Islamabad

I have to admit, Islamabad is not quite what I expected. In most developing countries – and some developed ones, for that matter – the capital city is a very different experience from the rest of the country. Generally you expect to find a place that is a lot richer, and a lot more cosmopolitan, than the smaller cities. Compared with the rural areas, the capital can seem like a different country entirely.

That’s not the case here. First of all, Pakistan’s capital city is neither its largest nor its finest. That’s not so unusual – I can think of lots of examples, including Canada and the US, where the capital city is considerably smaller and less noteworthy than a number of others in the country. Karachi is Pakistan’s largest and most celebrated city, the cultural heart of the country and its main commercial hub. Judging by the advertisements for some of its businesses, it’s also a good deal less conservative than Islamabad.

It’s the conservatism of Islamabad that I find surprising. Of course, I hardly expected to see short skirts or cleavage. I didn’t even expect sleeveless shirts. Everything I packed is decidedly modest, long-sleeved and loose-fitting. But I find that even my flood-length pants, my mid-calf skirts – hell, any skirt at all – make me feel uncomfortable. I decided to buy some shalwar kameez, the typical local gear (long tunic over cotton slacks), and was even discouraged from buying anything in “inappropriate colours”. Most of that is about not drawing attention to myself as a Westerner. Part of it, though, is about not drawing attention to myself as a woman. Where I come from, the term “immodest” might be used as a delicate way of saying “slutty”. Here, immodesty is much closer to its literal definition. It’s immodest to want to be noticed, so you shouldn’t look like you do.

This city also has an oddly contrived air. Like Washington D.C., it’s a planned city, rather than a natural settlement, its motorways laid in scrupulous grids, its boulevards painstakingly manicured. The neighbourhoods are given functional names like “Sector 7e”. No sentimental “Oakridge” or “Cottonwood” here. (I keep wondering whether there’s a Sector 7g, where thousands of Pakistani Homer Simpsons go about their drudgery.) Staying in Sector 7, House 14, somehow reinforces the prison-like feeling I get from this guesthouse. We’re like ants here. We go out at the appointed time, do our work, come back to the guesthouse. Do not pass go, do not stop at a restaurant on your way home.

Anyway, I’ll save the lifestyle post for another time. I’d rather not depress myself on the weekend.