Few people in Sindh know that the most beautiful sheet of water that graces their wonderful province is the Chotiari Lake of Sanghar district. In terms of landscape, it is far more dramatic than Kinjhar or Manchhar or even those reed-lined lakes of Larkana district. It has countless coves, inlets and islands and as one boats across its placid, crystal waters one gets repeatedly caught in veritable forests of reeds. So rank is the vegetation that one almost reaches for the imaginary machete to make way for the boat to progress. Its peaceful waters are dotted with fishermen’s boats and one occasionally crosses a net in the water marked by Styrofoam floaters.

Until several years ago, this was not one lake, but one dozen smaller ones of various sizes. These were the remnants of the old bed of the lost river that we know as the Hakra and here the people of Sanghar district picnicked when weather permitted. From very ancient times these lakes were havens for fisherfolk who lived by their yield. Although fishing was their mainstay, when they had time, the lake people also tended their meagre flocks on the meadows that separated the various bodies of water. There was also some agricultural activity.

Locals call this picturesque lake country Makhi — Honey Bee. They say the rich forest of flowering trees that once covered the high ground between the various lakes, but which is now severely depleted, was abundantly populated with honey bees. There was never any shortage of health-giving honey that smelled richly of acacia and tacoma blossom, they say. Life was never easy in this country, but, so the elders say, they had little to complain: there was plenty of fish, the high ground provided good pasture for their meagre herds and the level areas were enough to grow a few crops to keep body and soul together.

To the casual visitor, this, the Lake District of Sindh, would seem and idyll, a very paradise on earth. But under the apparently calm surface of this vast and tranquil lake lie deeply troubled waters.

Now, these lakes are fed by the Nara Canal that runs in an old abandoned bed of the Sindhu River. Taking off from the Sindhu near Sukkur, the Nara supplied not only water to this huge system of lakes, it also replenished fish seed in these waters. Thereby a perpetual harvest of fish was available to the fisherfolk of this area. In the past fishing did not only provide a staple to these people, it also gave them a food item to be bartered or sold as they pleased. It is not recorded how pre-British governments gained from these fisheries, but surely the dinner spread of the Kalhora rulers in Hyderabad would from time to time have flaunted a few species of fish from these lakes.

According to the Pakistan Fisherfolk Forum (PFF), a Karachi-based NGO fighting for the rights of the country’s fishing communities; the strengthening of the feudal system in the 19th century brought these lakes under the sway of jagirdars. Depending upon the nature of the holder of the fief, the fisherpeople either had it good or bad. There were those who respected the rights of the original inhabitants of the waters and permitted them to continue to harvest the catch as before. But there were others who would contract out the fishing rights thereby putting fishing communities under considerable pressure. Neither prosperity nor hardship were permanent states however.

Things continued unchanged for several years after independence. Then the government instituted a contract system to generate revenue through this activity. While the government did indeed gain a new source of income, the corrupt bureaucrat at every level (and there is no dearth of this breed) also got to line his own pocket for granting the lease to the contractor most willing to oblige. In turn, the contractor then spent the term of his lease milking the fisherfolk dry. In this system the fisherman could not sell his harvest in the open market but was under obligation to sell it to the contractor at a price set by the contractor himself. While the better contractors shared the catch between themselves and the fishermen, the greedier ones would claim the major portion — and in some cases, the entire catch at a price that suited him. And so while this system made some money for the government and its corrupt minions and plenty more for the contractor, the man who brought in the catch was reduced to penury.

This situation continued for two full decades. In 1976 the Bhutto government formed a committee to look into the grievances of fishing communities. In its report the committee recommended the abolition of the contract system for being too exploitative in nature. It suggested instead a license for the fisherman. Under the new system of fishing licenses (issued against a fee) that came into force the following year (1977), the fisherman was free to fish independently and sell his catch at the best price going.

But government revenues fell and the system failed. PFF maintains that the crash was contrived by the Fisheries Department and the contractor in tandem. According to a report published recently by PFF, officials of the department having pocketed the receipts and failed to deposit the license fee in the government treasury, claimed that the fishermen had defaulted on payment. In its place the department rubbishes the accusation of corruption and accuses fishermen of default. The case being thirty years old and officials who would then have presided over the proceedings having long since been phased out, there is little to be dug out of it. Therefore as certainly as official corruption had something to do with its failure, fishermen’s unwillingness to pay license fee would have played some little part as well.

Meanwhile, the democratic government was toppled and the case went on the back-burner. In 1980 the military regime promulgated The Sindh Fisheries Ordinance that was to become the law governing fishing in public waters. In typical bureaucratic fashion, it laid down that the movement could ‘grant [either] license or lease’ for fishing in public waters. The contract (or lease) system was reverted to and has been in place from that time on.

Now, the Ordinance clearly lays down that in case of fishing under the contract system, the fisherman is free to retain three-fourths of the catch while the remainder goes to the contractor. But the contractors being powerful men connected with a very influential political-religious personage of Sindh disregard the spirit of the Ordinance. Most contractors will appropriate the entire catch for themselves at a price no more than twenty-five percent of the prevalent market rate. It is a rare contractor who will divide the catch fifty-fifty between himself and the fisherman. Even in this case, the fisherman will be coerced into selling the rest of the catch to the contractor at the lower price.

The fisherman who risks his life in his unstable flat-bottomed punt, gets to keep only the small fry for his own consumption. Older fishermen who remember a time when they could present gifts of fish to visitors rue that they can no longer do so. Under the watchful eye of the contractors’ men, the mere act of keeping a mature fish for their own table or for guests is an offence to be reported to the police. While the political connections of the contractors place the police squarely behind them, the under-privileged fisherfolk have no such recourse.

If that was bad, the harder blow was dealt by declining fish population in Chotiari Lake. Now, it is the Nara Canal that carries fish seed from the Sindhu River to the lake during the breeding season between May and early September. For some reason that only the Irrigation Department knows, supply into the Nara is suspended in this period. Instead, it is turned on between the coldest months of the year when there is no fish roe to restock the lake. With almost negligible breeding in the lake system itself fish population has dwindled.

No surprise then that over the years the Chotiari harvest has declined sharply. According to fishermen in several villages around the lake, it takes nearly one hundred rupees worth of diesel fuel to deploy and remove a net. But with an income of no more than fifty rupees per kilogram (one-fourth the market rate) and catch being never more than a few kilograms for an outing, they are left precious little to show for their labours. This would still have been a bearable life if only they could save some of their meagre catch for their own consumption and sell the rest to the highest bidder. But the way things work in the lease system, the fisherfolk of Chotiari have no right on the waters that have been their home for several centuries.

Largely uneducated and without connections with political influential people, the fisherfolk of Chotiari and indeed of most other public waters in Pakistan, live a poor life. Under immense and constant pressure to make ends meet, with no other source of income or skill to fall back on, they are tied to a desperate life. Mohammed Ali Shah of PFF is spot on when he says that these people are bonded labour of another kind that no one wishes to hear of.

In this troubled setting, the government decided in the 1990s to build the Chotiari Dam on an outlet of one of the lakes in order to raise its level. Now, this was nothing novel: back in the early decades of the 20th century, the two lakes of Kalri and Kinjhar had similarly been joined to form one larger sheet. With some auxiliary earthworks in place, the plan was to join the eleven lakes together in one large body of water. According to government estimates, the rising level was to displace five hundred households — non-official sources place this estimate as high as nine hundred. For the purpose of their resettlement, the Chotiari Resettlement Agency (CRA) was established.

Since these were mostly agriculturists, each displaced family was to be provided with eight acres of land at an alternate site. Working in tandem with a respected development NGO of Sindh, CRA earmarked a tract of land in neighbouring Khairpur district for this purpose. But we know that effectees of Mangla and Tarbela dams still languish in the hope of recourse now forty years after they were uprooted from ancestral homes. It is therefore no surprise that Chotiari effectees have similar tales of woe to tell four years after completion of their project. Their meagre agricultural holdings submerged, the farmers of the once-rich land of Makhi have been abandoned by the government without a jot of compensation.

Adversity mists up vision and compounds feelings of deprivation and the people of Chotiari have become incoherent in their complaints. While they gripe about the joining of the several lakes entirely illogically, they do have a genuine grievance concerning the compensation and resettlement that never came for the agriculturists of Makhi. There is also the issue of the releasing of Sindhu River waters into the Nara and thus the Chotiari lake system at the appropriate time that needs to be looked into immediately. But most of all it is the cruel and unjust contract or lease system that needs to be abolished forthwith.

If these steps are not taken, the fisherfolk of Chotiari and all other public waters will continue to live as bonded labour.

Next morning after breakfast, Raza Khan, my driver and guide, was waiting for me at the hotel desk. We hopped into his car and headed over to the Office of the Political Agent, Khyber to get my permit. As it was a holiday, the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday, Raza had had to make special arrangements to have the Political Agent come in to write my permit. After some handshaking and picture taking we got my permit and our guard and headed off.

A western traveller needs a permit to travel up the Khyber Pass because it crosses the tribal areas of the North West Frontier Province, an area in the mountains next to the Afghan border. I was told that Pakistani laws only apply to a narrow band along the road. The guard was ostensibly to protect me from danger but was more likely there to keep me from wandering off the assigned path. There was simply too strong a military presence and too much traffic for bandits to be lurking anywhere nearby.

We headed directly out of Peshawar and the road soon started to climb and the air cooled down a bit. We passed trucks and buses that were labouring up the increasingly steep road. Small villages and empty fortifications dotted the hills and patches of green vegetation coloured the otherwise dull brown hills.

Our first stop was a military checkpoint where my guide showed his worth: he knew everybody. Having the soldiers check my papers wasn’t good enough: he wanted the commandant, who was called out of his office. He looked at my permit and then we all sat down for a cup of tea and to have our pictures taken.

Farther along the road we saw a small shrine that had been set up in a dusty parking lot in front of a walled compound. The dome of the shrine was covered in green cloth and a lot of people were milling around. We pulled in and Raza set off to find the headman. He was a stately, grey-bearded fellow who spoke no English: he had Raza invite me to tea.

We sat in the shade of a lone tree just off the road with some other villagers and lots of young boys watching from a polite distance. As tea was served a technician from the local health clinic joined us. He spoke excellent English and told me about life in the village. He said that the health care was terrible because the doctors tend to reuse the same needles spreading hepatitis.

Soon we were back on the road again and after a few more checkpoints we finally reached the top of the pass, the farthest point I could travel. We got out and walked to the edge of the hill. Below us we could see trucks winding down the road to the Afghan border. A refreshing breeze blew and I had that wonderful feeling of accomplishment. ‘I have made it,’ I thought. Visiting this out of the way place had long been a dream of mine.

After more pictures, and handshakes with the military, we headed back to Peshawar. On the way Raza asked if I would like to eat a traditional Pakistani meal. I said sure. So as soon as we dropped the guard back at the office we headed into the old city. I noticed that most of the shops were closed and that decorations were being put up in the street. When I asked what they were for Raza told me that they were for tonight’s celebration of the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. I decided I should come back later to see.

The restaurant was empty, which I always take as a bad sign, but there was no turning back. We sat on the floor on cushions near the window so we could see the activity in the street. Raza ordered and then disappeared to talk to his friend the owner.

Soon the food arrived. Before me was quite a feast: eggplant in a cream sauce, curry chicken, meat kebab, rice sweetened with raisins and orange and, of course, naan. It was delicious: the best food I had on the trip. The bill came to slightly more than $8 US. Raza told me that he had explained to the owner that I wasn’t one of his reporter clients on an expense account but a simple traveller paying out of his own pocket. The owner made sure I knew he had given me a 10% discount.

As I planned to return to the old city later I had Raza drop me at the main mosque. I used it as the starting point and walked around from there so I would know where I was when I returned for the evening’s festivities. I spent about an hour getting a sense of the main landmarks and then returned to the hotel for a short rest.

Early in the evening I took an autorickshaw back to the main mosque. The adjoining streets were already lined with vendors selling food and festive decorations. There were tinsel streamers used to decorate buildings and shiny paper hats that young boys proudly wore. The streets were lit with strings of coloured light and closed to traffic. Bands of boys ran around excitedly and families enjoyed ice cream. I was the only westerner in sight. Men stopped to ask where I was from and welcomed me when I told them the US, then they lined up to have their picture taken.

After a short while a young man started tagging along with me. He said he just wanted to practice his English but I suspected he would eventually try to sell me something. He walked me deeper into the old city, away from the area I had scouted in the daylight. I was a little nervous but also intrigued. The farther we walked the more crowded and interesting the streets got. The every-present military and police were reassuring.

Eventually we ended up at a small shop where my ‘guide’ got out a small wicker tray covered by a baby-blue cloth. Under it there were handmade knives. He then proceeded to try to sell me one. Repeatedly I told him I wasn’t interested but, as he had been such a good guide, I didn’t want to be too rude. After several attempts I finally told him I wanted to go: he was clearly disappointed but still helped me get an autorickshaw back to my hotel. It was a good thing too since I no longer knew where I was.

Travellers coming from India often comment on how much less hassle there is in Pakistan. While there are beggars and touts, they are considerably less aggressive. Muslim countries don’t seem to have the culture of begging so prevalent in India. Also Pakistan has fewer tourists, which seemed to translate into fewer touts.

The next day I decided to relax a bit. After a leisurely breakfast I headed back to the bus station. Just down the street was a large staging area where trucks were serviced and loaded. Just as with the buses, the trucks are carefully and lovingly decorated. As I walked around taking pictures men would run out of their shops to stand by their truck for a photo.

The funniest thing that happened was that two men ran out of a shop with their cell phone which they used to snap pictures of me taking pictures of the trucks. After an hour in the heat and dust I had enough pictures and headed back to the hotel. Then I went shopping for a kameez - that long shirt that almost all Pakistani men wear. Although they are usually quite plain - light coloured and undecorated - I did notice that some had designer tags on the pockets. Branding apparently had snuck into Pakistan clothing.

I wasn’t looking for anything fancy, just something to wear when I showed my photos at home. I tried one on in a shop: it was huge and hung comically loose on my skinny frame but the clerk seemed to think it was the right size. For about $10 US I figured I couldn’t go too far wrong.

I also stopped at a rug shop next to the hotel. I didn’t want to buy anything but the shop was a pleasant, well-lit place and I had a little time to kill. I warned the owner I wasn’t going to buy anything but, of course, he started throwing rugs on the floor to tempt me.

We talked about this and that as he tried to tune in on what I liked. Eventually he threw down a rug that caught my eye. It was a brightly coloured kilim, about 2 by 3 feet, with tiny animals woven into it. "I had a rug just like that," I commented, "but my wife took it when we divorced."

"If you buy this one you might get a new wife too," his friend commented - he had been sitting quietly until now. "Oh, I might buy a rug but I’m not ready for another wife," I replied. They both laughed as I stood looking at the rug. It was very appealing: I had really liked the other rug. "Show me how small a bundle you can make out of that thing," I asked. The owner folded it into a pretty small package but I figured I could roll it up even tighter.

"Ok, how much," I finally gave in. He asked $150; I offered $100. He said he couldn’t sell it for that and countered with $130. I thought about it for a few minutes and finally said, "I’m tempted to offer you $120 but I figure you will then say $125 and I don’t want to argue over $5, so I’ll take it."

Later I sat in the hotel lobby, which was a large, plant-filled atrium and wrote in my journal - I sure did miss my evening beer. After that I sent some more emails before heading to bed.

In the morning I took a Daewoo bus back to Lahore where I immediately got a taxi to the border, said farewell to Pakistan and crossed back into India.

Concluded.