Run for cover

Just so you know.

In the middle of a rainforest, in a National Park, in a country with two official gradations below "Outhouse," is just about the worst possible time to get the shits.

Primate Dreams

The night before we went Chimp Tracking, I had a restless night, mostly due to the chomping, scratching noises directly over my head. Anyway, when I'm half awake, half asleep, is when I have the dreams I actually remember. I dreamt that while we were out tracking, my sister and I discovered a brand new monkey species, that was thus named the "Ford Colubus Monkey." However, for whatever reason, I insisted to the authorities that the new primate must also be casually referred to as "Mr. Monkey Face."

"And here, if you look carefully through the canopy, you will see the rarest of monkeys... Mr. Monkey Face."

Fear Factor

Anna and I decided to stay the night in a tree-house banda about a half kilometer back into the forest at the chimp camp. I was excited. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a tree-house in the jungle? And I must admit, just about every crazy-assed thing I do in the third world, I think, "Oh well, it'll make a good blog." This was no exception. As we were bing led back to see our tree-house, about five steps in on the trail, the park ranger ahead of us stopped dead in his tracks, causing one of those comical four person pile ups. I looked up and heard him say only: “Snake.”

Now let’s pause here for a moment, and refresh the fact that I despise snakes. Granted I tend to exaggerate my hatred, but nevertheless, I have no love lost for poisonous serpents. I just wanted to point out that my sister and two park rangers at Kibole National Park, can attest, under oath, that I did not, in fact, scream like a little girl.

I was however, frozen in place. Next thing I know, Mark, the ranger, has jumped behind us! Leaving us facing the long black form, slithering into the woods. I guess he was more scared than we were. Thankfully, the business end was already in the bushes. Just when I was thinking, “That wasn’t so bad,” from over my shoulder, Mark says, “Black Mamba,” in an ominous ghost-story kind of way. My heart skipped four beats as I glanced back down at the most poisonous snake in Africa. Helpfully, Mark says, “Don’t tamper with it,” as if I was going to start poking it and swinging it around by the tail. It made its way into the woods, and I was about to quickly stride by, when the rangers discussed and decided that we should go around by a different trail. I was fine with this. Along the way I tried to break the ice and said, “So, if he bites me Mark, you will take care of me right?” Mark just laughed. I expected him to say something comforting but he didn’t. I stopped and looked at him, until he said, “Sir, Black Mamba is serious poison… you would die.” Oh excellent. These guys have a few things to learn about tourism.

So we made our way around by a different trail which abruptly ended. Mark turned to us and said in his ghost story voice, “And now, we enter the woods.” He pushed aside a few branches and revealed a small, dark trail. I turned to my sister, and flashed the Ford family “What in the hell?” look. After seeing a Black Mamba the last thing I want to start doing is bush-whacking our way through the jungle. But we made it through, and in to our tree-house. As Mark was leaving he said, “Oh, I hope you can find you’re way back.” Yeah, me too Mark, me too.

After unpacking, we forced ourselves back along the trail, hearts beating in our throats. I knew we had to conquer Black Mamba Avenue, or we would be screwed for the whole weekend. I yelled out, “Heellllloooo Snakes! It’s just me… coming through… Okay?” My sister flashed me the Ford Family, “Shut the $%^% up” look. We made it through back to the base camp, where J.B., who ended up being our chimp guide the next day, said with a hearty laugh, “Ahh, so I hear our friend Mamba has welcomed you.”

Hahahahahah, yeah, that’s right J.B.… shut it.

Full Frontal - Fort Portal

My sister and I decided, in a spontaneous way, to rocket up to Fort Portal, a western Ugandan town near the Congolese border, where, among other things, you can get access to Chimpanzees in their natural habitat. I’m a sucker for monkeys, so we went for it. Jameson, an old-boy at Anna’s school (and pronounced Jemsen around these parts), was very excited over our trip, because he had been insisting since I arrived that I MUST go to Fort Portal. He had gone on a school trip once, and I thought he wanted us to see the extensive cave networks, the chimps, or maybe the dense rain-forests. Not So. “Teacher David, you must go to Fort Portal because the women have seriously BIG breasts and don’t wear shirts.” I was sold. However, I’m going to have to have a talk with that boy, because I have not seen even a hint of that particular topographical feature while I was there.

I was amused however, on the way to Kibale National Park (pronounced Chibolay, the Ki always being Ch here, which makes me wonder what they think of Chick Boxing). We were headed up a road that made me want to rename the town Fort Pot-Hole when I saw a sign that read “Blood Bank” and then right underneath, “Canteen,” apparently catering to the East African Vampire population. I didn’t have time to pause for reflection.

Post Script:

On our return home, I discovered that apparently, Jameson's insistence on the merits of Fort Portal women was a hilarious misunderstanding. He insists that he was trying to tell us that the stalactites in the caves resemble women's breasts hanging down. I said, "what about the 'no shirts'?" He said "Yeah... breasts with no shirts." Fair enough. And he was totally correct, the caves are named after a mythical king who locked up his daughter in the caves and cut off her breasts to curb suitors. Even still she got pregnant, and then fed the child from the milky sediment dripping from the stalactites. What do you know. Here I was thinking poor Jameson was a pervert. Then again, I was the one who was disapointed.

A Grave Undertaking...

Just outside of Mbarara, there is a sign for “Moses and Sons Coffin Dealers.” The sign has a helpfully large painting of a coffin on it, I suppose to counter the illiterate crowd. The worst part is, according to my sister, their shop is almost exactly halfway between the hospital and the AIDS clinic.

Public-Private Partnerships

At Anna and Mike’s school we are in a fairly remote area of Uganda. In order to get anywhere, especially 45 minutes to the nearest town to get internet access, you have to flag down transport on the side of the road. This is so foreign to me coming from Pakistan, where I would hitch hike about as readily as I would shave my eyeball with lemon juice. But here, you can’t get anywhere without it.

There are two types of transport in Uganda, Public and Private. Generally, you’re going to flag down a public taxi. What this means is that you will squeeze into a Toyota Corolla with more people than you thought possible. Fuel prices are so high right now (almost $1.60 / litre) that overloading is the only way for drivers to make money. The most people I’ve ever been in with was eleven including the driver, which makes for a real clown car. First, you’ve got four people squeezed in the back, which is normally okay, since people here are generally thin, but you do get some big African Mammas which can be a real squeeze play. If there is room, they will also pile smaller people on top of each other. The front, is even more interesting. Two people sit in the passenger seat, if you’re lucky, it’s someone you know. The person to the inside has to squeeze in by the gear shift, which makes second gear an intimate affair between you and the driver. Then, just when you think you can’t fit anyone else in, the driver will put someone in beside him. In that position, you must be cautious to stay out of the way of the clutch. And since the driver reaches across your lap to shift into the crotch of the person next to you, second gear becomes a delicate ménage a trois. To cap it all off, there is no guarantee that the overloaded driver won’t find out from an elaborate system of signals that there is a road block ahead and make people get out and walk through the fields to be picked up on the other side.

Otherwise, "getting a private" is when you pay for your own taxi. This of course, is much more expensive. A public taxi here to Mbarara costs us about 2000 shilllings each, whereas a private hire home will cost us 20 000. Sometimes though, after a hot day of shopping and blogging, the prospects of cramming into a sedan with 9 other sweaty Ugandans makes a private car look like heaven. Plus, it helps to remember that it’s only about 15 bucks, a fact that’s easy to lose sight of when you’re bartering like mad with a taxi driver over 45 cents.

If you are very lucky, you might wave down the best kind of private drive, which is just some guy on his way to town who wants some extra gas money. These rides are luxurious when you’re used to the public taxi. For me, the best part is the conversation. The other day, we asked a man how many children he had, and he replied that he had ten, which is a little uncommon for a professional man, but not unheard of. But when he listed them, I noticed that many of them were around the same age. As if guessing what we were thinking, he said, “You see, somehow, I found myself with two wives.” I was desperately curious as to how you find yourself with two wives, but could think of no delicate way of asking. Anyway, the best thing about these types of rides, is that once in a while, if you entertain the driver with facts about Canada, he won’t charge for the ride.

There are also full size public busses that fly along these roads at suicide pace, crammed to the gills. This is part of the rules of the jungle, everything gets out of the way of the elephant. Buses are amazingly pleasant because you generally have a seat to yourself, and if you aren’t looking out the front, watching the death defying driving, you are generally pleased with the speed of your arrival. Otherwise, there are mini-buses, which I’ve already talked about. They’re basically the same as public taxi’s but with a good 30 people crammed in. They are extremely dangerous and uncomfortable, and we only take them for medium length drives because they're cheap. The only benefit, if you can call it that, is that for whatever reason, on mini-buses I’ve seen enough wide open breast feeding to make me reminisce about the days when when National Geographic was the dirtiest magazine we had access to.

Liminal Advertising

As best I can remember from Kampala’s Capital FM, 91.3:

(Trumpet Fanfare)
Young Man: HURRAY! I don’t have AIDS!
(Fanfare fades)
Young Man: I thought I had AIDS because my girlfriend DIED!
(Pause)
Young Man: But I did not get AIDS because we used condoms for every round of sex!
Another Man: You mean condoms help protect you?
Young Man: Yes, condoms saved my life!


I was going to comment, but I think ‘nuff said.

Wilson's Discount, Speed Safari

For our trip to Queen Elizabeth National Park (similar to Queen Victoria Park, but less stuffy) we decided to hire a driver for the day. We settled on a guy named Wilson, who does a lot of driving for Anna's school, agreed to pick us up at 5 AM (I didn't even know there was a 5 AM), and charged us an agreeable rate. So we took off dark and early, and I must say, I was impressed with Wilson’s driving. He was safe, yet wasted no time. I was less impressed, however, when we actually arrived at the park and it came time for the actual “game drive.” It was as if his idea of a safari was to see how fast he could complete the circuit. I think what happened was that he thought he was just dropping us at the park for someone else to tour us, and was thus pissed off that he was burning his fuel around the park at such a discounted rate. Whatever the reason, this guy was flying. We’re cruising along, and I’m exchanging “Is this normal?” glances with Anna and Mike, convinced that I’m not going to see a single animal on the savannah. Anna says “Ahh, Wilson, Mpora-pora” and he would slow for a bit, and then gradually get up to speed again.

Gradually, we started coming into herds of animals, and Wilson did slow down. He confided in us that the worst thing that could happen is if there were elephants on the road because then we would be stuck with them in front of us. Oh yes, I thought, that would be terrible. But still, Wilson’s safari technique was hilarious. We would see a Kob antelope up ahead, and tell him to stop. He would slow down, but never enough. Then he would always stop just as the animal was taking off. As a result, my digital camera is filled with snaps of animal’s asses. “And this is an antelope ass, and this is a buffalo ass…” Wilson would console me and say, “It’s ok, antelope is common, I have seen many.” Well bully for you Wilson.

Eventually though, I did get some quality shots of crested cranes (Uganda’s National symbol, and “the most humble and noble of birds” according to one fella we talked to), water buffalo, antelope, water-buck, wart hogs, hyenas, hippos and the works. Wilson though, was still in fine form. At one point I got a great shot of a huge buffalo, and then, five minutes down the road, there was a herd of buffalo with the white birds on their backs. I told him to stop so I could get a shot. “But you have this snap!” he protested. I told him to stop nonetheless, which he did, but not before scaring all the birds away with his rattling Toyota. “Buffalo are Common” he said as he pulled off, apparently completely ignorant of the fact that African Big Game Animals are relativeley rare in Canada.

We arrived at the lodge for a pleasant lunch, but still Wilson was confused. He asked if he was supposed to start home, and thank god he asked. We told him that no, he was to stay while we ate, relaxed, and then took a boat tour at 3:00, then we would call him at 5:30 to head home. At this point, total resignation slid across Wilson’s face. He was in it for the long haul. We struck off on our boat tour and saw many more hippos, a few elephants, crocodiles, thousands of birds, and it was quite spectacular, I think mostly because Wilson wasn’t driving the boat.

On the way home, around sunset, we came around a bend to find at least 30 Baboons lazing on the road. Stop, Stop! We cried out, which Wilson eventually did. My camera was dead, so we just watched them for a bit. “I go?” Wilson asked, obviously itching to get home. We tried to tell him to ease ahead so we could see the mothers with their babies further up. Whether he heard us or not, I don’t know, but he ignored our request and sped out of there like Andretti out of the pit. “Common,” I heard him mutter as we raced into the setting sun.

It all comes out in the wash...

So I was doing a little more laundry, just a small load this time... I've learned that clothes can be worn for much longer and dirtier when you're washing them yourself. Anyway, the laundry soap my sister uses is called Nomi and one of their slogans is "Cleans even the invisible stains." This strikes me as a fairly easy claim to make. Is it clean? Yup. Even the invisible stains? Yup. I'm glad though, because I could never quite be sure of the invisible stains in the past. I would scrub and scrub, but who knew? Truth be told though, with all this hiking and such, through areas of dark black mud or alternately bright red dust, the invisible stains I'm not so worried about.

Actually, they don't say anything about cleaning the visible stains... wait a minute... I smell a rat. Or maybe it's an invisible stain.

The Whites...

Well, I was really missing servants this morning. I sat with my sister, in the shade of the outhouse, washing my clothes in a basin. Slowly, it dawned on me why my servants always throw down my folded shirts with such disdain. Washing clothes is one pain in the ass. My hands are actually sore from wringing, and believe me, my hands and wrists are well-exercised. But, jokes aside, it was quite calming. Very peaceful, sitting beside the shitter, washing my underwear. It seemed like the circle of life, but I couldn't figure out exactly how. I did enjoy it, but I can't say I would like to do it every day. It's made me realize how spoiled I've been with all the servants. My sister, in her missionary position (hee hee, it never gets old), does so much on her own. Meanwhile, back in Pakistan, I'm like a spoiled little child.

Oh well, what're ya gonna do?

Signs, signs, everywhere is...

So I'm not on Safari afterall. That means more blogging. This blog is like a mistress, except more demanding, (as if I know what I'm talking about). But seriously, here I am in the middle of Africa. I just walked from my sister's village school, out to the road, flagged down some guy in a car and drove 45 minutes to the town of Mbarara, pretty much just so I could check the blog. Had some other errands as well, but guess where the priorities lie... God, I'm pathetic.

So, now I'm here, but what do I write about? Well, I love signs, as you know. I saw one yesterday for a barber shop that said "HAMS: Yo Hair Masta!" I thought that was pretty sharp. Back in Kampala, there was a sign outside a clothing store that said "Authentic Tuxedoes for Sale for Pretty, Affordable Prices." I think someone needs a lesson in marketing there. By far the most amusing though, was a billboard outside the Taxi Park in Kampala. It said, "Fit Your Family in a Taxi: Family Planning is the way of the future." Which is great, but it shows a picture of a family piling into a mini-bus taxi. Those things hold 14 to 20 people! There's some effective family planning for you. But still, I have to say that a family planning campaign is a courageous thing for a government to do. It's gotta be tough, since George Bush has denied extra funding to countries that support family planning and abortion clinics. As if advocating birth-control is the same as sticking pitch forks in babies, but oh well, I don't really want to get into it.

Oh yeah, and on the way here, I also saw two guys running down the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with a live chicken in each hand. Interesting. Made me think of the old Calgary chain, "Chicken on the Go."

You Can't Find Good Help These Days...

I forgot about this part of the rafting trip.

As we were eating breakfast in the morning before we shipped out, I told Mike that if I was going to die on the Nile river, then I wanted to go down happy, so my main goal was to get into a raft full of hot chicks. Mike said he wasn't too happy about that idea, since he's married. I said, "You're damn right you're married, and to my sister, so watch yourself buddy." But what Mike didn't seem to realize, was that being married, he's the perfect wing-man. "Your job," I explained, "will be to set me up, feed me lines, and generally feel satisfied vicariously if I find someone to keep my Banda warm tonight (climate not withstanding)."

I'll admit, I didn't have high hopes for Mike's novice wingman skills (nor my own appeal for that matter) but all that went out the window within five minutes. We were collecting our equipment, fitting our goofy helmets, cinching our corset life-jackets, when they told us we needed to divide into groups of about 8. I had already positioned us near the cutest girls on the trip and things were looking good. Then from our other side someone says, "We've got 6." Quick as anything, Mike shouts out, "Well, we're two, let's link up." I looked over at our new team. Four guys and two large middle aged women.

Thanks Mike, you can be my wingman anytime.

That's all for now...

Hey folks...

Well, as you can see, I've been rocketing around Uganda and have been pretty busy. I'm headed out to Queen Elizabeth Park for a few days tomorrow, so I'll be "on Safari" and out of Internet contact again. So I'll update you all in a few days. Thanks for checking in, and keep those comments coming.

Dave

In Denial

My brother in law, Mike, and I went white-water rafting on the Nile the other day. Jinja is the debated "Source of the Nile," although a Rawandan will tell you that it starts on the other side of Lake Victoria (But I trust them about as far as I can trow them (which, actually, would proabably be quite a distance)). According to the rafting company, the worst injury they've ever had was a sunburn.... Right. But at the same time, there are pictures all over the camp of rafts travelling vertically down these rapids, as well as an amusing mural showing injured and shaken white folk acompanied by laughing Africans.

So we struck off, and I've never experienced anything like it. We were rafting up to Class 5 rapids (the legal limit) and for the first half of the day, I was saying my Bismillahs all the way. After while though, I was riding high and ready for each thrill as it came. Our guide was this fantastic New Zealander named Kearan (Kearan the Kiwi, I suppose), and miraculously, we were the only boat that didn't flip... but what a ride.

And they were right, I didn't hurt myself, but I burnt my face, my arms, my hands and the tops of my knees, despite all the sunscreen I was slathering on my pastey-white, Casper complexion. Anyone who thinks being Caucasion must be great should try to balance the domination of the global economy against the fact that you might never have had a sunburn, and that when you dance, you probably don't look like a retard.

To see the rapids we were screaming through, check out the company's site at www.raftafrica.net and click on the gallery.

I almost peed myself. Good thing my shorts were already soaked.

Play That Funky Music White Boy...

Well, I've gone from being a Gora to being a Muzungu. But at least in Pakistan I could kind of, sort of, almost blend in to a crowd. Here in Uganda, there's just no chance in hell. I'm about as African as Maple Syrup. So this means that every African kid screams, "Muzungu!!!" amidst peals of laughter, and follows you until you have a small parade going. Every single one of them knows the following dialogue:

Little African Children: "Helllloooo Muzungu!!!!"
Me: "Hello little African children!"
Them: "How are YOU!?"
Me: "I'm great, how are you?"
Them: "I am FINE!"
Me: "Do you know where Mabira Forest is?"
Them: "I am FINE!"
Me: "Fair enough."

And Ugandan kids are the cutest. Only around tourist spots do they ask for handouts, so it's nice. Even though they've doubtless seen many, many whites before, they act like each one is the absolute first one they have ever seen in their short lives.

I feel special.

Mom was right afterall.

Advice for the Caucasion Traveller...

If you have a sunburnt face, it is not the ideal time to shave.

Dave in Africa...

Man! Africa is something else! After living in an urban sprawl in the middle of a desert, this is quite a switch. Everything is so alive. Even in the city, birds and animals are screeching all over the place. Even the air seems alive... with insects mostly. I slept under a mosquito net for the first time, and I'll tell ya, it was strangely comforting. Like my own cocoon. It's like being back in the womb, except, from what I remember, slightly less damp. It feels like your own little world... Inside is Canadian Dave... Outside is Malaria.

Another thing about Africa, is that it's full of Africans. And plenty of them. But everyone I've met has been super, super friendly so far (except for this one guy Kurtz, he was a little wacky). My second day here, we took a mini-bus taxi to Jinja (a large town about an hour from Kampala, but also an aromatic root in Boston). The taxi van says "liscensed for 14 passengers" on the outside, but ours had about 22, if you counted all the kids... which they don't. My sister says we were lucky, because they've experienced far worse cramming. I was squeezed between a huge, black woman and a breast feeding mother. So it was kind of like no room, with a view.

For any short distances, we take a boda-boda, which is basically just a guy on a scooter or motorcycle. You climb on behind him and then hold on like your life depends on it, because basically it does. If you want the driver to take it easy you say "Mpora-pora" which means something like "slowly by slowly" because apparently boda-boda drivers need to hear everything twice-twice. So that's fun, and it kind of reminds me of taking rickshaws back home.

Wait.... did I just call Pakistan home?... I think I need to stop this post and evalutate.........

In Flight Entertainment...

Know what I love about Emirates Airline? Just about everything. They are fast becoming my favourite way to fly (besides hallucinegens). I especially love those little consoles they've got on the seat back in front of you. You can watch the progress of the flight (if you have a very long attention span), as well as views from cameras on the front and bottom of the plane. These tend to be a little boring after take off, but you know if we started to crash, I'd be watchin those cameras like a red-necked house-wife watches the Michael Jackson reenactments. They've also got 15 movie channels, a bunch of music channels, and about 20 video games that you play with this Nintendo style game pad built into the phone. Nifty.

About the only problem with these things, that I can see, is if a kid or an old person is sitting behind you. Chances are, they'll be hamemring away at the back of your seat like a woodpecker on exstasy. Kids are just manic when it comes to touch screens anyway, but have you ever watched an old person try to run an ATM. Not pretty. Sometimes I feel like saying, "What are you looking for? PBS?"

EK 721

For the first time, after all the flying I've done, I noticed something that I had previously taken completely for granted. I was watching the flight attendant strap herself in for take off (what can I say, I was bored and she was hot) when I realized that she's got this funky, hi-tech, four-point seatbelt, like a race-car driver has. Meanwhile, the rest of us chumps have seatbelts from a 1968 Pontiac. I started thinking, "What does she know that I don't?"

But then I realized that booze was free, so I soon forgot all about it.

Life Studies...

One of the dudes at the Karachi airport decided to do a pretty thorough search of my suitcase this time around. I'm not sure why, something in the way I moved I guess. As he was rifling through everything I own, he was pretty talkative, which is just no good because I get nervous around these people. "Is this all personal clothing sir?" I wasn't sure how my clothing could be public but I said, "Yes." He started checking the bottom of my suitcase for secret compartments and such, and suddenly he licked his finger, wipes the bottom of my case, and came up with a white powder. He sniffed at it with authority and said, "Soap." My heart skipped a beat because for a split secod I thought he said "Coke." I told you, I get nervous in these situations.

Anyway, then he grabbed my passport and asked me how long I've been in Pakistan. I guess this must be some kind of skill testing question, since it's written right there, but I was on the ball and told him I'd been in the country for just over seven months. Then he asks me, "Are you a student?" I told him I was not. "Why not?" he says, and goes back to shuffling my shirts around. The question kind of threw me. "Ummm," I started, and he looked up sharply (I've found people in positions of authority are very suspicious of "Uhmmms"). "Well," I continued quickly, "I guess I'm done with being a student." He picked up one of my books (The Holy Quran, as it happened) and says again, like a three-year old, "Why?"

At this point, I'm getting a little exasperated. Do I really need to get into my disenchantment with academia, my desire to write rather than analyse? Finally, I came up with, "I don't know... Just because." For whatever reason, this was satisfactory and brought him back to more standard questions, "Why were you in Pakistan?" I gave my standard, "Travelling, visiting, writing, exploring." This earned a raised eyebrow. "So," he says, in a contemplative way, "You are a student." I was at a loss. Here we go again, I thought. I tried a different tack. "Yes?" I ventured. "Ah," he says, seemingly happy now, "I thought so sir. What do you study?" Now I was in open water with no safety line. So I just took a leap and said, "Life?" Apparently, this was exactly the right answer. "Ah, very good sir, carry on." At first, I didn't know whether he meant to carry on studying life, or that I was done, but he was gesturing that I should re-pack, so I kept my mouth firmly shut.

Finally, I walked over to the foreign passport desk, where the FIA agent looked at my passport and asked, "You are a student sir?" I couldn't believe it. I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Yes, a student of life." With a flourish, she stamped my passport, and says, "Good, Go ahead."
"Fair enough."

Did you pack these bags yourself?...

Waiting in line to get my boarding passes etc at Jinnah International, I started reading the banned materials checklist. Now, I've seen these things a thousand times, but I guess I've never really looked at them, or else the Pakistani version is a little different. At the top, it says in big, bold letters, "NO! You cannot pack this in your baggage!" Then they have a picture of a big pile of forbidden materials like some kind of contraband collage. I'm sure you've all seen similar posters in airports araound the world. You've got your nail clippers and nail files, which of course, are forbidden because of the new breed of manicure terrorists, the metero-sexual al-Quaida: "You will all die, but believe me, you're going to look fabulous on impact." I don't know about you, but if some guy is holding up the flight attendant with a pair of nail clippers, then I'm going to jump into action. What's he gonna do? Poke her? Roughly push back her cuticles? That's when you'd see wild man Dave launch into action, because, after all, I tend to have a few pens with me, and everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the nail clipper. I even have one of thse Fisher Space Pens that the astronauts use, so if need be, I could stab a nail-file terrorist in zero-gravity conditions.

Anyway, also on the list are pressurized containers, like shaving cream and the like. Truth be told, I pack shaving cream all the time. It seems to me that if your shaving cream explodes in your luggage, it's not so much the airline's problem as it is your own dumbass fault. That's why God invented Zip-lock bags (or inspired some guy to do it).

Generally, I love the fact that front and centre on the poster they show a nasty looking pistol with an automatic ammo clip as something that they would prefer you not to pack. I'm sure that everyone that was intending to pack a gun, sees that sign and thinks, "Oh, I didn't realize that," hands the piece to their wife and heads through security.

But my favourites on that poster are the really odd ones. Like the 4 litre jug of bleach. Who travels with bleach? "But I just want to keep my whites whiter!" "Fair enough ma'am, fair enough" But my ultimate favourite is the example they use for corrosive materials: a full sized car-battery. I mean, come on! Is there any sense to this at all? Do rental car booths at the airport usually say "Avis Rent-a-Car - Batteries not included"?

Luckily though, hand-grenades weren't on the list, so I was safe.

The Force is Strong in these Pants...

Even though Pakistan has made it to what, number 2 on the international video piracy lists, I still haven’t bought my $1 demo copy of the latest Star Wars movie on DVD. Now, that is one movie where you’re going to want in a good print. If you’re going to be a video pirate, you might as well do it in style (I prefer an eye-patch). But with the onslaught of the latest Star Wars mania, I came across this quiz, which actually turned out to be pretty cool. It tests whether you would gravitate toward the light or dark side of the force. And it’s a pretty cool flash player set up. I thought that maybe, considering my penchant for illegally copied DVD’s, that I might have been sliding toward the dark side. But no, I’m still lily white and pure. I rated an 8 on the light side, or Obi Wan Kenobi levels of goodness. Now, if I can only use the force to eliminate the need for a remote control.

And speaking of which… I’m too lazy to type in the html to put in a nice pretty link to that quiz, so you can just find it at

Why Indeed?

One of my favourite quotes from last night's bout of sitting around rockin and rollin:

Adnan: "Are those real elephant feet?"

Adamjee: "Of course, why would I have fake elephant feet?"

Damned if you do...

Well, I’m back from the Passport Office, and I was wrong, it only took me five hours to do a five-minute job. I hate the passport office, have I mentioned that? Well no, that’s not fair, I hate the visa division of the passport office, I should be specific. And even more specifically, I despise this little bearded mullah-type visa clerk who works there named Nissar. What a bitch that guy is. I wanted to slap him. A pox upon him! The office itself reminds me of one of those bunkers where all the planning happens in a Vietnam movie, And you can’t leave before you’ve visited every desk. Your forms move from desk to desk, as the clerks sip their tea and rearrange the stationary on their desk. Then you get your tea-stained forms back, and they tell you that something or other is wrong. So you fix it, and then start back at the first desk. Good times.

Anyway, I’ve been in Pakistan for as long as I can on a tourism visa, and the long and the short of it is that in order to leave the country on Saturday, I have to extend my visa by 6 days. I can’t confirm my ticket to Africa until I get permission to exit. So basically I’m not allowed to stay, but I’m not allowed to leave either. So, after much debate, I had to pay the full fee for a three month extension in order to get one extra week. Fair enough ya bunch of cockknockers. But then they decided they needed the National Identity Card of the person I’m staying with, even though I'll only be in the country two more days. So I had to get across the city and back to get a copy of that. And of course, by the time I got back, the big-wig who needs to sign the extension had left for the day. Excellent, sure, I’d love to come back tomorrow.

And still, when I return from Africa, I have to stop in Dubai and apply to reenter Pakistan on a work visa with an invitation from the company I’m going to work for. Of course, it would have been too simple to just do that from within the country. No, no, you have to leave the country to apply to stay in the country.

But, I’m not going to complain too much, because I know what kind of shit my Pakistani friends go through trying to get into the US or Canada. It’s the same shit everywhere, but it helps if you’re not brown. If I were a Pakistani trying to enter the US of A, I’d have about as good a chance as a blind man completing the New York Times Sunday crossword.

As it is, my work visa application to reenter Pakistan will probably go through, it’s just a little nerve-wracking. Otherwise, I guess it’ll be the Dave hangin out in Dubai for a while. Once again, wish me luck.

Bear with the Blog

The astute among you, or anyone who reads this rag regularly, will have noticed a decrease in blog content of late. My apologies. I’ve been running around headless chicken style for the past week trying to tie up all the loose ends before I head to Uganda to visit my sister for a few weeks. I’ll try to update from the midst of deepest darkest Africa, but I wouldn’t expect too much if I were you. So stay faithful my friends, I will return. And in the meantime, I’ll try to post a few things, so keep checking back.

I have to head over to the visa department of the regional passport office this morning to clear up an issue with my visa before I leave. It’s a simple matter, so I’m guessing it will take about 6 hours or so. That office is one of my least favourite places in the world at the moment, so wish me luck.

The Davistani

Last Saturday I went to "Fez Night," which is a private club party held every couple of weeks. In Karachi, if you’re not going out to eat at a restaurant, then you pretty much make your own entertainment. People look forward to Fez, because it’s something a little different than yet another house party, but realistically, it’s not all that different, it’s just not at someone’s house. Basically, you buy a ticket, and then try to grab a table in a room that’s much smaller than you think it is, but blessedly air-conditioned. Half the room makes up the dance floor, and that’s about all there is to it. It’s kind of like a large-scale high-school dance, except with booze smuggled in… so, more or less exactly like a high-school dance, except it’s more fun because we’re all adults now (for the most part). I know it sounds like I’m dumping on this party, but quite truthfully, I had a great time.

I’m not sure why it’s called Fez night to tell you the truth, except that the waiters and peons all wear red fez caps on their heads. This led me to remark to one girl that they reminded me of Organ Grinders. It wasn’t until later that I realised that there isn’t really a context for organ grinding in South East Asia, and she had no idea what I was talking about. In retrospect, she seemed a little uncomfortable while I was talking about grinding organs, and downright confused when I mentioned the monkey. Oh well, that’s the kind of moves I’ve got for the ladies. I’m smooth.

With Long Island Ice-Teas coursing through my system, I bumped into a couple of friends I hadn’t seen for a few months. One of them gave me a big bear hug and said, "You’re still here? You Fucking Paki You!" I laughed, and chose to take it as a compliment.

But it wasn’t until yesterday that I realised that I had become much more Pakistani than even I had realised. I was at work and found that I had to use the bathroom. Not a big deal, but I’m not a fan of using the facilities at work; I like my comfort zones. Nevertheless, I did the deed, reached for the Muslim shower (hand-held bidet) and found that it was broken. I was like, "Well shiit, now I’m going to have to use all that toilet paper." Considering that I was basically scared of that device when I arrived, and had no idea how to go about using it, I’ve come a long way baby.

Where’s my citizenship offer?

Life, the Universe and Everything...

I came acrossthis and it's been cracking me up. It's a quirky synopsis of Steven Hawkins famous book "A Brief History of Time." So, of course, this one is called "A Brief, Brief History of Time."

I came across the link over at Hulleye Comes By, which I have added to the blog family over on the sidebar. Abbas regularly posts some interesting stuff over there, so go check it out.

Relativity

Time is easy to lose track of. In that way, Time is a lot like car-keys or the television remote. You know it’s there, you know you need it, but where did it go? Around this time of year, with my birthday just a couple months away, I always seem to forget my own age. Not that I forget completely, but I go through this momentary lapse of reason where I think to myself, am I turning 27 or am I already 27? I also realised recently that whenever someone asks me how long I’ve been in Pakistan, my answer is always consistently one month behind. Someone asked me last night, and I diligently replied, "About six months," but when I added it up, it’s been over seven. Does seven months count as "about six months"? It’s a little off I think, but it’s not like I do it on purpose. Time is too fickle, too hard to pin down, too relative. I need something more tangible. You know how T.S. Eliot is always measuring out his life with coffee spoons (after all the evenings, mornings, afternoons… generally speaking)? Well, I don't have coffee every day, but it got me to thinking that I could probably measure out my life with toiletries. I do use toiletries every day. So, the next time someone asks me how long I’ve been in Pakistan, instead of saying 7 months and two weeks, I’ll say, "Oh, I’ve been here for about two and a half shampoo bottles." Or maybe, "It’s been about 3 deodorants now, since I got here." Or "About one can of shaving cream and four Gillette Mach Three razor blades, although this one is getting dull, and I tend to use those things for way too long." My friend Alastair, who prefers to be known as Tooter McFruiter, has told me that he’ll often judge time and distance in terms of bowel movements… ie: "We can drive from here to Toronto in just over two shits." (About 15 hours I would say.) I’m not dead sure of the value of such a frame of reference, but maybe it’s similar to doing the Kessel Spice run in under 12 parsecs.

Will The Real Captain Saleem Please Stand Up?

One of my favourite things to do in Karachi is what's known as "Crabbing." I think the reason I like it so much is that it feels like an authentically "Karachi" experience. There are plenty of other things you can do in Karachi that you can do in any other city in the world, but Karachi Crabbing is pretty much unique.

Generally, the process is quite simple. What you do is get a group of friends together and, after about two hours of calling people and rounding up punctuality challenged Pakistanis (PCP's), you pile into cars and drive down to the port. The section of the harbour where the crabbing boats are docked is fantastic. It's all stone masonry and it feels like you're stepping back in time without all that hassle with the flux capacitor. In fact, I saw a photo in a museum of the same area, circa 1918, and it looked exactly like it does now, albeit less polluted. As soon as you drive through the main gates, your car is accosted by a swarm of boat-wallas imploring you to trust in their services. They thrust themselves and their business cards against every available window in a scene reminiscent of one of those movies where all the zombies are trying to get into the log-cabin. But if you know your chops, than you've already called ahead to book a boat and can thus ignore all the crying, crabbing captains.

The term "Crabbing," as a verb, is a bit of a misnomer, as there is really no crabbing to be done. All you do is get on a cool old sail boat, make your way about five minutes out into the harbour, and then anchor there while the dudes cook you up a feast of crabs. It's basically just a floating restaurant. Apparently, back in the day, you used to go out and catch the crabs yourself to have them cooked. But those days are long gone, which is good, since I wouldn't touch any crab caught in that harbour without one of those chemical warfare suits. The water is so polluted that when one of the largest oil spills in the world occurred there a few years ago it didn't really do much damage. So yeah, you come for the food, but you stay for the ambience. And let me tell you, the food is good. You start off with an appetizer of fried crab cutlets and then move on to amazing spicey potatoes, and the crabs themselves in a delicious tomato massala. The big hit is always the "lollipops," which are the crab claws broken open so that the meat is there to be pulled out between the teeth, without all the hassle of shelling it first. It's instant gratification. So you're out and about in a boat with your closest pals, devouring a sumptuous feast... what could be better?

The undisputed master of the crabbing domain is a near mythical figure known as Captain Saleem. Just as Ahab dedicated his life to the great white whale, so too has Saleem dedicated himself to the Karachi crabbing consumer. Some time back, Captain Saleem developed the system described above that has become "crabbing." He made up business cards, ran a professional outfit, and gained a reputation as the best in the business. Being fairly business savvy themselves, the rest of the boatmen in the harbour immediately made business cards proclaiming themselves to be "Captain Saleem." To this day, if you shouted out "Captain Saleem!" at the port, more people would come running than if you shouted out "Free Big-Macs" at a Walmart in Michigan. To find the real Captain Saleem you just look at the cost, because he charges almost double what everyone else does. But I think it's worth it. The food just seems generally better, and you get the impression that his guys actually wash their hands now and then.

I think I can say without much hassle that I've gone crabbing more than the average foriegner. I think I've probably gone more than the average Karachiite, when it comes down to it. Last time out, Captain Saleem (or the man we presume to be Captain Saleem) gave me his business card and said "You sir, I think you are liking crabbing very much." I told him that yes, I enjoyed it very much and that he was the best. He says, "Yes, you have been coming on my boats for 9 times, and one other time on some other boat." Absolutely correct when I thought about it. He then complimented me on being Canadian (I think because he has to worry about hassles with the coastguard when he takes Americans out), and I thanked him and said that it was my pleasure to have been born there. I had to admit, The man knows his customer. Having managed restaurants for years, I was suitably impressed.

Somewhere, there exists a T-shirt that was printed years back that proclaims "I Caught Crabs in Karachi." I have yet to find one, but I must have it. Not only because of the obvious sexually transmitted humour, and my penchant for crabbing, but because it will go perfectly with my "1986: Year of the Clam" T-shirt.

Bad Bush...

Here

is an article from the hilarious folks at The Onion detailing how U.S. foreign policy is destroying American students' ability to get laid abroad.

Of course, the number one advice is to pretend you're Canadian. It ain't helpin me much, but feel free to give it a try. It probably helps if you're attractive.

The Bloggin Blues

There’s something about Monday morning that makes it really tough to think of things to write for the Blog. You would think that something might have happened over the weekend to inspire me. You would think that having two days to think about it would be ample time to put something together. But you would be wrong.

We Stand on Guard for thee...

One thing that stood out when I first arrived here in Karachi was the sheer number of armed guards. They’re everywhere. Now, I’m from Canada, so, unlike my American friends, I’m not used to seeing guns everywhere you look. Private guards here protect coffee shops, restaurants, hotels, multi-nationals… you name it. Generally they seem to approach their task with a dedicated air of complete and utter boredom. They stand there, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, lazily holding their rifles whatever-which-way they please. They’re just like our "rent-a-cops" at home, except, you know, with sub-machine guns.

And to tell you the truth, the guns kind of scare me sometimes. Not because they have guns (a guard over here would be pretty useless without one), but that they wield them so haphazardly that sometimes I really question whether they’re actually real. They’ll have the weapons slung over their shoulder, or braced across their knees, held by the stock, or just clutched at by the strap. It doesn’t help that most of the rifles have serial numbers painted on the side with corrective fluid. Sometimes I imagine a big bin full of weapons and all these guards filing through like the Coyote and the Sheep Dog arriving at work in the Looney Toons… "Mornin Inayut"…. "Mornin Rahim"… "How’s the wife"… "Burnt the daal again"… "Oh-ho, what’re you grabbing today?" … "Oh, sawed off shotgun I think." … "Fair enough, there’s one in the bin."….

Many places also have metal detectors to walk through. When I first arrived, I would dutifully take the coins out of my pocket, put my cell phone in the bin and walk through. Ultimately, my belt (or my tin-foil wrapped cucumber) would set the thing off, so I would stop to be checked. I quickly discovered that this was totally unnecessary because the guard would already be waving me through. So apparently the metal detectors are just there to determine that you do, in fact, have metal on you. "Ok, good, he does have some metal somewhere on his person… thought so… Go ahead." All in all, pretty pointless. But just try to walk around one of those metal detectors and you’ll see these guys jump into action. "Sir! Sir! Through here sir!" So, I’ll stop, go back, set off the metal detector and get waved through. Fair enough, it all makes sense to me. Every once in awhile, if your lucky, you’ll get a quick pat-down frisking, which is exciting, because it’s just about the only action I can get over here.

At first, walking past a guy with an automatic weapon on my way to a coffee shop was kind of intimidating. But now, like most things, it's all par for the course. In fact, even though I seriously question what one of these guys would do in a crisis, if there wasn't a dude outside Espresso I would be thinking, "What's going on here, what kind of operation are you trying to run here. You expect me to drink my coffee without protection?"

Air Blue...

I think if you owned a parrot, the temptation to teach it cuss words would be extremely tough to resist. Still, I feel like it’s one of those things that would be cool at first, but ultimately regrettable. You'd have to know that no matter how good that parrot is, eventually your grandma is going to get called a whore. The solution, I think, would be to teach a friend’s parrot how to swear, then you’d get all the fun and none of the inherent responsibility of embarrassing avian blasphemy.

Cover Me...

Now I'm not trying to be a smart-ass or a condescending bastard here, I'm actually curious. If you're an Islamic woman who wears full cover (head and face wrapped in scarves), how do you get your passport photo taken? I'm just picturing these thousands of passports with the same picture, and that poor guy at the airport trying to identify everyone's eyes.

Although, if you were a secret ninja assassin, with a mission in Pakistan, it'd be perfect. You'd fit right in. You wouldn't even need a disguise.

Ok, that was pretty smart-assed.

I'm Really Bored, and Easily Amused.

Well, it's not too hard to tell that I'm a little tired and hung over today. I accidently had a bit too much to drink last night. Not sure how it happened. One of those things I guess. And Pakistan is a brutal place to be hung over. First of all, there's no escaping the sun; it's there, it's bright, and it's damn hot. Secondly, no one in my office drinks, so there's no commiserating there. And lastly, I'm all dressed up for the office, but everyone else gets to wear pyjammas.

So as a result, I just can't think of a solitary goddamn creative thing to write about this morning. Maybe this afternoon. In the meantime, here's more fun I had with Googlism.com. For some reason, I'm fascinated by this thing, the results are just so random. So instead of names and places, this time I thought I'd search for "your ass." I think I'm slipping, because some of these are really cracking me up.

-your ass is grass and we're gonna smoke it
-your ass is mine 2000
-your ass is in the mail
-your ass is no joke
-your ass is overworked
-your ass is a chinese restaurant
-your ass is grass and i'm the lawnmower
-your ass is now playing at the george coates theatre
-your ass is numb
-your ass is in great demand
-your ass is still on fire
-your ass is a terrible thing to lose
-your ass is all you really want or need
-your ass is showing out of the back of your dress
-your ass is ghetto
-your ass is contracting tightly
-your ass is the sexiest thing i've ever seen and i want to rub cheese all over it
-your ass is your friend; pet it
-your ass is ranked 109th
-your ass is out of this world

Just a Little Bored...

What to do when you don't know what to do? Play Googlisms of course! I've already posted once before based on the results it found for my name. But I decided maybe it could give me some insight into where I'm living.

- karachi is so violent
- karachi is the only place that i want to write about
- karachi is naked discrimination
- karachi is demanding accountability for the blood of its sons
- karachi is crying for help
- karachi is highly selective
- karachi is not just a city
- karachi is a pleasant experience
- karachi is an oxymoron
- karachi is a real issue
- karachi is city lights
- karachi is not as bad as being projected by the west
- karachi is closed for public access until further notice
- karachi is built on the foundations of fishing villages that existed here as long ago as 1789
- karachi is well known for it’s beaches
- karachi is the talk of the town
- karachi is a delight
- karachi is the site of one of the earliest civilisations
- karachi is still in chaos; yet there are positive forces at work from within
- karachi is a member of the 'leading hotels of the world' and the premier choice of business and leisure travelers

I think my favourite is "Karachi is a delight" but mostly because I picture James Lipton from "Inside the Actors' Studio" saying it.

Today...

Wow, I just realized that today's date is 05/05/05. I bet something like that happens maybe once a year at most. I haven't been this excited since crazy old April 4th last year. And just think, if you'd woken up this morning at 5:05 AM, you could say to yourself, "I can't believe I woke up for this. I'm such a dumbass."

The Hotness...

I'm not sure what made this pop into my head earlier today, but my favourite unit of measurement lately has got to be the Millihelen. I read about this a few months back and I think it’s brilliant.

Basically, it’s a measurement of beauty. Accepting that Helen of Troy was the most beautiful woman of all the known world, and given that her face launched a thousand ships. A Millihelen is thus the beauty required to launch a single ship… 1/1000 of a Helen.

"Wow, that chick was hot."
"Yeah, totally. Definitely 7 Decahelens hot."

That sucks...

I’m honestly trying to stop chuckling long enough to figure out how to tell this story. Ok, so I had the flu last week right? My friend Sophie and I were discussing the blog posting I wrote about having canker sores. Amazingly, she’s never had any form of canker before, so I was trying to describe them. This turned out to be a more difficult task than I had at first thought. Describing a canker sore is way harder to do than you might think. Anyway, I was telling her that they’re harmless but really irritating, but I didn’t really know what caused them. So we decided to look them up on the Internet.

We found this WebMD site, and it’s a hypochondriac’s dream. You type in your symptoms and it comes up with possible diseases. Just by going with the symptom of mouth-sores we came up with Impetigo, Hand-Foot-and Mouth Disease, gingivitus, chicken-pox and oral cancer. Talk about a lot of potential troubles over a couple canker sores. But then, my eyes fell on the following entry:

Herpangina (Coxsackie virus). The virus most commonly occurs in the summer and autumn. It starts with a high fever, sore throat, headache, and a general feeling of illness (malaise). Usually, painful sores (ulcers) develop in the back of the mouth, especially the soft palate, within 24 to 48 hours of the fever. The illness lasts 7 to 10 days.

I couldn’t believe it. Can you imagine having sores in your mouth because you have the Coxsackie virus? Honestly… the Coxsackie virus. I was losing it. At first I thought it must be a gag, it was just so hard to swallow (so to speak), but I checked google and it’s for real.

"How’d you get those sores in your mouth?"
"Oh, I’ve got the Coxsackie virus."
"Oh… I see… so how’dya s'pose you got that?"
…
"What’s wrong with your mouth?"
"CoxSackie"
"Oh, that blows."

I mean, it’s just too much. Every time I think about it, I start laughing. "Oh, I’d love to go with you guys, but I’ve come down with the Coxsackie virus." There’s just no end to the humour. And really, the funniest part, is that those symptoms pretty much describe the flu that I had. So you never know, maybe I had the Coxsackie virus…I mean, I doubt it, but you never know right? Sometimes I do get pretty drunk...

You Can't Have One without the O-ther...

Oh man, I love married couples. Married couples are excellent. My favourite thing about married couples is when they quarrel right in front of you and it’s awkward as all hell. It reminds me of when I used to go to a friend’s house when I was a kid and while I was there, his mother would start seriously bitching him our in front of me. Back then my tactic was always pure ignorance, just sitting there with a smile frozen on my face, sipping my Freshie and saying, "Wow Mrs. Johnson, this is really good pizza." I can’t say that my social tactics have changed much over the years. I still just ignore any married couple’s outburst, and continue chatting as if a giant iceberg hadn’t just drifted through the conversation. And the best part about these hitched-up suckers is that they don’t think other people know they’re squabbling. It’s as if they imagine that their snide remarks and barely masked vitriol only exist within the bubble of their own conversation. Here are a few excerpts I’ve heard just over the last week:

"Are you saying that just because my parents are here? Oh, very nice."
"If you have a problem with my driving, why don’t you just say so."
"No, I think I’ll order what I want off the menu, is that ok with you?"

Now, I’ve never technically been married (unless you count that thing in the early eighties, but even the state of New Mexico doesn’t recognize that incident) but I have a feeling I’d be fantastic at it. I mean, when you’re married, your every word must be coated in double meaning and dripping with passive aggressive sarcasm. What a fantastic challenge that would be, trying to make everything sarcastic. It would be like writing the blog everyday (wait a minute…).

Even though being present for these little spats is uncomfortable, in my opinion, it’s also very beneficial. The great thing is that any self-pity I may feel about still being single is wiped away like third world debt in a world run by Bono. And although it’s sad that I haven’t found anyone to share my life with, it’s also a bonus that I don’t have anyone that knows me so well they can slice my innards with a single raised eyebrow. Quarreling couples function as an anti-marriage elixir for we the citizens of singledom. It’s just like how a room full of screaming kids is pretty much the best contraceptive in the world. You can watch all the condom commercials you want, you can scare yourself half to death about STD’s, but nothing wraps it up faster than thinking, "Oh my God, one false move and one of those screaming hell-monkeys could be mine."

Perhaps they can be Choosers...

I was talking to a coworker while driving across the city the other day. We were trying to guess how much cash some of these beggars make in the run of a month at one of these busy intersections. She told me the following story and swears that she knows the people involved:

A couple are on their way home from some sort of social gathering. They’re both tired from all the cheek-kissing small talk, so they’re glad to be headed home. While they’re stopped at one of the intersections, a ragged old beggar approaches the window, and the woman absently reaches into her bag and gives him a handful of loose coins. It isn’t until they arrive home that she realizes that she is missing one of her diamond earrings, and that she has probably given it to the beggar.

Hoping against hope, they fly back to the intersection, but the beggar is nowhere to be found. The husband gets out and talks to another beggar, who says, "Oh, you’re looking for Ali, he gets off at midnight." Mildly surprised that the beggars work in shifts, the man is told that Ali the beggar lives nearby and is quite a nice fellow, so they should go talk to him. The couple gets the address and makes their way toward the beggar’s house.

When they get to the end of the lane-way, and the specified address, they see a large, lazy, luxurious house. Thinking that maybe the beggar is a servant here during the day (since they’re working in shifts after all) they ring the bell. A servant answers and says that yes the man they seek is there and to come right in. So they walk into the foyer and someone goes to get Ali. Finally, the master of the house, a clean-cut, well-dressed man, walks down the stairs and greets them. The husband explains that they are looking for a particular beggar named Ali, that they may have given him a precious earring by accident. "But I am Ali," says the mystery man, who then calls one of the servants, "Please go an fetch my uniform from upstairs." The servants runs off and returns with a pile of dirty rags. Ali, the beggar king, searches through the little pockets and pouches and finds the missing earring. "Here you are Madam, I’m sorry for the inconvenience" he says, "now would anyone like a drink?"

Now, granted, this does have the distinct flavour of an urban myth. To tell you the truth, I don’t really care, because I think it’s an awesome story. So if you ask me, it’s true. If you don’t, well then, it’s still true.

Polyphonic...

I was in a PIA booking office a while back. For all the folks at home, PIA stands for Pakistan International Airlines, but most who fly PIA consistently will tell you that it also stands for "Please Inform Allah". It’s a lot like Air Canada, except, you know, more frightening, and less expensive. Anyway, I was waiting for a friend to book a ticket and another customer’s cell phone started ringing. Something seemed off-kilter, my blogging-sense was tingling, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then I listened to the ring tone of the phone and realised that it was playing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Either this was a Muslim with a finely tuned sense of irony, or absolutely no idea how to program a cell-phone. I tend to hope for the former.

The incident reminded me of when I had a short lay-over in Dubai on my way to Karachi. I was busy laying-over on the over-laying lounge chairs, when a huge Muslim woman dressed in full cover answered her phone that was playing rapper 50 cent. Go Shorty, it’s your birthday. Indeed.

At that point, I decided I would make a list of all the inappropriate cell-phone rings I encountered. So far, I have two.

Thinner...

In the spirit of silver linings (because really, if you've got cloud you might as well look), if there is one good thing about being sick last week, it's that I've lost another 5 pounds.

This means that my Pakistani Weight Loss Program (Pak-WeLP) is proceeding nicely according to schedule. You know, I’ve tried a lot of diets over the years, but I would recommend this one to anyone. Also known as the Atkins-jee – Clifton Beach Diet, the procedure is actually quite simple. All you have to do is spend a few grand, get a few inoculations, fly across the world to a generally un-recommended third world country, and the rest is easy. After that, you basically just walk around sweating a lot, eat some fantastic spicy food, get a little sick now and then, and shit near constantly. Take it from me, it really works. Thirty pounds and counting. How many stone is that?

4 Stories... 1 Night...

3:00 AM

…So this crazy chick keeps insisting that I have a lisp. The other girl, equally as crazy, is laughing her head off and nodding. I’m quite adamant that I do not have a lisp. I mean seriously, I think someone would have mentioned this fact to me at some point growing up. "No, no sweetie, don’t get defensive," she says to me, "I think it’s sexy, it makes me want to make out with your right now."
"Oh, ith that tho" I say.

I had never kissed a crazy chick in a Denny’s at 3:00 AM before. It was fun.

3:30 AM

…."Where the fuck is our food?" asks crazy chick number 1. I have to admit, our food is taking forever. I haven’t really noticed because the crazy chicks are keeping me very busy. I have no idea what they’re going to do next, and even in my drunken state I’m prone to embarrassment. "Cook the damn eggs so we can go home," I think to myself. Our waitress, who looks maybe 18, and right off the farm, comes over to apologize. Since I manage a bar, I’m simpathetic. "It’s ok dear," I start to say when crazy chick number 2, the lisp-lover, interrupts me: "Look, honey, what’s your name?" Our waitress looks a little taken aback, especially since her name is right there on her nametag. "Uhh, Alice," she replies. "Ok Alice, listen, will our food get here any faster if I take you in the back room and lick your pussy until you scream?" Alice turns red all the way down her neck, I slowly start choking to death on my Coke. The poor girl stammers, "Ahh, no, I don’t think that will make it come any faster."
"No, but you might."

We got 35 % off.

4:30 AM

… I couldn’t believe it. He was just sitting there, smirking up at me. It’s 4:30 in the morning and this cabby won’t give us a ride. "Look buddy, this’ll be like $45 by the time we get home." He’s arrogant like nobody’s business, reclining in his seat with his feet out the window. He’s made himself comfortable, has even kicked off his sandals. He looks up at me again and says, " I’m on my break, Fuck off." One of the crazy chicks goes nuts when she hears that, starts tearing a strip off of him. I’m pretty pissed off myself. I’m trying to force the car number into my drunken memory banks so I can complain tomorrow. It’s not working very well. I stare down at the pavement and see the cabby’s sandals where he had kicked them off. I turn to the crazy, lisp-lover and say, "We should steal his fucking shoes." This girl goes into overdrive, starts pleading with the cabby, gets down on one knee and says, "Please, please, please take us home!" All the while, she is quietly collecting his shoes while he’s not looking. "Fine" she says abruptly, and we walk off in what I would consider to be a huff. We manage to flag a different cab on the street and it’s only then that I realize I haven’t moved into my new apartment yet, and I have absolutely no memory of where I’m supposed to be staying that night. "That’s ok," says the lisp-lover, "You can stay with me."

The sandals fit me perfectly and I wear them to this day.

7:00 AM

...I wake up with a cat on my chest licking my face. I am very close to screaming. In the one bedroom apartment, I count four cats that I can see. I think I can hear others. I look over and see the crazy lisp-lover. The night starts to come back to me. She is awake. I look up at the ceiling and see a huge picture of a naked stripper. I am at a loss. "Who’s the girl?" I ask. "Oh, that’s my girlfriend Dani." She replies. I sit up. "Your girlfriend? You’re a lesbian with a stripper girlfriend?" I give my head a shake. She says, "Sure, didn’t you know that?" "No, I certainly didn’t know that!" I stammer, but now the incident with the waitress makes more sense. I think a bit longer, trying to clear my head, "Will she be mad that I’m spending the night?" I ask. "Oh no sweetie, she knows that I’m a sucker for lisps… besides, she’s in China."

I didn't bother telling her again that I don’t have a lisp.

* * *

A friend of mine is fond of saying: "And then I looked up and realized that I was in a Dave Ford situation, and I had no idea how to get out." I think the phrase originates from this night in particular.

Bite Me...

You know what the funny thing about Pakistan is? It’s the little differences. Like the mosquitoes. I’m actually thinking back fondly of the mosquitoes at home. Can you believe that? Yes, those Canadian mosquitoes were almost cute in their polite attempts to bite me. Not like over here, where every mosquito is the insect spawn of Satan. Now, at home, the mosquitoes hunt in packs. They try to overwhelm you with pure numbers. But they’re big and bulky, like B-52 bombers, and they fly in predictable patterns. When it comes to the swat, it’s a fairly easy kill.

Pakistani mosquitoes on the other hand, are vicious, vindictive little buggers. It’s dry enough that there aren’t that many of them, thank God, but they are very sneaky. It’s very easy to underestimate the extent of their sneakiness. They’re smaller, sleeker and faster than their North American cousins, like F-16’s, and they’re trained in guerilla warfare. These little bastards fly complex flight patterns. They change direction at random, flying zig-zag patterns and attack vectors. The big, Canadian mosquito lands on your arm, kind of settles in a bit, washes up before dinner and then sinks her beak in, giving you plenty of time to recognize the nature of the threat and to neutralize it. Not so with the elite, Pakistani flying force. These little buggers come screaming down from extreme altitudes, kamikaze style, with teeth bared. The landing gear comes out, and as soon as they touch down, they’re in there (just like some guys I know). Sometimes you don’t even feel it happening (just like some girls I know). And just when you think you’ve got your eye on them, one quick zag into a darker area and they’re gone. And the other thing about these bitches (because only female mosquitoes bite – that’s a life-lesson, remember it) is that they go straight for the soft spots. I really don’t know how they do it. The wrists, the inside part of the elbows and knees, the knuckles, the eye-lids. Very selectively and carefully, they nail you in the itchiest spots possible. Yeah, these bugs weren’t born yesterday (I mean that metaphorically of course, since they probably were born yesterday).

And, of course, they’re also versed in germ warfare. At home, if a mosquito bites you, oh well, it’s irritating, but who cares. Over here, the itch is tainted with a hint of danger. Who knows what cocktail of tropical diseases is the order of the day? Will it be malaria? Who knows? It’s like reaching into a bio-hazard grab-bag and randomly sticking yourself with used syringes. I take a weekly anti-malarial medication here, which I tell myself gives me a measure of protection. Who knows though, a gin and tonic every day probably has enough quinine to be just as helpful… so I take that too. You have to start taking the meds before you leave home to build up your system, so I bought three months worth of the stuff from my home pharmacy for $60. When I ran out, I went to a local Karachi pharmacy and bought the same amount of pills for 8 Rupees. I thought I had heard the guy wrong since that’s about 15 cents. Go figure. It just goes to show you that the pharmaceutical industry is so much of a racquet you could play tennis with it.

But speaking of racquets, the only joy I get from mosquitoes over here is hunting them. My host Ali, has a small badminton-sized racquet that can be electrified at the touch of a button, and is the bane of mosquitoes in the house. (FYI- sticking your tongue out, and trying the shock is not as fun a game as it may at first seem.) Believe me, you feel goofy at first, stalking around the room like a demented Elmer Fudd, racquet in hand. But the satisfaction when you take the swing and hear the miniscule sizzle of barbecued mosquito is tough to beat. You may think I wouldn’t take such pleasure in killing something so small… but you’d be wrong.

Longterm Feasibility - Doubtful

You know, the more I think about it, the more I think that there is no way in hell I can keep this blog up and rolling. So, I dunno, enjoy it while it lasts I guess.