But I wasn’t in town to speculate, or even to tour the city’s naan bread shops as I had done most evenings; I was there to make sure my friend finally got married. So I took another hellish trip across town to his house. The menhndi, the night when the family bid farewell to their bachelor son, was already under way and the night was filled with songs and the smell of pungent Pakistani cooking. My stomach growled in protest and I made a mental note of where the toilet was. The soon-to-be-groom was relishing the attention that his invariably stunning female relatives were lavishing on him as they covered his hands with henna, fed him sweet meats and sprayed him with fragrant rose water. He exchanged knowing winks as I pushed my way through the coloured saris.
I took my plate of naan and rice to the roof where it was cooler. Some relatives of the groom soon joined me. We chatted about mutual friends for a while, places we knew and food we were going to eat once we were back in civilisation. As the people began to drift away they each shook my hand and reminded me to get the horse and cart. I was left alone, wrapped in the warm starry night. The party downstairs seemed to be reaching some kind of climax. I sighed and walked back downstairs with my camera – there were no soldiers there this time to help me.
The day of the wedding came and I found myself standing by the side of the road in my new charwal chemise clutching a huge bouquet of roses and trying to thumb a lift. The car that my driver insisted was in “tip top juicy condition” had mysteriously died a 100 yards from my hotel.
I arrived, just as the Nikah was about to be performed. This signing of official paperwork in the presence of a Molvi (Islamic priest) is the most solemn aspect of a traditional Pakistani wedding. It is, most definitely not, the appropriate time for a dirty Englishman to burst through the door clutching a bouquet of pathetically squashed roses asking in a loud stage whisper if he has missed the kick-off.
Despite my timely interruption and after much haggling and bartering in which my passport mysteriously was offered as an endowment on a dowry the couple were declared man and wife. The look of immense relief on my friend’s face was worth the price of the ticket alone, but still we had not seen his new wife. She had been married in a quite separate ceremony next door.
Slowly, the crowd calmed, and like a storybook princess the bride, who had deferentially bowed her head as is required of all new brides, was led in by her female relatives. Unfortunately her arrival coincided with onset of advanced stomach cramps – which was a shame as it detracted from her beauty. Instead of soaking in her radiance I was pushing my way through the crowd in search of the toilet. Almost an hour later I emerged. I was just in time to have a few photos taken – a proud groom, a breathtakingly stunning bride and one scruffy Englishman who looked like he was in a desperate need to rush off somewhere important.
We drifted out onto the street. The night was still balmy and passing cars slowed down to rubberneck the blushing bride who was being decked out in flowers. My night was not over yet and I hailed a passing cab and cut across town to pay my respects to some old friends from a previous adventure. As they didn’t seem to mind me turning up late at night I chose not to comment on the AK47 which was thrust into my face when the door opened, I didn’t even mention the bullet holes peppered around the living room. I was, considering the circumstance, a paragon of virtue – which makes it all the more difficult to understand why they spent the next three hours belittling me for my country’s poor performance on the cricket pitch. I left there, late in the night in a very bad mood indeed.
My trip was coming to an end and the blushing couple, who had spent the previous few days with in-laws, would be checking into my hotel for a few days of privacy before we all jetted back to London. My final job was to collect them from the groom’s house in a horse and cart and accompany them to the hotel. I had managed to track down a friendly horse and cart, who for a modest fee was prepared to convey the happy couple in a cart decked out in a million and one fairy lights. For a few extra coins he let me ride shotgun with him through the crowded streets.
It was, as we set off through the late afternoon sun, a wonderful experience. Just me, the driver, the clip-clop of the tired horse and ten million car horns all screaming for blood in the traffic jam we had caused as we took a scenic route across town.
We soon loaded the blushing couple’s cases into the cart. The groom resplendent in his new sports coat, the bride in a silver sari which only enhanced her beauty and me in my charwal chemise caused quite a stir as we clip-clopped through down town Karachi.
Unfortunately, the horse had obviously seen better days, and was clearly wilting under such auspicious occasions. By the time we came to the second of five large hills on the way to the hotel there was nothing left to do for the groom and me but to get out and push. Four sweating hills later we collapsed into the hotel. I was tired, sweaty and dirty, and in danger of doing myself some serious damage as I collapsed with laughter.
As I sunk into a luxurious armchair in the lobby the concierge, who carefully ignored my shabby apparel, brought over a cold glass of juice for me and lent close, “Next time sir, you might like to consider a taxi…”. All things considered, I think he may have had a point.
I left a few days later, in a glitzy mirror covered air-conditioned bus. It lacked the romance of a horse drawn cart, it was more expensive and I couldn’t hear myself think over the blaring music. But at least it didn’t stop every few minutes to defecate and I didn’t have to push it half the way home.
