Thursday, April 26, 2012

Meet Mathew – Be inspired by the motorbike mechanic of Panijar

My work these days takes me all over Unity State (that’s the one being bombed) these days. One of the towns on the southern tip of Unity called Panijar is where this story takes place. Panijar’s not what you would call a town back in the US or in any even developing country of the world. There’s ONE road that goes in and out of the town, and its almost a dirt road. There are probably 20 – 30 small huts lined up on both sides of the road when you enter the town which serve as the main market.

I have my breakfast of champions (shisha with tea and biscuits) and brunch (again, shisha with tea and biscuits) there. Once you get to Panijar, to go to the surrounding even smaller towns, its best to take a motorcycle as the roads out of town and into the bush are let’s just say a lot more comfortable and maneuverable if you’re on a motorbike.

Last week, I was about to head out into the bush only to realize that my bike refused to start. I tried every trick I knew to make it start but it wouldn’t. I was told that there is a mechanic in town called Mathew who can help. Now for those of you who know me, you can understand that being a motorbike enthusiast to the point where I even rode my motorbike to uni in 32 degree celsius, hearing the words “take it to a mechanic” feel like someone’s pouring molten lava into my ears. Nevertheless, I had to do something so I dragged the motorbike to the market to meet Mr. Mathew.

Well ladies and gentlemen, Mathew was not only able to start my motorcycle but did it at AGE 13. Yes Mathew, who you can see in the picture attached is only 13, maybe 14, definitely not older than that. Mathew is indeed the town motorbike mechanic. Not only that, Mathew also fixes radio’s and watches in his spare time. I mean if this is not as Russell Peters would put it - MIND BLASTING, then I don’t know what is. He's FREAKING 13.
Sometimes I forget why I do this, but then Mathew comes along, who is everything that a normal teenager is. Extremely shy, goes to primary school, plays soccer with his friends, giggles when he sees a white man, but oh yeah he fixes motorcycles, radios and watches on the side.

Mathew learnt this art while he was in Bentui (the town in north Unity which is being bombed these days) hanging around motorcycle repair shops. His father died when he was very young and so he probably spent a lot of time in these shops. Many kids have that story around here, no father, hanging out in town all the time, but Mathew was/is incidentally a genius as well. Mathew moved back with his mother to Panijar last year, her home town, and is supporting her financially. If this kid was in any other country on this planet he would be paraded on TV, would go to some school for the gifted, but, alas he’s the Kohenoor (largest diamond in the world taken by the British from India) stuck in one of the remotest parts of the world.

Mathew and I are really tight now (at least thats what I think) and I asked him the other day what he wanted as a gift. That’s when the real 13 year old came out, “a motorcycle, so I can go really fast”. I told him we can think about that a few years down the road but for now if he does well in his class this year, I’ll get him a kick ass tool box. He giggled and told me “that will do as well”.

I did have something for Mathew that I hold very dear to my heart, my Leatherman multi-tool (sorry nani) equipped with pliers, cutter, stripper, knife and screwdrivers. I wish other people could see the look on his face when I gave it to him. He held that 50 dollar thing like it was a 5 carat diamond, and yet again like a 5 year old girl, I had tears in my eyes.

Sometimes, I wonder if people here realize how much joy they bring to my life. I can’t thank God enough for letting me see such wonders of this world. I will never understand how in amidst all the hunger, poverty, war and chaos such an unbelievable treasure can unearth, but I will always be grateful when I look up to the heavens for giving me the chance of witnessing it. 

Fabi ayyi aala e rabi kuma tukazibaan

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

The day I almost died

The Honda City was cruising along at 120 km (75 miles) an hour on the 3 lane highway that connects the cities of Lahore and Islamabad.  I had just visited my dying grandfather for what was going to my last time ever seeing him. I had landed in Pakistan from South Sudan only 3 hours ago was now on my way to Islamabad. We were about 2 hours away from Islamabad when it started to drizzle. It was prayer time so the driver and I made a pit stop for the mosque by the side of the road. By the time we were done with prayers it started pouring, and I was soaking wet when we restarted our journey. I reached back into my daypack to pull out a dry shirt to put on. Unfortunately, I had to unbuckle my seat belt in order to change my shirt. While buttoning up the shirt I realized that the car started to skid, I thought of trying to put the seat belt on but it was too late, I put my hand on the dash board, shut my eyes and hoped for the best.
The car spun a few times and ended up in a ditch. I remember while it was twisting and twirling in the air and on the ground I kept reassuring myself that I was still alive as every microsecond past. Finally, it all came to a full stop. No more movement, I was completely wet with my body underwater lying horizontal inside the inverted car. I must have past out for a few moments as I heard a faint sound that kept coming closer and getting louder - it was the driver. He just kept repeating my name and I didn't have the energy to respond. Finally, I told him that I was okay and soon after a group of people pulled me out of the vehicle and into the rain. I've had the pleasure of being in a few crazy car crashes but every time I got away with minor scratches, this time though it felt different. I couldn't move my neck  and back at all. I was pretty sure I broke something. I couldn't sit or lay down, the only thing I could do was stand with the support of my rescuers.
I remember them bringing water for me and asking me if I was okay and I just wanted them to shut up and let me be. I was in pain, it was raining and my phones were not working anymore. The luggage had apparently flown out of the trunk, everything was wet and I couldn't get through to my family. The only numbers I knew off the top of my head were my parent's home phone number and my father's cell phone. Knowing how "kabutar dil" (dove hearted) my dad is and I mean that in a loving, respectful way, I couldn't call him, so I decided to have my rescuers call the home phone. Luckily my sister picked up, I think she did, I really can't remember much but I know I spoke to her. I told her that I had been in a car crash on the highway coming and I needed to get to a hospital right away. I told her there was little chance that I could get through again cause the phones were not working.
In the mean time my rescuers were trying to look for the police patrol. Usually they are pretty prevalent on the highway and pass by every 15 minutes. Whatever the reason that day, no police car was in sight. My best option was to get to Islamabad somehow and hope that my sister arranged for an ambulance at the toll plaza.
This highway is like the turnpike where each exist is 30 to 40 minutes apart so it would have made no sense for an ambulance to come get me from Islamabad which was an hour and a half away from the site of the accident.
My rescuers were vehemently trying to pull over any vehicle so that I could be given a ride to Islamabad, but no one stopped. No one even stopped to find out what the hell was wrong with a guy bloody, being held upright by other people on the side of the road.
Now the highway connecting Lahore and Islamabad is known as the "motorway" and the motorway attracts mostly fancy cars that go at high speeds on a state of the art highway. The people who had stopped to help me were local residents from the area who had jumped over the fence to assist. They were the poorest of the poor, the scum of the earth, while the elite of Pakistan were driving by one after the other, oblivious to the fact that a desperate person needed help.
Finally an empty van did stop. I was told it was a guy who was headed to Lahore (the opposite direction) noticed an accident and turned around to drive 30 miles back to help out. The man agreed to take me another 1.5 hours in the opposite direction to where he was headed. I didn't have the energy to thank him enough. I somehow fit in the back of his van still soaking wet and he drove me to the toll plaza that marked the city limits of Islamabad. There, I saw my sister and uncle waiting with an ambulance.
I asked my sister to make sure that the gentleman who had driven me to Islamabad be compensated well. It turned out that the vehicle did not even belong to him. He was simply the hired driver for that vehicle (another poor scum of the earth who went out of his way, risked his own job to help me). My sister told me that he refused to take money stating "how can I take money from you, it is Ramadan and I'm fasting. I helped your brother because that's what God would have wanted me to do".
I ended up suffering a slipped disk in my neck and severe bruising in my lower vertebra's. I was lucky. From the pictures one can see how much more worse it could have been.
When I narrated the story to my family members and friends of my parents, they understood why people in their fancy cars didn't pull over for me. They told me that there were many robberies happening that way, where robbers would fake an accident to make someone stop and then rob them and steal their vehicle.
To me it was sickening to hear it. Anyways, I'm not going to state my feelings on why the rich have something to loose and the poor don't thus they didn't stop, and I'm going to give them the benefit of the doubt, but what I did decide was that no matter what happens, I will never become them. They want to NOT stop for people dying on the side of the road, more power to them but I will never work for their betterment.
I think my accident was a reminder to me. I hear it all the time when I go back to the US or come to Pakistan, "when will you get a real job again Ali, when will this adventure of yours stop". And this job is frustrating, and many times a day you're like "why the hell don't I just go back and get a normal job, normal life with a wife and a car and a house in the suburbs and a cat, and a coffee shop, a nice imam bargah to go to, make babies" you get the point. But then incidents like these happen and you are presented to all the answers to your WHY AM I DOING THIS? question. How can I ever turn my back on the poor scum of the earth when they were the only ones who came to my aid when I needed it and asked for nothing in return.

I don't remember the faces of any of the guys that helped me, it was raining and I was in pain but that same night when I got home I got a call on my phone. I picked up and a guy asked me if I was Ali sahab (sir), the guy in the car accident. He then went on to tell me that he was one of the guys who pulled me out of the car and wanted to know how I was doing. I couldn't hold back my tears. He had gotten my contact information through the driver. He went on to tell me that I will be okay and that once I am, I should come over to his small village to see him. And that he'll show me around. After that much love how can I ever stop working for such people. Regardless of whether I end up a rich man or become poor in the process, it would be the biggest hypocrisy if I ever turned my back on the most needy in this world.