Corruption most foul...

I am depressed. Not the usual blahs that eat us up once in a while, no-no, this is a bit more serious. Perhaps it is the grimy potholed roads of Mumbai, the beggars or the absolutely chaotic and chocker block traffic that has soured my mood? Or is it the sight of two squatting kids lost in process of bowel movement next to a garbage dumpster on the Western Expressway that has triggered my cheerless hormones? This happens in declining age, I have read somewhere, among the hundreds of useless email that are forwarded warning me of this and that, with related miraculous remedies. Perhaps? Or maybe it is just a reaction from having just returned from a month long tour of the West where traffic discipline and pothole free roads are not a novelty?

So I am dwelling in this awful mood when Mohammed, my driver, brakes hard and the car screeches to a sudden and uncomfortable stop; I turn and glare at him. He wanted to beat changing traffic lights and decides not to risk the rapid change from amber to red. There are, however, others glaring as well; at my car. Two traffic cops, one tall and lanky with a drooping mustache that practically covers all his lips and dark shades all his eyes and the other, short, stout and well built, pregnant with years of beer, rich food and lack of exercise perhaps, the buttons of his uniform straining for relief, are staring towards us; Mohammed frets uncomfortably.

As if on cue, the taller one strides to Mohammeds side and gestures angrily for the windows to be lowered, khirki kholo, khirki kholo he shouts, then changes into a verbal onslaught of insults in Marathi, of which paagal ghaandu is the only one I can understand – mad asshole! Mohammed rolls down his window fearfully, he is aware of past violent treatment of non-Marathis in Mumbai, especially Muslims. The cop reverts to Hindi, seeing we are non Marathis. Is this how you drive? Paagal hai kya? He speaks but we can barely see his lips move through the brittle curtain of his moustache.

What did he do wrong, I open my mouth for the first time, making my voice as authoritative as possible. He jerks his head back and cocks it sideways, regarding my face, trying to make up his mind if I am somebody he can intimidate. His eyes are invisible with shades, so are mine, so we can’t tell whose emotions are about to unravel. I know Mohammed has not done anything wrong and the bastard wants a bribe to meet his day’s quota.

What did you do? What did you do? The cop echoes, stops to think, unsure, his demeanor slipping a bit. Ah, he blurts, the shade of glass on your car is an unacceptable dark shade. Come, come, bring your vehicle to one side, I will give you a challan! A ticket. I am convinced he wants a bribe and I feel a flash of rage through me. I could fight this and end up in court but it would cost me several frustrating trips to the court that will cost ten times the bribe, not to mention elevated high blood pressure enough to smack the cop silly. Spending time in a Mumbai jail is not my cup of tea…

Mohammed maneuvers the vehicle to one side, bringing relief to a long line of honking, fuming drivers backed up behind us. How much? I ask Mohammed. Pachaas rupaae lagenge saab, he tells me and I slip him a fifty rupee bill. The cop returns with a device that he slips into the window pane. See, he barks through invisible lips, see, 50 percent! A shower of spit escapes the curtain of hair on his lips and settles on the glass pane and on Mohammed who flinches ever so slightly. Not more than 20% allowed! A challan, let me have your license! More spit follows. Mohammed fists his right hand and offers the bribe. What! What is this? Ah, how much? Fifty? Are you crazy, gaandu saala? Not less than a hundred. Come give me your license, I don’t have all day! Mohammed looks at me helplessly; I want to scream obscenities and hurt the cop so bad I can taste bile in my mouth but hand over another fifty which is snapped up by the cop faster than a chameleon its prey. Now phutto, go, and change the tinge in your car, I have noted your number plates and if I see you again, I’ll pull you in. Having directly paid my first bribe in India, we drive off. I glance at the other cop standing at the corner; he gives me a mock salute, the ugly sneer of his face torments me for a long, long time.

I have known corruption growing up in Tanzania but never really dealt with it personally. Having left the country at age 18 and lived in Dubai and US for over 32 years, it is a challenge to accept it living in India. I read India is a democracy; maybe. To me, still, it is a democracy that can be bought and bribed, a networked system in which corruption is deeply embedded. From school admission to driver’s license to booking a train ticket, the system rules you and must comply; there is no choice. I could leave, of course, but the small joys of making a difference in marginalized lives, where it really matters, outweigh these turbulences. For now.

Of marraiges and shit cakes

We stop on a side road and Aliakberbhai, a devoted and selfless trustee of Al Imaan Foundation, cautions me to be careful of cakes. Cakes, I ask? He smiles. Yes, he says, cakes, shit cakes. You should be familiar with our terminology by now; he chides with a smile. I gingerly step down and immediately understand what he is referring to. These is human and dog poo-poo everywhere I look and to reinforce the unreality of the scene, two kids of about ten squat not more than ten yards from me, lost in call of nature, oblivious to the passing mass of cars, trucks, motorbikes, bicycles, humans and dogs. The stench is intense; overpowering, but I am well equipped; a liberally perfumed handkerchief comes in very handy.

We are here to visit a poor and destitute family; a young girl is to be married in three days and the family has no money for the marriage rites. I have funds specifically donated for the facilitation of such marriages but I must be personally hand over the money. Not that I do not trust Al Imaan, far from it. This is a personal commitment on my part, so I can experience the moment (and perhaps be gifted by dua’s from the recipient) and as an assurance to the donor that I was present when we made the marriage possible. Were it not for the help we are about to provide, this engaged couple will probably languish in limbo until either the groom tires and breaks off the engagement or the bride’s family goes into ever ending debt through a loan shark.

The father of the girl meets us shortly and I can instantly sense his embarrassment and nervousness; I give him an assuring smile and we follow him into the slums. My eyes are cast down, on the lookout for objects that I need to side step. I am aware of the hub of activity in the narrow filthy lanes we pass; music blaring from shabby, shoddy rooms, children, few stark naked, playing or quarrelling, the aroma of pakodas and other fried foods mixed with the stench from the open sewers. We suddenly enter a one man lane and I bang into the back of Aliakberbhai. The lane is totally dark and I am very nervous; I do not want soiled shoes.

When we reach the shack, we have to climb up a rickety staircase; it shakes violently with every step and I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally make it up. It is a 12 x 12 room, devoid of any furniture save two short wooden stools and a box crate, obviously used as a dining table. A few metal plates and other banged up utensils line up one side of the wall. A skeleton of a woman lies on bare floor on the other side, clearly in pain. I can see her one twisted leg and the grim twist of her lips whenever she turns her head to follow us with her eyes as we take a seat on the stools.

She is a grandmother of the bride to be. What is the matter with her, I ask? She is not well, the son tells me. But what is the matter with her, I repeat? He shrugs his shoulders; he does not know. The hospital needs money before they will admit her, he says, we do not have the funds. I feel immediate anger and the urge to rebuke him for ignoring his mother but cool down as quickly. Hearing the word hospital and doctor brings a piercing wail of mournful agony from the mother and I feel the hair on my arms raise. My heartbeat quickens and I suddenly feel very nauseous and have a sudden urge to leave.

We are given water and offered tea which we politely refuse. Aliakberbhai asks a few questions about the marriage plans and the girl is brought up. She is very young and pretty, only sixteen. She says salaam shyly and I give her the money; Rupees 18,000, about US $500. This money will buy the couple a bed, mattress and a cupboard perhaps, maybe even help in paying for the waleema. Perhaps. More importantly, it will afford the girl respect from her in laws and smoother live ahead. Insha’Allah.


We get up to leave but I cannot stand the agony of the mother as she whimpers on the floor. She is sayyeda and I have some sehme sadaat funds. I give about $75 to her and Aliakberbhai admonishes the son and orders him to have the mother urgently treated. I plead with Aliakberbhai to leave pronto and hurry ahead, but he is unmoved, practical. You might run away from here, but we have four more of such families to visit, he reminds me. I slow down.

When I finally reach my temporary home, the first thing I do is wudhoo and place my forehead on the soil of Kerbala and thank Allah for His bounties, for I cannot erase the agony of the mother from my eyes and ears.

The Shias of Philippines

The lady immigration officer at Manila International Airport in Philippines scrutinizes my passport carefully, then glances at me suspiciously. She has seen a number of visa stamps into Afghanistan on my passport and can’t make up her mind if I pose a threat to her country because of that. She asks me wait and disappears for about five minutes; I can feel the glare of those waiting behind me, holding them up. She is all smiles and apologetic when she returns, says I am welcome to Philippines and whispers she has given me a months visa instead of 5 days I have requested. How generous I exclaim mockingly and she flushes pink, covers her mouth with the palm of her hands to giggle in fake complicity, my sarcasm completely lost on her.

The airport taxi drivers outside the terminal immediately seize upon me, offering me hotel rooms to massage saloons, money exchange to nude bars, teen virgins of either sex to cell phone chips... I hurriedly take refuge in a slightly more expensive airport taxi that takes me through very heavy traffic (and I thought nothing could beat Mumbai traffic!) to my hotel. The Diamond Hotel is surprisingly very opulent, belying the reasonable rate I paid online. The service is incredibly warm and friendly, with everybody ready with eager smiles and anxious to please; you would have to be an Ambani (at least) to get this kind of attention in India, perhaps. I am heavily jet-lagged and want to sleep but force myself to go to the modern and well equipped gym to run instead. Works like a charm as I sleep like a baby afterwards, ready for next day’s challenges and adventures.

Abu Mahdi comes knocking at 10AM; he is not a typical Philippine; rather I sense a bit of Malay in him. Abu Mahdi was given my contact more than 2 years ago and he and another head of a huge clan have been pressing me to visit them. Time and budgetary constraints restrained me until now. We talk for over 2 hours and I learn a lot about Philippine Muslims in general and Shia Muslims in particular. I am stunned to know that there are 25,000 Shia Muslims in the country, most of them in Mandanow Island. These converted to Shia Islam after the Islamic Revolution in 1979 and quite a number of them are Roman Catholics converts. Then, Abu Mahdi won a scholarship to study in Qum; he studied there for over 9 years, returned to lead a budding congregation in Zamboanga. Now, he is the Imam of a crumbling building that acts as a mosque and hawze that caters for 50 taalibs who live in miserable and pitiful conditions. I want to go visit Zamboanga so we go into town and purchase the air tickets to travel there tomorrow. For now, I go to an area of Manila where there is a sizable Muslim presence. Several halal restaurants and Muslim owned stores abound; I forget this is the Philippines for a while.

I am invited to the only Khoja family who have made Philippines their home the last 19 years, that of Shakera and Habeeb Janmohammed. They have a beautiful home in a sky-rise in Makati, an affluent area of Manila. Over an excellent dinner, I learn about life and living in a place of the world both alien and exotic to a Khoja layman. They have no complains; Habeeb has done well in business maasha'Allah, and they have 2 children who are born and schooled there. They give a good insight about the Muslim community, what to expect and caution me about the volatile situation in Mandanow, with kidnappings and sudden, unpredictable gunfights between the MLF, a "Muslim" separatist group and government forces. I become more aware of my surroundings as I return to the hotel but then nothing can be worse thanAfghanistan, right? Abu Mahdi is dismissive about the concerns, tells me I will be fine and that an armed Ahlebeyti policeman will guard me round the clock.

Sure enough, after a stomach curling bumpy 90 minute Philippine Airline flight to Zamboanga City, we are greeted by 5 managing committee members of Ahlebayt (A) Philippine Islamic Foundation, a smartly dressed armed policeman amongst them. We proceed to a modest home of a member for my first authentic Philippino meal ever; a delightful mix of colorful seafood that is superb. I learn more about the community and am quite impressed with the progress in their religious maturity, especially the nurturing of the young ones. Although there is the usual struggle for everyday survival within the poorer members of the community, the lament mostly is for a mosque. We head towards this now for noon prayers. Here, I get to meet the 50 taalibs who get educated and trained in Islamic studies; these are a subdued, varied lot, from different parts of Mandanao. I get a sick sinking feeling when I tour the shabby, rickety building; it is miserable, with 1 toilet being shared by all students.

I sit down with the community afterwards and we chat; I tell them about CAI activities and how we can perhaps help them in education matters in a shared, pooled resourced partnership. I also promise them I will try and spread the word on helping them with a mosque. They are all of the opinion that a mosque as their center will go a long way in consolidating and expanding their community.

Zamboanga is busting, noisy city, but perhaps it’s just me and my advancing age when tolerance for such city nuisances seem overwhelming while seem not to affect others? But all is forgotten, forgiven when we reach a local fruit market. My, what a fiesta of colors! We usually associate (tropical) fruits with Thailand - no contest! Jackfruits, mangastinos, papaya, mangoes, pineapple, custard apples, leeches, others I cannot even name, even the smelly, puke initiating durians abound. I am simply amazed at all these bounties from Allah (S), and delight in buying a lot of fruit to splurge and share. Bargaining is accepted and expected; the vendors are shy but delighted at the mock shock I express at the prices they quote, covering their mouth to smile and giggle, only to come down to serious negotiating of price. The city is a colorful, almost equal mix between Muslims and Catholics with Muslims now a majority due to a very high conversion rate.

I sleep at an inexpensive hotel overnight and go visiting several homes that my new community welcome me in. Some of the homes are literally built into the ocean, on stilts. I have to cross tiny planks, some with fearful rotten cracks in them, about 20 feet long to reach some of the homes and a tiny misstep or error will see me dip into the muck and open sever ten feet below; they jokingly call this crossing at various homes daily "saraat mustakeem" trails. Several of them live in such "homes"; I wonder how the children survive all the hazards. It would take very little for anyone to go flying off into the ocean below.

I visit the home of a Shakir, a slim fragile looking man, a father of 9 whose wife gave birth to their 10th child early this morning. He has no money, he says, to take the wife to doctor, so he assisted in the childbirth and cut the umbilical cord with home scissors. The house is just a few planks of wood nailed together, I see a number of children bundled together in a corner, all paused and look at me subdued. Like their father, they look frail and gaunt. Lack of protein, Abu Mahdi whispers to me. There are no chairs to sit, so we stand and engage in polite chit-chat. But there are books, many books, all in Arabic and Farsi, with religious writings and paintings of Aaeemaas (A) all over the walls.

Then, the eldest daughter comes running, navigating the wooden planks that I very carefully crossed earlier as if they do not exist. The newborn baby, who has gone for immunization shots, has been admitted to the hospital with an infection caused by the scissors that cut its umbilical cord. A gloom falls on the household and conversation is now in hushed tones. The doctors at the government hospital have apparently ordered the parents to bring in certain antibiotic shots but there is no money. I offer to help and the problems for this family get temporary relief.

I leave for Manila later at magreeb, accompanied by Abu Mahdi; we want to visit a large clan of Wahabi converted Shia Muslims about a 2 hour drive from Manila the next day. While we wait for the flight, it is salaat time and I join others in prayers; always a delight. We set of for the town of Meycawayan City, Bulacan early the next morning, about 2 hours away in heavy traffic. I am started to be greeted by about 200 plus people, men, women and children, who line up outside a flea market and loudly recite salawaat as they pump my hand in greeting. These are an extension of one single family, children and relatives of Abulrehman Macalolo, a burly (brave) man with 4 wives. He used to be quite wealthy few years ago, with many businesses. But the menaces of Wahaabi take a toll one fine rainy day. As he sits in worship with his extended family in a makeshift mosque in his village, they are attacked by Wahaabi elements that destroy the mosque, heir homes and kill one young son of his; the entire clan flee for their lives and end up here as refugees.

A sympathetic town Mayor gives them refuge in the flea market, where they open up small stalls selling cheap paraphernalia. They sleep in the tiny stalls at night and use it as a storefront during the days. Even here, they have not forgotten their religion; they rent a small space in the middle of the market, put carpets and prayers mats down and complete their religious obligations; pretty neat. Allah tests them further this year with 2 typhoons that destroy their businesses and wash away their merchandise. The entire family flees, leaving only Abdulrehman and his son in law to keep watch over whatever remained, perched high up in the roof of the flea market until water receded.

They have begun anew, with loan sharks charging about 20% per month for financing their inventory needs. Abulrehman tells me they need help, not aid. Give me karze hasena so that I can escape the loan sharks and help us with a small mosque, he pleads. I will repay you the loans, you, my brother sent by Imam Mahdi (A). He then embarrasses the hell out of me by hugging and kissing me profusely.

I leave them with a heavy heart after a hearty lunch equivalent of machi paka in Dar and the team drops me off at the airport for my flight toDubai.

You can view pictures of my visit here: http://picasaweb.google.com/booaliboo/Philippines#

This and that.

Phew, it has been an eventful couple of months since my last blog! What with a very dramatic and eventful trip to strife torn Afghanistan, my two trips to the hospital, holy Ramadhan and its predictable Eid el Fitr moon (non)sighting fiasco, current (very) noisy Navratri days, the never ending schools holidays for the kids and my house torn up for new bathrooms and tiles. I tell you, life in Mumbai is becoming a frenzied chain of events I did not expect.

Afghanistan was scary with bombs exploding everywhere in Kabul and a missile attack at the airport while I was waiting for chartered flight to Bamiyaan. You can read all about it here http://comfortaid.org/aug_09_report.html and watch the photographs here http://picasaweb.google.com/Comfort.Aid.International/AfghanistanTrip2009#.

Two days into Ramadhan and I was struck with excruciating pain in the lower abdomen; pain so intense I thought I was certainly going to die! It turned out to be a single minute kidney stone that would normally routinely pass through but due to a very narrow urethra, it stuck and caused infection and hence the pain. Doctors at Kokilaben Ambani Hospital did a good job to ease the pain but could not reach the stone. So, without telling me because I was blissfully anesthetized, a tube was inserted in via the most delicate part of my body and it stayed there for the next four weeks! So you women who think childbirth is the ultimate pain one can experience, I say you need to reconsider your opinion. It was most distressing because it curtailed my exercise routine.

End of Ramadhan and the exercise to extract a new moon began with predictable conflicts and differing opinions. Eid ended up with disunity all over the Shia world. Families were divided with elders observing festivities on Sunday and children on Monday. I really don’t know; will we ever get it right? It is not a question of disobeying the Marja(s) for that is beyond us. But we must acknowledge that this issue IS dividing us, IS creating disharmony and discord and IS alienating a LOT of youths. We can no longer make excuses like “a minority is making a mountain out of a mole” or “we must respect the marjeeat decision”. Yes, a minority is making a mountain but the majority is really disenfranchised and cannot understand how two well respected and highly qualified Marjas can have differing opinions on a single issue when the sources that derive a solution is one. As earlier stated, disrespect of the Marjeeat is NOT an option but nor is the distinct possibility of losing faith.

Festivals in India can be treats and a (royal) pain where the sun does not shine. Just when I though we were through with the dancing and boisterousness of Ghanesia festivities that tie up the already chaotic Mumbai traffic, we are in the middle of Navratri, a colorful but eardrum busting music and dancing fiesta that makes even normal conversation at home a challenge. I can’t disregard the fiery and finery of costumes, shopping frenzy and goodwill that accompany these events. And the days school off as a consequence; oh my, I hope my kids will get the educational value for the fortune we pay in fees.

And finally my condominium home that is a torn up mess. I agreed, to my horror now, to redo the bathrooms and tiles of the entire place. Little did I even imagine the mess and headache of cleaning up every day and frustration in coordinating the contractor who seems to have his own timetable and opinions. He is grossly unhappy with my choice of non shiny tiles and glittery accessories. He wants me to convert my home into a Bollywood studio…Allah help me!

The Indian Press - thriving, dramatic and oh so funny!

They did what…?

Ex President Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam of India was frisked and made to remove his shoes for a security check before boarding a Continental Airline flight bound for New Jersey, NY. This happened in April, 2009 and it is now August. An absolute gentleman and a cool dude (although I really think the man badly needs an urgent haircut), Dr. Kalam was unflustered and cooperated with security. Matter closed, or so you would think.

The episode cropped up in the local press last week with vehement horror and affront. The Indian press, prone to irrational bouts of journalistic diarrhea, went basaltic. How could they, screamed the headlines. The gall! Prosecute Continental Airlines, file an FIR, ban them from flying into India…! Eh? The man is an Ex President, not God, he was traveling as an aam admi, not in any official capacity, he did not have a problem being frisked, it was a routine security check and the airline was implementing its security rules. The Indian procedure, if you can term it that, is for an exemption on security checks for ex-presidents and other senior bureaucrats within the Indian government. These are guidelines, not an absolute law.

Dr. Kalam is a highly respected and honorable man, an upright true citizen of India, there is no argument about this fact. Now, consider this just for argument’s sake; what if Dr. Kalam was an ex-president since last twenty years and was now brainwashed and a member of Indian Al Qaeeda? Far fetched for sure, but not impossible, I say. Is a very minuscule inconvenience of being frisked and shoes scanned not worth it?

Come on Indian press, I know you have better and bigger issues to report on. Why don’t you go and pester Kareena or Katreena or other zero sized Bollywood actresses and ask them if they have even a pea sized brain in their beautiful thobras? That will get you better and more meaningful press, no?

Sikhs guarding the queen.

News that England has included two Sikhs among the Queens bodyguard security apparatus made a splash here with TV coverage of the two being paraded for us all to feel proud and happy. Perhaps it’s because I am not a natural born Indian but puckka Indian I am and I fail to see why any Indian should feel proud to be guarding that women. Really. She flaunts jewelry that were stolen from India, does absolutely nothing but go around waving her gloved fingers with a silly smirk on her face and gets tons of money from British taxpayers for it. Ugh!

Airline strike?

Six local airlines have decided to go on a strike August 18 because they are piling up huge losses due to uncontrolled and reckless expansion spree. They say the losses are due to fuel costs, airport fees and government taxes.

As recently as three years ago, these airline CEO’s were fluttering around basking in money, ordering aircrafts left, right and center and paying government taxes. Vijay Malia, the flamboyant Chairman of Kingfisher was of the opinion the sky was not a limit and wanted to expand so fast, the Government had to restrain him as airports were not prepared to handle additional aircrafts. Naresh Goyal of Jet was smugly boasting of newer routs and added San Francisco as a destination. All ordered new aircrafts.

Well, fuel prices soared last year and full blown recession set in and these airlines began whistling different tunes altogether and now threaten to blackmail the government; bail us out or we stop services. My opinion, which isn’t worth an ant’s ass, go to hell, strike (on a day I am not traveling please!). Did the airlines think of giving some of the profits to the government when they were so profitable? Will the government give an aam admi or me a bailout if I cannot make ends meet?

Rakhi Sawant

This actress has the airwaves by their pants; so much so that IBN News channel devoted a half hour prime time slot for the show. An eligible young attractive actress wishes to tie the knot and solicits suitors to woo to her on prime time. The entire nation has been glued to it; my family included. I was requested to reschedule our Thursday dua routine just so an episode would not escape them! The satire involves all kinds of antics that is the talk of town and apparently worthy of special news coverage. Now I hear that the actress will not get married after all, just begin a “relationship” with the successful suitor. The country in tuned on for the finale this weekend.

This show has to be the best self distortion of Indian courtship ever produced, except that the entire casts actually believe it!

I am off to Kargil and Afghanistan this weekend so will definitely not post anything until Ramadhan.

Aftermath of Mumbai monsoons

It is raining in Mumbai - again. This is not headline news, of course, for rain is what you get in Mumbai during July. The whole country sighed with relief when the rains began in earnest, three weeks late, a record of sorts. You will not believe how very, very critical these three month monsoon period is for this city and country. All the water the city uses throughout the year collects at various lakes during this period. Add in the cleansing effect to the grime and filth the city accumulates over a year and the heavy dependence of farmers for agriculture, the importance of an on-time, adequate rainfall becomes apparent. Even then, I read and heard in local media that rainfall will be 25% less than average so get ready for water cuts during the year.

Still, these are trying days, for everything is messed up. My running, of course, is most important. There is a small park right next door to the building I live in, a really nice one. The ten volunteers that man the park are constantly upgrading facilities to make it more pleasant and modern. When I first began running there, it was just a brick track around a grass field with reeds and smelly rot all over. Now, in about a year, there has been a children’s playground, a couple of sheds for warming up and stretching, a shed for yoga and most interestingly, a shed where middle aged women exercises and laugh. Yes, laugh. A loud, infectious and prolonged laughter that seemed startlingly peculiar in the beginning but now makes much sense as stress buster therapy. So, the rain is playing havoc to my running and that makes me sour all day as I have to refrain from eating the stuff I can't burn off the next day. So I decide to take the plunge and run come what may; I do that today and it is really fun! The skies open up midway and everybody runs for cover while I keep on running. They must think I am a nut, soaked silly and still ruining, sloshing water all around. But it is really fun, I have the track to myself, the rain cools me off and I actually clock in an extra lap in the same time I allocate for the running routine.

Then there is the chaos with traffic; it is pure madness, I say! I must go to Dongri, near central Mumbai, every Friday for official work related to the humanitarian agency I head and it usually takes me a good hour and a half to two hours to get there. Well, it took me three last Friday; imagine! Three hours to drive about twenty two miles, I feel like shedding a couple of tears just thinking about the tension during these hours. My driver, bless him, must be the coolest man on earth for he takes all the impossible situations that Mumbai monsoon traffic demands in stride; I would have either had a massive heart attack, a massive stroke from hypertension or simply freak out. There are so many potholes with the rains, it is futile to try an ignore them. Avoid one at the risk of hitting another vehicle or a pedestrian or a beggar or a motorbike or a bicycle or a dog or something and another pothole right next door will be there to greet you, guaranteed. More alarmingly, few of these potholes are gigantic enough to nicely accommodate a small vehicle. I exaggerate, you say? You are welcome to visit the street immediately outside my building, drive maybe a hundred yards and you will find one side of the road entirely caved in. Someone had the good sense to fill the cavity with a trunk of a dead tree else there will be sure tragedy during heavy rains when virtually all streets and highways in Mumbai flood, like it did July 13 and 14. It is beyond me how Brinhanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) gets away with this kind of service. The complaints and howls of public fall on apparently deaf ears; half hearted attempts are made to redress the complaints with obviously shoddy material and even shoddier workmanship and we have the whole pathetic situation repeated come next monsoons. I hear it is very profitable to be a BMC contractor… Now, we have July 23 and 24 to content with; the highest tides of the year are to occur on these dates and if it rains with any intensity that day, Mumbai is in trouble... again. Just to make things even more interesting will be the total solar eclipse due July 22. This city is quite pragmatic, but very superstitious as well. Should be very interesting.

Talking about superstition, Imam Jaffer Sadiq (A) day fall during these rainy days this year and although I have no problems with people having kheer puri in his blessed name, even though there is no authentic hadeeth to even remotely support the traditions and culture attached to the whole business, the zealous attitudes that comes with it puts me off. You get invited to friends and relatives to partake the kheer puri in this awful traffic. The kheer puri is awfully rich with tons of fat calories but you simply must have it else you offend the host and create the impression you are faithless. Then, watch out, you may be the unlucky one to actually swallow a silver ring or two thrown in the kheer for good luck; I wonder what good luck there is in choking on a ring. I unknowingly move a platter of kheer from its original place to make it easier serving Maaha Zainab at a friends home only to find Tasneem staring at me aghast. Put it back this instant, she hisses, it is bad luck to move any of the dishes from original place once served. Eh? When I thought I had all the kheer to last me a lifetime, Tasneem makes some today and insist we all partake some "fateha". When I complain that we had enough from all the friends and relatives, none of that was from our home, we must make some ourselves is her logic.

Its pouring as I finish writing this piece; I have a flight to catch this afternoon; can modern airplanes float?

Damascus, Dubai, Dar Es Salaam, Zanzibar, Arusha, Tanga

Maaha Zainab, Tasneem and I have the good fortune to visit our Lady of Light, Seyyeda Zainab (A) in Damascus before we embark on a nostalgic, fast trek, at times fleeting visit to Tanzania, my country of birth. Syria is the same dreary old country I remember from the nineties when I used to fly in for business very frequently. Nothing seems to have changed in the decade I am absent; the same grime and dirt everywhere, the careless attitude of her people and the non ceasing smoking even in the most confined places.

The hotel we put up at is adequately comfortable and very close to the haram. The haram is as beautiful as before, comforting and crowded and sad with tribulation of my Lady (A) seemingly echoing throughout the its marble walls. I spend some time in there and talk to my Bibi (A), pouring my heart out to her and asking for her intervention with Allah (S) and beseeching her blessings. Damascus market is crowded as usual, what with zawaars from across the world flocking the narrow lanes for cheap merchandise and food. We get tired of shawarma and falafil quickly but there are not many choices. The haram of baby Sakeena (A) is spanking new and beautiful; it used to be underground in my days. My heart wants to explode thinking of her crying for her father and literal suffocating to death in that dungeon. I run in the mornings, just outside the haram area; people stop to stare and some loonies drive close to me and hoot; I wonder what they would do if it happened to be a women jogger. We complete the other ziyaarat and are ready to begin our vacation; we are off to Dubai for the first leg. Our mood is soured by problems at Damascus and Dubai airports, Damascus due to confusion over our visas and in Dubai where my name matches a person banned by UAE; what unflattering popularity…

Dubai is hot, super hot; Maaha Zainab does not want to venture out and prefers staying at home to play with Haadi at Sabira's house. She does go to a water park with Fatema and Ameerali on Friday and we are left alone to visit relatives; Papa (Chacha) does not recognize me, Chachi looks frail. We go to the Satwa Imambargha on Thursday night; Tasneem's first visit since 2000. Otherwise Maaha Zainab and Tasneem pig out on halaal Kentucky Fried Chicken and Burger King while I visit my contacts. We go for dinner at Gulaam Suku Suku's place and Maaha Zainab is in heaven when we are served Nihaari, her favorite meat item. I wonder if there is another eight year old in this world that loves meat so much; a pukka Khoja, this daughter of mine!

Dar es Salaam is a pleasure; not oppressively hot, relatively clean and full of memories for me but new and novel for both Maaha Zainab and Tasneem. Murtazabhai Bhimani is at the airport; anxious as we are late coming out due to the delay in getting visas. We proceed to town and are fed by Fatema and her in laws; aaaah, East African food, I am in hog haven! Eating is the most we do for the next ten days we are in Tanzania; mishkaki, nundu, natasha chicken and prawns, shilingi shilingi, matoke, K T Shop kebabs, nylon bajias, chana bateta mix, mihogo (sekeelo and chips and chips dipped in fiery red sauce), madafu, kuku kuku paka, fish paka, papaya, ndimu tamu, oranges, meethi amli, Naaz hotel curry puff, kebabs and meat pies...we eat and eat and eat some more. And we drink; madaafu, kungu juice, passion fruit juice, ramfur juice, lemon juice, orange juice...good thing I have taken my running shoes along and go running almost all days I am on the road this trip.

Its amazing how well Tanzania has come along after the shackles of ujamaa and socialism were cast aside. Just to show you that if you free a human being of silly and useless restrictions, progress, innovation and wealth follows naturally. Walking along Dar streets, I remember the dark days of having to wait in line every day for two liters of milk, or butter, or bread or what have you. The streets are now clean, relatively well maintained, relatively safe, the clocks work, and buildings are actually painted. I can’t say I care for the orange, yellow and even green colors used by National Housing, but they are painted at least! You should come to Mumbai, India where I currently live and see the status of older homes...

We fly to Zanzibar at an ungodly hour of five in the morning and Maaha Zainab is instantly disappointed the aircraft takes off and instantly lands - fourteen minutes from takeoff to landing (yes, I actually timed it). Sleepy taxi owners outside the airport rip us off and charge me USD9 for a 10 minute ride to our hotel, which is okay - okay. Zanzibar is the same sleepy old town I remember from eons ago except there are now a fair number of tourists wandering about. We hire a car and go around town and then to the sorry site where slaves from the mainland were shackled and forced off to far off lands. I feel pretty bad touring these places but my mood brightens considerably when we have miskaki at Forodhani that night. The place is packed with tourists of all races, lost among the many delicacies of Zanzibar. Maaha Zainab and Tasneem are not overly impressed with Zanzibar and relieved to be back in Dar for the flight to Arusha. I must say Precision Air is impressive; their flight schedule is pretty much on time and the aircrafts modern and clean.

Arusha is a delight, as usual, and naturally much cooler, which does wonders to my running time. We spend time with Gulamhussein & family and the Yusufalis of Arusha, Maaha Zainab spending almost all her time with Timmy, a fair fluffed puppy at the Yusufali home backyard. Arusha, alas, has lost the status of a modern town with a population of over 300,000 without traffic lights as a set of these did come up around Njeero Hills recently. The brand new sports club along the way to Laki Laki (where Marhoom Husseinalibhai was the coffee farm manager) is exceptional, especially the lush green cricket turf. Mchawi Wa Radio, Marhoom Bha's business is still around with a different name. Alas, none of the radio workers or bycycle repairman remain. Ah, my teenage days in Arusha...

I always proudly relate to Maaha Zainab about my school life growing up in Tanga, about the wonderful times I had, young and carefree, roaming around barefoot all over town, climbing trees, playing cricket, swimming, fishing, catching tadpoles or just plain getting into all sorts of mischief. So Tanga is a must for us and we hire a vehicle with a driver to take us there. It takes us six hours but the drive is pleasant, roads well maintained and weather fair. The gift lunchbox from Naaz Hotel comes in handy along the way and we picnic in the middle of nowhere along the highway.

I can tell Maaha Zainab and Tasneem are disappointed with Tanga but I am overwhelmed with nostalgia. St. Anthony's, the elementary school and Popatlal Secondary, schools I attended were among the first ones I visit; Mr. Chaudry the strict disciplinarian but very successful and much admired principal of Popatlal is still around, looking the same. Our new mosque, the depilated kabrastaan in Ngamiyaani, Raskazone Swimming Club, Raskazone walkway, Tanga Library, Blue Room...all places with fond memories. But Tanga is on the decay; the once booming town with so much promise is rotting within and losing people. The five homes we lived in are all grimy and sad, other homes in and around town have crumbled, vehicles are few and far and there is resignation in the faces of people that Tanga is dying...

We return to Dar es Salaam by bus as the only airline (Coastal Air) plying the Tanga-Pemba-Zanzibar-Dar-Tanga sector on 5 seat Cessna aircrafts charge USD250 per person and takes the same amount of time to reach Dar as a "luxury" bus; luxury being a relative term. After eating and drinking some more in Dar, we depart for home in Mumbai via Dubai; Maaha Zainab has school, Tasneem wants to begin Yoga classes and I , why, I have to travel some more...naturally!

You can view photos of this trip here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/booaliboo/Vacations?feat=directlink