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When I woke up in Islamabad, I could not feel any sense of cheerfulness. Supposedly it was my last day there - and I should have felt excited because I would be heading for Gilgit the day after. My plan was ruined when I was told that Osama Bin Laden had been killed in Abbottabad the night before.
The first few hours after the incident I was quite eager to know what was going on. I posted the breaking news on Facebook (showing off to my friends) by saying, “Osama bin Laden is dead and I was one hour away from him.” I could not believe that I was so close to the world’s focus. I heard that the Natco (Northern Areas Transport Corporation) Bus would make a pit stop in Abbottabad on its way to Gilgit, so I couldn’t wait for more than a second, because I wanted to be there and witness the town filling with correspondents from all over the country. I was walking around ‘The Supermarket’ area in Islamabad and finally decided to treat myself to some ‘Nandos’ food. It was around seven o’clock in the evening. I went into the restaurant. Ten minutes later, I received a phone call from Farooq (the same collegue again).
“Listen, I hope you’ve already been told about what has happened. Osama was killed and the Taliban could take revenge at any point in time. Cancel your plan up north and come back to Karachi as soon as possible,” said Farooq. The words sounded harsh to me.
I finished the Peri-Peri Chicken hurriedly and took a taxi to the hotel. They were right - it was a big loss to the al Qaeda. Yet Islamabad was calm at dusk, people walked on the streets like usual – it seemed so peaceful, how could I convince myself that something bad was about to happen? Part of my mind was persuading me to go ahead. I was stuck between fear and hope.
But wait. Let me begin right from the start. I arrived at the bus interchange in Rawalpindi three days before the Bin Laden episode – the dusty city did not smell good. Naeem, a reporter of a local news agency whom I had met in Karachi – was on his way from Lahore to Islamabad to attend a journalism workshop and so we would travel together. It was always good to have company.
We headed to a hotel immediately after we reached the capital, and had dinner with Naeem’s classmates. I met Irtebal, the station manager of a Kashmiri radio station called ‘Voice of Kashmir’, and learned from him that there was a vast population of Chinese workers living in Kashmir. Later on I was invited by him to the station along with Naeem and Sundus (an amazing, friendly Pakistani girl), and took part in a voice recording session. I said, “Mera naam Jia Wei hai, Pakistan China dosti, Zindabad!” I wished the Chinese workers would have a chance to hear that, though I doubted it.
The next morning, I took out my map and began planning my day. Islamabad was not a big city, so it was possible to take a walking tour. I had tried walking tours before (the most eco-friendly way to visit a city) once when I was exploring New Zealand. Plus, you always miss the chance of seeing a great many things when you travel by car or bus.
A glance at my route plan: Melody Market – Post Office (next to Melody Market) – The Supermarket – Lunch at KFC - Jinnah Supermarket – Faisal Mosque – Daman-e-Koh – Supreme Court and some government building – National Art Gallery. I walked leisurely, observing the serenity in the city. The way Islamabad was designed it looked a lot like Singapore, except it was busier and more crowded in Singapore.
I stopped by a bookshop at Jinnah Supermarket and bought ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ – I needed a book so that I would not feel so lonely while I was traveling. The first time I read it, I was at the age of three (the colourful younger-reading-version was the first book I’d ever read in my life and it somehow could explain the reasons I love to travel so much). It was time to read the book again.
With ‘Gulliver’s Travels’, I entered KFC and ordered my favourite ‘Zinger Burger’ meal, spending another hour at the restaurant starting an illustrated journey with Mr. Gulliver. The old names were coming back to my memory – Lilliput, Brobdingnag, etc. It was fun when you root back to how people traveled a hundred years ago and realised that you were still practicing the same way – using maps, travel guides, backpacks, and trying to learn some local languages to survive.
KFC all round the world smells the same, have you ever noticed? That’s why I always treat myself with a KFC Zinger Burger whenever I miss home.
“US officials in Washington said a small US team conducted a helicopter raid on a compound in Abbottabad, a military garrison town some 60 km (35 miles) north of the capital Islamabad. After 40 minutes of fighting, bin Laden, an adult son, one unidentified woman and two men were dead.”
“Pakistani TV stations also showed a picture purportedly of bin Laden shot in the head, his mouth pulled back in grimace. Reuters photo editors determined the image was a fake after discovering a number of inconsistencies in the picture.”
It was 9 o’clock in the evening, two hours after I had received the warning from Farooq. I felt confused and tired. Reading news about bin Laden’s death at an internet cafe shop did not do any good to my travel plan, because I could not figure out the accuracy of all the information and besides, the Taliban had not confirmed Osama’s death.
Sadly, none of the Pakistani leaders had responded to the media. There had been no confirmation about the death news, no announcement and no press conference – nothing from the country’s government. Everyone in America was celebrating the victory before they had even seen the body or any evidence which proved that Osama was dead. The worst thing was that I was traveling alone and was so close to the where the incident had taken place.
I walked into my room and lay on the floor. I thought about the past when I was still an innocent kid, when I had nothing to worry about, when I was in Malaysia. Sitting in front of the old television in the living room with my parents, I saw the World Trade Center crumbling. It was 2001. I did not know what had happened to America, yet I could tell that something very bad was going on from my parents’ rarely seen serious faces. Trying to read the subtitles on the screen, I asked my mother, “What is terrorism?” “You don’t need to know, it is very far away from you. You would understand when you’ve grown up,” she answered.
Murree, situated at the foothill of the Himalayan Range, was built by the British a hundred and fifty years ago as a getaway from the heat of the plains during summer. It takes about one and half hour to drive to Murree from Islamabad. “Aap Murree jaiengay?” I asked a taxi driver to take me to Murree. The Urdu I learnt from a local girl. “800 rupees, and return back.”
That was the beginning of my adventure to Murree hills, but I ended up falling sick 12 hours later on my way back to Islamabad. The summary of the whole incident: Two hours into the trip to Murree, I was told that we were lost in the hills. The driver told me that it was his first time driving to Murree and that’s why he could not find the way.
Even with all the sickness I planned to go to Nathia Gali next. This was the challenging part (also the fun part) about backpacking alone. Nothing was prepared for you, so you had to organise everything and make sure that you’re adventurous enough to confront all kinds of hardships. When we finally reached Nathia Gali, it was one o’clock in the afternoon. I only had two hours to explore the town, so I gave up on the plan of trekking there. From Nathia Gali, I was told by a local that it was possible to catch a glimpse of Nanga Parbat (a mountain) further up north.
Breathtaking moments: clear sky, fresh air, and green pine trees – though I could not see anything which looked like ‘Nanga’ (naked) no matter how hard the old local shopkeeper tried to point it out to me. I wanted to build a house over there and make myself a cup of hot Chinese Oolong tea every morning.
So his daughter was there when Osama was shot dead. What a cruel reality – seeing your own father being killed right in front of you. At the same time, the Taliban confirmed the death news and further claimed that they would take revenge on his account. Yet the situation seemed indefinite. No one could tell what was going on and when would the ‘revenge’ take place. Someone at the hotel even warned me, “You’ll be kidnapped if you travel (in the northern areas) alone.” True, it did not seem wise to travel now. So, I made a plan: why don’t I pay a visit to the central Punjab instead? It sounded great, spending a week to exploring more of Pakistan. At the same time, I could observe the situation in the country.
I opened the ‘Taxila’ and ‘Khewra’ chapters in my travel guidebook.
The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.
