I don’t know how a European adventure – designed to get me away from matchmaking-aunty types in Pakistan – actually ended up taking me to a clan of them in Copenhagen. But these fifty-something aunties in traditional silk shalwar kameezes and brightly coloure ddupattas tied behind their backs were quite different from the ones back home. For one thing, they were more interested in learning how to cycle in Copenhagen than in setting me up with their nephews (although they did try this briefly – thanks Naheed auntie, he wasn’t my type). But cycling was the main reason all of us had gathered one day at a beautiful park in in the Danish capital.
Copenhagen is somewhere drivers feel as victimised as the washerman’s donkey in the maddening traffic of Karachi. It’s a place where, if someone threw a cycle from a ninth-floor window and it landed on a parked car, the owner of the car would be deemed responsible. Cyclists are kings in Copenhagen, and the bicycle is their crown.
And why shouldn’t it be? The government saves money whenever a person decides to cycle his or her way to work, and loses money every time someone decides to take out their Ford or Bentley. The Danish government has designed the city and its surrounds to ensure that the “happiest people in the world” all cycle. This includes creating efficient biking lanes, andbiking highways that let you cross Denmark to Sweden on a bike, heavily taxing cars so that buying one almost becomes equivalent to purchasing a palace, and of course having royalty, bureaucrats and presidents who cycle, setting a good example for everyone else. Every year, the government sets itself a goal of introducing a new social group to cycling. If your entire city is designed with cyclists in mind, it can be extremely frustrating for those not yet in the club.
This is why there are government- or non-government sponsored programmes designed to teach immigrant women how to ride a bike. It isn’t just about helping an adult man or woman learn how to balance, but also to gain enough confidence to change lanes in heavy traffic, understand hand signals, and not be overwhelmed or trampled by those faster and more confident than themselves. The training can be tricky, because these are adults who find falling extremely embarrassing and will do anything to avoid it. Furthermore, some of them don’t speak Danish, and often carry with them strange misconceptions about cycling.
According to the trainers, some of the women are uncomfortable about opening their legs and sitting “that way” on a bicycle, while others have expressed fears that a woman might lose her virginity from cycling and therefore have reservations about their daughters taking up the pursuit. The only way to change these misconceptions is to give them enough incentive to try out the activity for themselves – offering free classeswith snacks at the end is usually encouragement enough!
I attended one such cycling class, aimed at a group of immigrant Pakistani women who had already been living in Denmark for more than a decade. The trainers, Lise Rask and Shani Ronsen, both cycling enthusiasts, were giving this last lesson before the summer officially began. This was a special session, as the participants and trainers had decided to bring one special dish from their homes for a picnic in the park at the end of the session.
Ronsen, who had worked extensively on a government-funded pilot programme to teach immigrant women how to cycle, had invited me here. But when the scheme was cancelled due to funding issues, she realised her enthusiasm to teach cycling to newbies hadn’t waned. So she posted an advertisement locally, and before she knew it, she was giving cycling lessons to as many as 20 participants from all over the world. She needed a hand and asked urban planning graduate Lise Rask to join in. Ever since, they have been hosting these weekly cycling classes, and have a new participant almost every week.
Today’s class had mostly women from rural Punjab, who spoke an intriguing mix of broken Danish and perfect Seraiki. After exchanging pleasantries, the group huddled together and started their warm-up exercises. They held hands while standing in a circle, and shook one leg at a time. Each time one of them lost her balance and made the others fall too, they giggled like teenagers. All of them were at different levels of expertise, and so after the warm up, the women divided themselves into three groups.
Rask took the basic learners struggling with their balance to one end of the park. She held on to the back of the bike as Nayyar, a Pakistani woman living in Nørreport, balanced her body, flying dupatta and air-filled shalwar at the same time.
When I asked the trainers why they don’t encourage them to wear something more convenient for cycling, they tell me, “We want them to feel comfortable. If they feel more comfortable in traditional Pakistani wear, we don’t discourage them. Over time, they figure out a way to wear what they are comfortable with and also cycle easily.”
Sadia was noticeably younger than the other women, and showed real determination to learn how to cycle. “I interviewed as a chef at a restaurant a few weeks ago, and the head chef asked me how I’d go home after a late shift. I know the metro doesn’t work late night and I don’t own a car, so I blurted out, ‘I’ll cycle back home’. Now I have a few weeks to learn,” said Sadia, who did indeed get the job.
For other women, learning to ride is more of an economic choice: A bicycle is a cheaper mode of transportation in Copenhagen than the metro. Other women learn so they can spend time with their families. “My kids have grown up and they are expert cyclists. Whenever they plan for a family outdoor activity, I usually can’t join them as it involves going on a bike. I really want to learn so I can spend more time with my kids,” says homemaker Farida.
When asked what changes the trainers see once the students know how to ride a bike, Ronsen replied, ”We see such a change in perspective. Some of them take up hobbies, or find a part-time job. These were things they never imagined doing before learning how to cycle.”
But do their husbands from traditional Pakistani backgrounds pose a problem for these women? “The fact that they come here shows that they are fully supported by their families. I know a woman is supported by her husband when, as soon as she learns how to cycle, she comes to the next class with a brand new cycle she picked out with her husband or kids.”
Talat complains that each time she goes home, her hands hurt badly. “It’s because you hold on to the bike like you’re holding on to your life,” her friend Rehana jokes. Rehana learnt how to balance two weeks ago, now she’s with the intermediate group and is busy perfecting her skills in the park.
The third group, having mastered the art,are now practicing hand signals. Each trainee takes turns letting go with one hand, trying to catch a ring from Shani’s hand, before circling back and returning it to her.“This activity teaches them to balance with only one hand, something very critical when you want to turn left or right and signal to the traffic behind you,” says Ronsen.
I got on a bike myself and rode around with the women. The basic learners were sufficiently impressed with my skills toapplaud. I suddenly feel like a superstar; this is surely a very supportive group of riders. After two hours of cycling, we all settled down for tea, Danish cake and cookies and – I’m not kidding– pulao, mirchipakoras and halwa!
The Pakistani women had come well prepared with all their delicacies. I downed them all like any desi abroad would, especially one who hasn’t eaten a home-cooked desi meal in a long while.
Pretty soon, the conversation circled around Pakistani dramas, the violence back home and how badly they wished to see their loved ones. I tried to bring the topic back to cycling, asking them if would like to cycle back home in Punjab. Rehana replied, “Never! Could you blur my face out in these pictures? I don’t want my relatives to think I went to Copenhagen and became all ‘modern’.”
The other women followed her lead and agreed that this something they were doing “only here” and was “inappropriate back home”. But before we could delve into ways to make it more appropriate in Karachi, Lahore or Islamabad, they had already started a new topic: What was I doing globetrotting, rather than settling down with a nice Pakistani husband?
I guess some things about Pakistani women never really change.
The writer is a freelance writer, currently based in Berlin, Germany.
