A Roman holiday
Experience what it is like being in London as a Londoner yet being a tourist…
By Haneya H. Zubairi
As I walked out of the majestic St. Pancras International Station in Central London I found my feet hurrying towards this known figure. I ran towards this person in the white aeropostale T-shirt and blue denim jeans and after a bone-cracking welcome hug and the usual exchange greetings, I was led towards our destination.

 

 

 

When my dream of a vacation on a cool and quiet mountain could only come true some other day

By Muhammad Saad Nawaz Qaisrani

With the arrival of summer, everybody is on the lookout for the opportune moment to rush out of the frenzied city environment and into some cool, relaxing countryside. While most of us rush north, I have found my serenity, tranquillity and peace out in the west. Thus, it was time to go and get the chill by climbing Mizri Ghar (10,207 feet). And, for that, I had started out by getting to Ramak from Tibbi Qaisrani in the early hours of one June morning.

Once there, a few cups of tea were had before Izzat Gul, my Pashtun guide and buddy, and I boarded the local transport that would take us to Sin Mandozai. Being one of only two wagons that ply on the Mughal Kot-Sin Mandozai road everyday, the vehicle was already overcrowded and the only place where a place could be found was on the rooftop. It seemed odd at first, but eventually the oddity gave way to a sense of enjoyment, as I realised that the cool evening breeze and the beautiful panoramic views that I was relishing from where I sat could not have been possible from the inside confines of the same vehicle.

"Who is this fellow and where is he from?" was the inquiry every Pashtun would make from Izzat Gul after the customary greetings they would exchange in their characteristic South Western dialect of Pashto. That there was something peculiar about me was obvious from the very outset when I failed to complete those Pashto greetings whenever my turn would come.

"He is a Qaisarzai and belongs to Islamabad." This is the prompt answer Izzat Gul would give to every such inquiry. Here Qaisarzai is the word that Pashtun tribesmen use for the Qaisrani Baloch.

Apparently, something was not Qaisarzai -- like. It was only after more than half an hour of fluent conversations in Seraiki and Urdu and some broken spurts in the limited Pashto I knew that it became evident that Qaisarzai might as well look as I do.

"What is he doing here if he is a Qaisarzai?" one of the Pashtun's retorted when he finally realised I was not a Pashtun and had nothing to do with their country.

Now there are a great many positives and some negatives about tribal people. But the part I hate the most is the suspicion with which a foreigner is viewed, as if I was there to detonate some explosives!

Izzat Gul made his best efforts to convince them that the most sly of my intentions was to photograph their country and publish an article, but to little avail. It was at this moment in time that Taimur, a Zimri Pashtun serving in the armed forces came to the fore.

"Are our mountains more beautiful than those of Abbottabad?" came a question from Taimur.

Now here was a Zimri Pashtun who had seen the outside world and was alive to the nobility of my purpose. So finally, I could start talking sense with somebody while everybody else would be forced to spare me the looks of unbelieving suspicion.

Taimur's question was hard to answer, for both mountain ranges (Himalayas and Suleiman Mountains) had their own merits. However, for a matter of personal preference, I had to say that hills appeared more appealing to me. A smile then illuminated his face, hinting that I had finally won a kind of acceptance for my presence.

For a good while, conversations with Taimur flourished. Finally, as he disembarked, Taimur remarked, "If you go to the mountain (Mizri Ghar), my uncle lives there, you should stay at his place. And on the way back, you must visit me at Sarbali. I will be waiting for you there."

Sarbali is one village in Zimri country I was irking to visit, but Izzat Gul had warned me beforehand that a visit there was out of the itinerary. Sarbali had to be next time, I told Taimur.

As time passed by, the wagon inched closer to Sin Mandozai. Around an hour before sunset, the vehicle finally stopped at a large pond near Sin. It was here that all the passengers disembarked and the unaccompanied luggage was offloaded into a nearby school compound; a building that for God knows how long has had its purpose redefined.

The vehicle disengaged us at a height of 3,900 feet. A climb of around 400 feet brought us to the house of Sohrab Khan, a relative of Izzat Gul's, and the gentleman who was to lead us to the top of Mizri Ghar.

Sohrab's family was strong at Seraiki, and so a few good conversations were had before a poor slaughtered chicken that would have wished I hadn't come was had for dinner. Dinner was followed by a test of my geography which, thanks to the frequent use of a mapping programme was quite revealing to them. The only thing that made absolutely no sense to these Pashtun was talk of elevations above sea level. After that came a seemingly peaceful night's sleep.

In the morning, a realisation dawned that all was not well. In fact, it was now becoming obvious that nothing was well. Gusty winds in the night had reduced visibility to pathetically poor levels. Photography was out of the question, and with that was gone the dream to be on top of Mizri Ghar. It would be pointless to climb another 5,000 feet only to have your vision clouded by fog. Four early morning hours were wasted waiting for some let up in the weather, but none was had.

The greatest problem in summers is the frequent variability of weather. While only the previous day I could see Takht-i-Suleiman from Mughal Kot, now I could not even see the Uruki Tor Ghar (Small Black Mountain) from a village at its base.

"We should climb the Uruki Tor Ghar and see if the weather clears. If it does, we can then move onto Mizri Ghar," said Sohrab Khan while Izzat Gul also seemed to concur.

The proposition was not a bad one for two reasons. First of all, the Small Black Mountain is not that small after all, and secondly, we would have to scale the Uruki Tor Ghar anyhow to get to Mizri Ghar. Peaking at approximately 6,100 feet, we still had a climb of 1,700 feet to make it to its top, where we could get good indications about the weather and if it cleared up, then excellent views of Mizri Ghar as well as a chance to continue the journey to its peak.

Three hours of slow climbing led us to the top of the Small Black Mountain, but this turned out to be probably the most disappointing climb I have made to date. The views from the top appeared frustratingly foggy. After waiting for another six hours at the peak, frustration grew as the weather went from bad to worse. It was here that a decision had to be made.

Much to the chagrin of my Pashtun buddies, I decided to cut the trip short after another day's wait. It was pointless to continue to the top of Mizri Ghar in such bad weather. I could come back with ease another time in better conditions if I left it then. But the same would not be possible if I kept pushing on. And so, my dream of a vacation on a cool and quiet mountain could only come true some other day.

 

A Roman holiday

Experience what it is like being in London as a Londoner yet being a tourist…

By Haneya H. Zubairi

As I walked out of the majestic St. Pancras International Station in Central London I found my feet hurrying towards this known figure. I ran towards this person in the white aeropostale T-shirt and blue denim jeans and after a bone-cracking welcome hug and the usual exchange greetings, I was led towards our destination.

It was my closest friend whom I had come to visit. Since our destination was only minutes away, we decided to carry ourselves on our feet just like typical Londoners and spared the classic black London cab for the tourists. As we walked down the Euston Road, in my new fancy boots, I sniffed London. It smelled of class, excellence and unblemished perfection with a tinge of history all at the same time. Enthusiastically, my friend expressed her glee about the sun and how thrilled she was to see me. It was seven degrees and raining a day before I got there. I smiled. I had brought the sun to London with me. A little credit went to global warming, but let's face it, I was eager to steal the thunder. And eventually I did. It remained sunny all through the time I was there.

I have history with London. I have experienced what the city has to offer, seen all the places under the "Must See" section in almost all the tour guides, have pictures at all the famous spots, fed the birds at Trafalgar Square (back then it was allowed) have had the famous 99p ice cream with flake from the Soft Ice Caravan bus, devoured fish and chips, spent that extra tourist budget at Harrods and had Star Bucks iced caramel with extra cream topping every other hour while I was in the city. But there was one thing, which I knew nothing about. I was about to rediscover this astounding city and experience what it had to offer in a divergent manner, which I had never even thought of before. This was not a family tour when you visit famous places, travel by car and go on a shopping spree nor was it like attending a conference/seminar and heading back home. This was me meeting a friend who is a student in London. I was to live in the University of London halls with her, travel on the Tube, walk on foot, experience what it is like being in London as a Londoner (read student Londoner) yet being a tourist. I know, even I can feel the irony! Let me push you more into it. The friend I had come to visit had been living there since a year and had seen less of the tourist conquered London than I had.

It all started with a yellow Oregon card. You get one, it takes you anywhere in London, of course anywhere the underground track exists. Like all good things in life, it needs a refill as well but as far as it is taking you places, it is all good. I got my Oregon card and was on my feet, with my friend being my map since I am horrible with directions. I had to go support a university cricket match at a place an hour away from Central London. I had four interesting hours there. I got a chance to interact with a few university students, sit on fresh green London grass under the sunny sky and support a team which luckily ended up winning. That was the team's first victory of the season. Was I the lucky charm?

The next day's sun rose with us deciding to take the red London double decker bus tour. You can get on and off the bus anywhere in London and it takes you all around the town. My! What a day it was. Even the weather sided with us. We started off with the typical tower and the bridge ride, then saw the London eye, got excited like tourists and then appreciated the old gothic architecture parliament house of England; sheltering the brand new prime minister David Cameron followed by the good old Big Ben never forgetting to strike twelve and bringing London to life by producing the ringing sound by endlessly repeating the strokes.

Then we toured the Buckingham palace, paid our regards to the Queen and went where the bus took us: Windsor and Kensington Castle, Kew Gardens, Hyde Park, Piccadilly Circus, theatre district and the Westminster Abbey. Familiar looking people crowded Trafalgar Square. Yes, I am talking about the Asians vacationing in London, taking pictures and deciding which one to put as their Facebook profile picture right there and then. We got off at St Paul's Cathedral and that was where my appetite for ice cream rose. I helped myself with a juicy ice lolly and my friend sufficed with a tin of coke and we decided to explore the St Paul's Cathedral. My friend told me how she always wanted to see the inside of a Church. Unfortunately we were late to go inside as the visiting hours were over. That was precisely when we decided to go for another round of ice cream.

While I was at it we reached the bank of Thames. The bus tour package included a cruise ride. You sit in the cruise and it takes you all around London while you're on water! After a really long wait, over analysis of the people around us, looking at each other's skin and highlighting its defects under the clear bright sun we finally left the land and were on water. The waves triggered by the motor engine set a breeze, which swished and caressed our faces and tangled my hair. The tour guide was giving us an interesting commentary and insight on the places that we were passing by but I decided to be the tour guide myself and gave my own little commentary on the places while looking at to my friend. Shortly afterwards, we passed through this bridge which is basically a lover's bridge. If you were on the cruise with your loved one, you had to kiss them while you were passing through it. I did not see more romance in the city other than those few seconds we passed under the bridge while I was there. The least I can say about it is that it was like stirring heaped scoops of love emotions into the river and watching the effervescence bubble out.

We headed back home incredibly hungry. I wanted to try Burger King but my friend was bent upon having desi khana. Being away from home for holiday gives you Burger King cravings while being away for university gives you ghar ka khanna cravings. I decided to be kind to my friend. We went to this Indian restaurant near Russell Square and fed ourselves biryani and chicken curry with garlic naan, for drinks we had lassi. The best part was the student discount we got later.

Other than the mid night sojourns at Tesco for Ben and Jerry's chocolate fudge brownie ice cream for myself and Haagen Dazs's strawberry cheesecake for my friend I found something even more thrilling. I was checking out this roadside jewellery shop when the shopkeeper applied his marketing skills to a level which I had never encountered before in my life. Believe me, I am a shopaholic and I have interacted with multiple shopkeepers of various ethnicities. He told me that I was beautiful and charming and I should be seeing someone really handsome. The least I can say is that I was flattered to the sky!

This time round, for me, London was different. It was like my little Roman holiday. Except that I was no princess and I did not meet anyone as handsome as Gregory Peck. But on the brighter side, at least I had insane amounts of fun. If the audiences in London called Maureen O'Hara "the girl with the black cherry eyes," the shopkeepers called me an incredibly beautiful young woman. How truthful are the people of London!


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