May 26, 2002

Maureen Lines is a social worker who works with the Kalash people and is based in Peshawar. She is the author of several books, the latest being Journey to Jalalabad

I HAVE just spent five weeks in the UK. When I am asked that inevitable question, “Did you have a nice time?” I find myself quite inarticulate. I mean, how can you explain that you experience enormous culture shock in returning to the land of your birth? And, that the climate does not ‘agree’ with you?

Lest you misunderstand before I have got even half way down the page, there were many memorable and pleasurable moments, and, most important of all, I saw people I liked, people I care about, people whom I have missed over the last twelve months. After all, the bottomline, at the end of the day, in the final analysis, (I know there are more of these current banal sentences floating around, but have momentarily forgotten them), what is more important than people (and dogs)?

Sunlight in the early mornings in Scotland, a Mozart concert, viewing my favourite paintings in the Tate (the old one), and an unexpected bus ride (courtesy of British rail, due to a cancelled train) through Wales in the late afternoon of a lovely day, seeing the tree that was planted over my mother’s ashes in a beautiful English garden of a convent in Oxford will also stay with me, along with the people.

Unfortunately, though, I do feel terribly apologetic to all those friends here to whom I said, “What would you like me to bring back for you?” (Yes, I know, I was dumb to even ask!). I wanted to bring back that gray cum black large sweater which should not be too thick nor too thin and must have pockets, but could be up to eighty five pounds sterling (wow! That would buy me a whole wardrobe not to mention an awful lot of medicine over here...), but in that gorgeous expensive shop in Edinburgh, I hesitated. Did she want buttons or a tie belt? Was the colour just what she wanted? I settled for an order form.

The fishing rod has been promised for next year. The pork sausages were another dismal failure. They would not have survived in my baggage for another three weeks if I had bought them in Scotland. In Risborough where I used to spend my winters with my late mother, my first real shopping expedition was cut short by a debilitating allergy, which followed me to Oxford.

In London, I had two days with nothing planned. I would do all my shopping and go to the movies. Not having an English diary or calendar over here, I had not realized they were both public holidays or that London would be taken over by demonstrations. ‘Birds’ custard powder I did find for a friend, although even there it was instant custard as against the normal powder, courtesy of a supermarket in Wales.

My last day in London, I just had to make an effort. There were those shoes I wanted, there was, above all, the absolute necessary battery for my computer. Nothing was open, not even the local grocery store around the corner.

With a superhuman effort (I should perhaps explain here that at the beginning of my five weeks, I was walking up to fourteen miles a day in Scotland, but by the time I was ready to return to Pakistan, it was all I could do to walk one city block thanks to sciatica), I did manage to make it to a local store where they sold wine, so that I could entertain my hostess in London. Even that turned out to be hazardous. Five yards from the store, I tripped over an elevated flagstone and nearly impaled myself on some railings, saved only by the bottle which smashed at my feet.

I trust all my frustrated friends will forgive me. By the way, not being able to do more than shuffle along, being helped onto buses and into cabs and unable to spring up out of a chair, certainly marginalizes a person, especially if you have gray hair.

I suffered a number of indignities topped by the bank manager who said: “Of course, you’re retired?” and the bus driver in Risborough, who said: “Okay, luv, where’s yer bus pass?” I looked at his youthful cheeky face and simply said. “It’s okay, Sonny, must have left it at school.”

At least in Dubai duty-free, I had a field day, but still no pork sausages, cardigans, fishing rods, real custard powder nor that battery for my computer.

Here in Peshawar my life quickly returned to normal. The day after I arrived, I resumed my driving lessons (my ailments have already improved enormously) and the second day my instructor took me up the Jamrood road through the smugglers’ bazaar. Having already nearly been mowed down by a bus in Hayatabad, I found myself competing with more buses, aid trucks, wagons, cyclists, donkey carts, women in burqas (Afghans are even worse than Pakistanis when it comes to danger — I guess that’s not surprising when you consider it) and hordes of children. I told my instructor (a very sweet woman) that she must have nerves of steel.

Last Friday, Guereni, my close family member in Birir, who had melanoma last year and had an eye removed, came down to Peshawar for me to take her for a check-up. The specialist at the eye department of the Hayatabad medical complex said all was well and that I could go over the road to the medical stores and buy a prosthesis. The store wallah could put it in, or the eye doctors would do it or I could get them to do it in Chitral.

Have you ever gone shopping for a false eye? What I thought would be a fairly simple procedure turned out to be a day of drama. The first shop did not know what a prosthesis was. As I was holding Guereni by the hand and this was supposed to be a medical store, I soon found myself on a short fuse. The last shop had three false eyes. None were remotely the same colour as Guereni’s good eye — a beautiful, unusual green and hazel. We were advised to go to the old city. Janus groaned: so did I. The Old City is always chaotic. And, it was 33 degrees.

We went from shop to shop. Finally, a young man, in an optical shop that had just a few false eyes, told us of an Afghan who made a prosthesis to order. We then shot off to the Afghan bazaar on the way to Hayatabad.

Running the gauntlet of the giant buses and side-stepping refuse, we made it up some perilous steps to a small clinic. The doctor was absent. If we could come back at five, he would be present, but we were warned that it took much time to make a false eye.

The doctor was there waiting for us. For the next two hours, I watched in fascination. With tubes of paint, pallet knives, special rulers and measuring sticks, and a lathe , the doctor proceeded to measure Guereni’s eye socket, and then paint an eye the exact colour to match. The man was an artist. He was soft spoken, gentle, tall and prepossessing in an unobtrusive way. Guereni, who is not the world’s easiest patient, was quiet and cooperative. After two hours, the job was done. Both I, and Merrik, Guereni’s husband, had to learn how to take out her new eye and to put it back in. Looking at Merrik and knowing him, I knew he would be no help. If anyone had to do it, I should have to be that person.

The doctor was hoping to return to Afghanistan. The news from there is mixed. Kabul is bustling according to a friend I had dinner with on Friday, bustling with energy and aid workers. NGOS were fighting for offices with the rich ones destroying the market by paying huge amounts. UNHCR has a whole row of houses for which it is alleged it is paying $3,000 a month rent for each one. There are two hundred expats with the UN. Kabul is full of consultants, many of whom know nothing about Afghanistan.

Having had my fill of consultants (either those who knew nothing about the realities on the ground and the others at best, charlatans — if not out and out crooks), I sympathized with my friend’s irritation. Jalalabad was filled with even more dubious characters carrying weapons.

One unexpected bonus regarding my trip to the UK was finding that everyone I knew except two acquaintances (and most are Daily Telegraph readers) were against the bombing, even if in the first instance, they had backed the idea. I also found them all pro-Palestinian and appalled at the mayhem created by Sharon.

Now I am off to Chitral, by road. I need the two-day vacation to recover from my trip to the UK!

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