Third Class Chai: The Day I Became a Litterbug in Pakistan

 

Luxury and Paranoia in Karachi

In 2003, I flew into Karachi Airport on assignment covering stories related to the Global War on Terror and various human rights issues. I figured I'd splurge at the beginning of the trip since I always ended up broke by the time I departed for home. I checked into a very nice hotel—elegant in a third-world kind of way—complete with armed guards carrying AK-47s at the door and a manservant assigned to attend to my every need.

I was dying for a long hot bath after the grueling flight, but my tub was without a stopper. I tried stuffing a washcloth into the drain, but that was useless—the water just drained out a little slower than without the washcloth. I finally put on my MacGyver cap and located a nice tumbler glass from the minibar. With the washcloth stuffed into the drain and the glass positioned just so, it formed a passable suction to contain the bathwater. Problem solved. The rest of the night was less eventful.

The Shadow of Daniel Pearl

I woke early to run errands before catching my train to Hyderabad. On the way to the Western Union office to receive a wire transfer of cash, I noticed I was being followed by two men. I moved more swiftly and tried not to panic.

It was my first full day in Pakistan, and I already had nightmares of becoming the next Daniel Pearl. The memory of his kidnapping and murder was still fresh for all of us journalists. And Karachi was where it all went down—where he'd been lured to what he thought was an interview and instead met his executioners.

I stuck out like a sore thumb in my Patagonia pants and North Face jacket. I hadn't had the chance to buy local clothing yet. I asked for directions at least twice along the way and was helped with kindness and efficiency by locals. All the while, I remained acutely aware that I was being closely watched.

I made it to the Western Union office without incident and secured my cash through an incredibly over-complicated process. Once I departed that safe space, I again felt eyes upon me. I hurried back to my hotel replete with heavily armed guards and decided to postpone my shopping spree.

Ultimately, I boarded the third-class train to Hyderabad and left my life of luxury behind.

The Reality of Third Class

I actually enjoyed being with regular folk and found that "slumming it" helped me get the down-low on stories. The seating was hard wooden benches with obviously no air conditioning. The open windows provided not only fresh air but also the opportunity for dust and debris to run amok throughout the cabin.

It wasn't quite the raw experience I was used to from traveling through Central America—sharing seats with entire families including chickens and goats—but it wasn't far off. As I found a space to sit and stow my backpack and camera bag, I quickly acclimated to my new home for the next few hours.

A man about my age gravitated toward me. He was Indian but lived in Hyderabad and spoke pretty good English. We exchanged basic information, though I remained cautious about sharing too much. I sensed he was okay.

The Chai Seller and the Littering Lesson

Before long, after watching Pakistan roll by from my dirt-caked window, I noticed an ancient man peddling chai from car to car. You could hear the clinking of old, broken teacups in the big cotton sack he carried over his back. He'd reach in, grab a cup, and fill it with piping hot beverage from an old dented thermos. A young boy accompanied him, collecting payment.

While anxiously waiting my turn, the conversation between my new Indian friend and me turned to how Pakistan appeared to treat littering among its citizens. Throughout the journey, I'd noticed passengers throwing trash out the train windows without thinking anything of it.

This immediately offended my Western environmentalist mindset. I wasn't exactly a tree-hugging hippie, but I didn't go around throwing refuse to the wind at any given moment either.

I asked why people did that. The Indian told me in no uncertain terms that the people were backward and did not have the concept of conservation like we did in the West. He said you'd find similar behavior in India, but it was much less frequent than in Pakistan.

I immediately started to realize there were political boundaries present in his mindset between the two countries. We continued to talk, and I continued to marvel as passengers kept littering the countryside with candy wrappers, bottles, and any sort of trash that no longer served a purpose.

The Spontaneous Act

Finally, it was my turn to imbibe the nectar of the third-class train. The old man pulled out a chipped china teacup from his sack and dispensed the chai effortlessly while the young boy collected the equivalent of about five American cents. What a bargain! What efficiency!

The cups were pretty small—not the supersized standard we're used to in America. I drank the chai quickly, and when I looked around, the man was gone. I had no idea what to do with my used cup.

All of a sudden, it occurred to me to do something spontaneous and risky, but maybe there would be a positive payoff. I held the cup aloft with a confused look on my face as I shrugged my shoulders, making sure I had an audience—which I did.

I walked over to an open window and threw the cup out.

I was instantly shocked at what I'd done but also amused by my own antics. And now came the hard part: looking to see what sort of reaction the passengers had.

The Laughter

At first, there appeared to be indifference mixed with shock on their faces. A couple of seconds seemed like an eternity. Then one man—who happened to be a police officer—started laughing uncontrollably.

The laughter became infectious. Before I knew it, the entire train car was laughing—at me, with me, or simply at the absurdity of the moment. My comedic timing had proved impeccable. The execution was flawless.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a rather large note and handed it to the old chai seller, placing my hand across my heart and telling him I was sorry. He looked confused—I'm not sure if it was because of what I'd just done with his inventory or because I'd probably given him the equivalent of a month's salary.

I can't remember the exact amount, but at the time, I knew for him it was quite a bit of money. For me, it was nothing. That would prove to be a theme throughout all my travels—the abundance I was fortunate to have could be freely shared with others who, in those moments, gave me so much more than the cash equivalent.

I took my seat again and felt like a hero among my peers, even though what I'd done was really a low-grade jackass prank. But it had proved effective. The rest of the trip, I was met with kind and approving faces from the passengers.

The police officer got a little too friendly in the last quarter of the journey, and I had the distinct feeling he wanted to put me in cuffs—not because of any crime I'd committed, but because it would please him to take me with him. I was able to negotiate my way out of that situation without incident, but I won't get into those details here.

The Lessons

The things I learned on that journey were simple but profound:

Humor transcends everything. Language barriers, cultural differences, political tensions, fear of the foreign—all of it can dissolve in a moment of shared laughter. That thrown teacup did more to connect me with my fellow passengers than any carefully prepared speech about international understanding could have accomplished.

Judgment is complicated. I'd spent the first part of the journey judging Pakistani passengers for their littering, sitting on my high Western horse of environmental consciousness. Then I became a litterbug myself—not to mock them, but to join them, to acknowledge that my standards weren't universal truths. Sometimes understanding requires participation, even in things we disapprove of.

Generosity opens doors. That oversized payment to the chai seller wasn't charity—it was gratitude, apology, and recognition of shared humanity all wrapped into one gesture. Money means different things in different contexts, and sometimes what costs us little means everything to someone else.

Fear can be overcome by connection. I'd started that day terrified, haunted by Daniel Pearl's ghost, paranoid about being followed. But on that third-class train, surrounded by ordinary people just trying to get to Hyderabad, I found something more powerful than fear: community, however temporary.

Sometimes you have to throw the cup out the window. Not literally (well, maybe once). But sometimes you have to do the unexpected, uncomfortable thing that risks making you look foolish—because on the other side of that risk is authentic connection.

I arrived in Hyderabad with dirty clothes, a lighter wallet, and a fuller understanding of what it meant to travel third class in Pakistan. The stories I'd come to document would be richer because of that train ride, that chai, that spontaneous decision to become a litterbug for a moment.

And somewhere in the Pakistani countryside, there's still a chipped china teacup lying in the dust—evidence that an American journalist once tried, however clumsily, to bridge the distance between worlds with nothing more than bad judgment and good intentions.