Why Am I Here?

At some point or another (whether it be at a party, in conversation, or as a comment on the blog), someone always asks me "The Question." Why are you in Pakistan? Why are you here? Well, I’ve finally decided to tackle the question and satisfy all queries in one fell swoop (which, personally, is my favourite type of swoop).

So why am I here? Why indeed? That is the question, is it not, that we all ask ourselves? Who amongst us has not asked themselves, "Why am I here?" No wonder it is such a difficult question for me to answer. I once asked God for a sign, I said, "God, why am I here? Give me a sign!" And just then, a booming voice in my head said "Why not?" I was blown away by how simultaneously profound and tricksy this God character could be when I suddenly realized that the voice in my head was actually coming over the public address system at a ridiculous conference on self-motivation. Strangely, I hadn't been motivated to attend, but I quickly remembered that the answer to my question, and thus the reason that I was there, was that my boss had made me attend. Problem solved.

But to get back to the question at hand, which realistically we never left, but merely overtook slightly and then cut off from the left lane, the truth of the matter is that I arrived here in Pakistan for work. I had been working for an environmental agency in Calgary and was assigned to Karachi to market exhaust systems for motor-rickshaws and buses that met all international noise and environmental standards.

Well, it appears that our research was not complete on this matter. It's not that the drivers didn't have the money, but that they all answered to a higher authority. Before I knew it, I was mired in a large conspiracy wherein I discovered that the deplorable state of Rickshaw and bus mufflers was purposeful and designed to limit traffic flow by discouraging drivers with clouds of stinking exhaust from all quarters. This limited increase in traffic circulation allowed road-contracts to be drug out and extended for years over budget in something known as "Project Schon Circle."

Needless to say, I realized I was in over my head and I got out as quickly as I could, but not before sustaining a gunshot wound to the lower calf. I limped my way to Agha Khan University Hospital where, unfortunately I was passed off to a med-school student who ordered the removal of my tonsils and appendix. Just before I was sent in for a C-Section, my hitherto unnoticed calf was discovered to have festered. It appeared that I had contracted Dyptheria because the bullet that had penetrated the fleshy part of my lower leg had actually been a rock hard ball of donkey dung. I should have guessed this, since the bullet had been fired at me from an ancient, single-shot, muzzle-loaded musket by a man sitting on a donkey... what a jackass.

I recovered within hours from the illness because I have an advanced immuno-response system that developed because I grew up next to a Nuclear Generating Station. We found out later that our well water had been tainted by small amounts of irradiated heavy water, which luckily for me, modified my DNA to create a super-human immune system. Not so fortunate was my Uncle Chester (or as he is generally known now, Uncle Twitchy). My cousin Joe found that he could pee a glow in the dark stream of neon green, which was always a cool party trick, but I personally thought that I came out with the better deal.

Unfortunately, my special immune abilities were noticed by the medical staff that attended me, despite the fact that I told them I was a fast healer based on a high-octane chemical cocktail of children’s Tylenol, Triple brewed Tim Horton’s cofee, and Pakola. Before I knew it, I was moved to a military hospital and under examination. It seemed that they were interested in cloning my immune system in street rats, in the hope of some day creating a Pakistani Super Fighting Force. Things backfired when the rats escaped and started hunting in packs and for the moment I was allowed to leave the hospital. However, my passport was taken from me and my identity erased. I sold the rest of my rickshaw mufflers to a scrap metal dealer and moved on to work for an NGO, wherein I relay secrets to the Canadian government, which pays the bills.

So, that's the short version. Simple Story of wrong place, wrong time. I've always said that you have got to know your market.