With only a few days left before I leave my friends in Pakistan, and with several important subjects I'd like to write about, the Gods have determined that this is what I should write about now. I'm not in control of these forces, I can only submit to them.
But before I can discuss this issue, I need to provide a bit of background information.
For some time now it has been clear that native Pakistanis mistake me for one of their own. Being naturally sociable, they are always shaking my hand even though they do not know me. All I can do is say, "as-salāmu alaikum (peace be upon you). Often they respond with alaikum as-alām (and to you peace) and then go on to tell me about their brother, their kids or their camel. Of course I have no idea and have to confess that, "I only speak English" at which point they produce the most genuine smile, utter something or other that sounds quite pleasant, and move on.
I've been told on several occasions that the natives who live in Kaghan, about 100 miles north, look very much like me (light skinned for a Pakistani). Perhaps I'm descended from their community. I'd love to get up there and see my tribe but time does not allow.
With that out of the way I want to discuss something about Pakistani culture you will not read in any guide book.
Because I've focused on the positive aspects of living here with the Pakistanis, I have avoided some of the, shall we say, less glamorous customs. One such custom is the apparent need for Pakistani men to hack and spit. While I have not investigated the product of this ceremony with any great precision, I'm under the impression that it is not particularly remarkable. But the auditory cacophony that is the prelude to the actual expectorant is something to behold. It appears there are 3 stages, each standing on the shoulders of those that came before it. I am impressed by the vigor and creativity that the Pakistani men bring to the first 2 of these stages, though I have witnessed versions of these before.
But the 3rd stage is an art form all unto itself.
Coming from a depth that can only be attained by years of attention to detail, centuries of cultural training, eons of genetic selection and perhaps the proximity of camels, this final platform from which the raw material is expelled is of biblical proportions. I've considered how I might be able to write an onomatopoetically correct expression of the sound one encounters during this ritual, but I would have to attain a far deeper level of enlightenment just to be able to ascertain which letters to use.
On a side note, there is no English dictionary nearby and since my spelling has never been sterling my current objective is to get close enough that my spell checker can figure out what I am aiming for. So I was particularly proud of myself when I was able to reach that lofty goal with "onomatopoeia." Particularly since this is a word I have only used twice since I learned it about ½ century ago.
Anyway, this came up (yeah, I know) today when Haddi and I were sitting on a bench in the market area of Qulandarabad where I've been living and working, while we were waiting to be picked up by Surkhab and Zamurad so we could travel to an area that had been hit by the floods. While I am feeling much better, I still have some lingering issues from the cold I've been dealing with for the past week. And while I cannot hold a candle to what a true Pakistani is capable of, I did manage to produce a bit of auditory caCOUGHany myself (I've lost all self-respect at this point) producing what in other cultures would be considered an admirable effort, with a substantial result. At the same time, Haddi was immersed in his daily ritual as he sat beside me.
Knowing that I already appear to be Pakistani, even to the locals, I felt I had taken another large step towards becoming a true Pakistani, with Haddi hacking and spitting to the right while I was hacking and spitting to the left.
In fact, the image so amused me that a moment after we had both calmed down, I started to laugh so hard that I reconvened another mini-fit, this time solo.
Haddi looked at me and with no idea what I was laughing about, he started laughing too.
It was a great way to start the day.
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