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On Aug. 12, FRONTLINE producer Martin Smith, his co-producer Marcela Gaviria, and cameraman Scott Anger set out on a two-month journey that will take them from London to the Persian Gulf to Pakistan and Afghanistan in an effort to find out what has become of Osama bin Laden's terrorist network, Al Qaeda, since the U.S. launched its war on terrorism. In the weeks ahead, we'll be posting regular email dispatches from Smith and Gaviria as they report back to us on their progress, offering an unprecedented behind-the-scenes perspective on a FRONTLINE documentary in the making. Smith's report will air in mid-November. | |||||||||||||||||||
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"Dubai to Karachi"
It's 3:30 a.m. in Dubai and I can't sleep. I've been reading Robert Kaplan's Soldiers of God to make the night pass, but the reading is so intense and vivid, it's making my insomnia worse. I step out into the hotel terrace to find it's as muggy at night as in the middle of the day. Dubai is a strange city -- a mix between Las Vegas and Jerusalem. For the most part it feels like an air-conditioned city built on Mars. The heat is so oppressive it's hard to enjoy the charms of the winding souks or the awesome futuristic architecture. As I write this, the call to prayer begins. It's hypnotic. Half an hour later I am in the hotel lobby paying another hotel bill. We pile our 250 kgs into the back of the car and speed through the streets of Dubai as the sun rises. Seems like I've seen my fair share of sunrises and airports since I departed Newark one week ago.
. . . Qaid-i-Azam International Airport in Karachi is like any airport in the Third World, except that it smells of mothballs. Scott tells me that the Pakistanis like the smell of mothballs, so they put them all over the place, especially in the bathrooms. I laugh when I hear this outrageous explanation. If there is one thing that the West and the East definitely don't share, it's an affinity for the same smells. In fact, everything smells funny to me in Karachi. There is a strong scent of sweat or shoe polish, and plenty of patchouli. And then there are the sounds. Instead of the usual boarding calls, the airport is filled by the call to prayer. There is also the unfamiliar sounds of Urdu and the blaring television sets with high-pitched singers. The poverty, the chaos, the mountains remind me of Colombia, my childhood home -- well, except for the smell of mothballs. I am also very aware of being the only Western woman in the entire airport. Actually, Scott and I are the only two Westerners I've seen. It's hard not to think of another Westerner as I walk about the airport lounge. This is the town where the American journalist Daniel Pearl was killed. It doesn't scare me. Just makes me thoughtful, the way one gets after visiting a graveyard. < (previous dispatch) · (next dispatch) >
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