The hunt for rare birds

Paul J Rappaport showed us that it was possible to go on a hunt without breaking any laws, without taking a life

Every year I get infuriated when I learn that somebody in the ministry of foreign affairs has given a free hand to some Gulf sheikh or prince to destroy the wildlife of my province. Now that the Sindh High Court allowed a constitutional petition against the issuance of permits to Gulf dignitaries for hunting endangered wildlife, particularly the Houbara Bustard, shouldn’t the man from the ministry be asked to explain why permission was granted to a Saudi prince to unleash his falcons on our birds? When I put this question to an American friend, he said the only hunt he approved of was the scavenger hunt; and he reminded me of the time, over 30 years ago, when the two of us attended such a hunt at the residence of Paul J Rappaport — one-time information officer at the US consulate general in Karachi.

Rappaport, who was known for his collection of antiquated gadgetry, his near-Raphaelite looks, rough hewn but gentle voice, swarthy complexion, attributed to his Portuguese ancestry and nobly poetic stare, made him the most lionised information officer of his generation. His sense of humour, infinite collection of jokes and warm hospitality made him extremely popular; and he made more friends than Mani Shankar Ayer, a former Indian consul general, who had become a legend in the metropolis. One fine evening in late autumn Rappaport decided to host a scavenger party and invited 24 couples to the caper. The guests were divided into eight groups, given a list of items which had to be procured and asked to return to Rappaport’s residence in an hour and 20 minutes.



The first item on the list was procuring a Russian newspaper, preferably Pravda. I pulled up at the formidable building in Bleak House Road. The Russian duty officer peered suspiciously through a window of the wrought-iron gate. I asked him if he had a copy of Pravda. He looked at my car to see if it had any distinguishing marks like broken headlights or bullet holes in the rear window. During the drive I had rehearsed what to say in case the officer wondered why there was this sudden interest in his language. I said Pravda means truth and my friend’s wife who has taken up Russian was keen to get the Soviet point of view on world affairs. When that didn’t cut any ice, I told him the truth. He burst out laughing and gave me a copy.

There was a number of other items — a man, preferably called Intrepid, a $500 bill, preferably issued before 1970, a slot machine preferably from Las Vegas, a traffic violation ticket, preferably issued by the Karachi police, a European restaurant menu preferably Italian, an elephant preferably a baby, a sex symbol preferably Japanese, cherries preferably Maraschino, and a cockroach preferably alive. The last named item caused the most mirth when the owner of the BeachLuxury Hotel produced a match box containing four live cockroaches which he stated he had caught in the lobby of a rival hotel. The ingenuity and resourcefulness displayed by members of all the groups in obtaining the items and the amusement they caused is something I will never forget. Mind you, things were quite different in the 1980s when one could freely move about the city at night without fear of being attacked or robbed at traffic signals. But even then, Paul J Rappaport showed us that it was possible to go on a hunt without breaking any laws, without causing offence to any party and without taking a life.

Published in The Express Tribune, February 8^th, 2015.

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