9Om-HgT2YOgbmz/s200/Al-Mirani+Fort+in+Muscat.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">L</span> ooking out of the aircraft window while coming in for a landing at Muscat International Airport, one notices the rugged hills of the Al-Hajjar Range that are in stark contrast to the undulating sand dunes that welcome a visitor to the other Gulf countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if the hills stand in as Nature’s high-rise structures in <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>, there seems no need for the gross man-made skyscrapers that mar the skylines of many other cities in the Gulf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Low-rise buildings in pastel hues and, beautiful mosques with domes in sparkling colours are the features of <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city> architecture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sooner one alights from the aircraft, the locals appear different too, with their neatly wound, multi-coloured turbans which seem much more utilitarian, compared to the rope-and-tassel affairs in the rest of the <st1:place>Arabian Peninsula</st1:place>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The airport is located at some distance from the city centre but an excellent road adjacent to the coastal hills makes the journey a breeze. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Muscat Gate that marks the entrance at the city limits<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>reminds one of our own <st1:place><st1:placename>Khyber</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Pass.</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roundabouts feature traditional icons like the coffee pots, incense burners, dhows and dolphins. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove straight to a hotel in the commercial district of Ruwi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The multi-national complexion of the local population is quite evident, like in other Gulf countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amongst the expatriates, the Indians dominate in the services sector and convenience stores, while Pakistanis mostly work as labourers and farm workers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many Baluchis and Gujaratis have settled in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region> and have been granted ‘second class’ citizenship.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>
proper is a small town, with the Sultan’s palace, the grand mosque and
al-Jalali and al-Mirani Forts being the prominent landmarks, in addition to
several government buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Greater Muscat Area includes the Mutrah district, with its shipping port
complex and the corniche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bleak and
barren hills of <st1:place><st1:placename>Al-Hajjar</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Range</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
which give a somewhat inhospitable look, dominate most of <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of the city’s construction occupies
every flat nook and cranny alongside the coast.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Crass commercialisation is
frowned upon and the symbols of conspicuous consumption are notably
absent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This aspect may have to do with
the economic downturn as a result of drying up of petroleum reserves, but the
government has made a concerted effort to focus on simplicity and traditional
values in all walks of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>,
one finds the Western tourists as well as expatriates respecting traditions by
way of their own sensible dress and general conduct, quite in contrast to some
other Gulf cities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The arrival of our armed
forces delegation was known to the Pakistani community, whose representatives
had organised a dinner on the very first evening at a local hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At dinner, we were invited yet again to spend
the following Friday at the farm of a Pakistani, Haji Abdul Yusuf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yusuf had moved to <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>
three decades earlier during the oil boom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An enterprising gentleman, he fell in love with <st1:country-region><st1:place>Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and decided to live here forever, if he could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Following up on a government initiative, he purchased some barren land about
an hour’s drive from <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>, where
irrigation water had been facilitated by the government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bringing in labour from his village in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
he started tilling the land and today, his farm is one of the largest,
completely mechanised farms in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sumptuous lunch featuring a Punjabi fare
was the highlight of the visit to Haji sahib’s farm.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-92FaGsL10XM/WA24WE04-JI/AAAAAAAADvo/zn2c3MhqtrkjbxA_Pnp678WS07TQRmFAACLcB/s1600/14273082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-92FaGsL10XM/WA24WE04-JI/AAAAAAAADvo/zn2c3MhqtrkjbxA_Pnp678WS07TQRmFAACLcB/s200/14273082.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Making use of the weekend, we
visited the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque which is an architectural masterpiece,
with some stunning decorative features on the inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dome is of a unique filigreed design,
with matching cavernous minarets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside
the prayer hall, the chandelier is of superlative dimensions, being 14 metres
tall, with over 1,000 bulbs and 6,000 crystal pieces, surely giving sparkle and
glitter a new meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The carpet inside
the hall is said to be the second largest single piece and was woven in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Iran</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a sign of the times, some of our
compatriots preferred to pray in the hotel, rather than follow the imam of the
dominant Ibadi sect, which has some doctrinal differences with those of Sunni
as well as Shias.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HyOF9F8sl-k5REkNgWvENpQ6ORvLAh0tsIgSHXb_KPqh8OlgTM6JbYMEy4cG0kloqsSscvkvwnNpI-DwgAD5luO-tgCh1f4I6Twgp9HPhM_9WTy7thO_jSkUndIrIwUU-JEUNN80kMbs/s1600/Al-Jalali+Fort+in+Muscat+Harbour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4HyOF9F8sl-k5REkNgWvENpQ6ORvLAh0tsIgSHXb_KPqh8OlgTM6JbYMEy4cG0kloqsSscvkvwnNpI-DwgAD5luO-tgCh1f4I6Twgp9HPhM_9WTy7thO_jSkUndIrIwUU-JEUNN80kMbs/s200/Al-Jalali+Fort+in+Muscat+Harbour.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The next day, after the
official proceedings were over, we were taken to the Al-Jalali Fort by a motor
boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After disembarking at the quayside,
we climbed a series of steps that brought us atop the fort, which afforded an
immensely pleasing view of <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>
harbour and the serene waters of the Gulf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The fort was built by the Portuguese shortly after the sack of <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>
by Afonso de Albuquerque in 1507.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two
partially successful attempts were made by the Ottomans to wrest control of <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>,
but it was finally captured by the local Imam of Oman, forcing the Portuguese
to finally surrender in 1650.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the fashion
of all colonial powers, the Portuguese too committed their share of pillage and
atrocities during their rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
underground dungeons of the fort were evidently witness to the cruelties
perpetrated, and we were told that anyone who went in never came out alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We tested one of the dark dungeons, but
mercifully, not only did we emerge unscathed, we found ourselves on a beautiful
beach after opening a recently installed door, as if in a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The much renovated fort now serves as a
cultural showpiece for visiting dignitaries and, we were duly accorded the
honour of a sumptuous lunch in the presence of our Omani armed forces
counterparts.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A visit to the Sultan’s Armed
Forces Museum was instructive and one could note the emphasis on preserving
Omani traditions, particularly in uniforms and military livery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An evening fete in the Central Armed Forces
Officers’ Mess was again an impressive function, where waiters in splendid
Omani <i>thobes</i>, complete with badges and other regalia, and well versed in
military decorum, served us in traditional style.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With the oil drying up, trying
to keep up with the Gulf Joneses has been difficult for <st1:country-region><st1:place>Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All other Gulf capitals have the Corniche,
the paved pathways on the waterfronts and <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>
is no exception, having built a beautiful one on the adjoining <st1:place><st1:placename>Mutrah</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, luxury hotels are <i>de rigueur </i>for
the rich tourists and <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city> has
not been left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the most
impressive that we got to see is the <st1:place><st1:placename>Bostan</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> belonging to the
Ritz-Carlton group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grand hotel was
built in 1985 to house delegates to the GCC summit conference and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Oman</st1:place></st1:country-region>
spared no effort so as not to be singled out as the ‘country cousin’ of the
other Gulf countries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotel is a
place worth visiting and is highly recommended at least for a coffee, if not
for a night’s stay that could leave you lesser by 1,000 Omani Riyals!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of all my travels in the Gulf
cities, I liked <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city> the most, in
part for its well-preserved past and, for the fact that its architecture blends
with the natural surroundings without being an eyesore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beautiful mosques, open air <i>souks,</i> traditional
dhows bobbing in the placid harbour, flower-laden gardens and palm groves, and
turbaned men with daggers in their belts, all conjure up images from <i>One Thousand
and One Nights</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If one were to look
for the jewel of the Arabian tropics, one need not go farther than <st1:city><st1:place>Muscat</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "book antiqua"; font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the
Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use,
distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and
source are credited.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-family: "book antiqua";"><em>This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News</strong> <strong>International </strong>on 17 February, 2013.</em></span></div>
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Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-33729938079356436472012-11-03T16:09:00.000+05:002016-10-25T08:13:49.818+05:00Chengdu - China's Big Small-town City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span>s
we got off the Air China airliner, the damp July air reeking of paddy fields
and strong manure reminded us of our arrival in <st1:place><st1:placename>Sichuan</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Province</st1:placetype></st1:place>, the heart of agrarian <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The grey monsoon clouds gave us a hint that
our trip would be blighted by wet weather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not altogether an unwelcome prospect,
as I, along with my colleagues Jamshed Khan and Amir Liaqat could stay longer and
discover more, while waiting for bluer skies needed for evaluating a new
fighter, at the Chengdu Aircraft Industry Group’s aircraft manufacturing
plant in <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The city is well-known to quite a few PAF
personnel who got their initial training on the FT-5, F-7 and lately, the JF-17
aircraft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the rest of Pakistanis, <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>
is a nondescript city much below <st1:city><st1:place>Beijing</st1:place></st1:city>,
<st1:city><st1:place>Guangzhou</st1:place></st1:city> (<st1:city><st1:place>Canton</st1:place></st1:city>)
and <st1:city><st1:place>Shanghai</st1:place></st1:city> in their business or
tourism priorities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would do well
to note that <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>, the capital of
<st1:place><st1:placename>Sichuan</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Province</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
now ranks as one of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
largest cities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chengdu was recently
voted as the fourth most liveable city from an environmental standpoint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also listed amongst the gastronomy
capitals of the world, though with menus featuring pigeon’s egg soup, sliced
eels (raw) and pig’s trotters, one could see why we had to make do with sticky
rice, soya bean curd and noodles for the better part of our month-long stay.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As we drove to the Jin Jiang Hotel
in central <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>, the first thing
that caught our eye were the hundreds of cyclists who would amass during the
minute or so that the traffic light remained red, raring to pedal off again at
the turn of green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men and women of all
ages were on bicycles; the poorer families who could not afford more than one
bike made use of tricycles, with the daily groceries, the biker’s wife and an
odd pet, all huddled in a big wooden crib in good view of everyone, though
nobody seemed to care except us!</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZx6FIbTL9p7oA9EnSUgBKkuLhgPDbeceOQ1Iw6goMocbTho2QUMEq9yZkBEGM24VN1HPIrOVdfN2FzUbDIN3mqvGbq0ySegtphnmn6bUFmHcrob4jvTA1iQSG8W1Po20L1FSS5deLHLg/s1600/dominating-statue-of-mao-in-tianfu-square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZx6FIbTL9p7oA9EnSUgBKkuLhgPDbeceOQ1Iw6goMocbTho2QUMEq9yZkBEGM24VN1HPIrOVdfN2FzUbDIN3mqvGbq0ySegtphnmn6bUFmHcrob4jvTA1iQSG8W1Po20L1FSS5deLHLg/s200/dominating-statue-of-mao-in-tianfu-square.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After checking in the hotel,
we decided to take an exploratory walk on the <st1:street><st1:address>North
Renmin Road</st1:address></st1:street> which led to the colossal statue of a
little-revered Mao Tse-tung, overlooking the <st1:street><st1:address>Tianfu
Square</st1:address></st1:street> in the city centre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearby was the big complex of the Spring
Department Store and People’s Market which had just about every daily use item
at very cheap prices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some men idled
away, their vests rolled up to their chests for better ‘air conditioning’ in the humid weather,
while others chatted rather loudly often spitting in between the exchanges,
these being habits common to the less urbane folk, as we found out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we were strolling by the roadside, we
observed a noisy scuffle between a man and a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way back to the hotel, we were
surprised to see the man handcuffed inside a small traffic police kiosk, while
the woman, apparently his wife, taking pot shots at the wretched creature as the
police desperately tried to keep her off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our interesting walk came full circle minutes
later, when, quite in contrast to the ugly scene, we saw a happy bride and
groom being photographed on the studio steps, loudly cheered by a huge crowd of
passers-by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an exciting
introduction to <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>, as much as
<st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>, which we
were visiting for the first time.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4R1bLdA1OxnTK1tXJc4R5awGtdVsvhM4qklXzueZygjN82uaJXMHV37AEb2IqM4SF41skCR0hdTyOCxAi042b0N6wdVelXLALo_8Zh22EYyl393-jIUnn33PEkIFRo9l3pR6mX29M498A/s1600/e13-871.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4R1bLdA1OxnTK1tXJc4R5awGtdVsvhM4qklXzueZygjN82uaJXMHV37AEb2IqM4SF41skCR0hdTyOCxAi042b0N6wdVelXLALo_8Zh22EYyl393-jIUnn33PEkIFRo9l3pR6mX29M498A/s200/e13-871.jpg" width="143" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Next day, we were formally
welcomed to the aircraft factory by the general manager over a sumptuous lunch,
but the 20-course formal dinner the following evening outdid any banquet that
we had ever been feted with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our hosts
were careful to ensure that no kind of animal appeared on the platter and, the <i>qipao</i>
clad waitresses were under special instructions to serve the fiery Moutai
liquor only to the Chinese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sipped
green tea instead, much to the amusement of our hosts, for whom tea-drinking is
a valued tradition in <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During small talk, I ventured to ask one of
the managers seated next to me about his children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over a hearty laugh, he told me that it was
an irrelevant question in <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
as Chinese couples (except ethnic minorities) have only one child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also added that I needn’t ask about his
relatives as the modern Chinese do not have a brother, a sister, an uncle, an
aunt, a nephew, a niece or a cousin, all as a consequence of a one-child
policy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, it dawned on me in a
while! The cheerful roadside family planning posters hadn't conveyed the deeper implications.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">As the days wore on, our
flying became intermittent, subject to ever-changing weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On bad weather days we took tours of the hugely
overstaffed aircraft factory, and discussed aerodynamics with accomplished
aircraft designers led by the well-respected Professor Ma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our long lunch sessions at the factory always
started with sweet dishes followed by sour ones, cold servings followed by hot
ones, all punctuated by helpings of fried peanuts eaten with chopsticks, for
good measure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:state><st1:place>Sichuan</st1:place></st1:state>
cuisine had never tasted the same in <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>,
for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After-dinner walks along the <st1:place><st1:placename>Nanhe</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>, which traces a swath through
the centre of the city, were occasionally alternated with live music shows at
the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our favourite part featured
the <i>erhu</i>, a two-stringed bowed instrument that almost always forms part
of any classical Chinese orchestra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One particular <i>erhu</i> player, a maestro of sorts, could make his
instrument whine like a baby, neigh like a horse, and play sounds of wind, rain
and thunder, depicting the seasons. </span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiForHst5XDfGqgZ4MksWc_hJtrZFmNd_YkSJU9__jcqWNVRd1pqhfw3RIHAdk7RsH9jCp1NXCB59FbDcEZ6-QGFcdemO5usUALzRRvXH-oFY46X3eJ00BPzILbu1guPE_2yXxiGQDnXxiH/s1600/Du_Fu_Thatched_Cottage_Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiForHst5XDfGqgZ4MksWc_hJtrZFmNd_YkSJU9__jcqWNVRd1pqhfw3RIHAdk7RsH9jCp1NXCB59FbDcEZ6-QGFcdemO5usUALzRRvXH-oFY46X3eJ00BPzILbu1guPE_2yXxiGQDnXxiH/s200/Du_Fu_Thatched_Cottage_Garden.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Weekends were well spent
exploring the suburbs of <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One Sunday we visited the Thatched Cottage of
Du Fu, on the western suburbs of the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Du Fu is one of <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
greatest poets (712-770 AD) who, in one of his wanderings, spent four years in <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His reconstructed cottage adorns a
beautiful park by the serene Huanhua Stream.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1pIAcKDcSJ0/UJUB7L-VnXI/AAAAAAAAAn8/VG-igiEBOwQ/s1600/668423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1pIAcKDcSJ0/UJUB7L-VnXI/AAAAAAAAAn8/VG-igiEBOwQ/s200/668423.jpg" width="129" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">On another weekend, we drove
to the lush green Mount Emei Scenic Area, near the town of <st1:city><st1:place>Leshan</st1:place></st1:city>,
140-km south of <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world’s largest statue of the seated
Buddha, carved out of a cliff, faces the 10,000-ft high Mt Emei.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The 233-ft high statue was completed in 803
AD by the disciples of a monk named Haitong, who had started the project almost
a century earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aptly named, the
Scenic Area was soaked in monsoon mists, with exotic birds whistling and cooing,
while friendly monkeys clambered about cheekily. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Du Fu, the poet, may well have captured our
thoughts as we left the beautiful and mystifying <st1:place><st1:placetype>Mount</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename>Emei</st1:placename></st1:place>: <i>“Tomorrow the mountains
will separate us; after tomorrow, who can say?” <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rkQ8fl4u0g5dLvJ-t3aWSQJVeaB5Wxz-EExlHewXRnIrFobKtPGpY3SJzFpTFurReT6oERPk6P-TxZGVwCF8uKsfiFxvhSmLWL9YWvR8GWRyLG6Uj2Om2JIpgAdi_rXKzAESZ2CsWs2R/s1600/New+Picture.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rkQ8fl4u0g5dLvJ-t3aWSQJVeaB5Wxz-EExlHewXRnIrFobKtPGpY3SJzFpTFurReT6oERPk6P-TxZGVwCF8uKsfiFxvhSmLWL9YWvR8GWRyLG6Uj2Om2JIpgAdi_rXKzAESZ2CsWs2R/s200/New+Picture.bmp" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><st1:state><st1:place>Sichuan</st1:place></st1:state>
is famous for its giant pandas (<i>Ailuropoda melanoleuca</i>) and it was
thoughtful of the factory management to organise a trip to the Wolong National
Nature Reserve, about 130-km north-west of <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The huge sociable creatures belied their
lineage of the ferocious bear family, as they enjoyed being cuddled and patted
and fed bamboo shoots from our hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another attractive animal at the Reserve was the cat-sized red panda (<i>Alurus
fulgens</i>) which is classified as a family unto itself, though having some
relation to raccoons and weasels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
only thing common with the giant pandas is a diet mainly of bamboo shoots,
though it is also omnivorous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We fed one
of them with peanuts which it devoured with relish.</span></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">For the remaining days in <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>,
we found shopping for antiques a good evening pastime, and collected some
ornate ceramic teapots and enamelled treasure boxes from the numerous stalls along
<st1:street><st1:address>Renmin Road</st1:address></st1:street>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamshed was particularly adept at haggling and
he would often scoop up wares at 10% of the asking price, much to the amazement
of everyone around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The antiques stalls
have since been moved to the dedicated Songxianqiao Antiques Market which has
made a name all over <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>
is claimed to have a 2,000-year history but unfortunately, has little to show
for it in extant buildings of earlier eras. An ancient city wall was brought
down thoughtlessly on orders of Mao, though the city fathers have been careful
not to do the same to his statue in <st1:street><st1:address>Tianfu Square</st1:address></st1:street>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older traditional buildings are sadly
being replaced by soulless steel and concrete ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite all the change that has made it big, <st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city>
still retains a small-town character reflected in the easygoing, rustic
lifestyle of its simple inhabitants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will
<st1:city><st1:place>Chengdu</st1:place></st1:city> still be the same when the
present older generation is no more? <i>After tomorrow, who can say?</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><i></i></span></span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. <span style="font-family: "georgia";">This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the
Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use,
distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and
source are credited.</span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: black;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</span> <span style="color: #660000;"><span style="color: #660000;"><em>This article was
published in the daily newspaper <strong>The N</strong></em></span><span style="color: #660000;"><em><strong>ews International,</strong> on 25 Nov,
2012.</em></span></span><br /></div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-48336756938735033642012-09-26T21:15:00.000+05:002016-10-26T13:03:42.181+05:00Charming Water World of Venice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span>t
the end of some official business at <st1:city><st1:place>Treviso</st1:place></st1:city>,
a small Italian city in north-eastern <st1:country -region="-region"><st1:place>Italy</st1:place></st1:country>,
we were eagerly looking forward to a couple of days in <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>,
unquestionably one of the most enchanting cities in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a major maritime power of the Middle
Ages to the ‘elegantly decaying’ city of present times, <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
continues to harbour an enduring appeal all its own.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">After a short drive from Treviso to
Mestre at the mouth of the Gulf of Venice, we disembarked from our road bus and
boarded a water-bus <i>(vaporetto)</i> No 1 to get to Venice proper, which was
a couple of kilometres away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our conducting
officer, a strapping young Lieutenant of the Italian Air Force saw us off,
while excusing himself for not being around any longer as he had to be with his
widowed mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were quite moved by
his concern which is a rare thing in the fast-paced life of the Westerners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Italians are different, still quite
traditional,” the Lieutenant assured us.</span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">After checking into a small hotel, we
did the usual fish-and-chips routine which was a safe fare, as ‘halal’ wasn’t
an available option, it seemed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A walk
along the <st1:place>Grand Canal</st1:place> that meanders through the heart of
<st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>, gave us a feel of the
enchanting island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first thing we
noted was the complete absence of vehicular traffic, which is turning into more
of a nightmare than a useful facility everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we were at the late hour, watching the
famous gondolas slithering past the waterways, with their gondoliers on the
lookout for well-heeled tourists who could cough up the hefty fare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On board one of the gondolas, an accordion
player was serenading a rather engrossed couple, whose senses had obviously
been overtaken by the sloshing and shimmering waters.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Set in the midst of the murky Venetian Lagoon, <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
owes much of its grandeur to the radiant <st1:place>Adriatic Sea</st1:place>
sparkling across the narrow strips of land that barricade the lagoon. We wondered
what a delightful effect the full moon and the tides would have on one’s senses.</span></div>
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</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">P</span>opulated
by refugees from the mainland escaping successive waves of Teutonic and Hun
invasions about one and a half millennia ago, Venice is now subjected to a more
welcome invasion by tourists that shows no sign of abatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The locals are a mere 70,000 in number, mostly
an elderly lot, as the younger ones have moved to the mainland due to the very
high cost of living, especially accommodation, in <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The non-resident work force commutes from the
mainland to the island and back daily, and its work revolves largely around
catering to tourists who number up to a staggering one million every month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Next morning, we were up rather early and went looking for
some coffee and doughnuts for a breakfast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We watched the start of the workaday routine
of the island with some amusement as boats brought in fresh fruit and
vegetables, school children boarded their school boat-buses and municipality
workers got to work collecting garbage in big boat-trucks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waterways seemed central to every
activity.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">After breakfast, we strolled along the waterfront towards
Piazza San Marco, the famous landmark where tourists congregate in hordes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way, we saw painters who had displayed
their paintings on easels; the scenes captured much of the canals and bridges
and the omnipresent gondolas of <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought a set of two miniatures in
water colour and these have graced our home for a long time, ever reminiscent
of the splendour of <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">At the Piazza, we were lucky to manage a sidewalk table for
ourselves, as we could sit and watch well past the time it took to dissolve the
delicious ice cream in our mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>St
Mark’s Basilica, the most famous of the city’s churches, lies to one side of
the Piazza which takes its name from it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pigeons, which seem to have an affinity for tourist spots everywhere,
fluttered overhead in sudden waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some
street performers on stilts had a crowd thronged around them, with little
children quite awe-struck by the ‘giants’ in their midst. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After spending a thoroughly enjoyable two
hours at the Piazza, we decided to walk through a narrow backdoor street to the
iconic, 16th century arched <st1:place><st1:placename>Rialto</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>, over the <st1:place>Grand
Canal</st1:place>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">I</span>t
was decided that after lunch at <st1:city><st1:place>Rialto</st1:place></st1:city>,
we would visit the nearby <st1:place><st1:placetype>island</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Murano</st1:placename></st1:place>,
famous the world over for its beautiful blown Murano Glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were told to gather at the water-bus stop
on Fondamente Nuove, which our tourist maps clearly showed at the northern edge
and was not difficult to locate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Boarding the jam-packed <i>vaporetto </i>we set course for Murano, which
is just a ten-minute ride. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way, just
off <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>, we passed by <st1:place><st2:sn>San</st2:sn>
<st2:middlename>Michele</st2:middlename> <st2:sn>Island</st2:sn></st1:place>,
which has served as a cemetery for the Venetians since the beginning of the 19th
century. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now packed to capacity, burials
are only temporary till arrangements are made on the mainland, in due course. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">As soon as we got off at Murano, a
guide took over and walked us to a nearby glass factory for a demonstration by
the master glass blower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three men were
helping the master: one pulled the glass from the furnace and passed it on, the
next one worked on forming a rough shape and again passed it on, while the
third one did some cutting and finer shaping; finally, the master did the embellishment
as the object cooled off into an exquisite flower vase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this demonstration was for free, but the
price was extracted soon after we entered the shop for buying some of the wares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A prominent notice cautioned visitors that
any pieces broken by them would be theirs, much like the ones at our crockery
shops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another notice that caught our
eye in more than one shop was, that the glass ware was authentic Murano and not
Made in <st1:country -region="-region"><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bargaining is an accepted form of shopping in
Murano and I tried my skills at buying a few pieces of delicate fruit and vegetables
made from blown glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was made to
feel that it was the greatest bargain on the whole island, something which I am
reminded of every day, as I look at the pieces in the dining room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Glass production was moved out of <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
to Murano in the 13th century, as Venetian houses made of wood were
considered at great risk of being consumed by glass furnace fires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today, Murano has come to be synonymous with
some of the finest decorative glass ware in the world, and most visitors to <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
make it a point to visit the small island to collect some souvenirs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span>fter
a hectic day, we returned to our hotel in the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next day, as we set off for <st1:city><st1:place>Rome</st1:place></st1:city>,
everyone agreed that it was one of the most exotic holidays that we had
undertaken. We had been to a city steeped in centuries of history and culture. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was here in <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
of the 13th century that Marco Polo’s wanderlust took roots and, his
travelogues brought knowledge about the exotic Orient to the Europeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was here too, that the prolific 18th
century writer, adventurer and ladies’ man, Giacomo Casanova, lived a colourful
life that is painted in his extraordinary autobiography. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History, art, architecture, glassworks,
gondolas, shopping and fashions, <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
had everything to offer and we had sampled a bit of all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of us mused that even though a honeymoon
trip to <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city> had been missed out
early in our lives, a post-retirement jaunt might be just the right therapy in
these hectic times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A full moon
reflecting in the charming water world of <st1:city><st1:place>Venice</st1:place></st1:city>
– seen from a gondola – is my idea of a golden jubilee!</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">©
KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and
conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits
unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the
original author and source are credited.</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="color: #660000;"><em>This article
was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The N</strong></em></span><span style="color: #660000;"><em><strong>ews International,</strong> on 28 Oct,
2012.</em></span></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-62127151593235690882012-07-11T20:17:00.002+05:002012-07-25T13:08:22.675+05:00Kraków – Lahore’s Twin in Poland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">F</span>ollowing
a hectic tour of <st1:city><st1:place>Warsaw</st1:place></st1:city> and Deblin,
which was mainly aimed at exploring areas of defence cooperation, we got a
welcome break for a couple of days at </span></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="OLE_LINK1"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Kraków</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">, the
cultural capital of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
located in the far south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Krakuf,’ we
were reminded about the knotty pronunciation by the well-informed Second
Secretary in the Pak Embassy at <st1:city><st1:place>Warsaw</st1:place></st1:city>,
who was accompanying us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon after
checking in at Garnizonowy Hotel, we took a walk along the Planty, a lush green
belt that forms the perimeter of the inner town known as the Centrum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There can be few places better than Planty to
learn what happens in spring and here we were, in the middle of April, with
flowers abloom and squirrels darting about in the oak trees that abound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>’s
well-maintained <st1:place><st1:placename>Lawrence</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Gardens</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
along with several others, come to mind, though Planty is far more extensive in
area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Numerous monuments and statues dot
the park, but one needs a good dose of Polish history and culture to make any sense of
them.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Kraków rose to prominence in 1038
when it became the seat of the Polish government under Duke Casimir I of the first
Piast Dynasty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the end of the
century, it had become the leading city of trade and commerce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Mongols ravaged the city in 1241 and it
was later rebuilt completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
survived two more Mongol onslaughts, thanks to defensive fortifications that
had been built in the wake of earlier attacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The last King of the Piast Dynasty, Casimir III the Great, ordered the
building of the <st1:place><st1:placename>Wawel</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Castle</st1:placetype></st1:place>
over the ruins of an earlier fortification.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Today the castle, much rebuilt, stands out as the most famous landmark
of Kraków.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After a good night’s rest and a
carefully selected kosher breakfast next morning – for pork closely follows God,
Honour and Fatherland in Polish dogma – a few of us history buffs walked down
to the nearby Wawel Castle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A gypsy folk
band playing on a violin, a double bass and an accordion, regaled us with a
rather beat up melody as we headed towards the gateway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The courtyard is surrounded on three sides by
colonnaded galleries, reflecting the Renaissance Style that was in vogue at the
time of the castle’s complete reconstruction by Sigismund I, in the first half
of the 16<sup>th</sup> century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
similar vintage, our Lahore Fort pales in front of <st1:place><st1:placename>Wawel</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Castle</st1:placetype></st1:place> in every way, especially
with regard to restoration and maintenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The castle’s courtyard is where grand ceremonies take place, the last
one being the internationally attended funeral reception for the late Polish President,
heads of the armed forces and numerous other government officials who were killed in an
air crash in 2010.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While touring the royal apartments,
we noted the considerable distance between the king’s and the queen’s bedrooms
with some amusement, though this was no hurdle for Sigismund I who sired eight
children from two wives!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A rich
collection of Flemish tapestries adorn the walls of the king’s bedroom, as well
as the Audience Hall and the Senators’ Hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An armoury and a treasury house a rich collection of royal artefacts and,
are reminiscent of the Sikh Collection at the Lahore Fort.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The tour was rounded off with a
short visit to the Wawel Cathedral, which has been the traditional site of
royal coronations and the resting place of Polish heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of the several chapels that are adjuncts to
the cathedral, the Sigismund Chapel stands out for its glittering dome of pure
gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One is reminded of Sunehri Masjid
in Inner Lahore’s Kashmiri Bazaar, though its domes are of everyday copper.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">I</span>n
the afternoon, we walked down to the nearby <st1:street><st1:address>Main
Market Square</st1:address></st1:street>, to which are rooted many of
Kraków’s colourful traditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Large
revelling crowds, horse-drawn carriages, fluttering pigeons, numerous flower
and gift shops and the utterly clean streets provided enough justification for
the title of the ‘World’s Best Square,’ conferred by the New York-based Project
for Public Spaces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The famous Cloth
Market, the Town Hall Tower and St Mary’s Basilica are some of the famous
landmarks of the Square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far is the <st1:place><st1:placename>Jagellonian</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype></st1:place>, the oldest in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
and one of the oldest in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its
Collegium Maius counts Nicolaus Copernicus amongst its students; he was the
famous astronomer of the late 15<sup>th</sup> century who revolutionised ideas
about the solar system with the sun at its centre. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We were just in time at the <st1:street><st1:address>Market
Square</st1:address></st1:street> to hear the trumpet which is blown at each
hour from the <st1:place><st1:placetype>tower</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>St
Mary</st1:placename></st1:place>’s Basilica.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Legend has it that<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <span lang="EN">a
guard on the church tower sounded the alarm by blowing the trumpet when the
Mongols attacked </span></span>Kraków<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <span lang="EN">in 1241; the city gates were promptly closed while backdoor evacuation
of women and children took place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
trumpeteer, however, was purportedly shot in the throat by a Tatar arrow and was
unable to complete the tune, which is why it now ends abruptly before
completion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a theatrical
re-enactment of a past event – no matter if it was part myth – and, had a
subtle message of devotion to duty for everyone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all were quite fascinated with the little
drama.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">A</span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">fter a day of riotous sightseeing, the
serene Vistula River meandering around Wawel Castle beckoned our tired eyes for
a mellow glimpse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend Asif, ever
eager to appreciate Nature, joined me for an after-dinner walk along the base
of the Wawel Hill which is supposed to house a dragon’s lair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, we caught sight of a tongue of
flame lashing out of the mouth of a creature that did seem like a dragon from
afar. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much to our amusement, we saw the
metal sculpture spewing fire every two minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Steeped in myths and legends like all old cities are, we learnt the
story of a rapacious dragon of </span>Kraków, which<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <span lang="EN">was slain by a cobbler’s son Skuba, after everyone else had
failed to stop it from gobbling the city’s fair maidens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a reward, Skuba got the hand of the last
surviving maiden – the king’s daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, they lived happily ever after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tourists can be so gullible, we thought, but
nonetheless </span></span>Kraków was doing well at their expense!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While
we were sitting on a bench watching the dragon in its fire-breathing act, we
heard a strange noise that seemed to have threatening overtones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far was a crowd of fifty-odd jeering
punks approaching in our direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
they got closer, we picked out the beer bottles in their hands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Asif was quick to sense that the situation was
likely to get nasty, so without much ado we got up and scrammed, giving no
chance for a missile to be launched at us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">T</span>he
short trip to Kraków was rounded off the next day with a trip to an extra-ordinary place: the Nazi’s infamous WW-II Concentration<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Camp at Auschwitz. </span>In less than an hour, we had driven right up
to the gate displaying the famous sign, “Arbeit Macht Frei” (work makes you free).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following a group photo at the gate, we were
assigned to a tour guide, one of the Israeli-sponsored college students who volunteer
for such duties during vacations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were taken to various internment barracks and some grisly locations like the
gas chambers, crematoriums and firing ranges for summary executions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roomfuls of exhibits included prisoners’
eyeglasses, shoes, headgear, etc. The camp was one large museum
of human atrocities on an unprecedented scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To us, it did not matter if some sceptics questioned the extent of the
holocaust; to the suffering family, one death of its dear one meant the same loss
as did a million deaths to everyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In an unusual gesture, our group laid a floral wreath at the Execution
Wall, which was heartily approved by surprised on-lookers, this being a first
of sorts by Pakistanis.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After the visit to <st1:place>Auschwitz</st1:place>,
we drove off to <st1:city><st1:place>Warsaw</st1:place></st1:city> across the
undulating plains which exude a rustic old-world charm all its own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horse-drawn ploughs, women in long skirts and
scarves and, men in baggy trousers, were far removed from the chic urbanity of
Kraków that we had seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;">During our short stay, we had noted that <st1:country-region><st1:place>Poland</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
difficult history had a common chord with our tormented one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that backdrop, it was easy to see some
commonalities, and the one that stood out most was the similarity of <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>
with Kraków. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter that our city is
many times more populous and far less tidy, but the fort, the gardens, the
leafy suburbs and a rich history are fair indices for staking a claim to being a
twin city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That, we learnt is quite true,
for Kraków and <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city> are indeed
officially declared twins!</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article
published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution
Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any
medium, provided the original author and source are
credited.</span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Picture credit:</strong> Planty Park (first picture) by Tadeusz Weise.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #660000;"><em>This article
was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The N</strong></em></span><span style="color: #660000;"><em><strong>ews International,</strong> on 22 July, 2012.</em></span></div>
</div>
</div>Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-68121873474530902772012-06-02T20:48:00.000+05:002013-05-04T09:22:44.710+05:00Biking to the X-treme North<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcmbJoVKv3tMp6RbsCHQOvO8ICzywcvmdy1EnvZHmO5jcH2ZQOuSz2X_ZGwff2yXfxUKb__3LN7jO89Z7a2Q-fDOR-jzLy16aOE8zpfGLVM52Qy-eIdFq47lzUr_LSYdVdGk2C_XzGPAe/s1600/FB2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcmbJoVKv3tMp6RbsCHQOvO8ICzywcvmdy1EnvZHmO5jcH2ZQOuSz2X_ZGwff2yXfxUKb__3LN7jO89Z7a2Q-fDOR-jzLy16aOE8zpfGLVM52Qy-eIdFq47lzUr_LSYdVdGk2C_XzGPAe/s1600/FB2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRcmbJoVKv3tMp6RbsCHQOvO8ICzywcvmdy1EnvZHmO5jcH2ZQOuSz2X_ZGwff2yXfxUKb__3LN7jO89Z7a2Q-fDOR-jzLy16aOE8zpfGLVM52Qy-eIdFq47lzUr_LSYdVdGk2C_XzGPAe/s200/FB2.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">I</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">f
you have heard people claiming to have travelled in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>
from ‘one end to the other,’ take it as no more than a figure of speech. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought such a sweeping contention should,
for a start, entail a boat ride to the fabulous <a href="http://kaiser-footloose.blogspot.com/2011/01/astolas-primeval-charm.html" target="_blank">Astola Island</a> in the Arabian
Sea, thirty miles south-east of Pasni; and, no amount of travelling inside
Pakistan’s heartland can be considered complete unless the sojourn is rounded
off with the ultimate feat of reaching the northern-most latitude of the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That extreme geographical point
was the goal of our two-man bicycle expedition last May, so we could proudly flaunt
our ‘end-to-end’ travel credentials.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HHSL7pqqsC8/T8o6_5GHruI/AAAAAAAAAfY/zk4V26G3C8A/s1600/Gojal+Map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="158" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HHSL7pqqsC8/T8o6_5GHruI/AAAAAAAAAfY/zk4V26G3C8A/s200/Gojal+Map.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Most ordinary maps show a small
kink jutting into China, a few miles north-east of the point where Pak, Afghan
and Chinese borders meet, being aptly described by the British explorer Colonel
Schomberg as the ‘solar plexus of the mountain system of Asia.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Astride the kink is the 15,840-ft high <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place>, which fans out northwards into
a sprawling snow-clad pasture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, herdsmen
from <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
northern-most <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Misgar</st1:placename></st1:place>
come to graze their sheep and goats, when the melting carpet of snow starts to
uncover the rich herbage in May.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up to
the end of the 19th century, the pass was infrequently used by
traders from Gilgit and Hunza to sell dried fruit and, of all items, wretched slaves
– with the acquiescence of the heartless local rulers – to caravans plying
between the fabled oasis towns of <st1:place>Western China</st1:place> and <st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
Badakhshan province, and beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much of
the goods from <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
however, came through the closer <st1:place><st1:placename>Mintaka</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place> and, included silks, printed
textiles, carpets and jade products, mostly destined for the ruling elite of the
region.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like most mountainous passes, Kilak
and Mintaka were also notorious for being hideouts for brigands to waylay caravans
laden with those exotic wares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of
the infamous outlaws of Gilgit and Hunza had spent their useful years prowling
the crags and defiles of these passes, while living off the land in the company
of wild animals and, lashed by bitterly cold winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could almost hear the nervous whistles of marmots
scampering about at the snarl of a hungry snow leopard in that mountain vastness,
as I started to plan the expedition. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I broached the subject with my
friend Shahid Dad, last year, he seemed sufficiently enthused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Would you be willing to bike all the way
from Gilgit to the extreme north of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>?”
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I inquired carefully, lest he take it as
an indolent suggestion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strong
fighter pilot bond we had shared in yesteryears came through when he emphatically
replied in the affirmative. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he
added in his usual scholarly manner, “Age doesn’t matter, the heart is still young,”
I knew I could take comfort, knee joints and all!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was summarily decided that Shahid would be
returning from <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city> the following
May, especially for this expedition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promptly
purchased lightweight mountain bikes for the two of us from Nila Gumbad, <st1:city><st1:place>Lahore</st1:place></st1:city>’s
crowded cycle mart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting those
‘retired’ muscles back to vigorous work was a challenge, and the coming months
saw me pedalling feverishly every morning on the outskirts of Lahore, while
Shahid was mostly confined to a gym due to severe cold weather in Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The expedition was to last a full fortnight,
from Gilgit up to the northern limits of <st1:place><st1:placename>Upper</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Hunza</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>
and back in 50-km daily stretches, so the demands on endurance and stamina had
to be painstakingly catered for.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">While physical conditioning was underway, the equally
important planning aspects were looked into, critically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Choice of route, basically dictated by suitable
night stops, was followed by selection of nearby inns, motels or camping sites;
geographical coordinates for GPS, climb gradients, astronomical and weather
data were then gathered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most important,
satellite pictures from Google® earth, which could be viewed in amazing 3-D
ground-level panoramas, were downloaded, carefully analysed and then uploaded
into our mobile phones for enroute correlation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a Mandarin vocabulary limited to <i>nin hao </i>and <i>xiéxié,</i>
explaining a border violation to Chinese guards would have been a disaster;
good navigation was, thus, the key to a successful mission. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The problem of Acute Mountain Sickness also had to be tackled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The earliest mention of this sickness is
known to have been made by a Chinese official by the name of To Kan in 32 BC,
while he was touring in the vicinity of the <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place> itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A man’s face turns pale, his head aches, and
he begins to vomit,” observed To Kan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This malady afflicts even the very fit mountaineers if the rate of vertical
traverse is more than 2,000-ft in 24 hours, above an elevation of
8,000-ft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a situation was going to
be encountered during our last leg, so we decided to break it up at the half
way point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the vitals adequately taken
care of, we were rearing to go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">O</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">n
26 April, I departed for <st1:city><st1:place>Islamabad</st1:place></st1:city>
where I met up with Shahid who had arrived from <st1:city><st1:place>Boston</st1:place></st1:city>
a few days before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next morning, we
boarded PIA’s ATR-42 turbo-prop for Gilgit under command of a very helpful and
friendly Captain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bikes had been
transported to Gilgit by road earlier, as the baggage hold of the aircraft was found
to be too small for bike cartons. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
Gilgit, we promptly assembled the bikes and went off for a familiarisation spin
to the nearby town of <st1:city><st1:place>Nomal</st1:place></st1:city>, which
we nostalgically remembered having passed by nearly four decades earlier, while
on a tough route march during a survival course as cadets. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Riding the rather dazzling bikes – what, with Darth Vader
helmets to complete the striking figures – we must have
looked like some aliens, as we swished past the curious bystanders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After returning from the test run, we rigged
the bikes with pannier bags, tents and sleeping bags and, carefully calibrated
the bike computers to help us keep track of speeds and distances during the
expedition.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Finally, on 30th April, we set course for our
first destination, Chalt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Karakoram
Highway (KKH) was in good shape and pedalling seemed like a breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The resplendent Common Magpies <i>(Pica pica)</i>
in their black, white and iridescent green feathers were to become a common
sight throughout our trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said to be
the most intelligent of all birds – being from the clever crow family – they
cackled and quacked delightfully as if welcoming us to their garden localities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A more hearty welcome came from the village
children who would run alongside our bikes, chanting, “Hello, one penny please.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d respond with salaams and good wishes in
Urdu, but some of the kids would insist that we were <i>angrez </i>and, would
keep on pestering for pennies!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After a tough 50-km leg, we approached Chalt by a suspension
bridge and, to get our legs in normal working order, walked some distance to an
old PWD rest house that had been booked in advance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The facility had seen better times during the
Raj – “comfortable bungalow,” according to the 19th century explorer
Sir Aurel Stein – but even now, it wasn’t too bad for a night’s stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hot bath before sleep and, a hearty open
air breakfast at the nearby River View Hotel put us in top gear for the next
leg.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Hunza evokes thoughts of a fabled land where everyone lives
long, and happiness seems to be a gentle breeze that blows the year round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had been to Hunza previously in hurried
affairs, but never as merrily as this time, on bikes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving Chalt, which also marks the northern limit
of Gilgit District, we had to negotiate a steep climb over a highway that
suddenly was no more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The KKH was under
major repair from Chalt onwards, and we found ourselves huffing and puffing
over gravel and shingle, an ordeal that was to last till our final destination,
all of the remaining 200 kms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As we approached Hunza’s main commercial town of <st1:city><st1:place>Aliabad</st1:place></st1:city>
after a very steep 50-km leg, which took us nine long hours to cover, courteous
adults and cheerful children made us feel quite welcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Following the unfortunate spate of sectarian
killings a few weeks earlier, tourism had come to a complete standstill in the
region; now, we seemed harbingers of better times to the locals.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--53q_iF69xk/T8rJTuWXYvI/AAAAAAAAAfw/II5C74vsik8/s1600/Apricot+blossoms+in+Hunza.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--53q_iF69xk/T8rJTuWXYvI/AAAAAAAAAfw/II5C74vsik8/s200/Apricot+blossoms+in+Hunza.JPG" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Having no energy left to climb yet another 2,000-ft to the
Eagle’s Nest Hotel perched atop a sheer cliff beyond Duikar village, we hired a
pick-up to haul our bikes. Just in time to catch the ginger and orange glow of
the setting sun bouncing off the snow clad mountains, we enjoyed the dazzling
spectacle from the hotel terrace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
too far in the sky, the crow-like Red-billed Choughs <i>(Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax)</i>
in their glossy black plumage could be seen performing some spectacular
aerobatics in the mountain updrafts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
climbing up, we had noticed scores of youngsters returning to their homes in
the nearby towns after a day-long picnic at Duikar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly, there was no segregation, much
like the rest of Hunza and, one wondered if this might be one of the possible
reasons for bliss in the happy valley!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later
at the hotel, a short dinner for two turned out to be a huge serving for four. Though
not quite a master of Burushaski, I suspected that the order for <i>alto</i>
(two) was conveyed as <i>walto </i>(four) by the waiters to the cooks!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well fed and tired to the bones, we were
almost sleep-walking back to our rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">he
third leg promised to be different as we had to negotiate the 18-km long <st1:place><st1:placename>Ata-abad</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> that, in one of the vagaries
of Nature, came into being three years ago as a result of a massive landslide
damming the <st1:place><st1:placename>Hunza</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We arrived at a dirty little jetty, where
disorder and confusion vied with dust and a merciless sun to rile the coolest
of nerves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took some tough shouting
to ensure that our bikes were not mishandled as they were hauled onto the boats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thereafter started a 90-minute ferry, what
with a deafening putter of the diesel motors for a serenade, as we watched the
reflection of the towering mountains in the turquoise waters of the lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disembarking a little short of Hussaini, we
found ourselves in Gojal Tehsil or the <st1:place><st1:placename>Upper</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Hunza</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
where Hunza’s Burushaski language largely gives way to the Afghan-linked Wakhi.
</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Already tired and profusely hungry,
the stretch from Hussaini onwards to Pasu was torment for our lower limbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had to get off the bikes when even the
lowest gear refused to generate forward motion over the precipitous
mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a good two hours of
lugging our wobbly selves along with the bikes, we finally hit downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the fading light of the day, a ‘Welcome to
Pasu’ road sign came as a godsend and we raced to get to <st1:street><st1:address>Sarai
Silk Route</st1:address></st1:street>, a small but adequate hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As everywhere else, our requirements centred
on a hot bath and enough to eat, both of which were available promptly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over dinner, our waiter who preferred to speak
only in English, explained that he was basically a tourist guide and in this
lean season, was doing odd jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
with better means were offering the services of their vehicles to the locals to
get to the ferry at Hussaini and back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <st1:place><st1:placename>Ata-abad</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>
has hampered the movement of tourists as well the locals, who have to pay hefty
amounts to get their goods across.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
permanent solution seems years away, though it is my considered opinion that
two modern berths at either end, suitably equipped with cranes to service heavy
duty barges, might be a functional interim solution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The hearty dinner we had at Pasu gave us reason to rest an
extra day, for Shahid had taken ill not long after the meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, I sauntered around the
apricot and apple orchards and, took some striking pictures of the serrated
Pasu peaks also known as the Cathedral Spires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The day after, we set course for the fourth leg to Sost, which is the
dry port for trade with <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>
via the Khunjerab Pass, 80-km further east. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After another arduous day of cycling which saw
us through the beautiful <st1:place><st1:placetype>village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename>Khaibar</st1:placename></st1:place>
–<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>where everyone looked like a Bosnian
or a Croat – we arrived in Sost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
rather shabby town despite the natural beauty all around, we were hard-pressed
to look for accommodation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Due to an
unusual influx of two busloads of Japanese tourists, the PTDC Motel was fully
booked; however, we were permitted to set up our tents at the little camp site
in the hotel premises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again a hot
bath and, some very appetising food served by a most eager-to-please waiter
Shams-uddin, lulled us to an early sleep.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It was a wonder that, having biked for more than 200-kms over
a rubble of a highway, our cycles held out, with not even a puncture to stop
our progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were glad that much of
our cycling was over, but in all earnest, we knew that the remaining trek
wouldn’t be Boy Scout stuff. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Physical
rigours had expended the last of our calories and will power had been sapped to
the last grimace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place> was still 7,000 feet above and,
a perilous 55-kms beyond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our trainer in
boot camp of yesteryears, the late Sqn Ldr Sabir, had always reminded us that
when all else is spent, determination surely lends a helping hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had loads of it and it was time to tap
into this resource.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #660000;">A</span>s
we set out from Sost for Misgar about 15-km away, we were excited about seeing
this last outpost of the <st1:place>British Empire</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the ‘Great Game’ of the late 19th<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>
</sup>century, Misgar served as an important station for keeping an eye on Czarist
Russia’s involvement, gauging the extent of Chinese influence and, trying to
manipulate the double-dealing Mir of Hunza to side with the British.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Much earlier in 1844, Mir Ghanzanfar Khan of Hunza had driven
out some Kyrgyz settlers in the area in an effort to assert his authority and, to
secure exclusive trade relations with <st1:country-region><st1:place>China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After evicting the intruders, the Mir ordered
his small expeditionary force to settle there permanently, which is how the Burushaski-speaking
Misgar village emerged in the predominantly <st1:place><st1:placename>Wakhi-speaking</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Upper</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Hunza</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Valley</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">About an hour out of Sost, we diverted off the <st1:street><st1:address>Karakoram
Highway</st1:address></st1:street>, onto a very steep jeepable track that led
to Misgar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the climb, one had to
keep the eyes off the deep gorges and plunging ravines, lest a flash of
dizziness caused a fatal wobble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
some of the toughest cycling so far, we reached the outskirts of the village,
welcomed as usual by little children asking for their share of pennies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Pakistan's northern-most village, </span>Misgar is set in a valley of verdant fields
and rushing streams surrounded by towering snow-clad mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Terraced gardens, awash with pink apricot
blossoms, were tended by colourfully clad womenfolk. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We had planned to hand over our bikes to the village <i>numberdar
</i>(headman) and, on making an inquiry about his residence, were held back for
a cup of tea by a stranger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our host Irshad-ullah
would not let us go without taking a little rest and he brought in his excited children
who met us most courteously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After some
invigorating tea and biscuits, we took leave and headed for the <i>numberdar’s</i>
residence at the far end of the village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A surprised Ata-ullah welcomed us at his home and insisted that we stay
over for a night as we were tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
we told him that we were hard-pressed due to our schedule and wanted to start
our trek immediately, he got busy with arranging porters for us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime we readied the backpacks,
tents, sleeping bags and our food supplies which were to be carried along,
while the bikes were safely kept by Ata-ullah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In an hour, we were hiking off to Runghil, about 13-km away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On our way out of Misgar, we passed by the old
post and telegraph office that was an important message despatch facility for
the British and, continues to be fully functional nearly a century after it was
established in 1916.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Five kilometres out of Misgar, we came across the Qalandarchi
Fort, another relic of the ‘Great Game’ where the British maintained a small
garrison to keep an eye on Russian and Chinese activities across the frontier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided to survey the fort on our way
back, so more about it later.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">From Misgar to Kilak, there are several shepherds’ way
stations having a single stone hut each, where a team of four shepherds lives
during the summer grazing season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
shepherds take short monthly breaks to Misgar in rotation for visiting their
families, and for restocking their food supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A single team tends a flock of as many as five
hundred sheep and goats, most of which are later sold off in the markets of
Gilgit and Hunza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Runghil was the first
of these staging posts where we camped for the night, reaching there just
before night fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our porters being
educated up to high school had kept up a good conversation, filling us up on
the terrain, flora and fauna, as well as local lore and history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out of mobile phone coverage, we started
using the handy satellite phone to call our families daily about our progress
and well-being.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Next morning, a nourishing breakfast of oatmeal and coffee
cooked by Shahid over firewood got us going to our next destination of
Morkushi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being a mere seven kilometres
from Runghil, we reached Morkushi by midday and decided to give ourselves a
rest as some tough trekking was expected the following day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Morkushi is another shepherds’ way station
and large herds of goats could be seen grazing in the alpine meadows at an
elevation of 12,000-ft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Juniper, birch
and willow are the common trees of the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wild rose grows plentifully, and some delightful White-winged Redstarts <i>(Phoenicurus
erythrogaster)</i> could be seen perching on the bushes, seemingly filling in
for the roses that had not yet blossomed.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“Down in the little wood of stunted birch trees by the
river,” wrote the explorer Sir Aurel Stein about the site where he had camped
in 1900, on his way to Kashgar via <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass.</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We too, found a place to camp in the woods by
the river and Shahid soon got to work building a fire for a meal of rice and vegetable
soup, while I collected some ice-cold water from the nearby river. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Kilak and <st1:place><st1:placename>Mintaka</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Rivers</st1:placetype></st1:place> meet at Morkushi, flowing in
from the north-west and north-east respectively. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly, while the sandy bed of <st1:place><st1:placename>Mintaka</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place> is sparkling white, that of <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>River</st1:placetype></st1:place> is jet black seemingly laden
with antimony compounds, though a proper soil analysis might suggest a more
complex composition. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Setting
out from Morkushi to Sad Buldi – which was to be our base camp for the final
trek to Kilak Pass – we passed by a number of crude stone tombs said to be
those of Kyrgyz nomads who had been settlers here, once upon a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearby, a neat helipad with a floor of well
laid out stones testified to visits by senior military commanders who keep the
area under their watchful eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">During the trek to Sad Buldi, we
came across numerous marmots<i> </i>whose warning calls to their mates sounded
to me like, <i>“</i>Heeeeere they come … run, run, run!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If during the day we were there to startle
them, they had a tougher time at night when they had to stay clear of prowling
snow leopards, whose pug marks we spotted a dozen times across our track.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">On the way, we stopped at an odd run-down
monument known as Bozai Gumbaz (dome of the elders), which had a couple of ibex
horns strung up, apparently votive in nature. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly named structures stand not too far
in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
Wakhan strip and are actually tombs in the vicinity of Kyrgyz settlements. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the short break at the monument, our
porters built a quick fire and we had some hot coffee to pep us up for the
remaining trek.</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Reaching Sad Buldi in the
afternoon, we were caught by a snow flurry followed by icy cold winds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the night, the temperature fell to
minus 10ºC and a 40-knot wind kept lashing our tents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shahid, who is prone to freezing earlier than
most, got up in the middle of the night and jogged around while I wondered what
the hullabaloo was all about!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Big Day dawned with a
surprisingly clear sky and we set course at six in the morning before the snow started
to melt under the sharp rays of the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The 6-km trek to <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place>
turned out to be a tough one as we had to climb a good 2,000-ft, what with the atmospheric
oxygen at Sad Buldi’s 14,000-ft elevation already 45% less than at sea level. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shahid led the way with a surprisingly brisk
gait and by <st1:time hour="9" minute="0">9:00 am</st1:time> we were at our
objective, Border Pillar No 2, that denotes the Pak-China border at <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass.</st1:placetype></st1:place> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The amount of snow for the first
week of May was far more than what we had expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All around, the vista had Arctic overtones
and, only the blue sky added colour to what was otherwise a most enchanting
composition in various shades of white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So pristine was the scenery that our footsteps in the snow seemed to mar
eons of stillness, much like Armstrong’s did on the moon, I liked to imagine.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The <st1:place><st1:placename>Kilak</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Pass</st1:placetype></st1:place> opens into a sprawling plain
about two kilometres wide, enclosed by towering mountains on the eastern and
western sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A border fence about 50
metres inside the Chinese territory ensures that shepherds and their animals do
not create a diplomatic fuss every now and then. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stayed around the border pillar and took
numerous pictures, though in the excitement we missed an important screen snap
of the GPS, that could have recorded the latitude of 37º 05’ N and an elevation
of 16,000’ above sea level.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Having to rush before the snow
turned into slush, we headed back carefully but to little avail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I plunged several times in to waist deep snow
and, in a few instances, scraped my shins against hidden rocks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, the injuries were Band-Aid curable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything more serious would have been
disastrous and, in retrospect, I feel that donkeys or other pack animals might
be the next best thing to helicopters for evacuation in a hiking eventuality,
especially in a remote area.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Back at our camp by <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">midday</st1:time>, both Shahid and I started to feel a bit
of queasiness which we put down to altitude sickness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling better by the evening, we called our
anxious families to tell them that the mission had been accomplished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eight days of hard work had paid off and we
were eager to get back. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gszSwkIS6f85PzjIwktxAlcq0z98nqcSSVW1q6e4dBZ4BPaf-OPA6qbeKtljo_6VuxJQZk9KqewJ1xbQs2YB7rJ4ZyaMpgMfZzyYYmm70ktcvYsnEvqeY9rY3r5uduTXE4BbxAgQaiOc/s1600/DSC01650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gszSwkIS6f85PzjIwktxAlcq0z98nqcSSVW1q6e4dBZ4BPaf-OPA6qbeKtljo_6VuxJQZk9KqewJ1xbQs2YB7rJ4ZyaMpgMfZzyYYmm70ktcvYsnEvqeY9rY3r5uduTXE4BbxAgQaiOc/s200/DSC01650.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">he trek
back to Misgar was on familiar route and included a night halt at
Morkushi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before we got to Misgar the
following afternoon, we made a short detour to Qalandarchi Fort. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Built by the British in the 1930s to show a
military presence in a sensitive area, the fort found new use half a century
later, when the Pakistan Army posted a small section of soldiers in the wake of
the Soviet invasion of <st1:country-region><st1:place>Afghanistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the late eighties, when <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>
occupied the Siachen glacier, Pakistan Army decided to establish a <st1:place><st1:placename>High</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Altitude</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Combat</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>School</st1:placetype></st1:place>
for its Northern Areas troops that were earmarked for duties in Siachen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A decade later, when training began in situ
at Siachen, Qalandarchi was finally abandoned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today a mosque and some barracks in the
vicinity of the decrepit fort await new residents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the infrastructure could be leased out
to some enterprising tour operator if the Army doesn’t find the area as ‘sensitive’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am told, however, that cross-border
sensitivities may be a bigger issue.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Reaching Misgar at <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">midday</st1:time>, we were welcomed by Ata-ullah over
sumptuous snacks and tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We paid off
the porters, rigged our bikes with the camping gear, and took leave from our
genial host.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we cycled through the
village, we were cheerfully waved at by all and sundry, as word had gotten out
about our successful expedition.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Arriving in Sost by evening, we
checked in the PTDC Motel, which this time, was mostly vacant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bath never felt so good, as we had to do
without this facility during our camping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A good load of laundry was also done in quick time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the household chores out of the way, we
had a sumptuous dinner, much starved as we were on our limited rations in the
camp.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Next morning, we decided to
leap-frog to Hussaini in a vehicle, cross the <st1:place><st1:placename>Ata-abad</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place> by boat and then ride our
bicycles to Aliabad in Hunza. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a
luxury stay at another of PTDC’s excellent motel in Aliabad, we moved on to
Gilgit, where the friendly and caring ways of the Army made us feel absolutely
at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unfortunately, the way out of Gilgit by air was closed due to
bad weather and, the prospects were not favourable for the coming days, so we
decided to take a 20-hour ride by bus to <st1:city><st1:place>Rawalpindi</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We had been on the road or the trail for a fortnight and,
most of the daylight hours had been taken up by a gruelling regimen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sense of accomplishment was immense
indeed, particularly because our mode of transport was unique as not too many
Pakistanis are given to cycling for leisure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We hope that the younger lot is inspired enough to take up similar
challenges; that is not to say that the senior lot should be considered past the age of pluck and
resolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is a little secret that
should get you going: we are both 58 and, there is no stopping yet!</span><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© KAISER
TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #660000;"><em>This article
was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The N</strong></em></span><span style="color: #660000;"><em><strong>ews International,</strong> in two parts, on 3 June and 10 Jun,
2012. It was also published in <strong>Pamir Times, </strong>in four parts, between 11 June and 21 June, 2012.</em></span></div>
</div>
Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-23859223402776014012012-04-17T12:05:00.001+05:002012-07-12T17:17:28.483+05:00Rann in a Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-size: x-large;">O</span><span style="color: black;">ur day started at Mirpurkhas with a substantial breakfast that was to launch us on a 500-km drive in the Thar Desert, to be completed by nightfall. The clear morning sky was the foreboding of a piercing April sun but, an outing to places off the beaten track having become one of my favourite diversions of late, there was no holding back. Having had a comfortable night stay in the mini Officers’ Mess (which used to be an airport lounge for use by the late Prime Minister Junejo of nearby Sindhri), we set course for Umarkot via Khipro. The more direct route is a jumble of bone-jarring and tyre-slashing craters, so a longer ride was actually welcome. Egrets and herons preyed on unwary frogs in the roadside ponds, while daring little doves lifted off successfully from the middle of the road at the very last moment. The occasional putter of the ubiquitous Qingqi rickshaw – grotesquely loaded as always – reminded us that humanity too, was around.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">By 10 o’clock we were at Umarkot, with my friend Nauman eagerly looking for a hot cup of tea. All shops were under orders to ‘voluntarily’ remain closed due to the death of a Sindhi nationalist leader. We were, however, lucky to stumble on to a tea stall whose owner had cleverly decided to make a day’s living by serving the ‘grieving’ public. Umarkot – purists insist it was always Amarkot – houses the district headquarters, though it is more famous for being the birthplace of Emperor Akbar. </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh0DODfcz3Q/T40UwMEq6PI/AAAAAAAAAZc/41XjNgMpU7Q/s1600/Cannon+at+Umarkot+Fort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh0DODfcz3Q/T40UwMEq6PI/AAAAAAAAAZc/41XjNgMpU7Q/s200/Cannon+at+Umarkot+Fort.jpg" width="111" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After tea, we drove into the nearby Umarkot Fort and were instantly horrified by the prevalent state of dilapidation and decay. Built by Mian Noor Muhammad Kalhoro in 1746 AD over the remains of an earlier mud fort of undetermined antiquity, it served no purpose when the Persian ruler Nadir Shah humiliatingly vanquished the Kalhora ruler while he took refuge there. The fort was later sold to the Maharaja of Jodhpur by the penniless last Kalhora ruler, Mian Abdul Nabi, but it was forcibly recovered by the Talpurs in 1813 AD. Though there is nothing remarkable about the fort, the raised central platform, which forms a suitable vantage point overlooking the city, has an impressive battery of seven cannon pointing outwards at possible intruders. It is likely that the battery is the handiwork of the later Talpurs who had learnt a lesson from the Nadir Shah episode and, had bolstered the fort’s defences. A museum inside the fort is yet another example of extreme apathy and neglect. Priceless publications, including a copy of Abul Fazal’s <em>Ain-i-Akbari</em>, Mughal paintings and motley coins, statuettes, and assorted weaponry lie hopelessly abandoned in an unkempt building. Vagrant beggar women squatting in the dust completed the pathetic scene around the museum. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Before leaving the city, we drove to the purported spot where Hamida Bano Begum gave birth to the illustrious Jalal-ud-din Akbar, while her husband Humayun was in flight from Sher Shah’s pursuing forces. A rather ordinary modern day monument in the shape of a small domed pavilion marks the birthplace, which is a short distance from the present-day fort. “The Rana [Virsal Prasad] gave the Emperor an honourable reception and took him into the fort, and assigned him excellent quarters,” notes Humayun’s sister Gulbadan Begum in <em>Humayun-Nama</em>. If the predecessor of the present fort that is being implied in the annals was located where the monument stands today, there is no trace of its ruins or the quarters it held inside. One is tempted to think that the local city administration may have been coaxed into declaring the site as sacrosanct for questionable reasons, or maybe it was just shoddy research about the location. I am reminded of one of our atomic scientists who was immensely moved to honour Sultan Shahab-ud-din Ghauri with a tomb at Dhamyak near Sohawa, over a grave that never was!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: x-large;">T</span><span style="color: black;">he sooner we had driven off from Umarkot, the scenery changed to an arid landscape, with shallow sand dunes riveted to the terrain by scrub and bush. Danda thohr <em>(Euphorbia caducifolia)</em>, phog <em>(Calligonum polygonoides)</em> and akk <em>(Calotropis gigantea)</em> are the most common plants that could be seen for miles on end. Every once in a while we would come across small Thari settlements which look like African kraals; the accommodation consists of rather spartan huts known as <em>chaunras</em>, which have circular mud walls with a conical thatched roof. Life in these settlements is a never-ending struggle for survival. When not braving intense heat and dust, collection of water becomes the most important chore for Tharis. Womenfolk in colourful dresses with their arms fully swathed in white bangles could often be seen with a couple of water pitchers perched jauntily on their heads. Men were seen usually idling about, while their cattle or sheep grazed nearby. We noted that Tharis are quite malnourished, what with millets and lentils being their staple food. Not a single meat shop was to be seen in any of the small town bazaars that we passed by. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After reaching Chachro, we turned south to Islamkot and then again east towards Virawah, having to go through ID checks at Rangers posts at every stop. The road is in an acceptable condition and is mainly used by open jeeps converted as passenger vehicles. Ex-Army 3-tonne trucks known as <em>kekras</em> (crabs), suitably embellished with our trademark truck art, carry goods to and fro in Thar. Beyond Islamkot, irrigation channels sourced from rainwater catchments have helped in the growth of some hardy trees including peelu, babol and neem. As we got closer to Virawah, which is located at the northern edge of the Rann of Kutch, the sand dunes started to subside while shallow salt flats could be seen all around. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLAoKC87IF1ayecsVucEa5iwXVPgE7x3S_OuvVmaQLubSwiyQ4JHp1FKpteh7avjz9kDWRWTDjUUfk97CVRPWm-hBWVt5CmK97sU-bw_6QyX9NvGGP6XsD4xrHYXB9pE7undbQDrLIy_1/s1600/Jain+Mandir+in+Nagar+Parkar+main+bazaar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzLAoKC87IF1ayecsVucEa5iwXVPgE7x3S_OuvVmaQLubSwiyQ4JHp1FKpteh7avjz9kDWRWTDjUUfk97CVRPWm-hBWVt5CmK97sU-bw_6QyX9NvGGP6XsD4xrHYXB9pE7undbQDrLIy_1/s200/Jain+Mandir+in+Nagar+Parkar+main+bazaar.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Shortly after mid-day, we saw the ‘welcome’ signboard at Nagar Parkar, with the ruddy Karonjhar Hills forming a fascinating backdrop. Going past yet more Rangers and Police check-posts – the Indian border being a mere 15-km – we drove straight to the bazaar. At the end of a side street is the Jain Mandir, said to be at least five centuries old. A notice by the Department of Archaeology warns against any vandalism or damage, the temple being a ‘protected’ monument. The warning flew in the face of the authorities when we were confronted by a pack of dogs resting right inside the inner sanctum of the temple. We took some pictures from a distance and headed for lunch. Dirty as the bazaar was, we had second thoughts about our planned lunch at a <em>dhaba</em> and considered gate-crashing at the Rangers’ Mess. However, aware of military correctness, we spared ourselves and the potential hosts the hassle and settled for a spartan meal, downtown. We were constantly stared at, for it must have been a while since the locals saw trousered <em>babus</em> eating in their midst! </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The last stop in Nagar Parkar was at the tiny Bhodesar Mosque on the northern reaches of the town. Struggling to rise above the babol shrubbery, its pink painted dome came into view near the hamlet of Bhodesar. Entering through the gate of the mosque compound, we passed by several very old graves. The mosque is a modest structure made of crudely set sandstone blocks. A stub of what might have been a minaret is visible on the roof. The prayer chamber is walled on three sides, while the front is open, supported by four marble pillars. The bottom segment of each pillar has four sides, the one above has eight, then sixteen and finally, the top-most segment is circular. Such pillars are common to the Jain temples in the vicinity, so local craftsmanship had been optimally utilised. A stylised lotus flower embellishes the <em>mihrab</em>, while another lotus finial surmounts the dome; such architectural themes cutting across vastly different faiths is indeed unique. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The mosque is attributed to Sultan Mahmud Shah ‘Bagra’ the most eminent ruler of Gujarat. Constructed in 1505 AD, the mosque can be seen as a symbol of his authority which extended as far as Nagar Parkar. The location of the mosque well removed from the town and, in the vicinity of three Jain temples, indicates the Sultan’s desire to challenge the power of the Jains. The mosque may well have served its purpose, for Islam gradually took hold in the region and continues to thrive, as the fully functional loudspeakers on the rooftop of the 500-year old mosque testify! </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Just behind the mosque is the beautiful Bhodesar Lake which is actually a rainwater catchment area, with an embankment constructed to serve as a water reservoir for the locals. Set against the Karonjhar Hills, over which the locally occurring Dusky Crag Martins could be seen darting and swooping in delightful flight, a camping night would have been a perfect finale to our trip. However, having to get back during daylight lest we ran into potholes or worse, we drove off to Mirpurkhas via Mithi, Naukot and Digri, quite happy having done the Rann in a day! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #660000;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Book Antiqua;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span><br />
</span><br />
<em>This article
was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News
International</strong> on 29 April 2012.</em></span></div>
</div>Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-34966178696497576142012-03-23T11:42:00.001+05:002012-07-02T20:06:54.391+05:00Of Thundering Smoke & Raging Torrents<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">U</span>nlikely Zimbabwe figured in our tour group’s itinerary because the PAF had been training its under-manned and inadequately trained air force for many years and, it was felt that a goodwill tour could help keep the deal well-oiled. (Thirty years from the time it started, the PAF continues to maintain a respectable presence in sub-Saharan Africa.) Fruitful parleys at the AFZ headquarters in the capital Harare, and a visit to the Thornhill air base at Gweru – where my friend Nauman Farrukh hosted a sumptuous lunch at his palatial villa – were the highlights of our official visit. The side show of the tour was a welcome trip to two great natural wonders of Africa.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">With Harare not having much to offer to the tourist other than the clean jacaranda-lined streets, the obvious rush is towards Victoria Falls located at the western tip of Zimbabwe. Here, the world’s largest curtain of water plummets into a mile-wide chasm in what appears to be a most dramatic sight-and-sound show. Rainbows sprung by the mist and spray dazzle the sight every few paces. The Scottish explorer and missionary, David Livingstone, who first saw the falls in 1855, could not help but report that, “… scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angels in their flight!” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">We took a commuter flight from Harare to Victoria Falls, where a small airport of the same name receives hordes of tourists, who spend tranquil holidays in cottages just outside the beautiful Victoria Falls National Park. An unusual sight that we noted at both airports, as well as ticket counters and eateries – with some wonderment, I may add – was the strict habit of queuing amongst the locals. Not that the country is a police state in the sense that Whitehall or White House would have us believe, nor is compulsory military service in vogue, but thorough discipline was evident in everyday lives. We were to note more of this deference to law and authority on the roads, where the traffic was most orderly and everyone stopped on red traffic lights, irrespective of the time of the day or night, whether a cyclist or a truck driver. I wondered to myself if the West had got it all wrong about Zimbabwe. Perhaps, the country’s independent ways have rankled the West, especially its former colonial masters, who have left no opportunity to harangue its leader, President Robert Mugabe, who somehow soldiers on into his 32nd year of rule. It is a shame that despite better tourist facilities at Victoria Falls, Westerners prefer neighbouring Zambia, perhaps out of spite for Mugabe.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After landing at the airport, a twenty-minute drive saw us at the gates of the park, from where a short walk took us to the best vantage point for viewing the waterfalls. On the way, we saw a most moving sight: a very old man on a wheel chair was being gently moved by locals, while his equally old wife was pacing slowly beside him, with a walking stick in her frail wrinkled hands. Our curious stares got the old lady explaining on her own that her 90-year old husband always wanted to see the falls in his life-time. “I am so happy that we have been able to make it. We came all the way from England, you see. You can’t imagine his feelings; only I know”. It was hard not to get misty-eyed at the sight of the lady adoring her husband with such tenderness.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: x-large;">Z</span><span style="color: black;">ambezi River was in full flood in the month of March. The fury of its torrent showed in a fantastic wall of spray that rose over a thousand feet in the air, as millions of tons of water fell crushingly, more than three hundred feet on to the basaltic rock below. Adjectives and exclamations flowed copiously out of gaping jaws, as everyone seemed entranced by the breathtaking sight and thundering sound. Cameras clicked frantically as if the scene was a fleeting one, though Nature had been at work for millennia and, still going mightily!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Waterfalls are usually classified by width, height or flow rate. Victoria Falls are neither the highest, nor the widest, these two titles going to Angel Falls in Venezuela and Iguaza Falls in Brazil/Argentina respectively. Victoria Falls, however, register a discharge of the largest volume of water in the peak of rainy season, though Niagara Falls comes on top when averaged over a complete year. I thought whatever superlative title the waterfalls held, it was a pity that Zimbabwe could not extract its full benefit, hopeless as things are politically and economically. In a Western country, tourist sites such as these would earn enough to alleviate the woes faced by the Harare government. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Having spent over two hours at the falls, we decided to wind up the sightseeing as we had to catch a tourist boat that was scheduled to depart shortly from a nearby jetty. Much excited as we were, we looked forward to the cruise on one of Africa’s great waterways, the Zambezi River. Walking out of the park, we stumbled upon what is known as the Big Tree, a huge baobab tree <em>(Adansonia digitata)</em> said to date back several hundred years. Nearby, the old couple we had met an hour earlier had not covered much ground, though they seemed quite determined to carry on. We wished them good luck and the old lady mumbled some blessings like our own grannies do.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">At the jetty, we found ourselves in a tropical jungle, having to weave through tall grass and thick foliage till we got to a rickety gangway. The <em>Amami,</em> a triple-decker boat with rather spartan furniture and no other trappings, was bobbing by the quay-side. We joined a crowd of tourists, most of whom were locals. Everyone was happily toting a can of <em>Zambezi </em>beer, the Zimbabweans’ favourite pick-me-up drink. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Quite punctually, the motors of the boat powered up and off we went slicing the swollen Zambezi, fresh on the heels of a cruise – complete with a variety show – that we had taken a week before, on the Nile in Egypt. Zambezi River has a primal charm all its own, with dense foliage covering its banks. Besides common reeds and papyrus, there is a profusion of ‘sausage’ trees <em>(Kigelia pinnata)</em> whose large sausage-shaped seed pods can often be seen floating on the waters. Crocodiles are known to bask on the sandbanks, as the warning signs indicated. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">The well-dressed captain of the boat – most Zimbabweans are well turned-out, we agreeably noted – rattled a commentary for those who were keen to listen, and included a concise lesson on African geography. We learnt that Zambezi River originates in neighbouring Zambia, passes through a portion of Angola and re-enters Zambia; thereafter, it demarcates a bit of the border with Namibia, a speck with Botswana and the whole of it with Zimbabwe. Finally, it snakes across Mozambique to discharge into the Indian Ocean. Following the discourse in academics, the captain challenged the passengers to a spot-the-hippo game. Suddenly, a cheer went up when a hippopotamus was spotted in the river, then another. False sightings, however, outdid the real ones by a large margin!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">After the hour-long cruise was over, we decided to visit the nearby Victoria Falls Bridge, which carries a railway line that was originally intended to connect Cape Town with Cairo. The ambitious project never went the distance, though it continues to serve as a rail link between Zambia and Zimbabwe. Built in 1905, the 400-ft high bridge is nowadays more famous for bungee jumping, as rail service becomes irregular due to the need for constant repairs to the bridge. Tempting though it was, a jump would have required crossing over to the Zambian side after obtaining a day-pass at the border post. We had to get back to Harare in time for a reception at the Pakistani High Commission (now an Embassy), to celebrate Pakistan Day, so the jump had to wait for another time. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">As we flew back to Harare, I wondered whether Livingstone’s description of the waterfalls ‘having been gazed upon by angels’ was more apt, or the locals’ appellation, ‘the smoke that thunders’. Having read an odd name at the entrance to the park, I settled for Mosi-oa-Tunya, which seems to tingle both senses in a strange way, even if one doesn’t know the Shona language. It means nothing else but …. The Smoke that Thunders!</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Book Antiqua; font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the
Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use,
distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and
source are credited.</span></div>
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<em><span style="color: #660000;">This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News International</strong> on 25 March 2012.</span></em></div>
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</div>Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1141797425003284980.post-17677504530710549332012-02-22T12:07:00.002+05:002012-07-02T20:07:28.136+05:00Rannikot - In the Middle of Nowhere<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">F</span>lying from Jacobabad to Karachi many years ago, I had spotted a rather puzzling wall-like structure which seemed to snake over and around the stark Lakhi Hills, which form the south-eastern frontier of the Kirthar Range. Confounded by the unusual feature which is not shown on most ordinary maps, I later learnt that it was known by the name of Rannikot (incorrectly spelt as Ranikot). Unfortunately, whatever remains of its history has been thoroughly warped by fiction, the tallest tale being that it is the world’s largest fort! Other than the Talpurs’ historical records making mention of the construction as their handiwork, no earlier account is available to contest it. The annals of Rannikot thus seem to end up in knots. </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGV_BQtJgMg/T0SRZ1GI9DI/AAAAAAAAAYk/JXlK0TfZOWE/s1600/Fortification+wall+snaking+up+the+Lakki+Hills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" lda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AGV_BQtJgMg/T0SRZ1GI9DI/AAAAAAAAAYk/JXlK0TfZOWE/s200/Fortification+wall+snaking+up+the+Lakki+Hills.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: black;">With a weekend to spare in Karachi recently, I got a chance to untangle whatever little I could about the enduring inscrutability of Rannikot. It didn’t take much to convince my friend Nauman Farrukh, that he needed a break from the humdrum never-ending work. We set course at eight in the morning and took the Super Highway, which is in first class condition all the way north to Sehwan. Reaching the small town of Sann after a three-hour drive, we turned south-west on to a narrow road, leaving the green flood plain of the Indus behind us. The utterly desolate terrain was occasionally cheered up the odd lark chirruping in the scrub. As we travelled ahead, barren hills started to loom in front of us and it was easy to see what a formidable barrier they could be, especially in the scorching summer heat. Small groups of shanty reed huts could be seen not too far from the road. Other than an odd village scrounger begging by the roadside, there was hardly a soul in sight. After a drive of about 25 kilometres, we sighted the wall undulating over the hills; shortly thereafter, we came upon the bastions of the eastern entrance known as the Sann Gate. The wall, viewed from this point, resembles some portions of the Great Wall of China, though any attempt at reading too much into this commonplace description would be utterly superfluous, as we shall see.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">A milestone by the roadside near the gateway marks Rannikot, while the small Miri Fort lies a further five kilometres ahead. It would be worthwhile clarifying that Rannikot is not a fort as is usually understood and, simply denotes the outer fortification wall that has numerous circular bastions serving as watchtowers. The wall is not a continuous structure and is, in fact, constructed in several segments ranging from one as small as 39 metres to the longest one which is 3.8 km, all adding up to 8.2 km in length. The wall largely plugs gaps in the hills where the terrain is passable by intruders, mostly towards the south. The wall cleverly aligns with the crests of the hills and forms a continuous barrier, which is, in most part natural and much less man-made. Put together, this barrier has been incorrectly termed as a single wall with a length claimed to be anywhere from 26-36 km. Unfortunately, UNESCO’s World Heritage Site Listing, which gives it a tentative status, gullibly takes up the Pakistani claim. The three-metre wide wall is clearly visible (as well as measurable) in Google® earth satellite pictures. There is no doubt that overly keen enthusiasts have blatantly distorted facts about its length.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Passing through the bastions of the gateway, we crossed the dry <em>ranni</em> (a local word for hill torrent) which meanders across the Rannikot fortification. In the rainy season, the stream starts as a torrent in the northern reaches of Lakhi Hills and after swinging east, discharges in the Indus near Sann. We had to make a short detour over the rough and stony terrain, as a bridge is being constructed over the stream which is known to swell enormously during flash floods. By the wayside, we spotted a small shack which doubled up as a make-shift petrol pump and a tea stall for odd travellers like us. The friendly owner, Ali Sher Rustamani, assigned a ten-year old tour guide by the name of Bilawal, who was said to be well versed with the area. After a short drive, we had to ford the gushing stream twice again, as that portion is abundantly fed by a natural spring. Luckily, the car’s silencer stayed clear of the water bed, though it’s rattling gave us a brief scare, what with no mobile phone coverage to call for help. Authorities seem to be paying some attention to the prospects of tourism, as indicated by another bridge which is under construction over this section. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">As we drove on towards Miri Fort, our little guide Bilawal told us that he knew all the hills and vales because he herded his father’s cattle and goats in the fort’s environs. A happy little soul, Bilawal’s only dread was the <em>charakh</em> (striped hyena), a pack of which of which had recently devoured his favourite calf. Reaching the fort, we entered through a looping vestibule into a large bell-shaped courtyard, a little less in size than a football field. Two dozen dilapidated cubicles and halls made up what might have been the armoury and other accommodation of the garrison personnel, who once manned this outpost. Four corner bastions and one at the entrance, served as watchtowers as well as platforms for artillery pieces. Other than a floral stone carving on the entrance arch, the fort is absolutely utilitarian and there is no evidence of any imperial splendour. Crude renovation attempts on the structure are amply evident. Climbing up a stairway to the top of the fort’s thick walls, we got an excellent view of the surroundings. A lush green patch abutting the stream marked a Gabol village, which seems to have done well in small-time farming. Looking north, we could see the outline of another small fort about 1.5 km away, on the crest of a hill range further beyond. It seemed like a perfect retreat, though reaching it would be a tough call for all but the stoutest of men. Shergarh (or Shergah) Fort had been aptly named, I thought.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span></span><span style="color: black;">everal sources attribute the construction of Rannikot to the Talpurs of Sindh (ruled 1783-1843). The earliest is a composition by the Talpur court poet, Ghulam Ali Ma’il, in which he eulogises the achievement of his patron, Mir Karam Ali Khan Talpur. He states that work started in 1815 and was completed five years later. The extant family records of the wazir and project overseer, Nawab Wali Mohammad Khan Laghari, also attribute the planning and construction of the fort to the Talpurs. In his historical Sindhi narrative, <em>Fatehnamo </em>(1907), Mir Hasan Ali Khan records some details, including the cost of the fort’s construction viz, Rupees 17 lacs, that was borne by the Talpur treasury. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">From earliest antiquity till the start of the 19th century, there is no mention of Rannikot in any writing, whatsoever. One of Emperor Akbar’s historians, Mir Masum, who accompanied the Mughal military commander Khan-i-Khanan during the conquest of Sindh in 1590/91 AD, does not record any fort in the area, despite the invading army having tarried at nearby Sann for several months during the monsoon season. Similarly, Rannikot finds no mention in the historical records of the Kalhora rulers of Sindh who held power for over eight decades before the Talpurs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Talpur Mirs were known to have built as many as twenty forts and strongholds on the frontiers of Sindh, ranging from the coast to the desert. Rannikot was one of their special mountain redoubts, and for good reason. Not having forgotten the fate of one of the Kalhora predecessors, Mian Noor Muhammad Kalhoro, who was humiliatingly vanquished by the Persian Nadir Shah at the defenceless fort of Umarkot, the Talpurs took heed and started preparing for such an eventuality. The Talpur family hunting grounds at present-day Rannikot, which still abound with the graceful Sindh Ibex <em>(Capra aegagrus blythi)</em>, were chosen as the ultimate hide-out for a fight back, just in case.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Sixty years of Talpur rule in Sindh ended in 1843, after British guile and General Charles Napier’s “rascality” – to quote his own words – resulted in a rout at Doaba (Dubbo) near Hyderabad. The last ruling Talpur Mirs of Hyderabad and Khairpur were deposed and packed off to Calcutta, without either one getting a chance to repair to Rannikot. The brave ruler of Mirpurkhas, Mir Sher Mohammad Talpur resisted, but his forces were defeated by the relentless John Jacob of Jacobabad fame. Sher managed to escape but had to wander as a fugitive for over a decade. He did find refuge in Shergarh Fort for a short while, but had to move on for fear of being pursued. Eventually, he had to make peace with the British as their wretched pensioner. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span></span><span style="color: black;">aving to get back to Karachi in time to catch a late evening flight to Lahore, I had to wind up the short tour. We stopped by at Ali Sher’s shack and handed over Bilawal to him. Over a cup of instant tea made on firewood, Ali Sher explained that tourism was picking up in bits, despite there being no electricity, running water, gas or even a dispensary in the area. He was at pains to assure us that the place was absolutely safe, especially with Baluch tribes in the vicinity. “Your womenfolk will be treated as our brothers,” he assured us chivalrously. Not sure of having heard him correctly, we wondered if it was a linguistic gender error and asked him what he meant. Ali Sher outdid himself in chauvinism when he explained that, “we want to treat them as worthy, which is only possible if they are given the status of men!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">As we left after a most useful trip, I wondered how the fortification still harks back to a last stand that was not to be. The Irish travel writer, Isobel Shaw, got it so right in her succinct observation about Rannikot, “… in the middle of nowhere, defending against nothing.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Book Antiqua; font-size: x-small;">© KAISER TUFAIL. This is an open-access article published under the terms and conditions of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence, which permits unrestricted use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.</span></div>
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<em><span style="color: #660000;">This article was published in the daily newspaper <strong>The News International</strong> on 4 March 2012.</span></em></div>
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</div>Kaiser Tufailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05733145033238064933noreply@blogger.com6