Day 12 in Pakistan: “Tipping” my way through Karachi

I dedicated my penultimate day in Pakistan to exploring Karachi. By sheer coincidence, it was the anniversary of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto – the fourth President and ninth Prime Minister of Pakistan, as well as the founder of the Bhutto dynasty – and Google Maps suggested that the opening times of various places might differ from usual hours. I could not find any concrete information on the internet except that the Province of Sindh (Bhutto’s home province) had declared the day a national holiday and would close “all government offices, autonomous bodies, semi-autonomous bodies, corporations, and local councils.” Hardly knowing what to imagine under the terms “autonomous and semi-autonomous bodies,” I decided to simply go about my day as I had intended.

I am not sure whether Tooba Mosque was closed because of the holiday, renovations or simply because it was not prayer time yet. I tried to ask the policeman behind the gate at what time it would open, but he spoke no English, and the only relevant Urdu word I could think of was “band” (closed), which was not enough to convey my meaning even when accompanied with a wealth of hand gestures. I stood around for a while thinking of my next move when I saw that another man, likely a mosque employee, had convinced the policeman to open the gate for me and was motioning at me to come in. I thanked them both profusely.

Of course, once I had walked around the gardens and the mosque itself, I made ready to “tip” the policeman. He, however, refused my money and gestured to my sunglasses. I thought he merely wanted to try them on, but once he put them on his face and found them to his liking, he asked to keep them. I was not grateful enough to make such a trade. Unsure of how much he understood me, I explained that I still needed those because it was a very sunny day and pressed the money into his palm.

I called an InDrive rickshaw to my next destination. I had already taken a rickshaw to the mosque and did not think the ride too bad, but this one was so much bumpier that I thought all the oily food I had been eating in Pakistan would find its way out through one orifice or another. The rickshaw dropped me off by the iconic Karachi Port Trust Building. This colonial-era building stands at the southwestern edge of Kharadar, an old part of Karachi with narrow streets and dilapidated old houses. Beside the Port Trust Building, this neighbourhood also contains the colonial-era Merewether Clocktower, the quaint Wazir Mansion (the birthplace of Muhammad Ali Jinnah), and New Memon Masjid.

I walked around the neighbourhood without attracting too much attention. Most people were just busy going about their daily errands, and those who did seem curious about my presence could not act on this curiosity quickly enough to catch up with me. Indeed, I was so fast that I almost got run over twice. To be fair, on both occasions, the vehicles (a car and a motorcycle) were driving in the wrong direction – if such a concept even exists in Pakistan.

As the New Memon Masjid was closed, I made my way through the old town faster than I expected. I walked all the way to the Karachi Metropolitan Corporation Building, another colonial-era building, which now serves as Karachi’s City Council. From there, I took a right and hoped that I would find the National Museum of Pakistan open; if not, I would simply take pictures of its exterior and return the following day. To my surprise, it really was open. It was also, however, much smaller than I would have guessed given how big the building is. Most of its exhibits are on first floor, which dedicates one room each to the Indus Valley Civilisation, Gandhara, the Quran, coins, regional cultures, and Pakistan’s independence. On the bottom floor there are two more exhibits on old manuscripts and Islamic art.

Really, the most enjoyable part of reaching the museum was finally being in a space free of overwhelming smells and sounds. The omnipresent odour of rotting garbage filled the streets and grew evermore oppressive as the temperature rose. Wherever it was emanating from, it always brought with it swarms of flies, and in the wider streets these were joined by flocks of circling kites. At the same time, Karachi never felt like its true size: I have read it has a population of over twenty million. I imagine this population must be spread across a huge area indeed, as the bustling quarters I walked through had but few houses over five stories tall.

For the rest of the hot day, I taxied from one stop to the next: First to the Muhammad Ali Jinnah Mausoleum, then to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral (from which I did, admittedly, walk some three hundred metres to the Empress Market), and finally back to my hotel. The Mausoleum was the most interesting sight. Under its white dome, it is a giant and four-sided, slightly sloping building standing atop a series of polished platforms that gleamed under the afternoon sun. It is surrounded by a park that does not provide much shade, though this did not stop people from cramming under the few hedges and trees that did.

Within the building itself there are multiple tombs. On the lower level (that is, the base on which the monument stands) lie the tombs of Fatima Jinnah – Muhammad Ali Jinnah’s sister, dubbed the “Mother of the Nation” – and several Pakistani politicians. The lower level also houses a small museum with various Jinnah memorabilia, including two of his cars. As I left this museum, a policeman approached me and asked whether I would like to go to the top. I could not turn down such an opportunity. Unaccompanied, I walked up the stairs to the huge oval doors, each guarded by several smartly clad military men in beige, behind which four more men guarded the tomb of Muhammad Ali Jinnah. As their supervisor walked around officiously, a comically underdressed man polished the bars around Jinnah’s grave.

Of course, when I descended the stairs again, the policeman asked for a tip. Unluckily, I did not have a five hundred bill. The man had gestured at a five hundred bill he was holding, and for the life of me I could not get him to understand that he might be so kind as to let me trade him one thousand for it. Then again, he probably knew what I meant but having seen the one thousand adjusted his expectations and would not budge from them.