Coming Home

Well, this will be the last Broonpooper for some time. I'm leaving for Toronto in the wee hours--and not a moment too soon. It's been as inspiring as it has been infuriating, at once awesome and awful. The joys of new foods, new cultures, new beards... and the terror of senseless violence, the stress of constant fear and suspicion, not to mention the hardships of travel. But of course it's hardship entre guillemets... none of my occasional inconveniences or discomforts could compare to the challenges faced daily by 99% of the people whose lives briefly intersected mine. As always I'm so grateful, not only for the conveniences of home, but also for the idea of home... the very concept of Canada as a multiethnic, multiracial and religiously tolerant society where no-one will be whipped because she laughed in the street or shot because he shaved. Hopefully the TV and radio stories I'll be telling over the next several months won't just fill airtime, but will inspire others to work for change. 

Here are some selected pictures from my last week in Pakistan.

Wrapped!

I believe I'm officially wrapped. Finished shooting a bangle factory in Hyderabad (horrible conditions for the men who have to work in sweltering heat with no safety equipment) and some women who are getting some Canadian help to become franchisees rather than employees. 

Funny how many people haven't heard of Canada. When I say I'm from Canada, they say "America?" But they've all heard of CIDA. 

The best thing about Pakistan: fresh mango juice. Our mango juice bears as much resemblance to the fresh stuff as fresh squeezed orange juice does to Tang. 

The worst thing about Pakistan: towels that smell of chicken Jalfrezi. 

Ghotki

Finally, a transportation strike that worked in my favour! Thanks to the strike, the streets of Karachi were deserted as we headed through the city and out of town towards Ghotki to shoot the seed story. It was supposed to take 6-7 hours but even with no traffic it took 8. Thankfully the roads in Pakistan are excellent so the trip wasn't as bone-jarring as my previous excursions. But with my bad back, 8 hours in a car is 8 hours in a car. 

Ghotki is a town in northern Sindh. I don't know if it's as hot as Multhan, but it's close. One thing I do like is getting out of the cities... just like Ghana is a great place outside of Accra, Pakistan is wonderful outside of the big cities. The villagers are warm, curious, friendly and hospitable (perhaps because, as many of them said, I looked like I was

 a representative of the Taliban). I finished my shoot in 3 hours and was expecting to stay the night in Ghotki as planned, then drive to Hyderabad the next day. However Wahid my facilitator insisted we drive all the way back to Hyderabad that night... another 5 hours! I protested and his reasons didn't make any sense, but I gave in as I was in their hands. Turns out he has a flat in Hyderabad and wanted to stay there but of course he didn't say so. 

On the way back we got out at a truck stop near Hyderabad. We had some delicious daal (the only street food I dare eat) and naan--everyone sits on what looks a little like a trampoline and eats together with their hands. The only people who washed their hands were the people I wasn't eating with. An old man came up to me and offered me a massage. Who could say no? So the gnomelike old man massaged my sore neck and back with his gnarled yet surprisingly strong hands. It was great until he got out the oil, gave my head a thorough buffing, then stuck his fingers into my ears and "massaged" my Eustachian tubes. After he was done, he hopped off the seat and washed our car. 

Karachi. Not so bad.

It's always somewhat strange when you're sitting on a plane and someone pulls out a prayer rug and starts praying in the aisle next to you. But my stomach was feeling better and I had the exit row so nothing could disturb me. Except I left my hard drive on the plane with all of my footage on it. I still have the tapes but I was going to get a lot of work done on the plane how and now I have nothing. Plus my only entertainment--almost a year of downloaded shows and movies--was on it. Argh.

I had been warned about the heat and traffic of Karachi, but neither were as bad as predicted (though I still haven't been through rush hour). It's noisy and dirty but there are at least attempts to beautify, and the traffic, despite a lack of any rules, seems to solve itself through natural attrition and survival of the fittest.

Filmed the rest of the market vendors--for some reason nothing that was supposed to be set up was actually done, and we had to wander around trying to find people to film. It all worked out in the end, and I continued on to my seed story. We were supposed to leave for Ghotki by train, arriving at 1am, but again when I arrived at the office I was greeted and then asked what I was doing there. This by the man who had been "setting up" my story for weeks. Now we will drive there tomorrow morning, spend the night, then travel to Hyderabad and back to Karachi.

I called PIA, changed my ticket, went to the airport to confirm it, and it seems as though I'll be coming back 10 days early. Huzzah! It's been an awesome experience but I'm burned out and ready to come home.

Sick in Multan

Due to travel and lack of internet I haven't been able to post... was in Islamabad for a day, then yesterday arrived in Multan in the dead centre of the country. About 4m people, hot as hell (48 degrees, though drier than Islamabad). Apparently there are nice mosques and things to see, but I'm sick as a dog. 

I barely survived the flight, got off the airplane and immediately had to start shooting. I was shooting some women who had started their own clothing shops, and unfortunately the overhead fans made too much noise so I had to shut them all off. We broiled in the tight confines, and I nearly passed out. Staggered back to the hotel, sick and shivering. Had to turn on the head even though it's +40. Fell asleep in the hot bath, struggled to bed and passed out.

Islamabad

Am here shooting the Mennonites Part II. Am staying at the Chancery, a very nice and surprisingly cheap ($50/night) guesthouse, the nicest place I've stayed so far. A far cry from Kabul. The Mennonites were kind enough to take me out to dinner... am not feeling well and the half-hour twisting, turning route up the mountain in the back of their truck didn't do my stomach any wonders. The view from the restaurant was spectacular, but we're just entering monsoon season and a storm blew in so we ate inside. The meal was delicious... the best part was the "fresh-squeezed" mango juice.

Best of Week 2

Wrapped

Finished up the odds and ends of my shoots, including my standups which I haven't had the courage to view as I don't want to see anything wrong and have to reshoot them. It was a challenge doing them in the market as Afghans will crowd close and stare at you or into the camera. It's endearing but visually questionable from a TV standpoint. And it's hard to nail your take knowing that at any minute some local Talib could be calling in a hostage-taking. They do love to nap Westerners lollygagging at bazaars. 

Naheed's "mosquito bites" have taken a turn for the bubonic. I told you to see a doctor! OK I haven't given you my post address yet but I will. 

I went to Mokhtar my driver/fixer/translator's house for tea. It's in one of the Hazara areas... it's huge and beautiful which was a bit of a surprise. We ate watermelon alone as his family was off preparing for a wedding. I wish I could afford to pay him more. It's already costing me twice as much as I budgeted for as I monopolized his services which I was supposed to be splitting with Naheed, but 5 stories in less than 2 weeks was always going to be ambitious. But I seem to have pulled it off. Maybe I should say that once I get the tapes back to Canada.

We talked about traveling and I told him how much you learn and how many of your habits change because of your experiences in other countries ie. I don't waste water anymore after 9 months of privation in Sierra Leone. He asked me an interesting question: how would I change after Afghanistan. I think of course I will appreciate all of the freedoms we enjoy in Canada, but I appreciated the Afghan lack of overt sexuality from 6-year-olds wearing lowriders and singing along to Akon's "I wanna @uck you" complete with hip thrusts. It's nice to have the freedom to express oneself, but there's something to be said for modesty, male and female.

I missed dinner and now face the unhappy prospect of trying to fall asleep hungry. All I had today was mellon. Lots of it, granted, but it does tend to evaporate in your stomach. I'm eyeing my notebooks hungrily.

Shooting Women

I had a shoot in a rural village north of Kabul. The area is mostly Tajik, with a small population of Pashtuns who fled the Taliban in Kandahar. I was there to film some women farming and interview them about their experiences, but when they agreed to the shoot they thought I was a women. Boy were they surprised. Unfortunately the local chief said it wouldn't be fitting to talk to the women, so I had to go to another village, sneak in my camera, and interview two women in their house without anyone knowing. One wore her burqa, the other uncovered her face. 

They told stories of how the Taliban came, killed their family members and set fire to their house and crops. Thanks to an NGO, they learned how to farm and sell their produce. It's small... perhaps $100 a year selling cucumbers, but the pride the women felt at having their own business was palpable. As happy as I felt for their new 'wealth' and status, it was a revelation seeing exactly how controlled every aspect of their lives was. Most of the women would rarely leave their home or compound, and many never left their village.

On my way out of the village I photographed two cute boys and hoped that by the time they grew into men, they wouldn't perpetrate the system that had so oppressed their mothers. But somehow I doubt it.

We had a very late lunch by the river in makeshift tents on poles. We sat on rugs and cushions and they brought us fresh fish and roasted kebab meat with naan. I gorged myself and tried not to feel the clichéd guilt for enjoying such opulent luxury ten minutes removed from the rural poverty I had just witnessed. I washed down my angst with the local Coke knock off Kabul Cola and had more naan.

Shi'a versus Sunni

I decided to do a religion story about the rapprochement between the Shi'a and Sunni in Afghanistan. Historically the Shi'a minority was oppressed... or there was absolutely no problem and they worshipped together in peace, depending on whom you talk to. There's no disagreement however that during the Taliban times the Shi'a were persecuted by the Sunni Taliban. Now it seems as though they are playing nice again, though it's still very hard to find a Sunni who will marry a Shi'a and vice versa.  

Later I went to visit a Shi'a shrine which had to be closed down during the Taliban invasion. Now Shi'a and Sunni visit together. The shrine's caretaker was a little suspicious and cold at first, but once I asked him about the symbolism of the shrine and how it was bringing both sects together, he warmed to the subject and to me. He invited us to sit and take peach drinks with him, which we did with somewhat absurd formality while the late afternoon Kabul winds whipped dust into our eyes and drinks.

It was refreshing to be as welcomed into the mosques as I was. In Canada you need to seek permission from the Imam, the mosque board, submitted a week in advance and signed in triplicate. Here, Sunni and Shi'a have invited me in during prayer time with no notice and allowed me to shoot from positions I'd never be allowed to do back home. I guess it's easier for those in an overwhelmingly Muslim country to feel secure. But I wish we could all be as welcoming to those of different faiths as the people were in the mosques I've visited. I think if everyone came just once to worship or at least observe the ceremony of another religion, sect or branch, the world would be a better place. 

Etc. 

Graveyard next to Shi'a shrine

Disaster in Bamian

Well, I should have been writing this post from Bamian instead of my hotel room in Kabul. I was meant to be in Bamian province, the home of the Hazaras. It's an 11-hour drive through some hostile territory--there have been recent reports of banditry along the poor roads there. Mokhtar, his brother and I piled into his car--disguised as a taxi--and I dressed in local clothes to avoid unwanted attention in the Pashtun areas between Kabul and Hazarajat.

The roads weren't as bad as those in Sierra Leone but they were damn close. I had to lie down for a couple of hours so no-one would see me, and my back was destroyed by the bumps and the position. The scenery, however, was beautiful when I could eventually sit upright. The land changed from dry to green... the road followed a verdant valley with fast-flowing mountain streams and relatively lush farmland bordered by stark mountains. 

We stopped along the route to take pictures and talk to the locals about their stories. Many had family members killed by the Taliban. Others had been forced at gunpoint to join. 

About 8 or 9 hours later, we had to stop. A group of men had blockaded the road with large stones. We got out to investigate. It was a local disturbance--the Hazara were upset at placement of the government outpost in the area. It sounds like a small issue but apparently it was the proverbial straw... they felt the Hazara had been ignored by the government during the last couple of years and this was their way to express their frustration. Never mind that the only people that they were hurting were mostly their own--the government types almost never went to Hazarajat, and if they did, it was always by plane.

We spoke to their elders at length and made a point of elaborately noting their frustrations and promising to tell the world about their plight in the hopes that they might let us pass. In the end, they agreed that they would, but that it would still be impossible to get to Bamian because they had dug up the road further on and it would take hours to repair. The only alternative was a dangerous 6-hour drive on a broken mountain road which Mokhtar's father advised us not to take, so we had no choice but to turn around, 2 hours away from my destination.

Along the route I had got all the interviews, visuals and tape needed for my story, but I had hoped to see the sights in Bamian which were historic and beautiful, including the enormous and now empty hole in the cliff where the famous Buddhas had been carved into the rock before the Taliban blew them up. 

It was the most frustrating 9-hour ride back to Kabul, second only to the drive through Bunubu (Danny you know what I'm talking about!) as worst drive ever. I tried to play some African music for Mokhtar and his brother using my mp3 player on their radio, but gave up after half an hour because they didn't like it, so we spent 9 hours listening to two tapes: one Afghan singer and one old Bollywood music soundtrack from the 70s. If it wasn't Hell it was close. But I do have to be thankful--I got decent tape, saw beautiful landscape and met interesting people which I wouldn't have done had I flown, and of course, most importantly, we arrived home safe. 

But still... @#%!@#%!!!!!!!!!

Day off

Not much to tell... joined the Muslim world in a holiday today. Well, not a holiday exactly for me... I spent most of the day going through each tape shot by shot and transcribing each interview. It's the worst part of the job. Every time I travel I promise myself that each night I will go over that night's footage so I'm not faced with 10 tapes. The same promise I used to make about the televised lectures at Carleton. But same result... day before exam with a pile of 15 hours to watch. Here at least I have an excuse--after a trying day in the sun, dust, and dangerous streets of Kabul (more due to the insane driving than the terrorists), the last thing you want to do when you come home is more work. 

There is a half-decent gym in the hotel. One day I will try it out.

One day. 

The best of week 1

I can't believe it's only been a week! I feel as though I've been here at least a month. Could be the 12-hour days, or possibly the constant threat of death. No wonder the people here for the most part look about 15 years older than their age.

Here are some of my nicer shots from the first week. I've noticed that a) they're almost all faces -- that's because the landscape in Kabul really isn't that interesting and because of the smog and dust, doesn't really have any nice colours. And b) they're all men. The reason is obvious--while the men will stop you in the street to get their picture taken, the women tend to hide and don't want to be photographed. The Hazara women are more photo-friendly and I hope to get some nice shots from my upcoming trip to Bamian, home of the downtrodden Hazara.