"Terror" in Karachi

By Alex McKenzie

The US pharma company Mike and I worked for had a subsidiary in Pakistan and we spent three weeks working in Karachi as internal auditors. This was when the country was not generally associated with Islamic extremism and long before it became dangerous for foreigners. Since we were staying in a plush, westernised hotel, the appalling poverty of the general population was largely concealed from us. But one day while walking through a crowded market I glimpsed coming towards me a man whose nose was missing, and in its place were just two sepulchral cavities, his face a midpoint between that of a living person and a spectral skull from the trenches of the Great War. He must have been a leper. This frightful apparition took my breath away, and the man passed in a flash, disappearing into the multitude behind me. In the fast, crowded rush I could not even share this horrifying sight with my colleague – it was an image which remained in my mind for years afterwards.

The taxi driver who picked us up on the first morning deposited us at the office, and then asked at what time we would go to lunch. When we emerged at noon, there he was, ready to drive us to a restaurant, and he waited to take us back to the office after the meal. While travelling back to the office, he wanted to know at what time we would finish work….and sure enough, there he was again, ready to drive us back to our hotel. Then we realised that he was in fact our dedicated chauffeur who, for a modest daily rate, was quite happy to drive us wherever we wanted, and at any time.

Once on the way to work I became gradually aware of a persistent foul smell. I was not normally disturbed by bad odours, but this was truly revolting and seemed to be intensifying. By concentrating my attention, I finally made sense of it: we were stuck in gridlocked traffic in the stifling heat behind a large truck laden with rotten fish.

One of the offices was said to be occupied by the secretaries, yet they never seemed to appear. After a while it dawned on me that they were in fact two men, and that no women at all worked for the subsidiary.

The accounting staff were in one large, stifling room. There was no air conditioning, and the only concession to their comfort was a set of rotating desk fans. These constantly scanned and rescanned the landscape, churning up the humid air fruitlessly. Each of the desks bore huge piles of papers upon which weights of different sorts were perched to prevent them becoming airborne. The clerks had become expert in lifting and rapidly replacing them in sync with the fans to retrieve the documents they needed.      

The Purchasing Manager at the subsidiary asked us every day whether we would like to “buy some beer for our room”. Since Pakistan was a “dry” country, it was not possible to consume alcohol publicly. If we wanted some, he said it would suffice for us to bring in our passports and he would arrange it. We were not particularly bothered, but he was so insistent that finally we agreed and brought our passports into work on the following day. We were already aware that as a conservative Islamic country Pakistan was very intolerant of locals drinking alcohol - there were constant news reports on the hotel radio about people being caught and flogged for drinking.

After work, the Purchasing Manager drove us to a very large shed where alcohol was on sale, but only to foreigners. A soldier sporting sergeant stripes and carrying a machine gun was in attendance, which was somewhat worrying. A distraught and dishevelled man immediately approached us, apparently pleading for us to let him have part of our alcohol allowance. The Purchasing Manager chased him away in an ugly and aggressive manner. Then he took our passports and proceeded to place a long order comprising many bottles of different spirits (whisky, gin, rum etc.). As an afterthought, he turned to us and asked how many bottles of beer we wanted….just two each, we said. We gave him the money for our beer and he in turn paid for all the alcohol, loaded it in the boot of the car, and started to drive us back to the hotel.

Sitting at the back of the car, Mike and I felt very uneasy. When we arrived at the hotel, our driver gave us our beer and continued on this way, with all the other bottles still in the boot. We sat in the lobby and tried to make sense of the situation. On the one hand, we had been conned by a company employee into facilitating a criminal act punishable by whipping and/or imprisonment; on the other, we were corporate auditors responsible for enforcing the company’s exacting standards of ethics and respect for local legalities - so if our role in this misdemeanour ever came to like it would surely be a firing offence if our role in this misdemeanour ever came to light - very alarming.

Mike’s comment on this (“Alex, life is a learning experience”) seemed to me completely absurd. After all those lessons, books and exams surely we knew enough to live our lives without further ado?

After chewing it over, we thought that the best plan was to ask the Purchasing Manager what had happened, hoping to keep it under wraps as much as possible. His immediate response on the following day (“Don’t worry, not out of petty cash”) was only slightly consoling, as we were more anxious that nobody senior within the organisation was aware of it. When we asked him about this, he replied: “Don’t worry, nobody knows, only Mr. Z*** [the Managing Director], Mr. S*** [the Finance Director] and XYZ [other key executives]”. After that I had the dread feeling that my complicity would be discovered some day, that I would be humiliated and summarily dismissed. That concern gradually abated, and I managed to survive within the company until the encroachment of fogeyhood.    

Before we left, we learned the true story. Mr. Z*** occasionally had to entertain visitors from the U.S. headquarters. They would have been delighted with the company of his extrovert and voluptuous wife (a lot of woman for such a diminutive man). However, they would also have expected some alcohol as part of the entertainment and relaxation, just as if they had been back in New Jersey. That could only be bought in Pakistan by westerners such as us, and was the explanation for our disconcerting adventure.

First published in VISA 126 (April 2016)

The Refugee Effect

By Glenys Hopkins

Set out on 30 September 2015 to go to Serbia, for the Mensa International AG. And because I hate airports, and hate having to leave in the small hours of the morning, I decided to go by rail. It started off fine, got the Pendolino to Euston, quick sprint to St Pancras for the Eurostar, arrived in Paris in time for a light lunch. Got the TGV to Munich, which is where it all started to go Horribly Wrong. It was about 9.00pm and the station was full of drunks in lederhosen (Oktoberfest), I was supposed to be travelling on the Overnight Sleeper to Budapest, which I was looking forward to; it seemed really exotic, I expected the train to be full of glamorous adventuresses and secret agents. Well it wasn't, it was cancelled. :-(. It was replaced by:

 1. An ordinary train which went almost to the German border.

 2. A bus which went over the German border and on to Salzburg, by which time it was about midnight.

 3. A 3-hour wait in Salzburg Station, which is very clean and modern, but everything was closed and it was Very Cold.

 4. An ordinary train which went almost to the Austrian border.

 5. A bus which went to the border, where we had to write our names on a list, then get out and be glared at by armed Austrian border guards who took our passports which was worrying. The young man who had sat next to me was not let back on the bus. His name was Hassan, which may have had something to do with it. The passports were returned, so that we could be glared at again as we crossed the border into Hungary.

 6. Some time later a rather scruffy train took us to Budapest. Instead of the Sleeper Compartment I had a bunk in a couchette, but I did have the compartment to myself. It was at this point that, in attempt to lock the door, I inadvertently pulled on the emergency brake. I noticed that the train was making funny noises, shrugged, found the bolt and setlled down. Just dropping off when the attendant come banging on the door, told me off, and fixed the brake. So I only got a couple of hours' sleep before we arrived in Budapest at 9.00am the next morning. This was the scheduled time, but it should have been one seamless train ride in comfort if not luxury.

I pottered round Budapest for a bit, the surroundings of the station are not the most appealing area. Then it occurred to me that the train taking me to my destination in Serbia, Novi Sad, was not actually going direct from Buda, but from a little town a couple of hours away. If I'd realised this when I arrived, I could have got an early train and made the connection. But I didn't, so I just got the next train that was going there, and arrived at teatime with 7 hours to wait for the next train to Novi Sad. I strolled up and down the main street, had coffee and a luscious cream cake at a cafe. That took up the first half hour. The station was deader than Salzburg had been. Fortunately there was an Australian woman, similarly stranded. She was going to Serbia to look up family members, and talking about her exploits passed quite a lot of time.

The train arrived at about midnight, and meandered gently across part of Hungary and then Serbia, arriving at Novi Sad at 6.00 am next morning. I was only 12 hours late and had missed the first evening's party and an excursion I had booked on. :-(. So I slept until lunch time and then started catching up on the programme.

First published in VISA 125 (February 2016)

Cliff Faces in Portugal

By Elizabeth Johnstone

Cliff top view

I can never decide about cliffs. Scenic, dramatic, but a mixed blessing on a seaside holiday. To reverse the usual saying – what goes down must come up! My most recent encounter with cliffs was a week long trip to the Algarve, Portugal, in September 2015. And there was another cliff in the story…

I booked an all-inclusive package through Thomson at the Riu Guarana Hotel in Olhos de Agua, near Albufeira. We flew from Luton, our nearest airport as the crow (or aeroplane) flies. The transport arrangements worked seamlessly and we soon found ourselves in the familiar environment of a Riu hotel. From the hotel roof – it was an organised visit, we didn’t just shimmy up a drain pipe – you could see the blue Atlantic just beyond the hotel site. Frustratingly, it was not visible from ground level.

We planned to do very little for most of the week, with perhaps one day trip for an injection of culture. Certainly, the village immediately around was quiet. It was a low-key resort. The picturesque beach nestled among red cliffs. Olhos de agua means "eyes of water" and referred to the little jets of fresh water which bubbled up through the sand at low tide. There were the usual fish restaurants and souvenir shops but, mercifully, only a couple of British-style establishments.

It was perfectly agreeable to potter around between village and hotel. There was a spectacular clifftop viewpoint a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. However, if you wanted to dip your toes in the cerulean ocean, there was either a long set of wooden steps or a long dusty path down to the shore. Best admired from above!

The Algarve is a heavily developed area. Albufeira has expanded enormously beyond the Arab Al-buhera, which means "castle of the sea". Its Old Town, overlooking the beautiful Praia dos Pescadores, is mainly a pedestrian area. Picturesque during the day, it pulsates at night. There is a more "party" area known as the Strip which we avoided. Taxis to local destinations are more convenient and no dearer than the bus service. There are also taxi drivers on whom to practise my rudimentary Portuguese! Albufeira has a bullring. Portuguese bullfighting differs somewhat from the Spanish variety and features Minoan-style bull-jumping. The posters insisted, "Bring your child and play with him," but the bull is still tormented by metal darts and is killed "offstage" after the event.

Cliff face....

A prominent local resident of Albufeira is Sir Cliff Richard. His face is to be seen beaming over displays of the wine from his vineyard at tourist shops throughout the region. Opinion is divided, however, as to the quality of the wine.

We opted for one of the day trips organised through Thomson. We paid extra to travel in a small group via minibus, having enjoyed this format on a trip to Iceland. Our first stop was at the picturesque town of Lagos. I could have happily spent much longer there, enjoying the marina, the beach, the Old Town and the Moorish castle. But, ever onwards, and we arrived at the Cabo de São Vicente, a spectacular headland known by the Romans as "the end of the world". It has been claimed that Prince Henry the Navigator established his school of sea-faring at nearby Sagres. The cliffs, jutting starkly out into the Atlantic, are magnificent, the line of tacky souvenir and food vans ("last Bratwurst before America!") less so.

Cork tree

Heading back inland, we drove up through the mountains of the Serra de Monchique to our lunch destination. I could not get over the profusion of fruit trees. Orange, lemon, persimmon, pomegranate - eventually I had to stop photographing them. A curiosity is the cork tree. Part of its bark is periodically stripped off to manufacture corks, but there is a strict regime of leaving the trees several years to recover. The number 1, for example, on the bare part of the trunk indicated that the bark had last been stripped in 2011. Unsurprisingly, the farmers are against metal and plastic bottle stoppers. But I was amazed to see shops selling bags, belts, hats and other items made from a cork so flexible as to resemble leather.

The tour company had recently changed restaurants for the day trips and the new owner was all out to impress, serving a generous lunch washed down with excellent wines. Apparently, he was José Mourinho’s cousin. The Special One wasn’t feeling too special that day, as Chelsea had just been defeated by Porto in the Champions League. Our next stop was a local distillery, where we were offered aguardente de medronho, made from the fruit of the arbutus tree. Too much like firewater for me, but the version with added honey was more palatable to most of the group.

We drove through the charming spa town of Monchique and up to the viewpoint at Foia. The panorama was magnificent, especially if you kept the military installations out of your line of sight.

Silves Castle

Our last calling place was the delightful town of Silves, with its cathedral and wonderfully preserved castle. Photo opportunities by the dozen!

The all-inclusive format does not feature too many local specialities, but there was always at least one regional dish on offer in the hotel dining-room. I gorged myself on the sweet Portuguese oranges, and enjoyed fish (sardines and hake) at most meals. The custard tart is one of Portugal’s gifts to the world and I bought some at a local shop (in Portuguese!) Coffee is an art form. The waitress gave me a big thumbs-up when I asked for uma bica, or Portuguese espresso, in an Albufeira café. Even the modest local supermarket had an impressive range of port, most of which had English brand names reflecting the English involvement over the centuries in the port industry.

The national symbol is the galo de Barcelos. Legend has it that a cockerel crowed to prove the innocence of a wrongly accused man. You see these brightly painted ceramic creatures everywhere and I bought another to add to my little family on the kitchen windowsill (pictured below).

If you speak Spanish, you can understand a lot of written Portuguese. Spoken Portuguese is much harder. Unstressed endings are de-emphasised or just disappear altogether. But I love all that mellifluous "oosh-ooshing". (Spanish los platos becomes Portuguese os pratos pronounced oosh pratoosh.) And it was super fun asking for two ports or two caipirinhas, if only to see the barman’s amazement.

Custard Tarts

We had a most enjoyable holiday. I would definitely go back to the Algarve, but it is worth doing your homework to avoid the busiest times and areas. Sardines are optional, but custard tarts are a must!