Circus

The last rays of sunlight in the Pakistan Express to Islamabad.












A few days before I left Khairpur, Steve, Mohammad, Javed and I visited the mela, or fair. Melas is when it's happening in small town Pakistan. It's like the circus coming to town, with magic, rollercoaster rides, food stalls, a haunted house and, my favourite, the wall of death. And all this Pakistani style. Or let's say very old style. I think the quality of the rides is comparable to a fair in Europe in the thirties. When we took place in the cabin of the ferris wheel, Steve concluded that the structure probably wouldn't pass health and safety standards back home.
"Dead scary", I said.
"Relax, only a catastrophic mechanical failure can ruin this, but other than that you're pretty safe wedged in between Javed and me.."
Indeed, as I was sitting in the middle, there wasn't much chance of falling, but I don't think there was much needed for a 'catastrophic mechanical failure'..
The ferris wheel is powered by what looked to me like a 100 cc engine, making the big wheel spin with 30 or so km/h backwards. A horror. The gondolas didn't stay upright, but swept back and forth depending on the speed, making your belly turn along as a toothed wheel in a gearbox. Moreover, the little box in which we were swept backwards, was attached to the construction by a single bar with a diameter of maybe 3 centimetres.
Well, it all seems to hold; from town to town, village to village. People don't seem to pay it much heed. It's a time of fun, and all the little rules that people behind desks can imagine, would take that away.


(Pictures: guys on the trampoline and the ferris wheel.)

For people who are familiar with the television series Carnivale it was a delightful flashback. The barren terrain turned to a dust bowl with so many sandals treading on the sand. Thin dust that gets into your hair, eyes and clothes, and when you buy something to eat between your teeth.
A caretaker tried to prevent this by spraying water, creating the distinct smell of sand mixed with water. Mud. The drops of water landed on the soil like bullets, forming small dust clouds.


(Pictures: 3 tickets for the wall of death, and the stunt man's motorcycle.)

The absolute highlight of the mela is what Pakistanis call the 'well of death'. We climbed a ramshackle stepladder - arguably one of the scariest features of the mela, as the steps were spaced differently, bent in and made squeaky sounds - so that we could look into the 4 metre high barrel-shaped wooden cylinder. The motorcycle stood in the centre. The motorcyclist entered the motordrome as if he walked into a 7/11 for a packet of cigarettes and some matches. He inspected some wholes in between the planks that formed the drum, shrugged his shoulders and got on with it. He placed his foot on the ratcheting lever, kick-started, first gear, gas and acceleration. It took him one horizontal round before he steered onto the wall. Circling up he settled on 3 metres above the ground, perfectly vertical, the speed measured and fixed, arms spread out wide, clenched fists.
It was a wonderful sight. Man's victory over gravity (combustion engine + wood > sky). You not only saw the swirling motorcycle, you also felt it. The planks gave in with the force of the motorcycle, shaking the structure.


(Pictures: the merry go round and the haunted house, with two unwilling ghosts.)

The absolute low point came with the animal act next door. A row of cages stood with their backs facing the fair. Once you made your way into the 'attraction' the saddest bunch of "wild animals" appeared. A spiritless wolf, a fox that had clearly lost it pacing up and down in its box. A row of monkeys, 2 in 1 cell, sat right behind the bars with their arms folded around them. Staring back at the people. Animals breathing far too thin, kept in captivity in the most uneventful of places. The Pakistanis visiting thought nothing was the matter, and threw stones to get the monkeys to move.


(Pictures: impressions of the train ride to Islamabad. People behind bars. The second picture I took when we crossed the river Chenab.)

And then came the pillar (Arcade travel).
It was a hassle to get the train ticket and the reservation for my bike. In total I had to visit three different train stations on two separate occasions in order not to succeed. I wanted to transport my cycle in the same train I was taking, but this was impossible. It's another one of those frustrating experience in the Pakistani grid designed by bureaucrats that is neither efficient nor customer friendly. Luckily I got assistance of my colleagues of the IRC, which made all this relatively painless.
And then came yet another goodbye. Aumir, my contact person in the organisation, had organised a high tea and group discussion to back the farewell, where Steve and I were both treated on an ashrak-topi (the cloth and hat that are typical for Sindhi culture).


(Pictures: Aumir drapping an ashrak on Steve's shoulder, and Naveed who was about to do the same to me.)

A few days later I asked Aumir what life was like in Khairpur. This is what he replied:

Life goes on as usual, the only difference is that Koen
isn't present on his chair.

I thought this was spot on.

The train ride was straight and long. 20 hours. I woke up when we had arrived in Multan and looked out of the window until we reached Rawalpindi, the twin city of Islamabad. The Punjabi countryside is similar to the Sindhi one, with the exception that there's a lot of rice cultivation. About two hours before arrival the lowlands changed into rugged terrain with salt mines. And then it became hilly and I felt my heart rate go up. I didn't realise, but I had really missed hills. Sometimes you could see beautiful Banyan trees along the track, with trunks like gigantic wax candles.
Now I'm staying at the 'foreigner only' campsite in Islamabad, where apart from me, a squadron of bearded policemen resides. Pitching your tent cost 50 rupees a day, but to my surprise there was a vacant room with light and fan for the same amount.
Islamabad is everything Khairpur isn't, and vice versa. It's planned, has good roads, facilities, delicious soft serve, French fries, a 'diplomatic enclave' that is a circus in itself - a visa fun-fair without the fun - and a French bakery (it's against the rules of enjoying the local dish, but after one year I couldn't resist cheese croissants, baguettes and apple tart). It's a place so square that it would make many a Central Asian, ex-Soviet city jealous.
Khairpur didn't have planning, roads, or a French bakery, but to me it had familiarity.


(Picture: I'm not the only one enjoying the French bakery..)