Lost in Colombo
Simple observations of a first-time visitor to Sri Lanka who is forced to make comparisons with Pakistan every time he sees something nice
By Tariq Bhatti
In the wee hours of March 25, the aircraft landed on Shiva Jee International airport, Mumbai, for stop over before flying to Colombo. Passengers bound for India disembarked. As we fastened our seat belts for take off, the captain announced "Colombo airport has been closed for operations for an indefinite period of time. We apologise for the delay. Please remain seated and wait for the next announcement."

Lahore may be the second largest city of Pakistan population-wise but it's definitely at the top culturally. Probably the most 'Pakistani' of all. A border city, Lahore has its back towards its past, its face looking to the present.

I first discovered Lahore on a rickshaw. Before that, it only had a face, but no scent of its own. Then the rickshaw brought it to my full senses. And I now know that this city throbs.

Lahore carries the signs of its glorious and long past. The ancient fort, dating back to 1566 when it was the residence of the Mughal emperor Akbar, and the impressive Badshahi Mosque force the observer to share attention between these two majestic and unforgettable products of human ingenuity. As you raise your eyes to reach the top of the minarets which disappear in the sky or beyond, towards God, you just feel how small human beings are.

But the best time to see the great mosque, one of the biggest of the world, is at night, from the terraces of Cooco's cafe´ when the house of God appears just as a black silhouette linking lights to each others as with an invisible wire. It is then that you realise how great humankind is.

Lahore does not welcome you with open arms. You must love it before it loves you. It makes it clear pretty soon that it has a strong personality and it will give no discount. Heat, dust, noise, smell, chaos. You must find the key to open the fortress in order to get to its soft heart. And the key lies in its people, in its parks and green spaces, in the intricacy of roads which are its bustling markets, in the open fields surrounding it, in its beautiful British-style buildings, reminiscence of a past not too far back.

Lahore is made of hidden spots which you will find only if you love it. And then it will return this love.

It took me some time to find this key. But once you have it, you can't let it go.

In Lahore you soon sense that anything can happen. Where you least expect it, beyond the appearance of a private house, the best Italian restaurant is hidden. At 'Cosa Nostra' one can have a real taste of Italian cuisine and hear the amazing story of Paola, who came here and fell in love with Lahore and never wanted to leave. Her children are now keeping this important heritage alive. Being there is like being in a fairytale told by the pictures on the walls, which speak of a distant land. This restaurant is indeed the emblem of what you would never think of finding in this city, but which exists.

In Lahore's open spaces, you can meet with her past. If you are looking for a bit of British atmosphere, the Lahore Polo Club awaits you. In this open spot which the British established almost 120 years ago, the city noise seems to be only a memory. Here the most captivating polo matches take place. And between the chukkers, you can sip delicious tea and come across Lahore's high society, in a restaurant with a clear postcolonial flavour.

In beautiful houses with lush gardens, despite the stifling heat that envelopes the city for several months a year, a cultivated and refined upper class enjoys an extraordinary life behind high walls. A numerically narrow middle class seeks to make a niche for itself. And then, last but not least, a vast crowd is engaged in the daily struggle to survive.

If you wonder which the true soul of Lahore is, you would never come to any answer. This is indeed a multi-hearted city, where each of its souls can represent it, and yet they can not exist without the others.

These different souls become one when the night falls. In the place called 'Food Street', the variegated and multicoloured humanity shows herself. Here the concept of 'gathering' finds its supreme expression. Eyes meeting eyes from one table to another while enjoying typical (and spicy) Pakistani food. You can expect to find people from all social classes made equal by a common denominator: tasty local food.

After having spent six months in this city, I have taken off the tourist lens and replaced it with the dweller's eyes. They tell me that what I will never find anywhere else in the world is the Lahoris. Too obvious to say? No, for if Lahore does not open its arms immediately, its people do. They convince you that you're at home although you are thousands of miles away from it.

There is a saying that goes: You haven't seen the world until you have seen Lahore'.

When I left Italy to come to Pakistan, many people asked me why Lahore? I just wanted to see the world.

Murree holds pleasant childhood memories for so many of us, especially those who lived only an hour and a half away in Islamabad. Murree was the first choice for day trips; sometimes they were extended to an overnight stay, and yes there were instances when it became a week-long vacation, a real break I would say.

But these, as I said, have become memories of the past. The ugly commercialisation has left this hill station devoid of all its charm and beauty. The air is now thick with fumes from the trucks, huffing and puffing their way to the top, carrying more stuff to add to the ugly tall structures that first replaced the green landscape and now largely define it. Each structure is in a race to capture maximum commercial space.

The Mall Road of yore was a delightful place, where having a cone icecream in freezing cold was a ritual not to be missed, where you could buy local dry fruit to be consumed later at night over a game of cards, play video games in tiny video shops, where you had soup at 'Lintot's and bought walking sticks you would never use, but they reminded you of your trip.

The best entertainment at the Mall though was to sit on the side, enjoy the afghani hot chips and observe all the people passing by -- especially the newly wed couples; the woman decked in her jahez finery and the husband in his valima three-piece suit, shyly holding hands.

The Mall today is full of shops, selling clothes, toys from China and artificial jewellery, things which have nothing to do with Murree or its culture, swarming with a tide of people, who will poke, stare and pass comments at the female pedestrians.

Pindi Point, which was quiet, clean and offered a lovely view of Pindi and Islamabad lights and a horse ride around the hill, is now crowded and dirty. The horses are forced to share the road with cars in a hurry to get to the chair lifts, or blaring the latest music to impress the rest.

The fun in Murree did not end on the roads; you could take lovely hiking trips and stop to enjoy freshly baked salty bhuttas, relax in the sun in your rest house, play cards in the background of the amazing bright and quiet Murree nights or challenge each other on shooting matches with tiny rifles on little balloons and plastic men stuck on a board, carried around by 'Khan sahib'.

The easy-to-afford government rest houses have now been sold and commercialised. There is no quiet to be found in a town obsessed with loud music at all hours and the bhuttas are now cold, like most of the clean, safe, fun factor at Murree.

Time and again have I gone to Murree to relive the nice memories but most of these trips have been disappointments. The weather was hot and unpleasant in the summers owing largely to hideous tree cutting, the roads were jammed with no decent parking spot to be found and the crowds were pushy, insistent on having fun at other people's expense.

Murree's best kept secret was, however, discovered by a chance visit. Try going there on a weekday. When the crowds have not take over the town with their noisy cars with the 'Naughty Boy' stickers and armed with their cheeky comments. On weekdays, even during the prime tourist season, you can catch glimpses of what made Murree such a good holiday spot. Some patches of trees have survived the commercial slaughter, some odd lane will lead you to charming tiny houses, the fog will descend and hide some of the ugly buildings and at night darkness covers the graffiti on the walls asking you to rush to Liaquat Bagh for a political rally.

So don't give up on your childhood favourite yet and try visiting her this summer on a weekday. You won't be disappointed.

In the wee hours of March 25, the aircraft landed on Shiva Jee International airport, Mumbai, for stop over before flying to Colombo. Passengers bound for India disembarked. As we fastened our seat belts for take off, the captain announced "Colombo airport has been closed for operations for an indefinite period of time. We apologise for the delay. Please remain seated and wait for the next announcement."

It was dreadful. We had no clue of what had gone wrong. After a frustrating hour came another announcement. "Passengers can dismount and get transit cards to go to the Mumbai airport." This was better. Now we could take a glance at Mumbai.

Only a few of the passengers had gotten their transit entry cards when security personnel appeared and asked the passengers to board the plane. They told us that Colombo airport was operational. We had lost the opportunity of getting a taste of Mumbai.

When we reached, Colombo was bathing in pleasant, warm sunshine and did not betray what it had been through a few hours earlier. "The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam guerrillas dropped bombs on the Lankan airbase, around midnight." told Rajindhra, our host. "Our Air Force could not intercept them. They bombed and flew back safely."

As we drove out of the airport, we noticed that roads in Colombo are cleaner than most roads in big cities back home. There is a general respect for pedestrians. Drivers stop, if they have to make use of mobile phones. Texting is of course out of the question.

Predominant women presence in the public sphere, the roads and the streets, was also noticed with pleasant surprise. Seven days of interaction with people of various backgrounds reaffirmed the observation that women in Ceylon are more empowered than their counterparts in other South Asian countries.

Motorcyclists wear helmets in Sri Lanka. Interestingly, in case of pillion riding -- be it woman or man, girl or boy -- both wear helmet on their heads. At a few places one could see the familiar sight of garbage piled on the roadside, probably waiting for the city development authority staff. The appearance of people is simple. If someone wears slippers to formal meetings; it is not deemed casual.

Young couples, intimately embracing each other, was another common sight -- without inviting curious glances or censure.

The railway network was a lot more more effective than ours but just like us most of the trains were thronged beyond capacity. Government-owned buses still provide commuting facilities to the citizens.

The rickshaws (Tuk Tuk) in Colombo do not make the deafening noise as those in Lahore, Faisalabad and other big cities and were environment-friendly even otherwise.

Cigarettes are more expensive than beer and whisky. Rice is the staple food. The traditional way of eating rice mixed with various vegetables or fish curry does not involve use of spoons. Tourists from across the world with overwhelming majority from Western countries were seen having fun on the beaches and bars.

Shopping centers in Colombo were running their day and night shifts as their New Year celebrations start in the second week of April. Fixed price garments shops had long queues in front of them.

It was a surprise to see more churches, statues of Christ and Mary than Buddhist temples in the city of Negombo, one hour north of Colombo. 'The Christian symbols dominate the landscape in all coastal cities. "The early Portuguese, Dutch and British sailors along with their missionaries set their foot on the coastal towns," told a professor of economics in Colombo University. He also explained that most of the fishing communities are descendents of earlier converts to Christianity. Buddhism forbids killing of living beings; hence fishing was neither a sport nor a livelihood in the pre-Christian era. Proselytising Christians accompanying raiding parties brought this 'light' into 'the heart of darkness'.

When I was about to check out of the hotel for the journey back home, I had mixed feelings of attachment and gloom and how fleeting and transitory they are. Then words of Hema, 82, a journalist cum artist came to my rescue. She had said: "Till we breath, we can enjoy, relate and celebrate but can not possess. The moment we become possessive, dukhha (sorrow) takes over".

I regained the gaiety and became as light as one of the characters in Saadat Hassan Manto's short stories, who keeps all his belongings in one bag. Whenever he is exiled, he picks up his bag and moves to new places with no sense of loss.