Going home 1: the ending

In the course of preparing to leave Pakistan, I realized just how acclimated I had become. I spent the better part of one day writing 15 personal notes to those who had become significant to me; the house keeper, the local children, friends in other cities, families who had welcomed me into their homes. I found that I was not uncomfortable walking around the neighborhood, peeking into courtyards, delivering notes, greeting friends in passing.

The day before the trip to Karachi to catch my plane, I went to the bazaar with my friends Razia and Sunila to buy gifts for friends and family in the States. It was the first and only time I went to a bazaar without one of the Stocks to guide me and haggle for me. Razia, Sunila and I caught a ride down town on a Rickshaw cart and walked around the bazaar looking for the items on my list. It was exhilarating fun. The highlight was when, faced with an outrageously over priced tea cup, I started haggling for myself. There was no way anyone would pay 600 Rupees for a tea cup no matter how fine the china, I said. The highest I would go was 400. After starting to leave twice, I agreed to purchase the cup for 450. Then I watched, to my surprise, as the shop-keep wrapped up not only the tea cup in question but a set of six with matching saucers!

Bright and early at 10:00 the next morning, I bid a tearful goodbye to my friends. Razia held tight to my hand until the car actually started pulling away. “My heart is very crying for you.” She confided earnestly. I knew what she meant.

The drive to Karachi passed like a good dream. The whole Stock family drove with me, merrily singing and chattering and reading the Hobbit aloud. I savored every moment, drinking up the sight of the passing country side like a last meal. It wasn’t that the passing desert was particularly beautiful or that I would miss the illness and isolation that had been so significant during the trip. But I had truly come to love the people, places and experiences which were so common place in Mirpurkhas: the colorful cotton clothes that had been made just for me, evening visits to Razia’s family, the few words of Urdu and Kujradthi I had worked so hard to learn, and most of all, the loving, care-free lifestyle of the Stock family. So I stretched every hour to the max.

On the way to Karachi, we stopped in Hyderabad to visit Lilly’s family one last time. I was glad for the reunion because I would be able to give Lilly a gift and deliver the note I had written to her family. After another warm farewell, we were back on the road. The next stop was at a hospital in Hyderabad. A young boy that I had often seen around at the Audio Visual Center was in the hospital recovering from the removal of a kidney stone the size of a marble! We sat with him and his family for an hour, then bid them goodbye and headed on to Karachi.

On the way, the Stocks asked me repeatedly what I would enjoy doing in Karachi before catching my plane that night at 10:00. After hemming and hawing and scratching my head through my head scarf, I admitted that I would love to ride a camel and to see the Indian Ocean. Paul enthusiastically added that I must taste an honest to goodness chicken Tikha. Little did I know, I would almost miss my plane for the sake of these experiences.

We arrived in Karachi while it was still light, apparently with plenty of time to spare. I don’t remember exactly how the time flew by so quickly. I bought a battery for my watch. We stopped to buy a particular kind of sweet that I wanted to try (it looks like a funnel cake only it is made of oil, sugar, and honey.) It turned out that the beach was further away than expected and the sun was already setting when we arrived. It was worth the drive! Receding waves of the Indian Ocean left half a mile of damp gray sand extending out in front of me, full of shells and burrowing crabs. But more exhilarating still, gaily adorned horses and regal camels promenaded up and down the beach at the side of gypsy-like men who beckoned people to clime on for a ride. Of course, we were happy to oblige the owner of a camel festooned with colorful pompoms. I sat behind Jodie and Joel as the patient creature bore the three of us down the beach. Then, for a special treat, the man leading the camel coaxed it into a surprisingly graceful canter.

After dismounting, Paul, Joel and I rolled up our pants and went wading in the gentle waves while Pat and Jodie antagonized crabs and clams. As we walked back up the dark beach to our car, we stopped and bought roasted corn on the cob and other snack from beach vendors. We believed ourselves to be in good time as we piled back into the car and went in search of a road-side café to order chicken tikha (Barbie Q). The only time I had actually lost my composure over Pakistani food was when I first tried an exceptionally hot chicken tikha and then tried to cool my mouth with soda, which only further inflamed my problem to the point of tears. I hadn’t again ventured to taste tikha, something that the Stocks consider central to Pakistani culture. The tikha that I tried my last day wasn’t half bad and the Stocks were pleased.

It was then that we realized it was after 8:00 and we were at least an hour from the airport; remember, my international flight left at 10:00. We also then realized that we didn’t actually know how to get to the airport. Finally, we found ourselves stuck in a bumper to bumper, stop and go, honking mess of a traffic jam. So we started to pray. After stopping for directions twice, we made it to the airport at 9:30. After hasty goodbyes and quick hugs, I readjusted my head scarf, hoisted carefully packed but bulging bags and walked confidently past the guard at the airport entrance. That was when the real trouble started.