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trip Jinxed
Journeys
trip On being detailed for a
trip to Laos, I was rather pleased, as it was one country I could hardly ever
think of visiting. A small delegation was scheduled to participate in the
2004 ASEAN Regional Forum (ARF), a sideline to the 10th ASEAN Formal Summit
in Vientiane (pronounced ‘viangchan’), the capital of Laos. I briefly
wondered how on earth had Pakistan been able to demonstrate that, ‘it had
an impact on the peace and security of Northeast and Southeast Asia and
Oceania’, to qualify for ARF membership, but that wasn’t my concern,
really. Perhaps it had to do with keeping up with the Joneses in the
neighbourhood. I was glad that I could
learn more about Laos People’s Democratic Republic regarding which, I knew
little more than the fact that it was one of the last surviving bastions of
Communism (though nominally), besides being the most bombed country, per
capita, in the world during the Vietnam War. We took a PIA flight to
Bangkok, from where a Lao Airlines ATR-72 picked us up for a short flight to
Vientiane. Prompt in-processing at the Wattay International Airport was
followed by a leisurely drive to Novotel Hotel. Traffic on the
well-maintained roads was sparse, largely due to low car ownership;
motorcycles, bicycles and rickshaws (locally known as tuk tuk) were the
principal means of transport. Just near the hotel, a
statue of Fa Ngum, a ruthless 14th century warlord and founder of the Kingdom
of Lan Xang (million elephants) — precursor to what is now Laos — stands
menacingly, clasping a huge sword in hand. The road is named after his son
and successor Samsenthai. As I walked down the road towards downtown
Vientiane, I came across someone looking like our own countrymen, idling
outside a shop. Indeed he was a Pakistani, which came as a surprise to me, as
salaams were exchanged. He introduced himself as Gulzar Khan who owned a
travel agency. He surprised me even more when he told me that about 100
Pakistanis are settled in the city, of whom the younger ones are mostly
married to local girls. This matrimonial
arrangement provides permanent residence to the Pakistani youth, while the
local girls get to live in much better conditions than their less-privileged
counterparts. Another fellow Pakistani, Somboune Khan, originally from
Haripur, introduced himself as a director of a thriving garment import-export
company. He also represented the Muslim Association in Vientiane. Both the
Khans gave a good rundown of the city and its people and, helped me with some
of the must-see places during the short time I had. We again met next evening
when the two gentlemen, along with some Pakistani residents, came to call on
the foreign minister at the hotel. Walking by the roadside, I
spotted a drab colonial building that houses the Revolution Museum. A rather
modest affair, the museum covers the country’s struggle against the French
when it was ruled as part of French Indo-China (1893-1953). Some heroic
pictures of the Vietnam War showing ‘patriotic guerrillas fighting US
imperialists’ and, memorabilia of the 1975 communist revolution spearheaded
by the Pathet Lao (who ousted the royalists), are also on display.
Incredibly, items like socks worn by Politburo members when they escaped from
prison, also find a place of honour! The furniture and display boxes for
various artefacts were rather worn out and the explanatory labels were on
handwritten paper. For a full hour of my stay, I was the only visitor, which
said a lot about the lack of enthusiasm for the turbulent past, I thought. In the evening, we relaxed
in the hotel lobby for a while, listening to the soft captivating music being
played on traditional instruments, the khim (a stringed instrument struck
with thin bamboo sticks) and the saw-duang (a two-stringed instrument that is
bowed like a violin). We found everyone to be very courteous, though the
language barrier prevented fuller communication beyond clasping both hands in
the Indian-style namaste greeting. Modesty in dress and
manners was evident even in the hotel, which seemed typical of the stiff
communist societies of yesteryears. Jeans and long hair amongst men are
particularly frowned upon. Women mostly wear the sarong-like long skirt (sinh)
and blouse, with a broad sash going over the shoulder on formal occasions. I took a ride on a tuk tuk
to the That Luang, the huge golden stupa, which is the most important
monument as well as the national symbol of Laos. Construction of the stupa
was ordered by King Settathirat when the capital was moved to Vientiane in
1566. The stupa was later destroyed during the Thai invasion of 1828 and
completely reconstructed a century later. Many tourists had thronged the
beautiful parks and open areas around the stupa and were busy in photography,
as the monument offers immensely picturesque views. After spending an hour at
That Luang and some adjoining monasteries (wats), I took another tuk tuk ride
to the Morning Market, a busy shopping area where one can buy just about
anything, from fresh fruit and vegetables to electronic goods. Shops and
stalls are mostly run by old women while the younger lot is away at work. I
haggled for a beautiful inlaid wooden box meant for knickknacks; starting
from USD25, the price rapidly fell to USD5 as superior Pakistani bargaining
skills took the better of Lao talents. The shopkeeper, a university student,
was so excited that he called his mother to inform her of the sale. When I
enquired about the matter, he said that the money was enough for the whole
family to be able to eat well for a week, so it was important to put the
family matriarch in the picture. I was gratefully offered a bowl of sticky
rice and fish sauce — the staple food of the Lao — but I declined it as I
wasn’t sure about some other ingredients visible on the surface! On the way back, we drove
by an imposing monument known as the Patouxai or the Victory Gate, located on
the city’s main Lan Xang Avenue. Completed in 1962, the monument is
dedicated to the fallen soldiers of various wars. Patouxai’s similarity to
the Arc de Triomph in Paris is readily apparent, though Lao motifs and
figurines have been used to embellish the structure most aptly. The tuk tuk driver dropped
me off near the hotel from where I walked down to the banks of one of the
world’s great waterways: the Mekong River. Considering that Laos is a
landlocked country, Mekong is the lifeblood of its people. To someone used to
seeing our emaciated rivers, Mekong seemed almost in flood. The river bank
had scores of small restaurants, but I thought it was safer to choose a
kosher fare at the hotel. The sound of flowing waters amidst croaking frogs
and chirruping insects in the thick foliage was almost primal. It was late in
the evening and I could imagine the reflection of a full moon in the river, a
theme so creatively interpreted on the national flag of Laos. As I walked
back to the hotel, I wondered if there could be a more idyllic city —
almost a cosmopolitan village — where life is slow, everyone speaks softly
and, anger seems like an extinct emotion. The trip to Vientiane came
to a tame end and next morning we left for Bangkok, where we had time for a
brief shopping spree. Our ambassador at Bangkok hosted a sumptuous lunch
which was all the more enjoyable, as it was peppered with hilarity stemming
from some uninformed remarks by the host. His constant addressing of everyone
as ‘yara’ got the ruddy complexioned foreign minister turn maroon, but he
somehow managed to maintain his poise. A number of questions by the worthy
minister, pertaining to our mission in Bangkok, drew unqualified blanks.
Finally, the ambassador confessed in all candour, that being a political
appointee, foreign affairs wasn’t quite his forte; hearing this, all eyes
popped out much like those of the lobsters in our plates! Thus ended an
interesting trip to the laid-back sleepy capital of Laos PDR, where the
watchwords could well be: Please don’t rush! kaiser_mach2@yahoo.com
Jinxed
Journeys The year was 1976, and a
group of probationers at the Civil Services Academy were assigned to
undertake field training in Balochistan. The concerned authorities found us
to be most suitable for getting acquainted with the actual working of the
government in places like Kalat and Khuzdar. This was also the time when the
elected governments in Balochistan had been dismissed, the army had pitched
its tents on the hilltops to counter the insurgency in the length and breadth
of a province that was nearly half the size of the country in terms of the
area. The stay was quite
comfortable — lunches with the deputy commissioners, briefing at the army
messes and eventual stay at a rest house that happened to be part of the
residential compound of the Khan of Kalat. Everyone who joins the federal
services relives the illusion of its colonial grandeur till jolted to the
rough and tumble of native reality. We travelled in official vehicles under
some kind of protection mostly to touristy spots like Ziarat, Mastung, Chaman
and Fort Sandeman, feted lavishly by government functionaries. Getting tired of official
escort and briefings on the people and situation, we decided to be on our own
and explore the area. Anjum Bashir and I got to
know that an RCD highway, under construction from Quetta to Karachi, reduced
the distance and time between the two provincial capitals considerably. So,
one day we decided to go from Kalat, where we were loitering around in the
name of field training to Khuzdar, Wad, Bela and then onwards to Karachi on
the dream RCD Highway. From Kalat to Khuzadar the
journey was uneventful, the road was metalled with some traffic, the usual
buses and Hiaces with people hanging from the rooftop as on the ridges one
could occasionally see army pickets. The journey of about a 150 kilometres
took about six hours and it was relatively trouble free. On reaching Khuzdaar we
made inquiries and were told that the bus for Karachi would leave at the
crack of dawn to reach there by nightfall. We booked our seats, front VIP
seats, and arrived at the bus station at the crack of dawn. The bus was
stationed but there was no sign of anybody else there. After about two hours
the cleaner arrived, unlocked the bus and let us in. About ten other
passengers had arrived by then, another hour before the drivers arrived and
by that time the bus was half full. It started to get filled up, the seats
were taken, then the aisles, then the rooftop was stuffed to an
ever-increasing capacity. Last but not the least, sheep and goats too were
bundled in — and as the space lessened, their heads and necks were put out
through the windows with their rears resting where ever. Finally, we started
our journey at about 10am, after waiting another hour for the diesel pump
owner to arrive for the tank to be filled to the brim. The bus moved at a painful
speed, creaking and cringing as I tried to save myself from being injured by
the horn of a menacing mountain goat that bumped into me with every jolt. The
bus covered a distance of about 70 kilometres by the mid-afternoon and
reached Wad which was the centre of insurgency and from where the Mengals
hail. Everybody got down to have lunch, taking a leisurely one hour over it,
and we kept wondering as to how we were to reach Karachi by nightfall. We had
only covered 70 kilometres by mid-afternoon with another 300 to go. We started at about four as
the metalled road gave way to a shingled track, the bus heaved and sighed as
I constantly ducked from being grazed by the horn of my neighbour — the
goat. We continued like this for
another couple of hours and as the twilight appeared on the horizon there was
a sudden crunching sound as if something had broken. The bus stalled, and
after a primarily inspection, the news was broken to us that the axle of the
bus had cracked. The axle had to be taken to Karachi then brought back,
re-fixed for the journey to resume and that could take from one day to God
knows how many. We looked around, it was a
plateau with no person in sight. On the road, too, a truck passed after about
three hours and the rest were all bushes from where the partridges come out
in full innocence, attracted by the unfamiliar sound of a moving vehicle and
chattering people. As Anjum Bashir and myself
wondered what to do, we saw the rest of the passengers take their belonging
off the bus, unroll their tents, wipe their utensils, gather dried grass and
twigs, light up fires and settle down for a comfortable stay for the night. The night deepened — with
people huddled in their shacks and tents, eating and chatting, the moon came
out and lit the shrubby landscape that stretched for as long as the eye could
see. It was beautiful but it was hazed over by our worry of the prospect of
spending time in the open. It had started to get freezing cold — in the
middle of nowhere, in territory that was totally unfamiliar. Everyone went
off to sleep. We two seemed to be the only ones awake. By about midnight, the
headlights of a vehicle in the distance could be seen. It was almost like a
passing ship sailing just beyond the shores of an uninhabited island where a
few stranded wave hopelessly with whatever they lay their hands on. It took
almost an agonising hour before the truck arrived — as the headlights
appeared and then disappeared, the truck went up and down the hilly terrain
negotiating turns. The moment the truck
reached the spot, the people who seemed to be asleep in a flash wrapped up
their belonging, boarded the truck within no time, while we wondered what to
do and how to climb on the truck, competing with men, women, children, tents,
utensils and goats and sheep. More than a hundred people packed in the truck
with about a hundred cattleheads — but the truck did not move for another
hour as the negotiations on the rates between the bus and the truck drivers
stretched endlessly. The truck started to move
eventually at a snail pace. We were literally packed like sardines and could
not even shift our weight from one leg to the other. The only thing we could
move was our finger. It seemed that the truck
most of the time was travelling in ravines. We could only see the sky being
stuffed but could hear the splashing sound of tyres hitting water. After
sometime, even the pretence of a dirt road ended and the only pathway seemed
to be the water ways created by ravines, which, in late October, had
partially dried out. Occasionally there was water, at times only puddles as
the truck heaved through a combination of slush, sand, shingle and rock. And then at about dawn the
truck stalled and kept stalled for more than four hours. So tightly was everything
packed on the truck that we could not get down; worst we could not even make
inquiries, because through the volleys of Balochi, Brahvi and Sindhi
dialects, the only word that we could figure out was diesel. It appeared that
the diesel supplies had run short. From dawn it became almost
noon before the truck started again as another
truck passed by and some diesel was exchanged after hectic haggling in
Balochi, Brahvi, Makrani and Sindhi. The various dialects flew in the air,
their richness of intonation only matching our frustration.
The truck heaved and sighed
as it crawled for another three hours and then suddenly accelerated. We had
hit metalled road, 10 feet wide but it appeared newly built as the jolts
ceased dramatically. After about a couple of
hours we reached Bela — the local all got down with great alacrity with
their belongings and goats and melted away in the crowd while all organs in
our bodies minus breathing had gone off to sleep. Our limbs were in a
paralytic state. We were helped down and laid on the charpoy of the wayside
hotel, paid five rupees for the night and it was hours before the blood
circulation normalised and we were in a condition to make enquiries. We were told that the first
bus for Karachi was to leave at the crack of dawn and that the front VIP
seats were available. |
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