New Year : 1987 - 88

Winter here is two weeks of slightly milder weather. There is even a little rain. School breaks up just before Christmas or Quaid -  i -  Azam's birthday. Then we have just over a week's holiday.

Maya, Mrs Smythe's teenage daughter comes down to visit nearly every day. And of course, Yusuf has his stash of Murree beer in the little fridge. He tells me to help myself anytime. I'm not a big drinker anyway.

Along with my Christian acquaintances, there are Muslim ones. Rahmatullah was introduced to me by the "little owner" (see my post SHEZAN!) He is an ice cream seller and a convert. His group - a sort of Sufi outfit - meet at Sakhi Hasan district. They' re a peaceful lot and talk about the esoteric side of Islam. A few of them are German.

One of the faces of Sufism.

One late afternoon in winter Rahmatullah comes to visit me in the Spiderweb. It is getting quite dusky and he tells me he has to do the sunset prayer before it is too late. I have no prayer mat and he spreads his coat. I am accustomed to watching the seemingly over elaborate prayer ritual from my time in Sudan. After, he leaves as always offering any assistance before he goes.

When he is gone there is a tingling presence in the room after his prayer. An aura. It stays when I go out for dinner and is there, faintly, when I return. That night I have my first out of the body experience. Sleeping, I look down and see myself lying in the bed, sleeping. I am there, hanging, for the whole night till morning. I wake curious and bemused.

Out of the Body???

In winter 1988 the school's opening is delayed and I wander (by train and jeep) up to Quetta and Ziarat. It's just before New Year's Day when I book a room at the Mariner's Hotel in Quetta. I am reading "The Day of the Jackal" by Frederick Forsyth. It rains while I am in the dining room when a huge cart of oranges loses its load outside.In the traffic we rush out to collect the fruit, the old wagon driver slipping between cars and trucks to save his precious produce.  

In Ziarat it is -21 Degrees centigrade at night on New Year's Eve.I bump into a fellow Karachi-ite, togged in a grey suit and hat, looking like Steed from "The Avengers." He is wearing a cravat and is a thoroughly nice chap. We form a group with two students and a Peruvian cyclist who has come overland by bike from Peshawar. The four of us book a heater and celebrate the New Year. The boys have brought biscuits and the man, a cake. We meander out in the evening and have some dried bits of chicken in a tent while bearded, turbaned locals sing their latest hits accompanied by no more than rapping (banging) on old tin utensils.The next day I visit the Quaid's residence and his final place on this earth.

The return journey from Quetta by train is via the Bolan Pass.

The Bolan Pass.