Matt W Cook

writer.former fundamentalist.christianly fellow

Tag: pakistan

July 9, 2011

Why I Rock at Airports

I’m sitting by gate 173 at Pearson right now. Stress-free. I’m always stress-free at airports. I think most people get nervous here. But I love it. The airport is a place that I basically have figured out. I zip through lines and security with ease. So, to pass the time, I figured I’d share my little list of things that make air travel easy.

  • Show up early. The lounge is a comfortable place. Boredom is better than panic. Show up early.
  • Smile. Most nervous people are cranky, irritable people. And that’s a shame. It’s also a time-killer. When I first arrive and go to check my luggage I make a point of greeting the clerk with a wild smile and a hearty ‘good morning.’ And you know what happens when I do that? They smile back. And that’s something special because that poor guy has been standing there for hours listening to cranky, nervous passengers complain about their oversized luggage and how they don’t want an aisle seat. A ridiculously cheerful face will smooth the entire experience more than you would believe.
  • Pack light. The security desk is the next stress-point for most people. I see people taking off shoes and belts and emptying pockets full of coins and pens and keys and God knows what else. And then they still set off the machine and you can see the panic in their eyes as they try to remove more and more from their person. You know what’s in my pockets? Nothing. I’ve no use for coins and my keys are clipped to my carry-on. I don’t wear a belt. I have flip-flops instead of shoes. The only things in my carry-on are things that I’m actually going to use in the airports and on the plane. Seriously, security guards smile when they see me. And it’s great to see them smile.
  • Satchels. I get mocked for my satchel. But when I see poor people fumbling with boarding passes and passports and ID and all those other things you think you need, I shake my head. A satchel is amazingly useful at an airport. My pockets are empty and my passes and passports are close at hand.
  • Relax. So much stress is self-inflicted. Airports are an adventure. Enjoy yourself. Take in the sites. Write a blog. I enjoy looking out the massive windows at the technicians preparing the planes.

That’s really all it takes. Lots of smiles. Little possessions. Almost seems like a good model for life, doesn’t it?

See you on the other side!

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July 4, 2011

Advice for Matt Going to Pakistan

     Do you ever give yourself advice? It’s a good process. Because you’re much more likely to value what you say to yourself than what other people say. That’s just the way things go.

     I’m going to Pakistan on Saturday. It’s been two years. In the scant moments of free time I have while I prepare for the trip, I remember what it was like and I wonder what I need to do to prepare myself for the trip. I drew up a list of advice I am giving myself to make the trip the best it can be. I hope I listen. I should. I’m experienced, after all, having lived completely immersed in rural Pakistani culture for about four years.

  • Chill the hell out! Seriously, Matt. Just freakin’ relax. You get too stressed out over tiny cultural annoyances. Yes, people are going to stand too close to you when they talk. Yes, you are going to get offered more food than you want. Yes, people are going to follow you around when you want to be alone because they are afraid that you might be lonely. Deal with it. The problem doesn’t lie in Pakistan, it lies in you.
  • Remember it’s more complicated than it looks. When you see poor kids on the street, resist the urge to raise your fist at the first rich guy you see. Issues of global poverty, women’s rights, and religious turmoil are as complex as the cultures they are born from. You think you’ll walk in there from your comfy suburb and have the insight to fix it all? Fat chance. Odds are you’ll just try to work against fringe symptoms and end up pissing people off with no real benefit.
  • Go to learn, not to teach. I hate to have to say this, Matt, but someone has to. You are an arrogant S.O.B. I know that you think you have the insight of the gods with which you can smite every root of suffering and injustice. But you don’t. Because, frankly, you’re a bit of an idiot. So stop trying to tell everyone what to do. You’re ignorant and ill-informed. Why don’t you just shut your mouth and take this opportunity to soak in the viable and unique way of looking at the world that Pakistan offers. You cannot put water in a glass that’s already full, after all.
  • Quit being right all the time. Remember all those neat cultural quirks that you hated and took it upon yourself to attack? Quit doing that. You can’t get rid of them and you just piss people off. And, let’s face it, you don’t know what you’re talking about anyway. Like when you used to bitch about having to wear nice shoes to church when you just ended up taking them off at the door? Yeah, don’t do that. You’re not right. Or when you rebuked people for doing their work in a way that you deemed inefficient? Yeah, don’t do that. You’re not right. Because when you try to be right all the time, people get the (accurate) impression that you’re just another white guy coming over to tell the natives how they ought to live. For the love of God, Matt, do not be that guy.
  • Expectations work against you. What? You expected that Pakistan was full of nothing but charming, quaint people who smile all day and sing Bollywood tunes? What? You didn’t expect that there would be a similar ratio of jerk:nice as there in in Canada? What do you really know about Pakistan? After four years, nothing. Say it with me Matt, ‘I know nothing’. Because you don’t. You read books and you lived there, but you know nothing. It takes a lifetime to know and understand a single individual. It would take a thousand years to understand a culture (by which time the culture would have evolved into something totally different anyway). Don’t expect anything. Don’t fall into the deathly trap of thinking in terms of ‘the Pakistani way vs. the Canadian way’. Just roll, friend. Just roll.
  • Eat slowly. Yeah, you remember how long it takes a white stomach to get normal over there. Take it easy, champ.
  • Smile. It’s a cool place filled with cool people. Enjoy them for what they are. Laugh with strangers, dance with friends. Give joy and be willing to receive it when it’s offered to you.
  • Embrace. The people you meet are more like you than you realize. There is not us vs. them. There is only us. If there is a them, it’s God (or aliens, I suppose). That Hindu fellow in the village who cannot read and works in the fields? He’s a man like you. That Muslim woman, all covered up as she floats through the bazaar? She’s a soul like yours. That kid on the street, that angry-faced preacher, that smiling shopkeeper. They are all carriers of the Divine. And so are you. Look around at that strangers and remember that they are not strange. Greet those strangers and call them ‘brother’ and ‘sister’. Rejoice in the things you have in common. Learn from the things that are different.
  • Love. Matt, I realize that your memory isn’t the best. And that’s okay. I love you anyway. So if you manage to forget everything I’m telling you know, just try to remember this last one. Because if you can pull this last one off, you’ll be alright.

     See you on the other side.


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June 3, 2011

Pakistani Picture Parade

A glorious sample from all the neat old photos we just found!

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May 31, 2011

Pakistan, Productivity and Why I’d Rather Write Books

     My wife and kids are off to Pakistan in a week. I’ll be following them a month later. I’m stoked. I tend to get all glossy-eyed when I talk about Pakistan. Kinda like a high-school girl talking about the head of the football team. What can I say? Pakistan is my lover.

     That tends to freak people out a little. Then they ask what I love about it. And I have a really hard time answering them. I mean, the place is pretty rough. It’s hot. Stinky. There’s a few shady characters. Not much chance for the trendy nerd conversations I like having. But I love it anyway.

     My wife is running an informal little charity thingy. Helping out widows and orphans. She calls it i117, go check it out. That’s one of the reasons we’re going this summer. Hunting down folks suffering in extreme poverty and coming alongside them to make life better.

     I get bothered when I think about how much my country suffers. I have friends who are malnourished. Literally. I have family who had to cut their caloric intake when American bio-fuel companies started buying up all the rice and grain that used to be used for food. For four years I lived among a people who simply did not have enough.

     But now I live in Canada. And we have too much. Way too much. So I don’t really want to be productive. Because we’re producing so much that most of what we work 40hrs a week for ends up in a dump before it goes stale. Because we buy new printers instead of refilling toner. Because the average household drill runs for 16 minutes during its entire life. Because everyone on the street owns a lawnmower that they use once a week in the summer. Because we eat so much we’re dying because of it. We’re just producing too many things. We aren’t even consuming them anymore. And it can’t go on, friends. It won’t.

     So I’d rather write books. I’d rather sing songs. I’d rather dance. I’d rather do plays and cook fancy meals and drink tea with strangers and tell funny stories. Because those things don’t take up space and don’t take away from my friends in Pooristan.

     My old protestant work ethic is yelling at me right now. He’s telling me that hard work and productivity is a virtue. I figure he’s wrong, though. Our craze for being productive has made us the economic lords of the earth, yes. But you can’t have lords without serfs. And I think it sucks to have either.

     So I’d rather write a book.

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May 12, 2011

A Dying Old Bus


     It was winter, so the windows were closed. Not that it helped much. A stray stream of air slipped through the cracks in the glass that the riveted-on piece of plexi-glass was not able to stop. But the bus was crowded, so it wasn’t so cold. That was good. It was surprising how cold Pakistani nights could get. Never below freezing, of course. But chilly enough to wish that vehicles and houses had heaters.
     The bus was like any other. Every square inch was decorated with gaudy colors and hangings. Lights flashed all over the inside and out whenever the driver touched the brakes, which, mercifully, was not often. The plastic seats were all ripped up and barely fixed with mismatched scraps of coloured plastic. The floors were sticky with spilled drinks and candy wrappers. Yep, just another normal bus.
     I was lucky to still have my seat. Most of the other men were forced to stand while the women claimed seats. That was nice, I thought. In a country that was not exactly known for gender equality at least women were guaranteed a seat on a bus.

     That bus was special for me. While I sat on it I looked around and built a clumsy narrative in my mind. I paid special note of the windows, the seats, the ancient Hindi music screeching from faulty speakers. When I arrived home I sat at the computer and wrote it all out. It was even clumsier on paper. But in my eyes I saw something. A tiny whisper rose from the scratchy writing: ‘Are you a writer?’
     The paragraph grew and I added characters. They took on roles and emotions and generated a plot. The next thing I knew I had the first draft to a 100k-word novel. I held it in my hands after printing it off for the first time. ‘Am I a writer?’
     Nothing ever came of the novel. And I’m okay with that. Because it was the first step. It was practice. I’ve left it behind and I press forward. But it’s funny to think back to that bus. That clunky bus scene never even made it into the final product. But that’s okay. Because it served a role. It got me to write a novel.
     That novel was only ever read by a handful of people. And that’s okay, too. It served a role. It was practice. It told me to write. And I’m still writing because of it. It’s amazing to think about the things that made you move forward, isn’t it?

     I love Pakistani buses. They represent something very precious for me. They represent the pursuit of creation. Do you have anything like that?

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June 4, 2010

The Silent Screams

Loud.

Crash.

Scrabbling for attention.

We shout and dance and sing, desperate for the eyes of the people around us. We spin and toil, joyless for a reward always in our dreams but never in our hands. We make and break. We buy and break. We break and throw away and nothing is left. More. More. More. And in our noise we forget.

And the mountain stands silent, silently screaming louder than us all, if only we had the ears to hear her. Naked she stands, behind her veil of cloud and frost. She tries to be shy and quiet, though she knows not how. And in her timid stance she declares the glory of the mover and shaker who pulled her from the ground and stood her on her feet. What does she do that demands our gaze? What work does she accomplish that deserves our wonder? Only that she is.

Thank you for the music that you need not ears to hear. Thank you for the sights that do not require eyes. Thank you for beauty. Thank you for glory. Thank you for betrothing me to the carver of the mountains and the painter of song.

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August 18, 2009

3 and a half years in Pakistan

Here’s an essay I entered in an Unconventional Writing Contest. I didn’t win, so you get to enjoy it here!

The sun was mostly blocked by the green turban on my head, but the heat wasn’t. The streets were loud and the bus was crowded. No empty seats. Except on the roof. But the roof was generally better than the inside, despite the sun. There are few feelings as great as barreling through rural Pakistan with the warm wind in your face. My family was below me, inside the bus – there was always room on a bus for women and children. I flew through the air, buzzing past the arid landscape with a dozen other men. I realized again: life is good.
I was living in a back-water town on the edge of the Thar Desert. My tiny apartment was in the middle of the bazaar. I owned a bicycle, which carried me, my wife and son to school everyday (the mini-van of Pakistan). I made about $1000 a month. I drank chai with neighboring shopkeepers, drank translucent water, ate goat feet and lentils and endured heat waves without A/C or electricity. I even got malaria. Life was great.

I had wanted to visit Pakistan for a while. And I wasn’t interested in a little jaunt. I wanted to live there. My wife is from rural Pakistan. And I mean rural. Like born-in-a-mud-hut-carry-water-on-your-head-from-the-canal sort of rural. Sweet girl. I guess she was a pretty big motivation for wanting to live in Pakistan. That, and the fact that the country is hurting and we wondered if we could be a bit of an influence for good in our own little way.
I thought it would be a good idea to pick the brains of some other Canadians who had lived in Pakistan. I don’t remember how many of them I talked to. Maybe half a dozen or so. They gave me all manner of advice. I came up with about nine main points that each of them seemed to agree on.
1) Don’t go to Pakistan. It’s a bad place. Especially if you have children.
2) If you ignore number 1, then you need a good deal of formal education before going to Pakistan. Otherwise you will not be allowed in the country (especially if you marry a rural Pakistani).
3) Before leaving Canada, you need to travel to as many churches and charities that will have you and ask them for money. Because, hey, who wants to live and work?
4) Don’t worry too much about Urdu (the national language). The only people who don’t know English are poor and rural, and who wants to talk to them?
5) Find the nicest house in a rich neighborhood to live in. The country will stress you out too much if you live like the average Pakistani.
6) Do not: drink the water (it’ll kill you), give to beggars (they don’t deserve it), go to local restaurants (poor people live there) or hang out with the locals (that takes time away from real missionary work). Better to hang out with other missionaries.
7) Stay away from Muslims. They’re all terrorists, after all. You might think this is hard, considering that 97% of the population follows Islam, but I’ve seen it done.
8) Go back West every summer to tell churches how radical you are and ask for more money.
9) Be safe. Stay inside. Take no risks. Never, ever ride on the roof of a bus.

It was depressing. Confusing. My wife had almost nothing but good things to say about her country. But all these older, ‘wiser’ and educated people said she was wrong. I didn’t really know what to expect.
I didn’t know any Westerners living in Pakistan when I first arrived. I only knew my in-laws (half of whom did not know English). So we lived with them for a while (thirteen people in a two-bedroom house) and I took my cues from them.
Then I started breaking the rules.
My month-old son grew to love Pakistan. My second child was born there.
I have no post-secondary education. But getting permanent residency was no problem.
I asked no-one in Canada for money (though I was given some anyway). I haven’t been hurting since.
Urdu became my #1 priority, but informally, through hanging out with shopkeepers. After three years my Urdu was better than some missionaries who had been there for ten.
I lived in a tiny apartment. No air conditioning. Poor area of town. We adapted.
I drank water I couldn’t see through. I gave to beggars, knowing that I slept in a better bed than they did. I spent hours at dirty tea shops and restaurants. I made more friends than I could count.
The Muslims became my closest friends. I was robbed three times while in Pakistan, but never by a Muslim.
I did not leave Pakistan for three years.
I refused to stay in my house, hide on holidays or follow any other rules that would hinder my relationships with my neighbors (the only day I decided to stay inside was when there was an anti-American parade passing in front of my house, complete with a stuffed dummy of George Bush ready for burning).

The realization hit me hard: The missionaries were all wrong. The experienced sages of their generation were wrong. Their experience and advice for Pakistan tended toward a view that was simply not true. Convention, that arbitrary system of doing things, failed.
I rejoiced in that for a while. I saw Pakistan as a place untouched. The established authorities were proved wrong, so I tossed their wisdom aside. My guides, in their place, were the Pakistani people, my conscience and faith. And I have never been let down. Pakistan was uncharted, and I was suddenly free to live as I pleased.

We came back to Canada February 2009. Mixed feelings.
I wondered, does the same realization apply here?
Everyone seeks after happiness. This is the human universal. But almost no-one achieves it. And if we are not getting it in the West (or in the East, for that matter), does it not stand to reason that we are not living right? And doesn’t that mean that our presuppositions about living are screwed up?
There are a set of rules, passed through society, about how we live in the West. The arbitrary rules of Convention. The rules that, often, stop us from being and achieving what we ought to be and achieve. I want to break them.
I don’t have a TV.
I have a family of four in a one-bedroom apartment.
My ‘office’ is a patch of ground in the living room next to a filing cabinet.
I hang out with neighbors.
I try to live like Jesus taught, complete with ‘love your neighbor’, ‘give to whoever asks’ and all the other good stuff from Matthew 5-7.
Life is good. I’ve made mistakes, and I plan to make more, but there is one mistake I refuse to make. I refuse to let something good pass by in the name of convention.

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