The OK tickets

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Are you OK?

We landed back in Karachi after our Kenyan adventures, stepping into a terminal that hummed with the energy of hundreds of returning pilgrims. The Hajj had clearly been a great undertaking, everywhere we looked, large striped bags sat plump and worn from their journey, bearing the scuff marks of travel. Cartons were stacked here and there, some containing small fridges and any variety of other things. 

It was a reminder that the pilgrimage to Mecca was not only a journey of the soul but also a practical opportunity to acquire goods unavailable back home. Perhaps these items were simply too dear at home and the opportunity to acquire goods at a reasonable price could not be missed.

We joined the queue, or rather, one of the queues, along with what seemed like hundreds of others, all pressing forward with the patient determination of seasoned travellers.

Then came the question.

 
"Are you O.K.?"

"Yes, thank you," we replied cheerfully.

But the question came again, and again. From different faces, in different accents, with an air of gentle urgency we simply couldn't fathom. Why was everyone so concerned about our wellbeing? We were perfectly fine, if perhaps a little travel-worn.

It was only when one kind soul took pity on our bewilderment that the penny finally dropped.

An O.K. ticket, it turned out, had nothing whatsoever to do with one's state of health. It meant a confirmed seat and those who held one were entitled to go straight to the front of the queue. Everyone else was queuing on hope alone, fingers crossed for a spare seat on an already crowded flight.

Oh, we finally understood. A single phrase, two letters, carried an entirely different meaning in that time and place. We gathered our luggage and thankfully made our way to the front of the queue. Our flight was secured. 

We were O.K.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

A Near Miss

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

After several months of challenging postings on field stations, observers were entitled to some well-deserved rest and recuperation. We decided to take advantage of this opportunity to visit Kenya. We planned time for a trip to Nairobi, Mombasa, the Serengeti and then onward to the Maldives for a brief sun-drenched interlude.

We had in our possession certain papers known as MCOs, Miscellaneous Charge Orders, acquired following a previous incident in Islamabad, where a travel agent had falsely claimed to represent American Express. These MCOs now covered the cost of our airline tickets, and we set off with high hopes.

Nairobi and Mombasa

Having reached Nairobi, we opted to travel by train down to Mombasa on the coast. It was the old colonial-era train, beautifully maintained: wooden panels gleaming, brass hooks and fittings polished to a brilliant shine. The waiters moving through the carriages in their black trousers and starched white coats, were courteous and efficient. The overnight passage lulled us into a contented sleep, and we arrived at the coast eager to explore.

Mombasa

High on the hill above the shoreline, Fort Jesus dominates the landscape. It was built by the Portuguese in the 1590s to secure dominance over the Indian ocean trade routes. The fort has passed through many hands as powers waxed and waned across the centuries. 

We sat on an old stone wall overlooking the water and pondered the bravery of those who had set sail from Portugal in the1490s. They were in small vessels, facing vast oceans, and an unknowable horizon ahead of them.

Below us, the markets hummed and jostled. Here we had our first encounter with the short burkas worn by local Muslim women. These burkas fell only to the knee and when the breeze caught the fabric, many a glimpse of a mini skirt was revealed beneath. We wandered through the old town, its streets replete with faded signs and buildings that spoke quietly of other eras.

The Serengeti

On return to Nairobi, we had arranged for a driver to take us into the Serengeti wildlife reserve. Our accommodation was a tent, not quite glamping by any measure, but enclosed within an adequately sturdy fence, sufficient to discourage nocturnal visitors of the wild variety.

On safari in the Serengeti - water damaged photo

We were thrilled with the wildlife encountered. Vast herds of wildebeest rolled across the plain like a living tide. Hyenas trotted with their tails carried jauntily upright. Elephants lumbered by with a quiet authority that made the ground seem to hold its breath. We craned our necks to follow the improbable grace of giraffes as they reached for the very tops of the thorn trees. Zebras, each one uniquely striped, broke into a canter and were gone in a thunder of hooves. 

We returned to Nairobi awed by the majesty of nature that we had witnessed.

The Near Miss

We were returning to our hotel in Nairobi one evening making our way along a well-lit road when two very large men stepped from the shadows and accosted us. 

They threatened us with machetes. 

It was my husband’s presence of mind that saved us. Without hesitation he hurled his bag containing our cash and travellers cheques into the far distance. The men set off in pursuit of it. Luckily, my bag contained our passports and airline tickets. We ran and ran and did not stop until we reached the hotel. 

The hours that followed were consumed by a visit to the local police station. It was impossible to identify the perpetrators from the books of mugshots laid before us, and probably unwise to do so. We turned the pages in silence and said little.

With our cash gone and our spirit of adventure severely curbed, we cancelled the trip to the Maldives. The following day was given over to the practicalities of recovery. We visited the bank to cancel the travellers cheques and secured airline tickets back to the relative safety of the known world. 

Relieved, we left Nairobi bound for Karachi.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin

Managing Medical Matters

Living in Kashmir 1979-80: A Year of People, Places and Memories

Before our departure for the sub-continent, we were both subjected to a range of injections and a general medical examination. It would not do to send those who were not in hale and hearty condition into the field.

Medical Kits

Many years later one of our two medical kits issued before departure, survives still as a sturdy storage box, a quiet relic of those distant days. One kit was for the observer to carry to field stations; the other for the accompanying spouse or family.

The surviving box - end view

The surviving box -front view

Inside these olive-green boxes, packed with quiet efficiency by the Australian Army Medical Corps, there was every sort of bandage one might need. There were tubes of ointments, a wide variety of tablets designed to cope with common and not so common ailments and needs. Needles and syringes in sterile packaging were provided to be used in lieu of local resources should circumstances demand it.

A comprehensive list detailed every item by number, with recommended usage and dosage clearly noted.

Sand and Cement

The most called upon tablet was what we referred to as “sand and cement” otherwise known as Lomotil. Our tender stomachs took a while to grow accustomed to the varieties of food on offer, and even with the most careful precautions, frequent bouts of the dreaded 'Delhi belly' were an occupational hazard. In our own quarters we could at least govern the hygiene of food preparation, but the sub-continent had a way of humbling even the most vigilant.

An Injection Party

The kit also supplied gamma globulin to bolster our immune systems, and after six months in India, an injection party was duly convened. This was a rather cheerful name for what amounted to a necessary medical ritual. One of the Scandinavian wives, who happened to be a trained nurse, administered the shots with calm, practiced ease.

Over the years, the local soldiers had quietly acquainted themselves with the contents of these kits, and were not averse to requesting a remedy by its allocated number when the need arose. 

It was a small but satisfying thing, to be of practical use and we were grateful for the abundance of those plentiful medical supplies.

This post first appeared on earlieryears.blogspot.com by CRGalvin