By George - I Think He's Got It....

Almost from the time I first planted my dusty, Canadian boots on the still dustier soil of the subcontinent, I have been confronted by the cultural phenomenon that is "George." A tall (the guy has got to be 6’5" if he’s an inch… which he is) sandy-haired, Briton he definitely wins all awards for standing out in a crowd even more than I do. Now, the way I’ve heard the story told, is that George came to the Islamic Republic with the BBC, fell in love (both with the country, and a wonderful girl) and decided to stay. In this way, he embodies nearly all of my mother’s worst nightmares.

With his television experience and connections, George put together a program detailing his attempts to become Pakistani, entitled "George Ka Pakistan," which began airing a few months after my arrival. It was very popular, and although I only caught a few episodes, it seemed like a quality production.

Now, I guess because we're both paler than most, people started comparing me to George at every step. Some people actually mistook me for him, which is about as plausible as my being mistaken for Bob Marley. My friend’s mother just wouldn’t let it go. While the show was airing, she would say: "Have you taken a train in Pakistan?" … "No, Auntie, I haven’t"… "Have you ever wrestled a Lahori?"… "No Auntie, I haven’t"… "Oh-ho, George has!" She seemed to get great amusement from pointing out everything that George had done that I had not. I would try to point out that I had only been in the country for a few months, and that I didn’t have a funded film crew following me around, but that too was apparently my own fault.

Over the past year or so since George’s program aired, the idea that I should have my own show occurs to just about everyone at some point (usually an inebriated point). There were a good three months there, when at some point during a party, someone would shout out, "David Ka Pakistan!" because apparently, even if I did have my own TV show, apparently I would be required to give it the exact same name as George’s. Some people were adamant. "You fit in great here! You’d make a great show, go pitch it to Geo." As if that would make any sense, if you already have a show with a big white guy bumbling around, I seriously doubt you need two.

As the months passed, I started to find it amusing that George and I had never actually met, even though we have many common acquaintances, and everyone presumes we must be best buds. So I decided, for no particular reason but my own penchant for hyperbole, that George would be my nemesis. If anyone even mentioned George, I would raise my fist and utter his name with the vehemence of Seinfeld’s "Newman." I played up the humour of my being upset that he had arrived here first and trumped me. I thought it was pretty clear that I was only kidding around, but one acquaintance took me aside and told me not to worry, because although George had the masses, I had the elite, and the elite control the masses. Believe me, I had no idea what to think of that. I even did a radio interview a while back, in which I was billed as "The second-most popular white man in Pakistan." To which I would raise my fist (always effective on radio) and mutter "Damn that George."

In any case, I decided that if I ever did create my own show, I would make sure that there was one segment where Dave and George met. It would be straight out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A face off in the middle of a dusty street, eyes squinting, dirt swirling, flies buzzing as garbage blows past our feet… (luckily, there’d be no shortage of locations). Tension would build, there’d be the sound of a heart beating steadily faster in the background… And then, you know, we’d just shake hands or something, and he’d say, "Nice Country eh?" and I’d say, ‘Jolly good."

So all of this is just a long rambling introduction to the fact that after a year and a half, and many near-misses, I finally met George. I was at a wedding and severely hungry (which is commonplace), so when food was finally served at midnight, I abandoned my friends and hit the buffet. Now, if you’re white, sitting by yourself in any social situation in Pakistan will draw foreigners to you like iron-filings to an electro-magnet. It is a situation I generally try to avoid, since often the white guys you meet abroad tend to put the "cock" in Caucasian, if you know what I mean, and sometimes I feel like the kid in the Sixth-Sense (I see White People!). But on this particular night, I was pleased to see George and his friend Andy heading my way.

I have to admit to being a little nervous. Especially since I had built up this meeting over the past year with absolutely no justification, and now none of my friends were here to see it. Everyone knows George, but now that I had been on the scene for so long, and appear regularly in print, on stage, and in sub-par television productions… had he heard of me? We shook hands and introduced ourselves. "Ahh, the famous George," I said, with the help of the several rum and cokes dancing in my belly, "we finally meet." He smiled pleasantly, and said, "Indeed, and you are the famous Daniel!"

There was one of those awkward silences, as I strove for something witty to say about a lion’s den. Finally Andy came to the rescue, saying, "Umm, I think it’s Dave… right?" Yes, I assured him, it was Dave, and obviously not very famous at all. George seemed appalled at his mistake, and I really wanted to make him forget it, but I couldn’t think how. We all chatted for a bit, but small talk faltered and struggled. Finally, George said, "Look, I feel terrible about getting your name wrong." I attempted to assuage him, telling him not to be silly, think nothing of it, etc. But he seemed much more shy than I expected, and continued to shift awkwardly and blush. Finally, he mumbled something about grabbing some more food and made his escape.

Finally, my meeting with George… and I had blown it. If only I’d had time to prepare! I thought to myself. Once again, as with most things in life, expectations had battled with reality and suffered a shattering defeat. So instead, I had a very interesting chat about teaching English in Pakistan with his pal Andy, which made me feel better about the situation as a whole.

So hopefully, as long as this article doesn’t appear in the paper (editors take note) and scare him off, I can try to patch things up on our next meeting. Inshallah, I will reconcile with Pakistan’s favourite white man, and establish myself securely as number two.