Day 13 in Pakistan: Rationing the rest of my cash
I counted my cash yesterday evening, so I knew that I was going to begin my last day in Pakistan with 5400 rupees – roughly twenty dollars. I thus judged it would be prudent to pay my final settlement for my laundry and hotel dinners by card, since I still wanted to make two stops before going to the airport. I also made the last-minute decision not to leave my bags at the hotel but to take everything with me. This was not because I thought I wouldn’t be able to afford the trip back (which I wasn’t), but because I greatly overestimated the time I would spend at each attraction.
My first stop was the
Quaid e Azam House Museum – the former house of Muhammad Ali Jinnah and his
sister Fatima. When I arrived at the gate, I found it closed despite the
opening times on the board being listed as nine to four on all days of the week
but Fridays. Two young Pakistani men arrived on a motorcycle at the same time
as I did. We all approached the gate together, but while they were turned away,
I was let in, with both the gatekeeper and the young men self-explanatorily
repeating the word “foreigner” to each other. The gatekeeper led me to a gazebo
between the gate and the house where a handful of men were sitting. As the
policeman inspected my passport (not once opening the page with my arrival
stamp), the gatekeeper went to fetch a man who introduced himself as a tour
guide.
The tour was short and
efficient. Although the guide showed me around each room and pointed out each
piece of furniture telling me its rough age and provenance, we did not linger
around pointlessly to admire the handiwork on each lamp or chair. The shortness
of the tour was also greatly aided by the fact that I was not allowed to take
pictures on my camera, and out of principle I refused to take garbage pictures
on my phone. The gatekeeper did, however, successfully persuade me to at least
take a few pictures of the building from the outside, though I was baffled to
learn that I would not be allowed to use my camera for those either.
The little huddle of
men would have kept me for their meal of paratha and chickpeas, but I had
already ordered my InDrive, and they helped explain to the driver where exactly
he should pick me up. My second stop for the day was Manghopir, a neighbourhood
in outer Karachi known for its Sufi shrine. Built on the site of a
thirteenth-century tomb, the shrine is famous for its lake full of Mugger
crocodiles, which are fed by pilgrims. People note with a mystical reverence
that these crocodiles do not attack humans or even the housecats that come to
wander among them, though I would attribute this to their being either lazy or
well-fed.
My driver had no idea where the shrine was and blindly followed Google Maps all the way to the intersection of two dirt roads riddled with puddles. I got off there to find my way on foot. It did not surprise me to discover that the shrine had been next to the main road all along. I caused quite a stir at the mosque despite one man’s assurances that the place received many international visitors: everyone wanted to take pictures with me and repeatedly asked me where I was from, doubtlessly hoping that with just one more attempt my answer would change to a place they knew. I only stayed long enough to walk around the mosque and take a few looks at the crocodiles before heading off to the airport. The interest in me – and, from some people, in my money – was just a tad too overwhelming.
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