On the Offensive

That last post reminded me indirectly of a story. This would have been back during my first year in Calgary. I’d only been in the city for a few months, so I was still looking for full time work. I signed up for a temp agency since I can type like a demon fiddles in Georgia, and the next day got a job with Shaw Cable. Now generally, this was one of the worst jobs I’ve held. And for anyone in Western Canada, just the fact that it was for Shaw Cable should make that self-explanatory. But it was something like $12 an hour and still gave me enough time to look for permanent work during the day.

As a result of the strange hours, I was often riding the C-Train back into the city late at night. On one of those trips, two old drunken bums stumbled on board and sat directly across from me. I sighed, since up until that point, the ride had been urine free. The downtown core of Calgary is linked by a "free-fare zone" for the C-train, which is cool, but the old drunks sometimes take advantage and ride up and down 7th avenue to stay warm.

I settled back into the regular transit stare at the window across from me, fascinated that my reflection somehow looked better in a subway window than it does in my bathroom mirror. Suddenly one of the drunks, weaving back and forth, hollers at me, "What’na hell you lookin at?" I realized I had been staring at the window above his head. I shrugged and said, "Nothin," realizing as I did, that had I been looking at him this answer would have been quite clever. "You wanna go? Is that it?" he yelled at me, attempting to stand up and failing. I explained that I clearly did not want to go, while simulataneously trying to judge how far it would be to the next stop.

Suddenly the other man jumped into action, grabbed his friend and shook him. "What the hell are you doin?" he shouted in his face, "are ya tryin to screw everything up?" He turned to me across the aisle, and with a gesture of supplication said in his gravel racked voice, "Noooo Offence Meant" and then repeated, "No offence meant" I nodded, and he turned back to his friend. "You don’t understand the world man," he said, "You think everything’s going to go your way, you think life’s all a bunch of fawkin roses!" I highly doubted that this was exactly what the man thought of his life, but his friend continued, "But someday, everything’s gonna be shit, and this guy..." he said, jerking his thumb in my direction, "this guy ain’t gonna be there to help you." They looked in my direction, and the only thing I could think of doing was shaking my head solemnly. "You see!" "Ok, ok," said the now calm drunk, "I’m sorry." "What!" shouted his adamant friend, "You call that an apology!" Then he quickly turned to me and once again extended his hands, patted the air as if he were telling an entire roomful of people to calm down, and said again, "Nooo Offence meant… no offence meant." Then he turned his attention back to his friend, "You see this guy (me again), he’s going to be famous (really?), he’s going to be filthy rich (sounds good), he’s going to be down there in L.A. or Hollywood or Reno making a fortune (Reno?), and he’s not going to be there to help you out, he’s not going to give a damn about you. That’s how the world works! It’s the circle of life, Man! You were rude to this guy, now he’s going to be rich and you’ve got a whole mess a shit coming your way!" I really didn’t follow this logic path, but his once belligerent friend seemed spellbound. "Ok," he said, "I’m sorry I was rude." "That’s ok," I said. For good measure, the drunk philosopher king turned to me once again, "Nooo Offence meant" he crooned, "… no offence meant."

The original rude drunk seemed to forget about the whole thing immediately, he looked around and asked his buddy something about where they were getting off. His friend looked pained and immediately turned to me with his hands out, "Nooo offence meant… no offence meant." By this time, I was baffled and trying my hardest not to laugh. A couple got on the train carrying a lamp from The Bay department store. "Hey, Nice Lamp!" shouted the drunk. I knew what was coming. His pal jumped into the middle of the train, threw his hands out desperately, patted the air and said, "Nooo offence meant… no offence meant." I snorted into my gloves and tried to turn the laughter into a coughing fit.

Finally I reached my stop at the far end of the free-fare zone. And of course, this was also my drunken friends’ departure point. When the preaching drunk realized I was behind them at the doorway, he threw his friend roughly against the wall, gave me a quick maitre d’ bow and gestured that I should get off first. I stepped off, and started walking home. I looked back and saw them staggering on the platform, and in the distance heard the drawn out shout, "Noooo Offence Meant….."

None taken… none taken.

You're ugly... No offence...

Ever notice that a sentence begun with "No offense, but…" or ended with "Present company excluded, of course," will generally contain something quite insulting and definitely offensive?

And if you get pissed off, the offender will look upset as if to say, "Jeez, I don’t know why you’re so upset, I said "no offense""

Narrow Band Connection...

Well, after finally getting back on top of the blog after my return from the Dark Continent, the fates have conspired against me again. It seems the entire Internet backbone for Pakistan has gone out, but to be fair, we should probably assume that it had a few slipped disks to begin with. Anyway, some fiber optic cable between Dubai and Karachi has failed, and as you’ve probably guessed, it’s located at the bottom of the sea. And of course, the sea is fairly choppy this time of year, and whatever ship or sub or whathaveyou they need is docked in Singapore, so no one really knows how long it’ll be before things are back up and running at more or less full capacity. There is a satellite backup system, but in typical fashion there is not enough bandwidth to function properly. Round these parts, most backup plans involve intently discussing how a back up plan should really be established.

The worst part for me is that I can’t waste all my time at work writing blogs. I’ll actually have to accomplish something instead of being a free-loading token Canadian.

So, I’ve managed to hobble together an old satellite dish, a transistor radio, a harmonium, and my cell-phone with some baling twine and duct-tape. I’ve had to power it with a donkey walking in circles up on the roof, and the stink of manure is getting to me, but I’ve managed to get through to make this post, so it’s worth it.

Long story short – the blog shall suffer again. Poor old long suffering blog. Stay tuned.

Say again?

From the Oxford book of Weekend Quotations:

Mush: It's not that I don't like beer, it's just that it rarely matches my outfit.

Life's Simple Pleasures...

You know, when I'm sitting at my desk, sweating through my shirt at 10 am, or when the power somehow strategically goes out just when I haven't saved my work, two little words keep me from losing it completely... Mango Season.

Onions Make Me Laugh...

I would recommend The Onion any day as one of the best satirical websites around. They generally hit the nail directly on the head. However, this week I have to give it an extra push. They’ve written this edition as if it were from the year 2056 and it’s brilliant. Including such choice articles as: "Democratic Middle Eastern Union votes to Invade the US." And "Government may restrict use of genetically modified farmers."

Check it out at www.theonion.com

I can row a boat... canoe?

One summer, many moons ago, I planned out a canoe-camping trip with my girlfriend of the time. I planned to canoe from the town of St. Stephen, down the St. Croix river, out into the bay, around the peninsula where the resort town St. Andrews sits in all its quaint, touristic hypocrisy, and then through the islands to my hometown of St. George (my area has no shortage of Saints). Depending on the tides, I figured it would take us a maximum of three days. So we packed up the boat on a beautiful Friday afternoon and set out down the river. We were making good progress, so when we passed a local campground I decided not to put in and continue on to an island I knew of instead. In retrospect, not the best decision.

About an hour went by, and as evening spread out across the sky, I noticed a bank of thick coastal fog massing over the opposite side of the channel. Could be trouble, I thought, and I was right. The fog was thick. Within another half an hour, I could no longer see the opposite bank. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see the bank I was following. I knew that if I tried to shoot into the channel to the island I was aiming for, I could easily end up drifting in the middle of the bay. The wind decided to join in the fun and that just about sowed it up. It was getting dark, the fog was thickening, and the sea was angry… yaaaar.

Through the fog, I glimpsed a light up on the shore. I yelled through the wind to my girlfriend in the bow, "We’d better try to pitch our tent in that farmer’s field!" We put in to shore, lugged the canoe up over the rocks and above the high tide level. I climbed up over the rock bluff and immediately started to curse. "What’s the matter?" asked the girlfriend. I made my way back down, "Well, this isn’t so much a farmer’s field as it is the St. Andrew’s Golf Course!" I was frustrated. I threw myself down on the rocks as the wind started to pick up. The St. Andrew’s Algonquin Resort’s golf course is one of the top courses in the country. It caters to high-end tourists with extravagant green fees local golfers could never afford. "Screw it," I said, and pitched my tent in the rough of the third hole.

The storm raged and pummeled us all night long. Sleep was not forthcoming. At 6 AM, I stumbled out of the tent in my underwear to water the green. As I relieved myself, a golf ball soared over my head and landed in the gulley in front of my tent. It was early, it was raining… I had underestimated the determination of golfers. I had picked a spot that was somewhat sheltered for the tent, so it wasn’t immediately visible from the fairway. I jumped back in the tent as I heard someone crest the hill looking for the ball. "Larry!" I heard in a thick Boston accent, "There’s a Gawd-Damn tent down he-ah!"

We decided that maybe it was best to pack up the tent. The wind was still gusting. I looked out to sea and saw whitecaps rolling in to shore between five and ten feet high. I knew there was no way we could continue in the canoe. Setting out in waves taller than you are in a craft you can carry on your shoulders is never the best of plans. So we were stuck. We dug the cell-phone out of the waterproof bags and called mother. There’s nothing quite like setting out on an adventure and having to call you mom for help. Mom knew the area and thought there might still be a road down beside the golf course to come pick us up. We dragged the canoe up onto the third hole, across the green, and set it down beside a bench on the cart-track.

We sat and waited to see what Mom would come up with, sporting life-jackets, bandannas and shorts on the premiere golf course of the province. As time passed, more and more golfers walked by us, some looking bemused, some looking peeved that commoners had infiltrated their domain. Finally one golfer paused, looked at the boat lying on the lawn and said, "How’s the canoeing?" I had an answer prepared, "Oh, par for the course I suppose." He nodded and chuckled and then gaped over our shoulders as my mother came around the corner in the family van, driving down the golf cart track. I laughed out loud, don’t get in my mom’s way! I pictured golf carts forced into the ditches and golfers diving for safety. We loaded up the canoe and put an end to one of the strangest canoe trips I’d ever experienced. The friendly golfer even helped us pack up a bit before he shook his head and continued on with what was I’m sure, one of the strangest golf games he’d ever experienced.

Primary Pakistani Pet Peeve

You might think that there would be any number of things that would annoy me here in the land of the pure. But I’m an open minded kind of first world guy. Things don’t really get to me. But, admittedly, there is something that really bothers me. My full on, pet peeve… I can’t stand that little skim that forms on the top of my chai while I wait for it to cool. If you don’t have a spoon at your desk (which I don’t) to clear it off of there, you’re screwed. Then I’m forced to drink in constant fear of that goopy mass sliding between my lips. As soon as I start to drink, it slides towards my mouth with the slimey inevitability of death. Then I have to do this whole tilting, blowing maneuver to try to get the blob to stick to the opposite edge of the mug. By the time I accomplish the feat, my face is sweating from the steaming tea, and my mood is befouled.

My life really is tough.

Piggypalooza

Last night I cooked breakfast for a few friends. Which was a little strange, since I don’t normally eat breakfast at night (well, not sober anyway). But what was even more abnormal was that the key feature of the meal, and truly the reason for the get together in the first place, was some delicious back-bacon smuggled into the country.

Living in an Islamic Republic, I tend to forget that I haven’t eaten pork in a long time. But generally, I don’t really miss eating pork at all. Except, that is, when it comes to bacon. Breakfast without bacon just ain’t right. The eggs just sit there looking so lonely. Sometimes the hashbrowns try to help out, cracking jokes and trying to bring out the eggs' sunny sides. But without the bacon, something is missing. It makes me sad, which is terrible, because breakfast usually makes me happy. Eggs without bacon is like bread without butter, George Bush without a smirk, Celine Dione without earplugs and howling dogs…

But last night, the call came in - there was bacon to be had. My friends (names withheld for Islamic protection) were giddy with excitement. They were like little kids, combining the pleasures of a special treat with the knowledge that they’re doing something wrong. Although, I’m always surprised that most of my, shall we call them non-practicing Muslim, friends don’t fast, don’t pray, they’ll drink, do drugs, engage in premarital shenanigans, but by no means will they touch the pig. Funny that that is always the last thing to go.

There seemed to be some kind of consensus in the group that I would naturally be the bacon expert, my lifetime porcine consumption being far more advanced than their own. I’m generally known as a good cook, which is a bit of a curse what with the "Oh, Dave will cook" feature, but I generally don’t mind. Only problem was that last night was like cooking in a sauna, and by the time I was done I was sweating like a pugilist in the 14th round. Finally, dinner, or rather breakfast, was served around 11:30 pm. We opened up another round of beer, presumably so the guys could wash down the last vestiges of their moral upbringings. I looked on them with pity. I can dine on swine without guilt, since after all, I’ve got Jesus. They, on the other hand, are all going straight to hell.

Acid Washed...

My friend Frank grew up in Niagara Falls (the city, not the cataract), which strikes me as a little unfortunate. I mean, Niagara Falls is a great place to visit but I think that actually living there would have me over the falls in a barrel quicker than you can say "Thundering Waters." I understand why they have so many wedding chapels and casinos in their quest for "Honeymoon Capital of the World" but why all the haunted houses? I don’t get it.

Anyway, with its proximity to the US of A, and like all primarily suburban cities, Niagara Falls has a lot of drugs running through it. As a result, the first time Frank tried acid was way back in high school. He and a friend had rented a movie or two and were going to sit in for the night. They dropped the acid and were wondering why nothing was happening yet when unexpectedly, Frank’s friend’s parents came home. They were supposed to have been gone the whole weekend, but for some reason had returned early. But it wasn’t really a problem, since the acid apparently wasn’t working, and having no knowledge that it normally takes an hour to kick in, they sat down to visit with his parents. Like all good stories of this nature, Frank was chatting away with his friend’s Mom when he noticed that the walls were melting and starting to drip. This was relatively distressing for Frank. He quickly clammed up, and watched in panic as the mom’s mouth slowly formed the words, "Frank, are you ok?" Somehow, he managed to get across that he had a headache. The mom left the room and returned with some water and a Tylenol. Frank stared at the drug in his hand for almost five minutes while the drug in his mind registered one paranoid thought: Poison. Nothing could possibly be worse at that moment than swallowing that over the counter pain reliever. Slowly and deliberately, Frank took a sip of water, raised his hand to his mouth, and then casually tucked the Tylenol under the cushion of the sofa. The whole family was staring at Frank during this entire episode of completely obvious sleight of hand. His friend, who was still fine, suddenly realized what was wrong with Frank and attemted to rescue his tripped out friend.
"Come on Frank, let’s go to the store and get some snacks."
"Ok," said Frank and rose to go.
"Sit Down!" said his friend’s father. The gig was up. Frank sat. From out in the hall came his friend’s voice, "Frank let’s go." Frank was confused. He stood up again and headed for the door.
"I said, Sit Down!" said the Dad. Frank immediately sat. "Are you sure you’re ok Frank?" asked the Mom. "Come ON, Frank!" came the call from the hallway. Once again Frank stood up, dreading the father’s wrath.
"SIT!"
Frank sat.
His buddy finally came back into the room, grabbed Frank by the arm and dragged him out of there. "What the hell is wrong with you man! You’re acting like an idiot! Why didn’t you come out?"
"You’re Dad kept yelling at me man!"
"Frank, he was talking to the Dog!"

Blog-Jacked!

So I was chatting with good ole Subaru Kazoo the other day when he says, "What’s this I hear about the blog in the paper?" I replied, "What’s this I hear about you being a crack-baby?" Apparently Zubair’s cousin called him up and said that he had been mentioned in the paper by some random Canadian Dude. I was somewhat taken aback. But Zubie was right, my blog suddenly had it’s own column in the Sunday magazine of the Daily Times here in Pakistan. The blog had been hijaked! By Muslims even!

So I logged on to the Sunday Mag’s online edition and sure enough, there it was in big letters: Desi David. Just below my new label was the picture of me at the top of Mount Katahdin, which is fine with me, since it’s admittedly one of the best photos ever taken of me. Then they had printed the blog posting about my using the Nokia dictionary for text messages… a strange choice I thought. Anyway, before I left for Africa, I had talked to one of the editors about submitting a column, but I had been under the impression that I would modify my posts or write new ones for them. I guess they must have gotten impatient and run with it. Oh well, I don’t mind, but it was hilarious to hear about it third hand.

Today the Sunday Mag, tomorrow the New York Times… which makes sense, since I make most of this stuff up anyway.

Full Stop.

At some point during my day home from work, cursing that damn kabob role, I decided to try limiting my treks to the loo by taking an Immodium. Now, I’ve taken these things before with no problem, and honestly with no real noticeable results, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Besides, it probably wouldn’t do much anyway. But lo and behold! It worked. The action stopped. I was joyous. I might have danced had I any known skill to do so. All was well in the end, so to speak.

Two days passed…

…but I did not. It was a record. Even my own body couldn’t believe itself. I now had the opposite problem. I had switched. Having discovered the South Pole, I was now headed North. I would have felt care-free and liberated if it weren’t for having more gas than Caltex roiling inside me like a sulfur hot-spring.

I couldn’t win. I was stop and go, or rather go and then stop. If only I could find the middle path. Moderation, my friends, the middle path, the golden mean, that is the key to happiness. I had to find balance.

I struck out to khadda market to buy some kabob roles.

Whatever Doesn't Kill Ya...

I woke up the other morning in the knowledge that something was wrong. I wasn’t sure at first but then it hit me. My stomach had woken me up. This could be nothing but bad news. I curled into the fetal position as my stomach cramped again. Still, I lay in bed, determined not to get out, convincing myself that whatever was going on in my guts would pass. As another spasm wracked my abdomen, I distinctly remembered my first bite of a Hot N Spicy garlic mayo roll at midnight the night before. I remember thinking, hmmm, my stomach doesn’t feel quite right, maybe I shouldn’t eat this hideously delightful snack. But then, like the raving idiot I am, I ate it anyway.

Finally, I decided that as much as I wanted to stay in bed, tempting fate wasn’t one of my strong points, so I hoofed ‘er to the bathroom for a good sit. As I pissed out my ass, garden-hose style, I made a quick calculation of the amount of toilet paper, water and ORS in the house and realized I was going to have to call in some favours. Finished for the moment, and slightly relieved, I took three steps from the toilet, faltered and rushed back. With an abrupt about face, I realized that this was not all fun and games. I revisited the kabob role in question in a vomitous riot. "Well, that about does it for work today," I thought.

As I lay curled on my bed, I glanced at the date on my watch and thought, "One week in Karachi… Right on schedule."

Walking Sleep

Three weeks in Africa, travelling, touring, hiking, camping and I was totally relaxed. A perfect vacation.

One weekend in Karachi and I’m exhausted.

Between reuniting with friends, celebrating Adnan and Poppy’s birthdays and staying up until all the wee hours, I’ve hit the wall again. Once again, Monday morning, I walked into work thinking about the nap I would take after work. What a great way to start a workday.

Oh Karachi, I hates to love ya.

Pakistani Air Space

Of my whole trip to and from Africa, out of 18 total hours of flying, by far the most irritating part was the last leg from Dubai to Karachi. I don’t know what it is, but any flight between Dubai and Karachi, or vice versa, is really annoying. I think part of this is based on the fact that statistically, there’s a good chance I will be sitting next to a Pakistani. Now, don’t get me wrong, as you all know, I love Pakistanis, but when it comes to planes, they drive me crazy. To start with, half the time, no one is sitting in the right seat. I don’t know if the seating plan is just unfathomable or what, but I’ve never been on any other flight with so many people saying, "Excuse me, I think this is my seat." This time around, I figured it just wasn’t worth the hassle, so I gave up my aisle seat to the guy already seated in it, and sat in the middle. I figured that since it’s not a long flight, I could probably deal with it. However, because I always request the aisle, I had not anticipated the special tortures of sitting between two strangers. You see, I’m not even sure how this is possible, but no matter how small a Pakistani man might be, he will somehow take up as much space as humanly possible on an aircraft. I mean, I’m a large guy. I have big bones. There is nothing I can do about my size. And yet I’m the one with my arms clamped to my side, half leaning to one side or the other, too polite to mention anything (read: push over). And then, inevitably, the newspapers come out. These guys don’t just read the paper, they wrestle with it, and often appear to be losing. I cower between the blooms of newsprint with my paperback, trying not to get ink smudges on my face. Oh, and forget about the armrests. You know how there is always that little bit of doubt as to who gets those middle armrests? Well, my logic goes like this: If you’ve got the aisle seat, you have a bit of added comfort, so you give up your right hand arm rest. On the window, you’ve got the view, so you give up your left armrest. This leaves the two middle armrests as the last vestige of comfort the middle seat person can hold on to. But of course, on this trip, my two Pakistani seat-fellows, sprawled in their maximum space configurations, managed to corner every bit of every armrest. I slowly tried to edge my elbow on to one of them, but received such scowls that I gave up.

How can such little people take up so much space?

Dave in Dubai

8:05 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 36 C

I arrive at that Pakistan Consulate. The lobby is blessedly cool and air-conditioned. Ben explains my situation to the man at the desk. I am expecting a work invitation letter faxed to this office. I’m told that although the office opens at 8:00, the window for foreign passports does not open until 9:00. That is Fantastic I think. Ben leaves for work and wishes me luck. In my estimation, I will need it. I read the paper, and not being all that interested in the happenings of the UAE, I am done quickly. It is only now that I realize that I have left my book at the apartment.

9:05 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 39 C

I stand in line for the foreign passport window. Being a "window" it is of course outside and I no longer have the refuge of the air-conditioned office. I patiently wait in line as people slide in and out in front of me. Sometimes they ask quick questions, sometimes they have obviously skipped in front of me in line. Sometimes I wonder how much value a line even has in this part of the world. But still, I wait patiently. I am a model of calm and patience.

9:20 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 39 C

I reach the window and attempt to explain my situation to the clerk. As usual, and for whatever reason, our conversation is confused and full of potential miscommunications. This is apparently protocol for visa offices the world over. Speak quickly, be sure not to make too much sense, gesture towards papers and shake your head vigourously, act like you’re listening but keep repeating the same inane things over and over…it’s all there on page 5 of the handbook. I get across that an invitation letter should have arrived for me in the past few days. The clerk insists that it has not. I tell him that there has been a telecom strike in Karachi and it may not have arrived. He insists that it has not. I tell him that it was faxed again that morning and should be there. He insists that it is not. I suggest that perhaps it is upstairs as we speak. He says he will check… later. He looks to the person behind me. I return to the air conditioning.

10:05 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I have now read a complete set of pamphlets from Agha Khan University on the effectiveness of an angioplasty. The clerk from the window walks by and gestures that I should meet him at the window. When I arrive there, he tells me that no fax has arrived. I wonder why he couldn’t have told me this in the lobby. Apparently he has no authority without a window. I return to the lobby.

11:00 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I talk to a Canadian man who went to Karachi thinking he could buy a visa on arriving, but was sent out of the country. I sympathize with him, as it does indeed say this is possible on the Government of Pakistan website. He is adamant that if it says so on the web, than it must be true. I shake my head. This man has obviously never been to Pakistan. There is no computer in the visa office in Karachi. There are plenty of websites, but they are in the dusty corners of the office, where the spiders live. All rules and regulations are in a big blue tattered recipe book that I was once shown briefly, without time to really look, in proof that I was dead wrong and had to pay full fees for 3 more days visa. I walk out to the window again and am told that no, brother, there is no fax. My new "brother" has an amazing ability to check the fax machine upstairs telepathically.

11:15 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I have taken action into my own hands. I have walked several blocks to a shopping complex. I am now quite damp. I find the telephones and discover that they take cards. Fine. I ask a man who is either a janitor, or a man who really loves the bathroom, where I can find said cards. I walk to the kiosk in question and purchase a 30 dirham card. How long will this last I wonder. I call Ben at work and she patches me through to Pakistan. I applaud myself for this cost effective measure. I contact the office and they insure me that they have faxed the letter twice today. I ask them to fax it directly to Ben, who will bring me the copy directly. Excellent.

11:30 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 40 C

I walk upstairs and have lunch at Subway. I am told they have no chicken. Fine. I choose something else, but they don’t have the first three breads I ask for either. You don’t have bread and you don’t have chicken? I ask with some doubt. Oh yes, I’m assured, they have chicken, but it’s all frozen, and they have plenty of bread, just not the bread I want. I’m amused now. I ask them if they can’t thaw the chicken. No sir. Then how will you use it later? I ask. I’m just being pesky now, and I feel a little ashamed of it. I’m told that the chicken must be melted in tip-top ,100% sanitary method. I’m not joking. That’s what he said. Then he tells me that otherwise it will hurt my teeth. My teeth? I ask. Yes, of course, because it’s frozen. Right. I feel this Phillipino sandwich artist has somehow defeated me.

12:00 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 42 C

I walk back to the consulate. Ben meets me and gives me a copy of the mystery fax. I take it to the window. My brother is about to tell me that there is no fax, when he sees I have garnered a copy myself. The gig is up, his expression is resigned. He takes it. But this is an invitation letter! He protests. Yes it is, I protest. I can’t see what the problem is. Where is your no objection letter? He asks. I have absolutely no idea what the hell he’s talking about, but this is generally my perpetual state in visa offices the world over. Where do I get that? I ask. He tells me to go to the Canadian Embassy. Excellent. Great to find this out now.

12:05 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 44 C

I jump in a cab and say with emphasis: Take me to the Canadian Embassy. The cabbie turns and asks me where it is. I tell him that he is the cab driver, he should tell me. He says that if I tell him where it is, he will take me there. What the hell kind of city is this? I get out and walk back to the shopping mall. I enter a drugstore and buy deodorant. I apply it while talking to Ben on the phone and finding out the Canadian embassy is nearby.

12:30 PM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 45 C

I unknowingly walk by the Canadian Embassy four times. Who could guess that a Canadian flag could hide behind a palm tree like that. I finally enter a bookstore and grab a book on Dubai and look up the embassies. I try to write down the address, but the clerk comes over and tells me it is illegal to write things down in the bookstore. No it’s not, I tell him. It is against store policy. You’re telling my you don’t write anything down in this store. I do, he says, but you don’t. I ask him if I’m allowed to memorize in the store. He is unsure. I do it anyway and hand him the book with a scowl. He says, sir, my boss, he would be angry, that’s all. I tell him to tell his boss I would have bought the book if he hadn’t been rude to me. The heat is getting to me.

12:35 AM, June 6, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 45 C

The Canadian Embassy, as it turns out, is two buildings away. I take the elevator up and find that the passport window is open between 8:00 and 11:00 AM. I am not angry, as there is nothing I can do, and the full sized cut outs of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are somehow comforting to me. I return to the apartment, swim in the pool and watch desperate housewives. My day is done.

08:10 AM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 38 C

I return to the Canadian Embassy. Everyone is polite and very Canadian. I even take a number when there is no one else in the lobby. I have found a line in the middle east, and I’m the only one in it. I overhear one of the secretaries say "Eh" and a single tear comes to my eye. My number is called and my no objection letter is made with absolutely no objections. I do however have to pay 60 dirhams, which almost gives me objections, but what are you going to do?

09:25 AM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 38 C

I return to my favourite window and wait my turn. A nice man sees that I’ve been waiting and pulls me forward in line until I am next. Mr. Atta, the clerk, looks up and smiles… Ah, brother. I give him all my forms and photos. He looks at the forms and scowls. No. Not work visa. I can only get a work visa if I live in Dubai, I will have to apply from either Pakistan or Canada. I sigh deeply. Somehow I knew this was coming. I tell him that in Pakistan they told me to go to Dubai and apply from here. He shrugs as if to see, wow, you are stupid. He tells me to apply from Canada. I look at him as if to say, wow, you are stupid. I will give you a visit visa he says, then you go and upgrade it. I’ve heard that one before, but I accept readily since I have already overstayed a visit visa once and he obviously hasn’t noticed this fact. I go to the bank section and pay 444 dirhams, bring him the receipt and he tells me to pick up my passport in two days. I tell him my flight leaves tomorrow night. He says, ok come back at 2:30 today and he’ll give it to me. But only because he likes me.

2:00 PM, June 7, 2005 – Dubai, UAE – Approx. Temp. 47 C

After four hours in the mall, most of which was spent at an internet café and checking the chicken stock-piles at Subway, I return to my favourite window. Mr. Atta is all smiles. Brother, he says, and hands me my passport. I check it quickly and shake his hand. All is well between the brothers. You enjoy my country, he says. I do enjoy your country, I say, which confuses him a bit. I wonder why I do things like that. I hail a cab so that I can get out of my soaking shirt and hit the beach in celebration of my most successful, unsuccessful visa venture yet.

My God that ended up really lengthy... sorry folks.

Dig it...

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

Woman: We told him not to Dig!
Man: But he would not listen.
Woman: We told him to watch out for power lines!
Man: But he just kept digging.
Woman: We told him to check with the power company!
Man: But he would not listen, he just kept digging.
Woman: (sighs) Ah, that one is dead now.

...

It seems to me that for an informercial to be considered effective in Uganda, someone has to die. At least in this case the unfortunate man, so intent on his digging, is the focus of the ad. I’m still baffled by the guy who is celebrating because his girlfriend died of AIDS but he didn’t. But you know, I remember our local NB Power company, used to have commercials on TV with kids trying to climb on electrical towers, and guys cutting down trees (or digging) without checking with the power company first. Those would always end with the screen going to inverse, skeletal black and white and resound with this sickening electrical shock sound. It used to scare the crap out of me as a kid. So I guess that isn’t all that different.

Mzungus on a Mission

After some advice from friends, and a little research with my friend Google, I realized that I might just need a yellow fever shot to reenter Pakistan. Uganda itself is not endemic, but Kenya is, and since I had a stop over in Nairobi (even though I wouldn’t be leaving the plane) there was a chance I could get stopped in Dubai or Karachi as a possible health hazard (irony, irony). Since even the chance of Pakistani quarantine was just about as appealing as urinal-mint duty at Grand Central, I decided not to risk it. Besides, it seemed like the perfect reason to delay my return and stay on with my sister for an extra week.

So I called up Emirates in Uganda and told them I would like to change my flight. All well and good, I was told, I could do it at their office in Kampala. Right, I said, but I’d like to do it over the phone because I’m four hours away by bus. No, apparently that was no longer their policy. You’re sure? I asked. They were very sure.

So this was troubling. My flight was scheduled for Sunday night and here it was Friday morning. So I did the only thing a man in my situation could do, I grabbed my brother in law for moral support and headed off on a crazy cross-country odyssey. We packed two bags and within half an hour were standing on the main road, waiting for a lift. Within five minutes a taxi pulled over that only had 7 people in it, so, plenty of room. We drove the 40 minutes to the town of Mbarara where we arrived at the bus-park just as a bus was leaving for Kampala. This meant that the bus was nearly full to capacity, but it also meant that it was leaving right away. I didn’t realize how lucky this was until later in the week when we got on the 2:00 bus and waited until 4:30 until it filled up and departed.

Mike found a seat about midway back and I made my way all the way to the back and sat beside an old man and his daughters. As soon as I sat down, I knew this was going to be a long ride, since these folks were obviously right off the farm, and by the smell of things, it was some kind of manure farm. My only consolation was that I stayed exactly in the middle, so I could stretch my legs out and read. The man to my left introduced himself as a Pentecostal minister and bragged of how he was married to a white woman. I said, that was very nice, and that I approved of his choice of wife, since I knew many nice white women. I suppose I should have anticipated the next question: "Are you saved?" I considered this slowly and carefully. "Yes." I said, with a definitive nod of the head and a big smile that I hoped affirmed my love for Jesus while avoiding all further discussion. It seems my response was adequate, and I breathed a long sigh of relief that I had somehow avoided the single longest ride of my life.

We arrived in the capital city just under four hours later. We jumped on boda-boda’s and headed to the travel agency at the local shopping mall. They informed me that since I hadn’t made my original booking there, I would have to go to the Emirates office directly. We got directions and headed out. On the way down the stairs, Mike said, "That cute girl with the Afro was totally checking you out." I looked around, "Really? Where?" "The girl on the bus." I stopped to consider this. "The bus we were on a half hour ago?" … "Yeah" … "The bus I was on for 4 hours between the Shit Family Robinson and God’s own personal accountant, desperately looking for any distraction?" …"Uhmm, yeah, that’s the one." I shook my head and marveled again at Mike’s amazing wingman skills.

We jumped on two more boda-bodas and headed to the Emirates office. There, after a few false starts in the Ugandan system of "no real use for any line or system whatsoever" (much like the Pakistani system), I used my "Big White Man" status and walked up to the desk. I kept expecting trouble, but my flight was changed with no hassle and as I sat there waiting for her to tell me the service charge, she just kept sitting there waiting for me to leave. Finally I said, "Is that it?" waited for the confused nod, and then rocketed out of there. I guess I’m still a little too used to Air Canada and their bullshit.

We rode over to the International Clinic, where I found a yellow fever shot for just $35. The same thing would cost me about $180 at home. Sweet I thought. I’m getting all my shots in the third world, even if the nurse's fingernails are dirty. I asked her if I should sit for twenty minutes to wait for any effects. She told me to just make my way back if I felt funny. Fair enough... fair enough.

Then it was off to Nando’s and a quick lunch, where I was also able to use the internet café and email off my changes of plan to everyone concerned. As we sat and ate, Mike and I both silently agreed not to mention how well everything was going, since this was, after all, the third world, and we had a long way to go before we were home. No need to jinx it now.

We grabbed a rid to the bus-park, and may miracles never cease, we caught another bus within five minutes of pulling out. Even more surprising, Mike and I found seats together. That is, until a huge, arrogant black woman (why do I keep describing Africans as black I wonder?) slapped me on the back and started yelling at me for stealing her seat and throwing her stuff on the floor. As most people know, I’m very slow to anger, but suddenly my blood was on boil. This was the only Ugandan I had ever met with an attitude. What a huge, fat, bitch. "Fine. Fine!" I said, "Sit!" And then under my breath, "If you can fit." … "What?" she said." … "I said…I’ll just switch."

And so I found myself beside a Muslim natural herbalist. I hit him with an Asaalam and we were on our way to fast friends. Besides, I’ll take a Muslim herbalist any day over a Pentecostal priest or a bulky bush bitch. Poor Mike. I pitied him sitting with her. But not too much. I was still irked about the Afro girl.

And so we arrived home almost exactly 12 hours after we left. Everything accomplished exactly according to plan. It was so extraordinary and out of character that I just had to tell the tale.

Picky Picky...

Know what I just remembered? In Uganda, nose picking and crotch scratching are totally not taboo at all. I suppose this leads to a lot of trouser bogies. Although, most often, I saw the actions simultaneously, like the ole "pat your head, rub your tummy" trick. It’s a strange sight though, to see a man standing, talking to his friends, with one hand knuckle deep and the other patrolling his package. Ambidextrous.

You can’t pick your friends I guess.

How the L'Houest was Won

After a restless night in a tree house and a morning tracking chimps, Anna and I were pretty beat. Still, we figured that since we were there, we might as well try to take in a hike at a nearby wetland reserve. We struck off down the road, confident that soon enough someone would come driving along and give us a lift.

6 Km and a blistering hot hour later, a truck pulled up beside us. Anna told the driver where we were headed and he replied that that was exactly where he was going. We asked how far away it was and he replied, "56 Kilometers." I started to curse. Anna declined the ride since it couldn’t possibly be where we were headed. We walked around the next corner, only to see the sign for the wetlands we were searching for maybe 500 feet away. Our friends in the truck had pulled up beside it, honking and pointing, apparently now in full awareness of where we were talking about. When we finally strolled into the centre, sweat coursing down my back, who should pull in behind us, from our own campsite, but the damned Dutch Dyke Trio. I could barely look at them I was so irritated.

Anyway, we set out with our guide Josea, who was a kind of timid little guy, with a less than perfect command of the English language. I started to wonder whether he was related to Wilson, master of the velocity safari, because every time he tried to point out a rare bird to us, he would cough or trip over something and scare the bird away. I was getting a kick out of it really, because every time it happened, he would get this pitiful look on his face and say, "oh." I also noticed that every bird we were seeing was very rare. I almost expected him to say, "Here you see the ‘Common Swamp Warbler’… very, very rare."

But suddenly I lost all interest in birds, rare or otherwise, as something inside me shifted, and those who know me (or have read this blog more than twice) will recognize that I was back in one of my common scatological predicaments. My face started to sweat as I simultaneously tried to squeeze the cheeks, hike through a swamp, and appear interested in bird life. Every time Josea tried to show me a new bird before he scared it away, my answers were becoming shorter and more curt. "Yeah… nice bird." My sister turned to me, "What’s wrong with you?" Then she looked at my face, and with a knowledge born of many years of siblinghood said, "Oh Lord." I ignored her and concentrated on not losing my shit.

After a harrowing twenty minutes, something shifted again and I was in the clear. But of course, new problems had arisen. Given my strange, clenched stride, my unexpectedly long hikes that day, the dampness of the swamp, and my generally poor choice of undergarment that morning, I had set in motion a painful process of chafing that was impossible to reverse. That's right, I was in the possible grips of Jungle-Rot. Still, it was better than dropping a long call in my drawers.

As we were walking along a shoddily maintained board walk, I heard Josea say something in front of me. "What?" I asked. "Mind the…." He mumbled. "Pardon?" I said. Finally he turned around and pointed at my feet, "Mind the Ants." I looked down and sure enough I was being swarmed by fire ants. I ran forward like an idiot, shaking my feet and trying not to fall in the swamp. I reached the field and brushed the last of the insects off my feet. "You’re in the clear," said my sister. I breathed a sigh of relief and kept walking another twenty yards before I yelped, "Like hell I’m in the clear!!" I ripped up my pant leg and swiped off the ants that were biting their way indiscriminately up my legs. Fire in my pants, and not in a good way. I managed to head them off at the pass, but after that I felt creepy-crawly for the rest of the day. And what with the intermittent pain of my chafing issue, I started to worry that maybe some ants had made it past the knee-cap. Oh the mind is a powerful fear monger. And I have to say, that in the end, Mom was right, when we were in the back of the car as kids, we did act like we had ants in our pants.

I almost forgot about the ants when the boardwalk collapsed beneath us and the boots I had so desperately tried to keep dry were soaked. At least it’ll drown the ants, I thought to myself, just marvelling in how much I was enjoying this hike. Then however, things began to look up. We spotted a very rare primate called the L’Houest Monkey. I started cracking up, because as we were watching this majestic black monkey with a beautiful white beard and whiskers, Josea kept saying to Anna, "Look! Look at the tests!" Anna was confused. "The what?" "The tests! The tests!" Finally he used the full term of "testicles" thus clarifying his attempt at "testes." Either way, a little black dude, urging my sister to stare at a monkey’s package is hilarious any day. But I have to admit, it was interesting, as the monkey’s genitalia are a bright blue, thus, I assume the L’Houest Monkey is the most frustrated of primates.

We finally made it back to base-camp, put up our soggy feet and waited for the Flying Dutch Dykes to return, to see if we could get a ride. We had a little tussle with one of them, who, when Anna asked her whether she spoke French to try and aid in the conversation, replied. "No, I speaks English." I almost said, " I beg to differ," but we were looking for a ride after all. Still, these damn women, my Ugandan Nemesis, were unsure whether they could give us a ride back. Finally we approached their guide, who said of course they’d drop us off at the campsite they also were returning to.

Thank God… I was swamped.

Monkey's Business

Despite our fatigue, my sister and I were understandably excited to go tracking chimps in the rainforest, especially since we had travelled a helluva long way in a stinking mini-bus and paid a lot of money to do so. As we ate breakfast, I looked at the other tourists that had signed up, We seemed destined to be saddled with a group of surly Dutch women with harsh expressions and short greasy hair. I couldn’t help thinking of the little dutch boy and what he could do with his thumb in this situation. They seemed to be complaining about everything, and I turned to my sister, rolled my eyes and said, "White people." " Are they Dutch or German?" she asked me. " I dunno," I replied, "They all look the same to me."

Luckily for us, our friend J.B. decided to guide us. We were leaving the Dowdy Dutch Dykes behind, so it was going to be just the two of us (we can make it if we try). I liked J.B., even though he was still ribbing us about the Black Mamba. He reminded me of Forrest Whittaker, except with no lazy eye, in fact he was fully binocular (with binoculars). I must say he was an amazing guide. He could identify birds by their calls and could often whistle out to them and get replies. I was so intent on the hike and all the birds and monkeys we were seeing, that I started to follow J.B. off the path at one point. "No," he said, holding out his hand like a traffic-cop, "Short-Call." I was a little embarrassed, as short-call is Ugandan terminology for taking a piss, and I was about to follow J.B. into the bush to help him do his business.

After about an hour and a half I was starting to worry whether we would actually see any chimpanzees. After two hours, I was starting to calculate how much money I had spent to get there and how much more cash these damn monkeys must rake in a month than I do. But then suddenly J.B. stopped and pointed up in the trees. I craned my neck and saw absolutely nothing. Just as I was about to smack J.B. for getting my hopes up, from high in the canopy came a low grunting noise that escalated and built to a screaming cry that echoed across the rainforest. From three other locations in the forest rose responding calls and the air was allive with the eerie, echoing correspondence. I felt a chill pass through me as I took in one of the most powerful auditory experiences I have ever encountered. "They are talking," said J.B. in case we missed it. I was pretty sure they were saying, "Look, the dumbass humans are back."

Anna and I watched as two chimps worked their way along the tree-tops, having breakfast and grunting in satisfaction. I was struck both by how large they were, and, as I presume most people are, by how human and familiar their actions seemed. At one point, the big male swung out, holding a branch over his head for balance, and stood facing us. "Short-Call," said J.B. I marvelled at the weakness of his bladder but moved to get out of his way, until with a spattering like raindrops, I realized he was talking about the chimp. And boy, could that monkey pee. A cascading, golden shower (of sorts) fell before us, steaming in the new morning sun (which brought a whole new meaning to Gorillas in the mist). "I wouldn’t want to be caught under there!" I joked with J.B. "Yes, That would be a warm shower," he replied in such a way that I couldn’t quite tell if he would have liked it or not. As we watched, something fell down through the trees into the undergrowth. "Long-Call," stated J.B. with a nod of his head. I looked to him for comfirmation. "Poop" he said, in case I had misunderstood the nomenclature. "I got it." I said. "Do you want to see?" asked our intrepid guide. I declined the opportunity.

After breakfast and his retinue of bodily functions, our chimp started to descend. Incredibly, he chose a route that landed him about two metres from our position. Luckily enough, my camera failed completely and I missed a fantastic shot. And I could have sworn that damn monkey stuck his tongue out at me. So I gave him the finger and said, "How’s that for sign language?"

We followed the chimp calls over to another tree where three chimps were grooming each other. I was engrossed in watching this while I slowly massaged my now aching neck. "David!" called J.B., urging me over to where he stood. Pointing at a nut infused mass on the ground he said, "Feces." I didn’t respond right away, so he said, "Poop!"... "I got it." I said.

Our time with the chimps was up, but I can’t say I was too disappointed. We had seen a spectacular show, and besides, the grumpy Dutch contingent had reached our location, so I wasn’t all that keen to stay anyway. We gave J.B. a healthy tip, which brought him smiling up to greet us for the rest of our stay. He must have thought I really enjoyed that poop.

Tree House of Horrors

I have to admit that after the Great Black Mamba Scare of 2005 I was slightly skeptical about spending the night in a tree. Especially a tree in the middle of a rainforest, ten minute’s walk from the main camp, guarded by a slithering, black poison repository. Now, if we had almost stepped on some sort of sleeping carnivore, then sure, I would have been happy to sleep in a tree. I would have said, to hell with all of you, there’s no way I’m not sleeping in a tree. But the fact of the matter is that I had just almost stepped on a snake, and now I was looking at the tree in which I intended to sleep, and not half an hour before I had examined a poster depicting a local "Tree Snake." It just seemed like maybe there was no direct need to poke fate in the eye with a fork. But then, I certainly couldn’t show any fear in the presence of my little sister, especially since she was resolutely refusing to show any fear in the presence of her older brother.

However, after climbing up the thirty-foot ladder to our arboreal home for the night, the coolness factor of sleeping in a tree house in the jungle quickly reestablished its footing in my mind. Black Mambas be damned! I’m sleeping in a tree in Africa! So after dinner, my sister and I settled in for the night. We played a little cards and chatted away into the wee hours until we doused our lantern and curled into our bunks for the night. The tree frogs and cicadas soared into a symphonic crescendo and serenaded my attempts at sleep.

Just as I was sliding through that stage where thoughts become dreams, I heard a hissing noise. I stiffened, but it was just my sister. "David!" she stage whispered again, "There’s something in here!" I sat up and listened. "Anna," I whispered back, "You’re a friggin’ nut-case." "No, seriously, I can hear something." The tension was palpable as I strained to hear the faintest sound. Suddenly I heard a scratching, scuttling noise, and I had to admit, it was loud. "You see!" hissed Anna. "No… I can’t see anything, it’s dark." "Shut up." "You shut up." (Sibling nonsense dies hard.) "What is it?" she asked me. "I don’t know Anna, you’re the one that lives in Africa" I whispered, and then added "And why are we whispering?" She had to admit this was a good question. I was irritated that my heart was beating so fast, but I couldn’t get the images of snakes out of my mind, as much as I told myself that they can’t possibly scuttle and scratch.

Quite suddenly, I heard the noise again, and this time I definitely heard little footsteps and was somewhat relieved. Anna heard them too and proclaimed, "Maybe it’s a Bush Baby!" (A Bush Baby is a tiny little nocturnal monkey, and not, as you may be thinking, another derogatory name for the American President.) I realized that the delirium of sleep and darkness was taking its toll on my sister. "Anna, there is no possible way that there is a cute little monkey in our tree house!" "Then what is it?" "I don’t know, maybe it’s a rat, but why would it be in here?" My sister was struck with another epiphany, "It’s eating our Mangoes!" I had forgotten about the mangoes, but reason quickly intervened, "Look Anna, for God’s sake, nothing is eating the mangoes, They’re in a plastic bag and it would make a huge racket." Besides, I still wasn’t dead sure that this thing was actually inside. I suspected we were psyching ourselves out in the dark. She admitted this was true, but at the next assault of the pitter-patters she cried out, "David I think it’s on my bag… Oh god!.. Our Samosas! It’s going to eat through my bag!" Besides being irritated at having so much food in there that I had forgotten about completely, I was getting cranky and sleepy. Before Anna could leap with wild abandon toward any more conclusions, I grabbed her bag and hung it from the roof. "What about the Mangoes?" she asked. I was emphatic, "It's NOT eating our mangoes!" We lit the lantern, since we could hear nothing when the light was on, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later, I awoke in the dark, in a cold sweat, hoping it wasn’t jungle fever because I’ve heard that can be awkward. But no, I heard a distinct chomping noise directly above my head. Something was on the roof. Now it was my turn. "Anna!" I whispered repeatedly until I woke her ass up. In retrospect, I really don’t know why it’s more comforting to sit in the dark with someone else and listen to something crawling on the roof, but it is. I smacked the roof with a book a few times, but nothing would deter our visitor. There was nothing for it, and eventually I fell into a restless sleep, clinging to the knowledge that whatever it was, it wasn’t actually inside the house.

When the alarm went off at 7:00 for our Chimpanzee tracking, I was exhausted. Anna didn’t wake up at all, and she’s the lightest sleeper I know. I shook her awake and we hurriedly got ready and started cleaning up the tree house since we only had it for one night. I picked up our random belongings and then reached down to pick up a bag out of the corner. Slowly, I turned to my sister and said, "Anna. I apologize," … "For what?" she asked.

I didn’t answer, and instead just held up the bag of four, half-eaten and destroyed mangoes….

I really hate being wrong.