The diplomatic merry-go-round
With recession, budget cuts, parking problems and security concerns, diplomatic functions aren’t what they used to be.
During this writer’s 40-year journalistic career, his work often brought him into contact with ambassadors and consul-general; and in the prehistoric days before 1970, when Karachi was not regarded as a hardship station, an invitation to dine with an ambassador or consul-generalinvariably meant the evening was going to be rather special. It wasn’t just that the host’s cellar was stacked with the finest produce of the vineyards of Europe; the culinary delights from the country he represented gave the occasion a distinct gastronomic flavour.
Times have changed. These days, with the recession, budget cuts, horrendous parking problems and severe security concerns, diplomatic functions aren’t what they used to be. They have, in fact, become rather dreary affairs. Every head of mission seems to make the same speech about how relations between his country and Pakistan have never been better and this writer remembers an occasion when one consul-general overdid it a bit when he made the serendipitous discovery that contacts between his country and Pakistan could be traced back to Moenjodaro, a site of the Indus Valley civilisation rediscovered in 1922 by Rakhaldas Bandyopadhyay. Chief guests also appear bored, invariably arrive five minutes before closing time, accompanied by a dozen scruffy looking hangers on, listen to two national anthems, cut a cake and go home for dinner.
The nature of hospitality of these foreign emissaries has certainly altered over the years. Nowadays, except for the Turks and the Indonesians, there appears to be one menu supplied by one caterer. Recently, it looked as if the Swiss had run out of their chocolate bars. The Germans first dispensed with their sausages and then their cheese. The Russians seem to have misplaced their caviar and smoked salmon. The Italians still have this obsession with distributing awards and there is always that moment, replete with suspense, when this writer holds his breath and hopes that this time the host will actually stick the medal into the recipient’s chest.
There is always plenty of refreshment and good conversation at the US functions, though at times one has to stalk and trip a waiter to get a snack. The reception to celebrate Her Majesty’s birthday is usually the diplomatic event of the year and became even more popular ever since Mr David Peery, the first in a series of sensible British deputy high commissioners, replaced lounge suit with shirt and tie as the official dress. The only problem is that the Brits are a little strict about opening and closing hours. And so the expatriate, who is already a little maudlin after sampling a selection of ales and stouts, might want to head for Native Jetty and throw himself off the bridge when he suddenly gets a message on his cell phone at 10.15 pm that Chelsea has been defeated 4-2 by Arsenal.
But the memorable receptions were the ones hosted by the Indians who, for some inexplicable reason, always managed to send highly-educated and polished diplomats. In fact, it was the Indians that established some kind of milestone in hospitality when their invitation card mentioned only the time the guests were expected to arrive. This meant the bar was kept open, often till 4 am, when the last guest staggered out of the place and invariably seemed to have a problem finding the exit.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 21st, 2010.
Times have changed. These days, with the recession, budget cuts, horrendous parking problems and severe security concerns, diplomatic functions aren’t what they used to be. They have, in fact, become rather dreary affairs. Every head of mission seems to make the same speech about how relations between his country and Pakistan have never been better and this writer remembers an occasion when one consul-general overdid it a bit when he made the serendipitous discovery that contacts between his country and Pakistan could be traced back to Moenjodaro, a site of the Indus Valley civilisation rediscovered in 1922 by Rakhaldas Bandyopadhyay. Chief guests also appear bored, invariably arrive five minutes before closing time, accompanied by a dozen scruffy looking hangers on, listen to two national anthems, cut a cake and go home for dinner.
The nature of hospitality of these foreign emissaries has certainly altered over the years. Nowadays, except for the Turks and the Indonesians, there appears to be one menu supplied by one caterer. Recently, it looked as if the Swiss had run out of their chocolate bars. The Germans first dispensed with their sausages and then their cheese. The Russians seem to have misplaced their caviar and smoked salmon. The Italians still have this obsession with distributing awards and there is always that moment, replete with suspense, when this writer holds his breath and hopes that this time the host will actually stick the medal into the recipient’s chest.
There is always plenty of refreshment and good conversation at the US functions, though at times one has to stalk and trip a waiter to get a snack. The reception to celebrate Her Majesty’s birthday is usually the diplomatic event of the year and became even more popular ever since Mr David Peery, the first in a series of sensible British deputy high commissioners, replaced lounge suit with shirt and tie as the official dress. The only problem is that the Brits are a little strict about opening and closing hours. And so the expatriate, who is already a little maudlin after sampling a selection of ales and stouts, might want to head for Native Jetty and throw himself off the bridge when he suddenly gets a message on his cell phone at 10.15 pm that Chelsea has been defeated 4-2 by Arsenal.
But the memorable receptions were the ones hosted by the Indians who, for some inexplicable reason, always managed to send highly-educated and polished diplomats. In fact, it was the Indians that established some kind of milestone in hospitality when their invitation card mentioned only the time the guests were expected to arrive. This meant the bar was kept open, often till 4 am, when the last guest staggered out of the place and invariably seemed to have a problem finding the exit.
Published in The Express Tribune, November 21st, 2010.