the car that didn't fall apart

Saturday morning, I got up early and caught a taxi to Faisabad to catch a van to Muzuffarabad, the capital of Azad Jammu and Kashmir (or Kashmir). Muzuffarabad was devastated, along with Balakot in the earthquake. I went to visit a friend who has been working with the International Organization for Migration (IOM), a division of the UN.

My adventures began about 30 minutes after arriving in the town. My friend and I had driven in an IOM vehicle to meet another staff member. We were going to take a short trip around Muzuffarabad and then go for lunch. We were backing out of a driveway and had stopped for a second. I was sitting in the back of the brand-new 4-door Toyota pick-up and saw a large, local jeep ambling down the road, going quite slowly and easily far enough from our vehicle to stop in time. But the driver didn't slow the vehicle. I said to the driver of our truck, "He's not going to stop." And then it was too late. The lumbering jeep connected with the truck, caving in the front passenger-side door.

So for the next hour or so we sat around. First the IOM staff discussed what should be done and assured the driver of the vehicle at fault (it's breaks had failed) that the IOM truck was covered by insurance. Shortly after the incident, a traffic policeman arrived. He argued loudly with someone on a radio and assured us he couldn't do anything. But he did threaten to arrest the driver of the jeep. Eventually the district police showed up and looked at the damage. They needed to write a report but said it would take 3 hours.

Finally, we left in another IOM truck. My friend took me up to a camp for earthquake survivors up above the city. On the mountains all around the city, huge sections had slid down during the quake. Chasms had opened up. The mountains looked broken. Many camps had already been shut down, their occupants returning to their villages. But this camp we visited persisted. Little shops made out of corrugated sheets of steel had sprung up: a tailor, a shop selling chickens and a shop selling essentials like milk, tea, sugar, oil and candies.

We had lunch in a large hotel. The interior had been badly damaged in the quake and construction was underway everywhere.

Finally, it came time for me to leave. I wanted to travel back through the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) and stay the night in Abbotabad with friends. My friend, I and three others traveled to the bus stand in an IOM vehicle. They were going to help me get on a van to Abbotabad. But vans were scarce and large crowds waited for them, swarming around each one as it pulled in. So one of the national IOM staff persons offered to try and get a taxi to Manshara, a transport and commercial centre on my way to Abbotabad. A taxi that far was going to cost Rs1600 - more than I was willing to pay. Then our man phoned back and said he had found a taxi going to Abbotabad. It would only charge Rs600, but there was another person on the taxi. That was fine with me.

A few minutes later, the "taxi" pulled up caring not one passenger, but three. The vehicle was an ancient Toyota Corolla literally coming apart at the seams. It rattled badly and bottomed out on every bump. I was uncertain. The three passengers were serious-looking Pathans (Afghans, as it turned out). The driver was Pakistani. My friend speaks Pushtu and so he handled the negotiations. The large Afghan in the front seat agreed to give it up for me. He didn't look very happy about that. But off we went. From inside, the car seemed even more dilapidated. The transmission protested every gear change. The muffler thudded against the underside of the car ominously. The car seemed to flex noticeably at every shift in momentum. The first town on our route was Gardi Hubbibulah, about 20km from Muzuffarabad. The large Afghan argued continuously with the driver, urging him to get another car-it was not clear from where. 45 minutes, later, however we reached Gardi. And, surprisingly, our driver pulled up at some random place and said we would use the Suzuki van parked here - he knew the driver, it was his cousin.

Here the driver demanded the Rs.600 we had agreed on as my fare to Abbotabad. This startled me, but there seemed no way around it, so I shelled out the bills and boarded the Suzuki van with the Afghans. This second vehicle was luxurious compared with the first and we started off confidently up the hill and over to Manshera and then Abbotabad.

Just after 18h00 I sent a text message to my friend, letting him know I had arrived safely. He called me back and said he was relieved. The Afghans urged me to eat with them that evening. One of them had also tried to convert me to Islam during the journey, the one that knew some English (and no Urdu apparently) who had a relative in Vancouver (he showed me his address on a scrap of paper carried in his wallet). I declined both invitations.

I was thankful that I knew the latter part of the route we traveled that day. Once in Abbotabad, I breathed a sigh of relief and boarded a Suzuki along the main road toward the house where I would stay that night. I've always felt completely safe in Abbotabad and that remained the case as I would my way up the back streets to my destination. I called my friends once I arrived at their gate and they let me in. I joined them in their kitchen where they were preparing supper.

We talked easily about eggplant, my adventures and the earthquake.