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Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan
Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan
Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan
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Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan

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When she moved to Pakistan with her husband, artist Mary Lou Crerar had thought that her inability to speak Urdu was going to be a problem. But the main problem turned out to be culture. A sixty year old Canadian woman could not just get into her car and drive out to an area to paint by herself. Fortunately, a group of Pakistani women who had been educated abroad helped her. She was able to paint the Himalayas. Every painting has a story to go with it and this book tells those stories. It includes her her paintings and photographs of Pakistan.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 29, 2012
ISBN9780973234428
Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan
Author

Mary Lou Crerar

Mary Lou Crerar had a long and distinguished career as an artist, painting landscapes in oils, acrylics, watercolours and Japanese sumi-e. She attended the Vancouver School of Art Design, studying with the artist, Molly Bobak. In Toronto, Ontario she studied Sumi-e, the art of Japanese brush painting, with Kaz Hamasaki and Priest Tanahashi and her Sumi-e paintings of Banff were accepted in the Academy of Sumi-e in Osaka, Japan. Her paintings have been displayed in galleries and shows in Japan, the U.S.A. and across Canada from Victoria B.C. to Fredericton, New Brunswick. Her books include "Sketchbook of the Rocky Mountains", "West Coast Sketchbook" and "Journal of Alien #25: A Painter in Pakistan". As well, her writing has been published in many chapbooks. (Portrait photograph by Denise Bull)

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    Journal of Alien #25 - Mary Lou Crerar

    Journal of Alien # 25:

    A Painter in Pakistan

    Mary Lou Crerar

    Copyright 2012 Mary Lou Crerar

    All rights reserved

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    The pictures and photographs in this edition are the copyright material of Mary Lou Crerar and may not be copied, sold or reproduced. The names of the people in the book have been changed.

    Acknowledgements: I am grateful to all the kind Pakistani women who made it possible for me to experience their culture and see the challenging land where they live. Thanks to my daughter-in-law, Linda Foubister, for sharing her know-how and time to produce this e-book and for the editing by Alice McLaggan, Joan Nicoll, and Mary Keane. Betty Andrews and Denise Bull gave me permission to use the photographs they had taken of me. The unfailing support of my son, Malcolm, is appreciated.

    This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Table of Contents

    Prologue - Why Pakistan?

    Chapter 1 – Karachi

    Chapter 2 – Lahore

    Chapter 3 – Islamabad

    Chapter 4 – To Pakistan via Singapore

    Chapter 5 – Holiday Inn

    Chapter 6 – We move into House 6 Islamabad

    Chapter 7 – Servants and a Wedding

    Chapter 8 – Trip with Mrs. Q

    Chapter 9 – Khushal is Made My Brother

    Chapter 10 – On the Road to Peshawar

    Chapter 11 – On the Road to Balakot

    Chapter 12 – On the Road to Naran

    Chapter 13– Life in Islamabad

    Chapter 14 – Trip to Lalazar Meadows

    Chapter 15 – Travel, Servants, and Parties

    Chapter 16 - Nathia Gali and Thandiani

    Chapter 17 - A Journey on the Karakorum Highway to Kunjerab Pass Begins

    Chapter 18 - Chilas to Gilgit

    Chapter 19 - Gilgit to Gulmit

    Chapter 20 - Gulmit to Boreet Lake

    Chapter 21 - Gulmit to Khunjerab Pass

    Chapter 22 - Gulmit to Gilgit via Karimabad

    Chapter 23 - Gilgit to Chatorkhand and Yasin

    Chapter 24 - Gupis

    Chapter 25 - Chilas to Islamabad

    Chapter 26 - Islamabad to Karachi

    Prologue

    Why Pakistan?

    January 5, 1988. We will be living in Pakistan for the next two years. The International Union for the Conservation of Natural Resources, (IUCN), with headquarters in Gland, Switzerland, is the agency offering my husband (A.D.) the opportunity to spend two years in Pakistan developing the Pakistan National Conservation Strategy. His training as a geographer, planner, and economist has taken us to many parts of Canada, but this is his first international offer. Before accepting the post we decided we should see the country and meet the people involved.

    Fortunately our son returned from his world travels at Christmas and was with us when this offer was made. He had been in Pakistan and could give us tips on what we needed to take on our trip.

    February 21. We were in Gland, Switzerland, our first point of call. A.D. was to meet the people who would be his employers. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that I would see Geneva and the River Rhone, both places of great historical importance. We stayed in the small town of Nyon where the focal point was a castle built in the 12th Century to replace an even older fortress. Julius Caesar made his capitol in Nyon in 46-45 B.C.

    The tower on the left was built in the 12th Century and the one on the right in the 16th Century

    I wandered about Nyon sketching and observing the regimented lives of the Swiss. In the morning women, carrying wicker baskets purchase the ingredients for the main meal of the day. The roads are too narrow for cars to park, thus, shoppers are on foot. The main meal of the day is at noon and all the stores are closed from 12 noon to 1:30 p.m., and everyone goes home for lunch. No children are to be seen between 11:30 a.m. and 3 p.m., but at this magic hour mothers, grannies and nannies bring the toddlers to the slides and swings at the Roman Ruins. Lives are controlled by the clock. It was very clean wherever you went. The little garden plots on the south facing slope below the castle, were laid out with precision and all were neat, with no weeds or rubbish about.

    Our hotel was comfortable, but the room was small. A face cloth was not provided and we only received one thin wafer of soap for our week stay. The toilet paper was like pressed particle board. I found a store where I could buy toilet paper labelled Super Soft, but it was the same as that in the hotel.

    Food was pricey and breakfast consisted of croissants and coffee. For a price you could get bacon and eggs at the hotel.

    All able bodied males serve six weeks a year in the army, closing their businesses if necessary, to do so. We saw anti-personnel tanks and soldiers on the streets.

    I took the electric train into Geneva to visit the galleries and historical sights. My limited abilities with the French language enabled me to get around with no trouble. On the train back to Nyon three Swiss grandmothers engaged me in a discussion of weather, children, and Canada. As they did not speak English we conversed in French.

    February 26. We took the train into Geneva passing yellow primroses in bloom along the railway embankment. We spent four hours trying to find a bank that would open an account for us without a $50,000 CDN deposit. A.D. is to be paid in Swiss francs and he didn’t want to have more money than necessary to cover expenses in Pakistan because of the uncertainty of full recovery of monies in Pakistan. American Express obliged and since they have a bank in Islamabad this should work out. The bank manager entered my name first as holder of the account because he said, It is a country with problems and your husband might be kidnapped and you would need money to escape.

    It began to snow as we boarded the train to the Aerogarde Station, which is within walking distance of the airport. In the pre-boarding room a young man said he recognized me as a Canadian because I said please and thank you. Where are you going? he asked I replied, Karachi, he expressed amazement and said, Why? Karachi is the armpit of Asia.

    What was I going to find in Karachi?

    Countries bordering Pakistan

    Chapter 1

    Karachi

    February 27, 1988. We landed in Karachi at 6 a.m. to 23 degrees Centigrade, swarming mosquitoes and armed military at the bottom of the plane's stairs. The heat was heavy. When we left Geneva it had been snowing and our clothing was now inappropriate. The inside of the terminal looked like a movie set, with people dressed in flowing robes carrying great bundles wrapped in quilts or carpets. The odours, however, made it obvious that this was no movie. As I waited for A.D. to change his money for rupees, I watched a family with six children sit on the floor of the terminal, unwrap a carpet covered bundle and set out a meal.

    Finally we got our bags on a cart, passed customs, and left the terminal. We were immediately surrounded by many men, some in porter uniforms, who wanted to take my purse and our baggage cart. The place was swarming with humanity, it was filthy, the language was unfamiliar, and I was terrified! I decided to be Queen Victoria and, clutching my purse tightly, sailed through this mob until I saw a man holding up a sign with A.D.'s name on it. This fellow was from the hotel and he took over from there, although we had to ignore the beggars until we were actually in the hotel van.

    Blowing sand made the flat land look misty in the light of dawn. The altimeter reading on the plane when we landed was zero, in Geneva it had been 340 metres on the ground. Palm trees lined the highway from the airport. On the road there were gaily decorated buses, motorized three wheel carts with canopies, and dilapidated buses being pushed by the passengers. Traffic was light at this hour as it was the time of morning prayers.

    The door-man at the hotel was splendid in his fancy costume of gold shoes with great turned up toes, white baggy pantaloons, scarlet jacket with brass buttons and a marvellous headdress, a white turban, decorated with a great scarlet fluted fan, topped with gold trim. This handsome outfit stood in strong contrast to the beggars in rags. Inside the hotel a young boy squatted on the floor, scrubbing it with a big rag loaded with wax. Following behind him was a man with an electric floor polisher. The marble floor was gleaming. We were the only guests in the lobby and we had three men to wait on us; one to carry our hand baggage, one to ring for the elevator and one to bring the big bags. Employment is created for as many as possible.

    Saima, the IUCN representative in Karachi, came to the hotel to take us around the city. Much to the amusement of her driver, A.D. got into the car on what would be the passenger side in North America, but was the driver’s side of the car in Pakistan. It took us awhile before we automatically used the correct doors of the car. We passed Clifton Beach with wrecked ships on the shore, large houses, and a suburban market with the owner waving a rag at the dust on the goods.

    Next we went to the real market with stalls selling un-refrigerated meat, and fish. Leafy vegetables were wilting in the heat and flies abounded. Then to the adjoining Bazaar, where the narrow streets were lined with stalls full of gorgeous cloth on tables and also hanging on poles in front of the stall. There were numerous stalls selling bangles of many colours to wear with the material.

    Saima and I had kept walking through the Bazaar, when we realized that A.D. was not with us. We retraced our steps until we found him standing, frozen, staring at a man in dirty, torn rags lying in the middle of the pathway. This badly crippled man was slithering along in the dirt, his claw like hand pushing a can with a few coins in it. I just felt sick. Saima told A.D. to step over the man and not to give him any money. We next encountered a woman with a small crippled child in her arms and she stuck the withered arm of the child in my face, demanding money. Saima said, No, don't give money. This is a racket. Parents deliberately maim their children to use them for begging. My guess is these children are usually girls, as they are thought to have no worth in life."

    After we had seen such extreme poverty Saima took us to the Sind Club for tea. This was an old British Club, set in spacious, well kept grounds. The only females who can belong to this club are wives or daughters of male members. Members have to be elected and passed by a committee. Not too different from some Clubs in North America. Tea was served on the veranda where one helped oneself from fly covered trays of food. I enjoyed a lime juice and 7up drink. The ladies were dressed in beautiful saris or shalwar-kamez (shalwar means trouser and the kamez is a dress, like a long shirt). I was in Western dress, and felt conspicuous.

    We then went out to a fishing village, passing camels that were being tethered for the night, with colourful knitted afghans over their backs. We ended up on the beach where the wealthy folk from town have their summer homes. These houses, set on sixty foot lots, are made of cement and spread along the beach for as far as one could see. No gardens at all, nothing but sand. If these cottages are left untended they vanish in three years, due to wind blasting them with sand and salt from the Arabian Sea.

    Beach houses on the shore of the Arabian Sea

    The importance of water was made clear to us. We saw a man squatting on a path in the Bazaar with a bucket of water. On one half of the bucket was a tray with a stack of dirty, cracked mugs and a ladle across the other half of the bucket. For a few rupees you could have a drink of unsafe water

    .

    The water seller in the market

    At the fishermen's village, we saw a group of women lined up at a water pipe with jerry cans. Saima said they were waiting for sun-down when the water would be turned on for an hour, and they could fill their cans. The water pipe operated for one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening, and the daily water needs had to be collected at these times.

    People wait for water at the sundown water tap

    Saima invited us to her house for dinner. She lives with her husband, twin boys and daughter on the top floor of her father’s large house. The dwelling is surrounded by a high wall with wrought iron gates, which have metal plates behind them I guess that is due to the rioting in Karachi.

    And so we ended our first day in Pakistan.

    We were up at 6 a.m. to catch the plane to Lahore. At the airport we had to undergo elaborate security procedures, including body checks, which in my case were done in a booth by a rough female. Printed regulations stated that the following items may be taken on the aircraft: 1 camera, 1 handbag, 1 container of baby food and a bit of light reading material. However, passengers were loaded down with huge bundles including TV sets that they carried aboard the buses which took us out to the aircraft. Once there, after guards checked all baggage security tags, they struggled up the stairs to the aircraft, lugging all these goods.

    Foreigners were seated at the front of the aircraft so we had to struggle past all these bundles in the aisles. The restriction signs were not observed on Pakistan International Airlines, the national airline. We flew at 9,000 metres above the blowing sand of the Sind desert to Lahore.

    Chapter 2

    Lahore

    Museum

    We knew that we would be met at the airport by Ayub, who was to be the Pakistani leader with A.D. A tall, slim man came up to me and asked, Mrs. Crerar? There had been one other Caucasian woman on the plane so either he had been given the correct description of me, or he met the 50 per cent chance of getting it right. Ayub drove us past the tree lined canals of Lahore to our hotel. He said the irrigation project had greatly enhanced the beauty of Lahore. After Karachi this city looked like a jewel with trees and flowers. Conversation was easy because all three of us were trained in Geography, Ayub a graduate of Cambridge and the two of us from the University of British Columbia. He took us to the Lahore Hilton Hotel where we were greeted with a lovely cold citrus drink. After lunch at the hotel Ayub came to take A.D. to the office and deposit me with his wife Attia. The daughter of a diplomat she was educated abroad, and her English was excellent. This was a great relief to me as there was no time for us to learn Urdu before leaving Canada.

    Attia had a most gorgeous garden and on February 29 there were sweet-peas, snapdragons, stocks and nasturtiums in bloom which indicates the climate at this time of the year. Behind a hedge of sweet-peas she had a small nursery garden where she grew dahlias, cineraria, hibiscus, gardenias and other plants for sale. As Attia showed me this garden I admired the turquoise silk shalwar-kamez she was wearing and wondered what she wore when she was gardening. The answer was an old outfit, but she had two gardeners to do the actual digging and grubbing in the ground. This was my introduction to the plentiful use of servants in Pakistan, a partial solution of the unemployment problem. A good employer looks after the welfare, not only of the servant, but of his family as well.

    Attia’s children now home from school joined us for tea in the garden. The cook and the son’s ayah (nanny) served us toast with egg and herbs, cooked right on the toast somehow, and a piece of English loaf (pound cake). The children were delightful and I was pleased to meet daughters Fizzy 12, Hajra 10, and son Haider 6.

    On April 1st, Ayub’s family will be in Islamabad for the beginning of the second term of school. A house must be found that is large enough for the family, plus Ayub's mother and five servants.

    Ayub and A.D. arrived and the three of us

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