"Sirri Lanka? Oh Sangakkara!"
I'm not being mistaken for Kumar. This is just how Pakistanis tend to greet Sri Lankans they have just met. It is, I learned on my first trip to Pakistan in 2019, a yearning to make a connection. It is both mini-flex and major compliment: "I know something about your country. And it's something very good."
The Sri Lankan passport is among the most pathetically powerless travel documents on the planet (on par with those of Ethiopia, Iran and Congo, if you're wondering). It is exceedingly rare that anyone has anything nice to say upon your arrival overseas, so this man already has my attention. Then, unprompted, he offers to share his Wi-Fi hotspot with me. This is as winning a one-two combination as a taxi driver has ever delivered to me at an airport. My three-year-old son in Colombo had sent me a burning question in a voice note just as I took off from Dubai. ("Hi, do cheetahs climb trees?") I need to make sure my response has actually gone through for him to see when he wakes up. My phone is not picking up Pakistani telecommunication signals.
I am, in truth, in something of a desperate state, though trying not to show it. My first flight was delayed, which meant too many hours at the surprisingly messy Terminal One in Dubai. I was supposed to land in Islamabad soon after 9pm, but it is way past midnight by the time the airport's immigration and customs spat me out. Bone-tired, I require the very basics: food, shelter, sleep.
But before any of that, I also need cash. The driver, whose name is Waqar, and who is basically a balding and mustachioed angel in cream kurta-pajamas to me at this point, says he knows just the spot. "I will take you to good bank. Other bank will not take foreign card." I'd already tried two machines in the airport to no avail, so I figure he knows what he's talking about. He insists on carrying my bag to his Suzuki Cultus, though I tell him I'm quite happy to carry it myself. "No, please. You are gaast." This is a phrase I will hear plenty of in the next three days.
At the "good bank", after about 40 minutes of driving, a mini-disaster. I'm in the ATM booth, trying repeatedly to withdraw decreasing amounts of money. On one of these attempts, the machine spits out a small amount of cash, but this isn't even enough to cover the taxi fare. Suddenly, I receive an alert on my phone. I have been charged roughly ten times the amount I have actually withdrawn. Panic sets in.
I rush outside and try to enlist Waqar's assistance. Between his limited English and my non-existent Urdu, we need a bystander's translation assistance. "It's okay," Waqar tells me eventually. "We will sort the issue." His being relaxed about the whole thing eases my exhaustion-addled worry.
How the problem is eventually sorted out is a marvel of creativity, co-operation, and most of all, kindness. Around 30 minutes after the ATM debacle, two other complete strangers become embroiled in my saving. The first of these is the late-night receptionist in the lobby of the building my Airbnb room is in. "Sirri Lanka? Oh, Lasith Malinga," was his greeting. This being Pakistan, flowers are obviously required to be laid at fast-bowling feet.
The second is a staffer working for the owner of my Airbnb apartment. Being of a shyer inclination, he doesn't have a readymade cricket greeting for me. But when pressed gently on what he knows about the island, he speaks two words that may as well have been the password to my soul: "Rangana Herath." (It made some sense, because this was a very young man, probably early 20s, and among his formative cricketing memories would likely have been those of Herath gobbling his way through Pakistan's top orders in various 2010s series. But Herath is decidedly the least box-office of all Sri Lanka's greats, even if he was one of my favourites.)
This young man is obviously bleary-eyed himself, as he will have expected to let me in to the apartment at 11pm. But he now finds himself deep in a discussion with two older men (the receptionist is likely in his mid-30s, and Waqar is 50 at least) about what can possibly be done here. Through no fault of their own, the Sri Lankan in the room has insufficient money to pay the taxi fare. I have travelled often enough, and to enough places, to know that the global standard operating protocol in situations such as this is to extract a watch or jewellery or some electronic device as ransom, until such time as the non-paying customer achieves the ability to pay.
These three men are speaking to each other in the building lobby in Urdu, a language I have pretty much zero proficiency in (though I back myself to sing a couple of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan qawwalis), and it is very clear from the outset that their primary priority is getting me into my room as quickly and as painlessly as possible. They can see I am a husk of a human being at this point. This is a big lobby, but as I watch them gesture to each other, animatedly searching for a solution, it feels to me like the whole place is thick with empathy.
The first idea is to have me pay the remainder in Sri Lankan rupees (which I have plenty of). We do a Google search and find that the Pakistani and Sri Lankan rupees are sitting on each other's laps in terms of value, our countries having endured twin economic crises. When I produce some Lankan notes, they immediately cool on the idea. They've never seen anything like our currency. Money changers in Islamabad and Rawalpindi (also twins that sit in each other's laps) probably haven't either. They'd likely assume the notes were forged, is the conclusion.
But then something glorious happens. These three men, of various ages, who are strangers to me, and strangers to each other, reach a tripartite agreement. The receptionist has cash, with which he can pay Waqar. The receptionist and the Airbnb staffer have a money-exchanging app, through which the Airbnb staffer can compensate the receptionist. And the Airbnb app has a built-in mechanism for hosts to request more money from guests.
This is a high-level trade deal, and it is only with the help of these two middlemen that I can pay the taxi driver. My own father having driven a cab for the majority of my life, this is a hustle I very much respect. Waqar eventually goes on his way with the payment he deserves. (The service was exemplary.)
The themes of this arrival story in Islamabad/Rawalpindi carry, emphatically, through the next 72 hours of my time here. Perhaps it is that systemic dysfunction is so bedded-in that locals have acquired the skills to reliably triumph over adversity. More likely, it is that locals pride themselves so deeply on their hospitality that they cannot imagine a version of themselves that would not ensure a foreigner's comfort at almost any cost.
This is not even close to an exhaustive list, but over my time in Islamabad and Pindi I will experience the following:
- Three Pakistan army men insist that I sit with them for a chai while they ask me all sorts of questions, hanging on every word of my answers. Questions include: "What is Malinga doing now? Why is Sri Lanka not playing Champions Trophy? Who does Sri Lanka support in Pakistan vs India matches? Will you pretend to interview us since you are a journalist?" (That last one sounds too much fun not to do, obviously, and many chuckles are had.)
- A Careem (ride-hailing app) driver named Amir decides that it's unacceptable that I should have to travel around the broad security cordon that Rawalpindi had set up around the venue, and so calling his "Rescuer" (emergency services worker) friend named Manzar, who works at the ground, asks him to escort me through a shorter route, on foot. Amir buys some roadside strawberries for us, washes them at a nearby tap, and serves them out of a plastic bag, which he describes as jugaad - a hack when conventional approaches are beyond you. (In terms of Pakistan cricket, Javed Miandad was peak jugaad.)
- Another Rescuer, Shabbir, pulls me into a bare, concrete security room and shares his Wi-Fi hotspot with me when I need to work while the teams leave Pindi stadium. (The roads, and half the city, shut down while this happens.) When the Careem I have booked cannot make its way to the pick-up location, Shabbir wraps a raincoat around me, puts me on the back of his huge Rescuer motorcycle, and turns the sirens on so we can pulse our way through the dense traffic to the place the driver is parked.
- That driver, named Sajid, battles through hours of rain - and cricket-generated Pindi traffic - to get me back to my Airbnb, because it is his "duty as a Pakistani" to ensure my safety. Right through that journey, his wife calls him to give him updates on his goat - which he tells me he loves - because the goat is currently giving birth. He wishes he could be there but insists he'd rather be here. The first kid came out safely while I was in the cab. But there was another in her belly, and I don't get to hear what happened there by the time the ride ends. In between, we show each other pictures of our children and share stories about our countries. Sajid notes English words he doesn't know, and teaches me a Punjabi phrase: Jinne Lahore nahi vekheya, oh jammeya hi nahi. I had told him my next destination was Lahore, and the phrase means, "Who hasn't seen Lahore has not lived".
In just 72 hours, I become so accustomed, so deeply reliant, on this hospitality because it is in such exquisite abundance. My friend and colleague Danyal Rasool calls me to ask if I have managed to get a SIM card, in order to have internet access (in Pakistan, as in India, SIM cards are not easily sold to foreigners, so you have to go to an outlet with your passport to get one). "Why would I waste 40 minutes doing that?" I ask him. "I can get a hotspot from whoever is around." In these 72 hours I've asked for, conservatively, about 18 hotspots. Waqar's unprompted offer gave me the idea, and my strike rate is 100%. Never once has the other person hesitated.
On Thursday morning, as I am walking into the venue, my phone suddenly begins buzzing with messages. Someone who had shared their hotspot with me on a previous day was in the vicinity and my phone had picked up the signal. I look around but don't know who it could be.
I can't make any broad comments about Pakistan. I will not get into the realms of sociology or anthropology, or even of regional geopolitics here, except to say that there is definitely some goodwill between Pakistanis and Sri Lankans that has revealed itself over many imperfect conversations that tend to feature broken English and non-existent Urdu. I have not thought about any of this for long enough, and I will be processing this visit to Islamabad/Rawalpindi for months to come.
But I can say with some certitude: I am not a naïve or inexperienced traveller. I have been on cricket tours to eight of the 12 Test-playing nations (Ireland, Zimbabwe, Afghanistan and West Indies are the big misses). In my other life as a travel writer and avid diver, I have been to dozens of other destinations, from West Papua, to Nepal, to Egypt, to Mozambique… you get the picture. I promise this is only to establish experience, not to flex. Never have I encountered a time in my life so dense with stories. Never have I had as much fun in my travels, in such a short space of time. The love I felt from complete strangers (all men, and yes, I'm clocking my privilege here) in these twin cities is extraordinary.
They will forever be tattooed on my consciousness. Three days, impossibly thick with kindness.