Biking the Road to Siachen

Having successfully undertaken an arduous bicycle trip from Gilgit to the northern-most latitude of Pakistan at Kilak Pass 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.  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 Himalayas.  It was decided that for 2013, Baltistan’s Shyok Valley would be the place to explore, via the road from Skardu till its termination at the base of Siachen Glacier near Goma.  Of course, Army contacts would take care of our forays into operational areas if we could make it that far. 

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 Islamabad.  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.

 

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 River 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.”

 

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.  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.  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. 

The high point 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 Serena Hotels chain.  The exotic 17^th 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.  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.  The sumptuous lunch by the side of a hill torrent cascading out of Thalle Valley could, unhappily, not be prolonged as we still had a laborious journey to complete on utterly spent muscles.  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.   

Our expedition proper started next day, the 13^th of June, with the first of the six 50-km legs terminating at Keris, a village where Shyok River joins the mighty Indus during the latter’s north-westerly traverse.  Somehow, the limbs sprang back to full pedalling efficiency, and by late afternoon we were in the village scouting for a camp site.  Shahid was able to convince a friendly villager to allow us to camp adjacent to his orchard.  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.  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.  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. 

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.  A Blue Whistling Thrush (Myiophoneus caeruleus) had taken upon itself to wake us up at 4:30 in the morning.  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 7 o’clock, we were on the road again.

 

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.  It is from Khaplu that most mountaineering expeditions veer off towards various base camps.  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. 

 

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.  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.

 

The 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.

 

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.  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.  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 7 April 2012, when an avalanche buried 140 personnel of 6 NLI Battalion, perhaps one of the biggest disasters of its kind, anywhere.
  

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’.  The trip to Giyari ended with a gracious send-off by the Deputy Brigade Commander and one of the local Battalion Commanders.

 

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.   A visit to the Khaplu Fort Residency – also run by Serena Hotels – was an education in heritage conservation; its renovation by Aga Khan Trust was quite similar to the one at Shigar.  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. 

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.  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.

 

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.  The nostalgia was boundless when we spotted a pair of the old faithful Mirages piercing the azure skies. 

 

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.  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.  A consumption-oriented society is on the rise, as was amply evident from the array of consumer goods in the smallest of stores.  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).  Baltistan surely has a place on the ethnographic map of Pakistan. 

 

While we waited for our return flight to Islamabad, we had a couple of days to saunter around so a tough bike ride to Satpara Lake and a jeep ride to Deosai Plains was also undertaken.  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!

 

© 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.
 

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 21 July, 2013. It was also published in Pamir Times, in two parts, on 22 July and 25 July, 2013.

Colombo Calling

As our aircraft landed with a thump, I woke up to be utterly surprised at finding myself in Malé, the capital of Maldives, instead of Colombo in Sri Lanka. Unknown to me, a connecting flight via Maldives had been hurriedly cobbled up in Dubai after the original one got missed due to a late start at Lahore.  The embarrassing feeling was like having boarded a wrong bus, but it did not last long as we took off for Colombo after an hour’s stopover.

Business in Colombo 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 US.

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.  Orderly traffic was the first thing that struck me.  Buses were strictly following the bus lane.  All motor-cyclists were wearing helmets, including pillion riders, whether men or women.  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.

As I got off at the Taj Samudra Hotel, the taxi driver reminded me that all cricket teams stayed there.  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.

Before the workshop started, I had a complete day to myself, so I decided to roam the streets of Colombo. 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.  All roads are being turned into one-way thoroughfares to ease traffic congestion.  The serene Hunupitya Lake 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.

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.  Disabled adults and children are provided every possible medical help, including dignified reintegration into society.  It was no surprise that there were no beggars to be seen in Colombo.  The idea of such a benevolent institution is certainly worth emulating in Pakistan, if there are philanthropists willing to help.

As the sun’s rays became more piercing, I hailed a rickshaw to take me back to the hotel.  The driver asked for a rather huge sum of Rs 1,000, but after some haggling, came down a bit.  Not impressed, I suggested something more reasonable, but when he learnt that I was from Pakistan, he immediately slashed the fare down to Rs 200.  While driving back, he gave several reasons for his generosity: firstly, that Pakistan helped Sri Lanka 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.  I thanked Tasleem for the flattering comments which were offered in immaculate English which was no surprise, as the literacy rate in Sri Lanka is over 93%.

Though religious tolerance is generally evident in Colombo, there have been some instances of bigotry, of late.  The majority Sinhalese Buddhists (70% of the population) have objected to meat being certified as halal.  Even the Muslim hijab 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 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.  It seems that extreme courtesy flows out of a tolerant attitude borne of a multi-faith and a multi-cultural society.  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.

During a visit to the Buddhist Gangaramya Temple, I happened to watch a wedding party receive the benedictions of the priests.  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 pooja ceremony.  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.  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.

While 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.  During rush hour, walkways were full of people, with working women being in evidence in large numbers.  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.  Tourists abound in Colombo, which serves as a springboard to other places of historical, botanical or zoological interest in the rest of Sri Lanka.  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.

One day when we got an early off from work, a hunt for the fabled Sri Lankan gemstones turned out to be successful.  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! 

One of the famous getaways of Colombo, especially for socialising couples, is the vast Viharamahadevi Park whose coconut palms, huge banyan trees and dense herbage provide much needed cover from the sun, as much from prying eyes.  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.

The oddly-named Galle Face Green is a mile-long beach front promenade lined with palm trees, at the western end of Colombo.  It is a popular strip for jogging, as well as family outings on weekends.  The elegant Galle Face Hotel dating back to 1864, is a prominent landmark on the Green. 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.  A drumming concert was underway, with hundreds of youngsters enjoying the merriment with abandon.

Security in Colombo is flawless and, given the 25 years of insurgency that had badly racked the country, it is indeed commendable.  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.”  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. 

During my stay in Colombo, I noticed a virulent tirade by the media against India and US, for passing a UN resolution against supposed human rights violations by the government during the last stages of the counter-insurgency campaign.  It seemed that the resolution had more to do with Sri Lanka cosying up to China, than anything else.  The inauguration of the Chinese-built Hambantota Port in south Sri Lanka seems to have rubbed the two powers on the wrong side, I thought.  Sentiment against interference by outside powers is strong for another reason too.  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.

To me, the short Colombo experience was a very pleasant surprise.  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, The Three Princes of Serendip, were always making.  To relive those discoveries – or to experience serendipity – one must first hearken to Colombo’s call and then delve deeper into enchanting Sarandib of the Arabs and Persians, which is none other than the beautiful Sri Lanka of today.

 

 

 

 

© 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.

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 19 May, 2013 under the title Serendipity in Essence.

Muscat - Jewel of the Arabian Tropics

L 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.  As if the hills stand in as Nature’s high-rise structures in Muscat, there seems no need for the gross man-made skyscrapers that mar the skylines of many other cities in the Gulf.  Low-rise buildings in pastel hues and, beautiful mosques with domes in sparkling colours are the features of Muscat architecture.  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 Arabian Peninsula.

 

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.  The Muscat Gate that marks the entrance at the city limits  reminds one of our own Khyber Pass.  The roundabouts feature traditional icons like the coffee pots, incense burners, dhows and dolphins.  We drove straight to a hotel in the commercial district of Ruwi.  The multi-national complexion of the local population is quite evident, like in other Gulf countries.  Amongst the expatriates, the Indians dominate in the services sector and convenience stores, while Pakistanis mostly work as labourers and farm workers.  Many Baluchis and Gujaratis have settled in Oman and have been granted ‘second class’ citizenship.

 

Muscat 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.  The Greater Muscat Area includes the Mutrah district, with its shipping port complex and the corniche.  The bleak and barren hills of Al-Hajjar Range, which give a somewhat inhospitable look, dominate most of Muscat.  Much of the city’s construction occupies every flat nook and cranny alongside the coast.

 

Crass commercialisation is frowned upon and the symbols of conspicuous consumption are notably absent.  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.  In Muscat, 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. 

 

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.  At dinner, we were invited yet again to spend the following Friday at the farm of a Pakistani, Haji Abdul Yusuf.  Yusuf had moved to Muscat three decades earlier during the oil boom.  An enterprising gentleman, he fell in love with Oman and decided to live here forever, if he could.  Following up on a government initiative, he purchased some barren land about an hour’s drive from Muscat, where irrigation water had been facilitated by the government.  Bringing in labour from his village in Pakistan, he started tilling the land and today, his farm is one of the largest, completely mechanised farms in Oman.  A sumptuous lunch featuring a Punjabi fare was the highlight of the visit to Haji sahib’s farm.

 

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.  The dome is of a unique filigreed design, with matching cavernous minarets.  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.  The carpet inside the hall is said to be the second largest single piece and was woven in Iran.  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.

 

The next day, after the official proceedings were over, we were taken to the Al-Jalali Fort by a motor boat.  After disembarking at the quayside, we climbed a series of steps that brought us atop the fort, which afforded an immensely pleasing view of Muscat harbour and the serene waters of the Gulf.  The fort was built by the Portuguese shortly after the sack of Muscat by Afonso de Albuquerque in 1507.  Two partially successful attempts were made by the Ottomans to wrest control of Muscat, but it was finally captured by the local Imam of Oman, forcing the Portuguese to finally surrender in 1650.  In the fashion of all colonial powers, the Portuguese too committed their share of pillage and atrocities during their rule.  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.  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.  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.

 

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.  An evening fete in the Central Armed Forces Officers’ Mess was again an impressive function, where waiters in splendid Omani thobes, complete with badges and other regalia, and well versed in military decorum, served us in traditional style.

 

With the oil drying up, trying to keep up with the Gulf Joneses has been difficult for Oman.  All other Gulf capitals have the Corniche, the paved pathways on the waterfronts and Muscat is no exception, having built a beautiful one on the adjoining Mutrah Bay.  Similarly, luxury hotels are de rigueur for the rich tourists and Muscat has not been left behind.  One of the most impressive that we got to see is the Bostan Palace belonging to the Ritz-Carlton group.  The grand hotel was built in 1985 to house delegates to the GCC summit conference and Oman spared no effort so as not to be singled out as the ‘country cousin’ of the other Gulf countries.  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!

 

Of all my travels in the Gulf cities, I liked Muscat 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.  Beautiful mosques, open air souks, 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 One Thousand and One Nights.  If one were to look for the jewel of the Arabian tropics, one need not go farther than Muscat.

 

© 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.

 

This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International on 17 February, 2013.

Chengdu - China's Big Small-town City

As we got off the Air China airliner, the damp July air reeking of paddy fields and strong manure reminded us of our arrival in Sichuan Province, the heart of agrarian China.  The grey monsoon clouds gave us a hint that our trip would be blighted by wet weather.  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 Chengdu.  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.  To the rest of Pakistanis, Chengdu is a nondescript city much below Beijing, Guangzhou (Canton) and Shanghai in their business or tourism priorities.  They would do well to note that Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan Province, now ranks as one of China’s largest cities.  Chengdu was recently voted as the fourth most liveable city from an environmental standpoint.  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.

As we drove to the Jin Jiang Hotel in central Chengdu, 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.  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!

After checking in the hotel, we decided to take an exploratory walk on the North Renmin Road which led to the colossal statue of a little-revered Mao Tse-tung, overlooking the Tianfu  Square in the city centre.  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.  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.  While we were strolling by the roadside, we observed a noisy scuffle between a man and a woman.  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.  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.  It was an exciting introduction to Chengdu, as much as China, which we were visiting for the first time.

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.  Our hosts were careful to ensure that no kind of animal appeared on the platter and, the qipao clad waitresses were under special instructions to serve the fiery Moutai liquor only to the Chinese.  We sipped green tea instead, much to the amusement of our hosts, for whom tea-drinking is a valued tradition in Chengdu.  During small talk, I ventured to ask one of the managers seated next to me about his children.  Over a hearty laugh, he told me that it was an irrelevant question in China as Chinese couples (except ethnic minorities) have only one child.  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.  Of course, it dawned on me in a while! The cheerful roadside family planning posters hadn't conveyed the deeper implications.

As the days wore on, our flying became intermittent, subject to ever-changing weather.  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.  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.  Sichuan cuisine had never tasted the same in Lahore, for sure. 

After-dinner walks along the Nanhe River, which traces a swath through the centre of the city, were occasionally alternated with live music shows at the hotel.  Our favourite part featured the erhu, a two-stringed bowed instrument that almost always forms part of any classical Chinese orchestra.  One particular erhu 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.

Weekends were well spent exploring the suburbs of Chengdu.  One Sunday we visited the Thatched Cottage of Du Fu, on the western suburbs of the town.  Du Fu is one of China’s greatest poets (712-770 AD) who, in one of his wanderings, spent four years in Chengdu.  His reconstructed cottage adorns a beautiful park by the serene Huanhua Stream.

On another weekend, we drove to the lush green Mount Emei Scenic Area, near the town of Leshan, 140-km south of Chengdu.  The world’s largest statue of the seated Buddha, carved out of a cliff, faces the 10,000-ft high Mt Emei.  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.  Aptly named, the Scenic Area was soaked in monsoon mists, with exotic birds whistling and cooing, while friendly monkeys clambered about cheekily.  Du Fu, the poet, may well have captured our thoughts as we left the beautiful and mystifying Mount Emei: “Tomorrow the mountains will separate us; after tomorrow, who can say?”

Sichuan is famous for its giant pandas (Ailuropoda melanoleuca) and it was thoughtful of the factory management to organise a trip to the Wolong National Nature Reserve, about 130-km north-west of Chengdu.  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.  Another attractive animal at the Reserve was the cat-sized red panda (Alurus fulgens) which is classified as a family unto itself, though having some relation to raccoons and weasels.  The only thing common with the giant pandas is a diet mainly of bamboo shoots, though it is also omnivorous.  We fed one of them with peanuts which it devoured with relish.

For the remaining days in Chengdu, we found shopping for antiques a good evening pastime, and collected some ornate ceramic teapots and enamelled treasure boxes from the numerous stalls along Renmin Road.  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.  The antiques stalls have since been moved to the dedicated Songxianqiao Antiques Market which has made a name all over China.

Chengdu 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 Tianfu Square.  The older traditional buildings are sadly being replaced by soulless steel and concrete ones.  Despite all the change that has made it big, Chengdu still retains a small-town character reflected in the easygoing, rustic lifestyle of its simple inhabitants.  Will Chengdu still be the same when the present older generation is no more? After tomorrow, who can say?

  

© 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.

 This article was published in the daily newspaper The News International, on 25 Nov, 2012.