Butterfly

Somebody is in here.











From Sultankot to Hyderabad, I still had to cross a good 300 kilometres. Till Sehwan Sharif, a pilgrimage site, the Indus Highway took me through rich agricultural lands as described in 'The Saints'. Highlight of this part was a stopover at the ancient city of Moenjadaro where the on-sight police offered me a camping spot and a meal.


(Picture: excavation site at Moenjadaro. Underneath a thick layer of dust lies a 5000 year old metropolis, once the beating heart of the Indus civilisation. When you walk through the straight alleyways of the city - covered drainage system included, something that is not present in some towns in Pakistan today - clouds of dust form around your feet. Before me a field hockey player had visited the sight, as I could see by the distinct footprint of field hockey shoes. My mark wasn't the thin line I normally draw, but the pointy print of my cycle shoes. It says: Koenwasdaro.)

After Sehwan, the land was arid and hot. A mountain range keeps villages like Lucky Shah Sakkar covered under a thick blanket of heat. I had to take a break from 11:30 to 14:30 as it was difficult to even breath. In the police station they gave me chai and a stretcher. I drank the sweet hot liquid that was served from a small plastic bag into a cup, and fell asleep. When I woke up the electricity was back on, powering a gentle whirlwind from the fan above. It swept me back onto the road.


(Picture: water carrying village women, and women at a shrine in Sehwan, waiting for a handful of 'nimco', or 'sangar', a curly massala snack that was given to worshipers.)

Electric light, load shedding, power plant.
Ask Pakistani's what they want from their government and they will tell you: light. 24/7. No more black-outs. Light; and peace, the eternal second.
The last weeks I crossed underneath several transmission towers, and when I wasn't listening to music, I could hear the buzzing sound of electricity through the cables. Current, with lightning speed from plant to outlet. I had not realised before that power has such a distinct sound. The whirring of wires: a swarm of moths, flying in a tearing hurry towards the light. Once they pass through the socket, the moths morph into butterflies. Bright white ones, that illuminate the house. Richly coloured ones, fluttering and flipping; from screens and speakers, into eyes and ears. Slip.
Inside they create the want for cars, mobile telephones and soft drinks (lawn green, with blood red dots; sky blue with layered circles of red, white and blue, or magenta with wavy white letters).

That is, if there is electricity.


(Pictures: sunlight, as beautifully reflected on a cabinetmaker from the Punjab. He works in the house of the caretaker of the shrine in Sehwan. With adoring devotion he puts his craft to practice, earning full board and 30 rupees a day (25 cents).)

When I arrived in Hyderabad, a new phase started. In Quetta I had written a letter to Shahana and Phillipe, who founded a school for children from poor families. If they could use my help. The answer was yes, welcome. When Phillipe opened the gate, and saw me surrounded by policemen, he greeted me like an old friend. A hugging how are you. Days before he had had the first visit of the secret police who wanted to know what this stranger ("is he Russian?") was coming to do. How they found out is still a mystery to me. Don't underestimate Pakistani intelligence.

Flashback. A chai break along the road, sitting on a bench, sipping tea. And about 30 staring men around me, of which one and half spoke some English. Contemplating the one asked me: "Mister, can I ask you something? Are you Chinese?")


(Pictures: goodtimes and goodfood at the dhamal, a Sufi ceremony on lunar date the 21st.)

Phillipe wanted to cut them short, come in(!) it has been such a long time(!) hasn't it(?) thank you very much officers, for the excellent care you've given my guest, goodbye! And then I found myself for the first time in the wonderful garden that this Pakistani-French couple grows in the heart of Hyderabad. Some grass, plants, stretchers, a Neem tree (where the school once rooted for the first time), a cage with a parrot, a henhouse, women, children, bicycles, a rickety old Nissan and a fan. A cacophony of things and life. I felt at home at first sight. I parked my bike, pitched my tent and sat down.
They have asked me to teach the teachers at school, and when possible also some of the children. English and mathematics, and perhaps some geography, but mostly I should take it as it comes. As I'm not a star in mathematics myself, I've decided to help fate a bit. I asked Phillipe for the course books and started studying about multiplying, dividing, numerators and decimals. Bear in mind that there are no fancy calculators around here, so ask yourself, how much more do you know about mental arithmetic than a kid from the slum?


(Pictures: dhamal dancers before the performance. Red cloth with beads: cautious, half smile that shows itself as the cracks in the stone white wall. Topi on curly hair and necklace: big ivory laugh as big as the tusk on the blue wall.)

At the moment the school is under construction, a second story is being built. This makes that none of us goes there and we spend our time around the house. Here I got another task to do, as I turned into a part-time physiotherapist. Parisa, the somebody in the title picture, is 8 years old and has symptoms of paralysis. She is staying with Shahana and Phillipe for some time to receive treatment. The other day Huzni, who helps in the household, and I took her to the public hospital. After a long and depressive wait we were seen by a physiotherapist (I have to admit, to my surprise). He activated her muscles before treating her (the light box). Like a butterfly she lies hidden in her cocoon of light and warmth, getting ready to spread her wings and fly.


(Pictures: the spirit of dhamal.)

I videotaped the treatment, and repeat it every day. We take my inflatable mattress and put it on top of a table. Our hospital simulator. I warm up her muscles by massaging them and then we do the exercises. People say she makes a lot of progress, but I'm afraid it will take a long time before she'll be able to use her right hand in daily life. One thing is relaxing it, another is using it. For eight years she has accustomed herself to life with one hand. She unscrews, applies, holds, gives and eats with her left hand. In a country where the left hand is 'haraam' (forbidden), you can imagine the public condemnation that she must have felt in the village.
And then there's the other paralysis: her tongue. She hardly talks. She makes sounds, shouts of excitement and laughter when you tickle her, or a sound with which she gestures you to come when she wants you to get something, or do something, but no words. She does understand though, as the people in the house speak to her. She reacts. It frustrates me that I cannot speak Sindhi, and once more a wish for a Matrix-like download module.
We'll take her to a specialist in speech impediment on Monday. I'll be there armed with my camera to preserve whatever therapy might help her.



Besides this, Shahana has taken me out to a very special ceremony the other day: dhamal. What looks to me like a wild rave where endorphin and dizziness puts people in a good mood, is seen by others as getting closer to Hazrat Shahbaz Qalandar, a Sufi saint. Whatever the truth, it's a truly uplifting experience: