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experience The airport
blues
Going to work in the
official transport, I am surrounded by a majority of Indians, a few fellow
Pakistanis, some Chinese and a few British Africans. What sounds like an
interesting ethnic mix and an experience of its own kind is no different from
the endless bus rides that I have had on Multan A group of Indian Punjabi guys sitting behind discuss an affair between a Hindu girl and Muslim guy in our (university) town and what a huge paap it is; a fellow Pakistani is deciding upon his new cell phone ring tone and is therefore listening to each of them; my African friends are having a traditional truck-driver's laugh over God-knows-what! In the last four months, ever since I joined this sweatshop job, I've overheard discussions on issues as diverse and exciting as the airhostesses in Kingfisher Airlines in India, places to shop cheap hosiery in Glasgow, cheating techniques in final exams and the fluctuating size of Malika Sharawat's anatomy. Yes, I hate my sweatshop job as much as anyone would hate any sweatshop job. Late night and early morning shifts (6.30 am on Sunday mornings) would have been a better experience had I been surrounded by a few, if not all, like-minded people. At work, it's not unusual having to tolerate blasts of body odour which sometimes even come mixed with snores. All of us have to stay glued to telephones for hours, where we receive non-stop calls from angry customers. The customers, though well-mannered, are angry nonetheless. Some have lost their TV channels, others have a problem with the broadband speed, still others' bills are incorrect. The problems are endless and solutions we don't have. Angry callers from Ireland are a challenge (read nightmare) as no amount of brainstorming and will power can make us understand their accent and vice versa. We know they are angry because the 'f' word is easily decipherable even when uttered in an Irish accent. Each one of us is faking
accents (American, British, Scottish, Welsh, and Glaswegian) just to prove This continues for four hours (in my case) when it's time to head back home, amidst similar discussions in the bus but maybe this time over the slits on Kareena Kapoor's skirts. Yes, I hate my job but it pays my bills, buys me bread and I cannot quit because I know I can't find this 'sarkari nokri' anywhere else in UK. Sitting in my room with eyes on my laptop, trying to complete an assignment in the wee hours of the morning and lamenting over my procrastination, I'm sent a kindred soul (read flat mate) from God to cheer me up and remind me of the pleasant times I've spent in Mandi Bahauddin. A gentleman on the road whistles and all of a sudden starts singing a Malika Sherawat number (Mundiya, Aa bhe Jaa, Lay Ja) in which she walks on the beach in a bikini (Youtube confirms!). For a couple of seconds, I feel back in Pakistan, almost in Lahore but more so in Mandi Bahauddin where I've spent one of the best times of my early childhood experiencing true desi culture. This reminds me of things like golas (better known as Gola Gandas) that we used to have all afternoon in the sizzling summer heat without any fear of diarrhea. Still proudly sticking to my no-alcohol and just-Halal policy, I walk an extra half and hour almost every week to go shopping for chicken. I enter the Halal meat shop, where all the butchers are Pakistani. They wear aprons and cover their hands with plastic gloves, but speak the lingo any roadside butcher would speak in Lahore. They make it a point to mention to every Pakistani (and/or Pakistani-looking Indian) that they hail from Multan road Lahore where they own the biggest meat shops. While buying chicken, I get valuable advice not just on all chicken related issues but also on how-to-live-a-decent-life in UK and ways of sending money back home. In a land where sometimes I feel no one would bother even if I die of cold on the streets, there happen to be a few souls who take active interest in my life and at times offer me a handful of free green chillies in recognition of my slimming anatomy. The concern and free advice (and loads of it) takes me back to the little roadside meat shops in Lahore. Just recently in London, at the Tesco in Slough which is probably the biggest Tesco outlet in UK, I truly and dearly missed my mother like never before. I was reminded of famous HKB stores on 'Maal' road and Liberty in Lahore where I went with my parents. I was surprised to see that almost all the retail staff comprised Asians -- Indians and Pakistanis. I could catch a glimpse of a few goras in uniform, but they seemed as out of place as they would in any of the HKBs in Pakistan. It was not an all Asian-day or an all Asian-shift, mind you. The shoppers were multi-ethnic though. And of course, the endless cell phones buzzing with ring tones of songs like 'Dil nay yeh kaha hai dil say' and 'Aashiq Banaya Aap Nay' (yes, still!) What was truly missing was haggling over prices and a hunt for buy-one-get-ten-free deals. If you really want to know what South Hall looks like, send a group of five hundred Sikhs to Krishanagar and Chouburji in Lahore, just anywhere in Rawalpindi or Landhi in Karachi. A typically desi area, almost ten minutes by British rail from Ealing Broadway London, it reminds you of any street experience in Pakistan. People who have had a chance to visit India can very much relate the experience to areas like Patel Nagar, Kamla Nagar and Rohini in Delhi. A board on the South Hall Train Station very rightly welcomes you with the station's name written in Hindi. London doesn't let its Asian population crave for desi cuisine, the Gurdwara very close to the South Hall train station still surprises by offering food to worshippers almost throughout the day. This fills the surrounding air with typical Indian food aroma which at times gives you the feel of Lakshmi Chowk in Lahore. The South Hall cinema showing Indian flicks invites traditional clapping, whistles, swearing, oohs and aahs which defines any desi cinema experience in Pakistan and India. But India extends well beyond Delhi, Agra and Mumbai, so you can experience Kolkata's Bengali culture in Algate East in London which has a huge Bengali community. Getting a chance to spend a couple of days there, you'll familiarise yourself with every-day use Bengali phrases like "Dada Ke Khobor?" (brother how are you?), "Kotou Daam" (how much?), "Kee Bolchay" (what did you say?) and much more. Eve-teasing incidents are not uncommon, with many of my female friends being complimented as 'Wunderful' on streets, and the teasers getting sincere advice of 'shutting up' from the ladies. It's London after all! Home bound, a traveller goes through 'random search of the day'
By Ja I lug my heavy suitcase through San Francisco International Airport and innocuously attempt to join the line of passengers up ahead handing in their tickets. In my mind, I am already on the plane racing towards the motherland to be embraced by family, friends and all the culinary delights I had foregone for the last year. "Excuse me, sir"
chirps an attendant a few feet to my left. "You're in the wrong line,
please come I respond with a tight smile in an attempt to remain pleasant and calm. The two security guards however fix me with a steely glare and get to work. Over the next few minutes, I am made to remove all my belongings, my shoes and even expose the inner waistline of my trousers. My bags are thoroughly inspected by hand and I wince at the sight of my meticulous packing being disturbed. All items with any form of metallic edge including razor blades are removed. I stare longingly at the standard line which is buzzing along at a steady pace as passengers are waved off after a cursory search. A few minutes later, an airport official approaches me and engages in a brief conversation. He has questions about why I am in the United States, places I have visited recently and people I may have come into contact with. When he is convinced that this diminutive boy has only set foot on his soil for the pursuit of higher education, I am allowed to pack up my belongings and sent off. I am the last one on the plane and the other passengers glare at this late-comer, wondering how he could have the temerity to hold everyone up. During my college years when I regularly travelled back and forth between the United States and Pakistan, such scenes proved to be the norm rather than the exception. While they were described as random, the officials always 'randomly' manage to single out the men with dark complexions who looked like they hailed from somewhere around the Middle East. And that is why travel to
the West, particularly the United States, has become anathema to many I recall a time when I arrived at the San Francisco Airport, only to have to wait for hours until the interrogators were ready for me. By the time we were done, it was late at night and amid the torrential rain, I had no choice but to go sleep in my university library since I could only pick up the keys to my dorm room in daylight. I recall a time when my interrogation became so protracted that I was forced to miss the flight and had to come back and catch it three days later. My name does not include a 'Muhammad' or 'Hussain'. I do not sport any visible facial hair and I speak fluent English in an accent that I have been told blends seamlessly into Western surroundings. I have friends who have fared far worse on account of name, beard and accent, some even having been denied entry altogether. Unfortunately, the closer you fit the physical description of a terrorist as envisioned by the CIA, the more trouble you are likely to have. The vast majority of Pakistanis attempting to enter the United States for legitimate reasons do make it through the process, it's just that the treatment meted out by the immigration officials that borders on humiliation that irks many and makes them dread the sight of an airport. So what words of wisdom can I share with someone hoping to complete this process as smoothly as possible? First of all, you need to accept that you have to enter American soil on the terms established by American law and any form of resentment can be held against you. You should anticipate delays since you are at the mercy of the timelines of the immigration officers. When you are being interrogated, I encourage you to engage in some friendly conversation with the official. My fastest release from the immigration authorities' office was when I managed to engage the official in a conversation about what I was studying in college and the interest I was developing in American sports. This seemed to assure him that I was just a visiting student and he waved me through with minimal fuss. But we're not always going to be lucky enough to find a good Samaritan like that. There is hope that if the Democrats return to power, their more lenient stance towards immigration will translate into reduced airport delays for us. Too bad that most of us won't be able to join the line to cast a vote for Hillary or Obama. |
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Road in Lahore. The roads are
better and there are no traffic jams. We drive through the breathtaking green
that Scotland boasts of and I miss the hustle and bustle of Mor Yateem Khana,
Paikhay Waal and Chouburji and yet as I close my eyes, I feel I am still
home.
we're based in UK and end up uttering gibberish in incomprehensible wrong
English. When customers listen to English in a Scottish-Punjabi and
British-Bengali accent, they politely request for a native English advisor on
phone; we equally politely request them not to make any racist comment as
that allows us to take legal action against them. They are infuriated and
threatening, we're infuriated and apologetic.
this way." Not wanting to create a scene, I tacitly crawl towards her
and am greeted by two burly security guards hovering behind a pillar.
"You've been selected for our random search of the day," she says
cheerfully as if she has just informed me that I am the winner of the state
lottery.
Muslim males. You may look forward to the destination of your travel or even
have a penchant for airplane food and in-flight movies but the extensive
interrogations that await you upon entering or exiting from Western airports
become the bane of the experience.