Islamabad: The Arrival

Marius Conradie, Islamabad.

 Meintjeskop Courier, Volume II 1994

(Or on bow we set foot in a strange land, were frightened by the children and finally greatly pleased).Thus it transpired, gentle reader that, as preordained by capricious &1e - ably assisted by the Deparmental placement committee. The Conradie clan arrived in the City of Islamabad in a flush of excitement. As subscribers to the DIY Medical Journal will know this is a stale of emotional agitation, the manifestations of which are easily confused with the symptoms of heat stroke.

On the airport bus I had occasion to give my eldest of four years a brief but intensive lecture on the finer points of intercultural tolerance and acceptance. My obvious knowledge of the subject and the manner in which I conveyed it to my darling daughter so impressed a number of our fellow passengers that they actually wanted to get off the bus, presumably to go and tell their friends. My intercession was quite successful in preventing Celeste from making any further silly remarks about a kind old lady wearing an ornate metal burka (veil). 'Dadda, hoekom bet daardie tannie 'n mombakkies aan?"

At the airport we were met by the Acting High Commissioner, Mr Deon Volschenk. Wearing a suitable expression of welcome, sympathy and near dehydration he offered kind words of greeting and encouragement, reciting a brief list of foodstuffs and liquids that could be consumed in Pakistan without risking life and health. We were also pleased to learn that the high temperatures in Islamabad (45 degrees C) were really quite exceptional and that the chances were better than ever that the monsoon rains would arrive before the city ran completely out of water.

Still smarting from my earlier display of intellectual and muscular superiority Celeste observed closely as her old man did his charming best to impress the new Head of Mission right from the beginning. Her counterattack was as vicious as it was unexpected. Finding an enthusiastic and more than able ally in her younger sister they promptly wiped all my admonishments about being on their best behaviour and curtsying when meeting the Head of Mission from their innocent little minds and transformed into a horrifying synthesis of Damien, Dennis the Menace and Attie (the little Hun).

Somewhat less than convincingly Mr Volschenk murmured something about please don't worry, they are just tired, while he chainlit a fresh cigarette with only the slightest of tremors and stared vacantly across the arrivals hall.

After an interminable wait we collected our 13 pieces of luggage, excluding the obligatory two medicine bags, and made our exit with more haste than grace.

Having seen our luggage safely secured on top of the hotel's courtesy bus and my family settled comfortably -  if not quietly - inside, I actually had the decency to hesitate before accepting Mr Volschenk's invitation to accompany him in the official car. Escape was not to be.

At the last moment Carole, my spouse, to use the Department's unflattering terminology, bundled Celeste into my arms. My quizzically raised eyebrow was instantly deflated when junior informed me with a touch of pride: "Dadda, ek voel naar" . Roughly translated: Boy are you in trouble.

Mumbling fervent prayers I joined Mr Volschenk and with the three of us in the backseat we set out for the hotel. Eager to learn about this foreign land, its people and culture I listened attentively as he imparted pointers to be kept in mind by the newcomer. His train of thought and my composure were rudely dislocated when a small voice piped up: "Dadda, ek gaan siek word". (This is it Pops, what are you going to do now).

Flushing scarlet with embarrassment and any number of unparently feelings I dashed out of the car the moment the driver brought it to a semi-standstill at Mr Volschenk's quiet yet urgent insistence. Of course, as any parent will know, after a few breaths of fresh air and the satisfaction of seeing her father age visibly my little angel was as right as rain.

Upon re-entering the car I did my best to appear suitably apprecia1ive of the Head of Mission's honest concern and understanding. However, being a convinced pessimist, one terrible thought kept reverberating through my mind: If things start out in this way, how on earth is it going to end.

Well, after a month I am happy to inform that things are going very well indeed, splendidly in fact. Our highest, deepest concealed expectations have been surpassed.  Islamabad is a very pleasant, quiet, almost restful city. The throng of humanity and traffic that I expected is striking in its absence.

With its wide, tree-lined streets, interestingly styled houses. expansive green areas (I will have to learn to live with that) and impressive government buildings - all backdropped by the Margalla Hills, precursors to the mighty Himalayas - Islamabad is quite an attractive city. In many ways it reminds one of Pretoria, with the added advantage that no-one has ever heard of a kicking flyhalf.

Through this peaceful atmosphere the call of the mouzzan, enjoining the faithful to prayer, floats with a strangely soothing melody.

The people are friendly, hospitable and entrepreneurially innovative. It is very true that Islamabad is not Pakistan. It is definitely not Rawalpindi - that I have seen, and from what I have heard it is not Karachi or Lahore either. Rather, Islamabad is an island in the harsh ocean that is Pakisitan.

But. gentle reader, let me not ramble thus. More about the sights and delights of Pakistan on another occasion. Suffice it to say that we are quite willing to live and work here for at least four ears. Celeste agrees, too.

   

Marius has a valid poit regarding the word "spouse - to use the Department's unflattering

terminology". Please isn't there a better word? Ed.