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March 26, 2005
One Night in Karachi
I flew into Karachi to meet my fixer and guide, Iqbal, who will be taking me into the interior of Sindh Province and who will introduce me to some feudal lords, tribal leaders and the realities of the Pakistani court system. If all goes as planned we will sit in on a Jirga, which is a council of elders, as they decide local cases. We may or may not see men walk across a bed of coals to prove their innocence. ("You should have called me earlier," Iqbal said when I first telephoned, "I just got back from a trial by fire.")
The first time I was ever in Karachi, the massive southern capital seethed with imagined menace. It was not long after the gruesome videotaped beheading of Danny Pearl, who was last seen not far from my hotel. Somebody tried to break into my room in the middle of the night. I was not pre-disposed to like the place. This time around it’s different. I know Pakistan now. I’m confident. I know how to talk to taxi drivers, how to get dinner, how to order beer in my hotel. Or at least I thought so. Pakistan is a dry country, but it does have one brewery, Murree, to provide refreshment for thirsty non-Muslims, provided they are willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money for average beer. After a day roaming Karachi’s streets, I was ready to shell out my eight bucks. I called room service from my hotel room. The conversation went something like this:
"I am afraid that is impossible, madam," said the very contrite-sounding desk clerk, "Pakistanis cannot drink beer."
"I understand that," I replied, "but I am not Pakistani."
"Oh but I am afraid you are," she answered, still contritely, "It says so on your hotel registration form."
"Well clearly it’s wrong. I am American. Please send up a Murree."
"You can’t be American, it says here you are Pakistani, and Pakistanis are not allowed to drink beer."
I was starting to get a little angry. And when I get angry in Pakistan, I tend to adopt a British accent. It’s ugly, I know, but the clipped accent of an angry colonial memsahib has proved useful in the past. Even if I’m trying to prove that I am American.
"Well it’s a mistake, I have an American passport. I am an American."
"You don’t have a Pakistani passport?"
"No, only an American passport."
"And you are the only person in your room?" She sounded suspicious, as if I was hiding a beer-guzzling, infidel Pakistani under my bed.
"Yes, I am alone."
"Your are alone and you want a beer?"
I chose to ignore the implication. "Yes please, with peanuts."
Cheers.
Posted by Aryn Baker at March 26, 2005 01:27 PM