Drinking in Islamabad

In July, 2010, an article entitled - “Drinking in Islamabad”, appeared in Playboy Magazine. I read it online, as it's impossible to buy this magazine in Pakistan. Even in my native Ireland, Playboy only returned to the shelves in 1995, after a 36 year ban. The author of the piece, Lawrence Osbourne, came to Islamabad with the sole purpose of getting drunk in “one of the world's most alcohol-hostile nations”.

When I saw the title, I was pleased that at least one Western media outlet (sure, it's a soft porn magazine, but we all know that everyone buys it for the articles), was reporting on an aspect of life in Pakistan other than terrorism. However, upon reading the full article, I was disappointed to discover that the author hadn't gone beyond the Marriott, the Serena and Murree brewery in his half-hearted attempt to get drunk in the land of the pure; so I decided that in this week's column I'd outline alcohol procurement options and challenges for non-diplomatic foreigners in Islamabad.

The most straight-forward way of securing an alcohol supply is to pick it up at the duty-free and smuggle it into the country. Technically it is illegal to import alcohol, but the penalty for doing so is light (confiscation), and sneaking the stuff past customs is not that difficult. The best thing to do is to look as white as possible, while pretending to be engaged in an important discussion on your mobile phone. The customs officials are normally too polite to attempt to stop you, and it's worth the risk, as the worst case scenario is that you lose your alcohol which cost you only a fraction of what you'd pay on the Pakistani black market.

If you don't want to become a transnational alcohol smuggler, another option is to get a permit to buy alcohol from government outlets. This used to be a perfectly viable option, but since there is only one brewery in the country, increased demand has led to prolonged shortages. My advice is to forge a friendship with the permit room staff, so that when beer does arrive (which is rare these days), you'll get a call saying “sir, we have beer”, and you can drop your phone, hop in your car and get there before the bootleggers and the Chinese restauranteurs arrive to clear the place out.

Another alcohol procurement option is the bootlegger. The term “bootlegging” comes from the practice of concealing flasks of alcohol in the legs of boots in prohibition-era America. Bootlegging is still practiced here in Pakistan, and is the primary source of alcohol for ordinary Pakistanis. Getting your booze from a bootlegger is quick and simple – with the bootlegger often delivering to your door, but it is expensive (at least twice the permit room rates), and you never really know what you're getting.

Some time back, I unwrapped a bottle of whiskey which had come from a bootlegger, only to look at the label and think I was already drunk, as I appeared to be seeing double. When I looked again, I realized that I was not seeing double, but that the cheap printing equipment with which they'd tried to recreate the “Famous Grouse” label had malfunctioned, giving it a blurred and lopsided look. The liquid inside the bottle was of a similar standard to the label, and I made sure to provide some strong customer feedback to the bootlegger in question.

If the options outlined above don't work out for you, you can always consider the final, and possibly least attractive option – befriending a diplomat. Now, I know what you're thinking – diplomats are amongst the most boring, intolerable people on the face of the earth – I agree, but I think it's also worth noting that they have access to some of the cheapest and best quality booze in the country. If you're going to go for this option, you will just have to grin and bear the company until the third or fourth drink kicks in, by which point, you'll most likely no longer give a damn.

OK, since it's Friday, I'll wish you all good luck in your weekend alcohol procurement endeavors.  

Apartheid in Modern Pakistan

The word apartheid comes from the Afrikaans word for “apartness”, and was used to refer to a system of “separate development” under which government policies and regulations were applied unequally to different groups of people based on their race. In Apartheid South Africa, Pakistanis fell into the “Asian” category, along with their Indian brothers and sisters. One of the manifestations of this system was the assignment of different residential and commercial sectors within cities to members of different racial groups.

Ever since I first visited Pakistan, I couldn't help but feel that a similar, if less formal, system exists unchallenged right here, based on religious and socio-economic divisions, as well as on race and nationality. Islamabad itself is a bubble, set apart from the rest of country and benefitting from superior services and amenities to those found in all other parts of Pakistan. Within the Capital Territory we have the Christian colonies – ramshackle ghettos where Christian menial workers who sweep the streets and clean the homes of the wealthy, reside - as well as the exclusive, upmarket districts stretching from sectors F-6 to F-10. In every major town and city across the country we also have the cantonments – relics from the era of British colonial rule, where members of the armed forces and their families enjoy luxuries like carpeted roads, pristine parks and steady supplies of electricity, gas and water.

As a foreigner, this feeling of apartness is brought into sharp focus in Islamabad's Diplomatic Enclave – a neighbourhood occupying a swathe of prime real estate located between Constitution Avenue and Bari Imam. If you're a Pakistani, and you'd like to tour this part of your capital city, your best bet is to apply for a job as a security guard, or failing that, to undertake a virtual visit, using Google Earth, because in this El Dorado of embassies, restaurants, fitness clubs, bars and restaurants, you're not welcome.

A couple of years ago, a controversy erupted in the local press over a sign displayed in a foreign operated restaurant, which read “No Pakistanis Allowed”. The owner of the business was almost expelled from the country, but an understanding was reached under which the sign was removed and the owner agreed to allow Pakistanis (well, those who could penetrate the outer perimeter) inside . One of the embassies is rumoured to have banned all journalists from entering its club, since a visiting reporter highlighted racist comments made by one of the club's members in an newspaper article. In another club, you can find a sign which states that only people of a particular nationality are allowed to dine on the restaurant's terrace on Saturdays.

Now, I know it is not unusual for foreign missions to be concentrated in particular neighbourhoods of capital cities, and I understand the need to provide tight security for embassies and diplomats, but what is unusual is for an entire neighbourhood in a capital city to be declared off limits to the “natives”. As a foreigner, I find it offensive and embarrassing when I attempt to enter the enclave in the company of a “native”, who despite having an invitation from an embassy (and in some cases holding a Western passport) is either turned back, or has to beg and plead with the security guards to be allowed inside.

If I feel embarrassed and offended when I encounter situations where people I know are subjected to discrimination, I can only try to imagine how Pakistanis who are subjected to discrimination on a daily basis in their own country, because of their class, creed or lack of connections, might feel.

One Labour Day, I was queueing to buy alcohol at one of Islamabad's permit rooms, when the man at the hatch called me to the front of the queue. I pointed out that there were several “natives” in front of me, to which he replied “but sir, you are a diplomat”. I corrected the man, explaining that I'm just an average guy with a foreign passport – prompting laughs and cheers of “Pakistan Zindabad” from the rest of the people in the queue.

Now I know that Pakistan has a plethora of social, security and economic issues that urgently need to be tackled, but considering the fact that apartheid ended in South Africa in 1994, isn't it time that this abhorrent concept be laid to rest in Pakistan?  

No, I'm not Raymond Davis

I heard the news about what had happened in Lahore when I received a phone call from my boss while I was driving along Margalla Road on my way home from work - “Shane. An American has gone on a rampage in Lahore. He gunned down two people in the street. It's on the TV right now”. I thanked my boss for the call and switched on the TV as soon as I got home. Express News was showing looped footage of a white saloon car with bullet holes in the windshield and a foreign man in a check shirt being led away by the police. This was Raymond Davis, and over the next couple of days he would become a household name across the country.

Considering the level of anti-US sentiment in Pakistan – the anger over CIA drone strikes which kill far more innocent civilians than militants, and disquiet at the alleged presence in the country of foreign “military contractors” working for mercenary organizations like Blackwater – it was not surprising that Raymond Davis should become, for many Pakistanis, the embodiment of US arrogance and interference.

But what did all this mean for other goras in Pakistan? Well, in the same way that many brown skinned people in the West were fearful that they may become victims of a violent backlash in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, simply because they looked  Muslim, foreigners living in Pakistan were worried that they might be targeted in revenge attacks triggered by the actions of Raymond Davis. In fact,  just after the Lahore shootings, the United Nations Department of Safety and Security (UNDSS) advised foreigners not to wear check shirts – possibly the most absurd piece of security advice I had ever heard.

Worryingly, in the weeks following the incident, a disturbing pattern began to emerge in my dealings with the citizens of Islamabad. One evening, while hiking in the Margalla hills, I heard someone who was walking behind me mutter to a friend “hey, look at that guy, doesn't he look just like Raymond Davis?”. The following day I had a meeting in the Blue Area. I didn't know the person I was meeting, but she had seen photos of me. Around fifteen minutes into our  discussion, there was a change of subject. “You know”, the lady said, “when I saw your photos, the first thing I thought was – this guy looks a lot like Raymond Davis”. A day or two later, fresh footage of Davis's interrogation was aired on TV, and as much as I hated to admit it, I myself could see the resemblance.

On the evening Davis was released and spirited out of Pakistan I was on a work related trip to Abbottabad. I was sharing a room with a foreign colleague who had been in the country for only a few days. We had been advised to stay indoors. There was already trouble in Lahore, with images on the TV of police charging angry protesters and beating them with lathis. At around eleven o'clock I was lying in bed reading, when I heard a noise off in the distance. I couldn't be sure, but it sounded like chanting. As the minutes ticked away, the sound drifted ever closer, and it became clear that what we were hearing was the sound of an angry mob. My colleague, who was on his first trip outside Islamabad, looked worried and became increasingly agitated as the mob drew nearer. I assured him that we were safe, but  by that point I was also becoming nervous and my apparent resemblance to Mr Davis, as funny as it might have been at first, now looked like it could actually become a real problem.

Luckily, the angry mob turned out to be made up of students who were just looking for an excuse to hit the streets and make some noise, and after a short while they dispersed peacefully. The next morning we were given the all clear to return to Islamabad. I showered and dressed, putting on the only clean outfit I had – including a check shirt (against the advice of the UNDSS). Once I was safely back in Islamabad, I was wondering how to overcome this physical resemblance problem when I had an idea. If people are going to jump to conclusions based on my appearance, then I should just spell it out for them. I strolled into a shop selling custom-embroidered hats and shirts, selected a baseball cap and handed the lady a piece of paper with the words “Not Raymond Davis” written on it. I'm hoping this new hat dispels people's suspicions when they see this check shirted gora walking down the street.