Making the first move

He outlines in this, the first part of a six part series, to why he choose to leave his job and family, pick up a rucksack and penknife and head out to bask in the heat, and in of some of the architectural glories of the Islamic world...

I assume everyone travels for a reason. Most travel for the sheer adventure. Some choose to momentarily escape their structured existence and swap it for a looser one - in the process they may learn something about themselves and about others. From the safe distance, like a climber viewing his village from a hilltop, one can look back at ones life and sometimes discern an overall pattern. And by understanding the past, the future is easier to handle.

There are those for whom the person they are at present, seems ill fitted for the environment they are in; and they seek a better fit elsewhere. Amongst the gaggle of travellers, there are also those who seek solace after a series of disappointments, searching for an explanation or a solution - they want to go where the barking of hounds of failure or regret seems far away. For most though, there is simply a strange restlessness that nags them continuously to drop everything and step out.

I cannot place exactly why I decided to quit my job, I know that it was for a host of ill defined reasons, some so deep within that I could only guess at.

I had worked and studied in central London for more than 10 years and I was getting tired: the dirty underground, the crawling buses, adverts that would not let you have a moments peace, the rat run of a weekend - visiting expensive restaurants, or busy impersonal bars or just to escape an evening alone in the flat.

There were many things that for which I was unprepared for in corporate life, the most obvious being; understanding nature of relations at work. There were some things which I should have, but could not, simply wash out. These were the Asian/Punjabi/Muslim expectations that I believe we all inherit.

I could not fathom how someone could walk out of a company, and from people with whom they had worked with, met demanding deadlines -struggling long into the night with, gone to meals, spend idles hours in wine bars with. And then and that's it: they are gone. You are gone. The relationship is gone. A candle flame quickly snuffed out. Erased from history.

My demands for friendship differed: I didn't expect to start a new address book when I moved to a different job, I looked to add to the one I already have. If I had invested emotional energy, I expected return in longevity of contact. When I returned to visit to my old work place - I expected an offer of a cup of tea at the very least, a seat and a conversation. Sometimes the environment in this country it seems lucky if someone actually walks up to greet you.

Somehow along the line I have missed that important lesson where someone had explained the fluidity of it all. My feelings are best described for someone who arrives at the party in fancy dress - when everyone else knew the dress code has changed. It's the embarrassment of not knowing. It's the disappointment of buying an expensive watch and finding the extra you have paid was just for the packaging. A similar watch could be bought at a fraction of the cost.

Two incidents brought home the fact that the Punjabi/Muslim and English culture operate with totally different mechanism. In the first, a colleague's father passed away. Before she returned, after a three day absence, an email from the manager advised us not bring up the subject unless she did first. In the second, after a prolonged illness a close colleagues sister passed away.

When she heard the news, she cried softly for several minutes, then went to the toilets to recompose herself, when she returned, she spent the next half an hour cancelling her meetings, and rearranging her work load before going home. Grief in Muslim culture is not private - it's shared. We expect people to offer condolences, we expect offers of unsolicited sympathy, we expect to weep loudly. It is in our nature. Not being able to feels wrong. It is a suppression of the primal scream. It is ours by right. We expect everyone to understand. Witness the pictures in Palestine.

Maybe my definition of personal space differed. Generally, I am not too uncomfortable in close proximity of another person Asian or otherwise. I do not feel threatened.

I think it's an Asian thing. It's easy enough to prove: Observe ten Asians in a lift compared to ten other people. Where will a conversation more readily spark up? I can promise you, in the 45 seconds it takes to reach floor 12, in the Asian cabin a betrothal (rishta) has probably accrued, and you will have probable discovered that the older gentleman next to you shared a house with your father in 1965.

Basil of Fawlty Towers once mentioned that an Englishman always carries a suppressed fear of the stranger next to him hiding a bloodied axe. Any hint of conversations is open invitation to stay.

I wanted a different perspective to the Eurocentric history I had been taught, where most significant events started just before the Enlightenment. There was a murky darkness until then: dotted with insignificant and temporal rulers. I did not want history to become full impact colour only as the British Empire ascended.

There must have been something before then, I wanted to look into that weak signal - to see where my place as a Muslim lay. I wanted to witness the achievements of the Arabs, Persians, Ottomans, Phoenicians, Romans, and Alexander the Great. I wanted to witness history as lit up by it OWN culture. I wanted to see all the historic places that I had read about: Rumi's resting place, where Hafiz travelled, Efes, the Blue mosque, Esfahan.

I wanted to see the arid lands that had inspired prophets. I wanted to sit in the sun and thaw out the cold of winter from my bones.

Living Islam that I had so far experienced, had become a contradiction in my eyes. The maulvis had given way to discussing trivialities: the correct length of the beard, the height of the trousers above the ankle etc. Ironically we were told that the mosque was the centre of Islamic life whilst the signed glared "Silence in the House of God". What did that mean? No debate?

Whilst preaching the brotherhood of Islam they failed to recognise the mix of their own congregation. Whilst they talk about unity - they sat splitting hair with their pupils. We were making do as Moslems, with crossing the river of change, on fragile rope bridges, whilst the West had moved on to gigantic steel suspension ones carrying trains, cars, as well as foot passengers. Little wonders we, the Muslim youth, look enviously across.

I had chosen to explore my Punjabi and Muslim heritage. The air and soil of my father's village was deep in my veins.

I did not sit under a babbling stream to relax - I sat under the shade of an acacia tree, with a cool breeze blowing, sleeping to the sound of soft bells on the neck of goats grazing near by, watching the sky through the break in the green canopy of leaves.

So eventually, I packed, along with my sleeping bag, all these contradictions in my backpack. I did not know when and if I would return to the UK, and in what shape. My first stop was Turkey.

Fortune favours the brave and little did I know of the change in season my life would experience.

whussain@thornway.com

Next month: Istanbul, Konya and Lily the Land Rover

Waqar now runs his own business in Blackburn: Thornway Enterprises Limited