At the Intersection

Well folks, it’s been a long time since we rock n rolled.

I must say I’m embarrassed, not having communicated with you all in such a long time. I have no real excuse, except that, for a while, I really felt like I had nothing new and exciting to write about. My sister remarked the same thing in her last email home from Africa. I know I see a thousand interesting things every day, but after awhile everything becomes commonplace. It’s amazing how fast we adapt to things. Anyway, with this in mind, a few weeks ago, I jotted down everything that happens at a traffic intersection here that would be different at home. I figured this would get right to the root of the problem and force me to write about something I see everyday. So, here we go.

Let’s try to transpose you inside a Honda Civic sedan, sitting in line at a large intersection. The light is red. The first thing you might notice, is that the idea of one car per lane is considered an extreme waste of space. Where we might have three cars abreast, you could safely estimate at least four or five here, with a bunch of motorcycles and a few motor-rickshaws squeezed in. Anytime there is a slight space, cars manoeuvre to squeeze into it.

As you wait, motorcycles will gradually weave their way through to the front where they will have a head start on being overtaken again by the cars behind them… until they get to the next intersection. (The unending cycle of cycles, I like to call it). People here will carry just about anything on a motorcycle. I’ve seen up to five people on one small bike, but admittedly a few were children. I’ve seen computers, lawnmowers, belt-sanders, and large panes of glass, all being carried on motorcycles. Carrying large panes of glass on a motorcycle is actually quite efficient, since normally, to break a pane of glass in a comic fashion, it takes two workers in overalls carrying the glass, and two guys on a motorcycle to crash through it… this cuts out the middlemen.

Next, the environmentally conscious among us will notice the haze. The gathering of all strata of the automotive hierarchy at a large intersection makes the concept of “emission control” seem about as helpful as pissing on a brush fire. Busses belch more smoke than an unemployed fire-eater, and combined with the fact that many vehicles are older than I am, the entire scene often looks like someone has gone over it with a number two pencil.

Traffic circles are very common at large intersections. They are generally known over here as “roundabouts” which is British for “Round-a-bout now, you’d better fend for yourself.” We don’t have many in Canada, but they are certainly necessary here, since there could easily be at least eight roads leading into one intersection. If the roundabout has no traffic lights, then you just enter the circle and generally allow those already in the circle the right of way. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work, often those rights are denied. However, even if there are traffic lights to follow, they are moreso guidelines, kind of like the pirate’s code. For every green light, you have to wait for the last ten cars that tag on to the end of the opposite stream of cars so they can run the red. It’s like living in that old joke where the cab driver justifies running all the red lights because his brother does it, but then stops for the greens because his brother might be coming the other way.

If it’s a long light, you will soon be accosted by any number of, let’s call them intersection entrepreneurs. Believe me, after awhile, you will be nostalgic for squeegee kids back home. The variety of wares being peddled window to window is staggering. You might be offered newspapers, yards of fabric, inflatable toys, balloons, coconut slices or whole bouquets of flowers. Once in a while, you might get a grubby looking guy, with a grubby looking monkey, that will do tricks for you on the hood of your car (the monkey, not the guy). You pay for this entertainment of course, but most consider it a better plan to buy some bananas for the monkey, since who knows where the money goes. One of the strangest schemes involves guys that come along with small birds trapped in a net, which you then pay for the privilege of freeing. I’m told this caters to an element of Islam that states that you will be looked upon favourably in heaven if you free animals from captivity. But this seems a little out of joint if you ask me. Those guys had to capture the birds in the first place, so that you can free them. Cut out the middleman, and you’ve got no bird business. Although, I have also heard that the released birds fly right back to the same tree and are captured again. So this makes it more like renting the bird’s freedom (similar to how it sometimes feels like you are “Renting “the draught beer at a dodgy pub). Nevertheless, I have watched this go on with somewhat disgusted interest for a while, but I still am no closer to discovering why the caged bird sings.

And, of course, we haven’t even come to the beggars yet. Persistency is the name of the game here. Women with their tiny babies walk from car to car, rapping on the window to try to force eye contact. I am usually intensely glad that I have no idea what they are saying. Old men with canes and crutches make their way through the throngs of cars with amazing dexterity. Physical deformities are presumably a blessing to the intersection beggar, because you see any manner of unsettling sights. I won’t go into any efforts to describe them. But there is a man at one intersection that I pass nearly everyday, whose leg is amputated just below the knee, and I’m sorry, but every single time I see him sitting on the sidewalk, for a split second, I think he is dangling his leg through a hole in the pavement. I have adapted the stone-faced forward stare in answer to all supplication, moreso because I can’t bear to look. I’m such a softy. I remember one time in Toronto, I gave some change to a guy, and he was friendly enough, so I asked him why he asked me out of everyone there. He said it was in my eyes; I took to wearing sunglasses.

But to get back to the intersection, interestingly, there is an amber light not just before the red, but also before the green. This allows everyone adequate time to start honking their horns. The noise is quite amazing. You’ve got all the normal horn noises, but some busses and trucks have customized sirens, whistles and even the old Model T type (that can only be expressed onomatopoeically as “Ka-Hoogha”). Add to this, that rickshaw drivers remove their mufflers to save on gas, tanker trucks sit alongside braying donkeys and camels pulling carts, and you’ve got yourself quite a racket.

In general, the only rule of the road that is universally applicable is “proceed with caution.” You never know when a pedestrian will cross the road at random, or when someone will be zipping up beside you, or cutting in front, or slamming on the brakes to avoid ten guys pushing a bus. Then, you also have to watch for manholes with no covers, and other such hazards, which are often conveniently marked by a large cement block. This is helpful, since you can then smash into a huge rock before you drop your axle into a hole. There are plenty of accidents, but they are usually fender-benders. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of spectacular crashes, but because you can never get up the speed that we maintain on our highways, the accidents seem less severe. So don’t get me to try and wager which system is better. I bet we have more traffic fatalities per car owners in Canada. And I bet when I get back, I’m going to feel plenty restricted following all the rules.

Well, there you have it. A few things that I see every single day, to and from work. Once again, I have run long, but presumably you guys are used to it by now. I have taken a few interesting trips in the last few weeks, so I’ll update you on them soon.

Cheers!

The Davistani

Tsunamis Great and Small

Helllo Folks,

Just wanted to check in and wish everyone a very Happy New Year and all the rest. And, no, it's not too late. The year is yet new, is it not? And besides, I'm in a third world country, I'm backward. Which makes it difficult to find clothes to fit.

As I've had many inquiries, let me first assure everyone that I am fine, no Tsunamis have crested my shores. There is a rather large chunk of landmass called India that fortunately sheltered us here. It's probably the first time Pakistanis were thankful for India. As my friend Jeff said, "Let me reveal my lack of geography and ask if you are ok." Well, hazy South Asian Cartographers though you may be, I thank you all for your concern.

Unfortunately, as you know, other countries in the area were not so fortunate. All joking aside, it is devastating. It's rather shaking as well, because I was in Sri Lanka such a short time ago. I have seen beaches and towns on the news that I visited that are now destroyed, if you can even consider them there at all anymore. What you have to understand is that in Sri Lanka, the population is concentrated along the coasts. My hotel was maybe twenty metres from the ocean. The
main, north-south road down the island never strays much more than a couple hundred metres from the water. There is just no infrastructure, as we know it, to accommodate what's happening there. The people are poor, and really didn't have much to begin with. I know it's not much of a personal connection, but having been there has taken away that distance that watching CNN creates. Usually I would watch something like this, and think, wow, that is horrible. But now, I can't watch it anymore, I get choked up. The media drives me nuts on these kinds of things. I don't need to see survivors relentlessly badgered about how they had to watch their children swept away. But, since 24 hour news is the norm now, that's a lot of time to fill. Well, I'm getting dangerously close to ranting and raving about the sad state of affairs in the western media, so I shall digress. Let me just say, that if you do have the means, please contribute to the relief efforts. My guess on this one, and don't hold me to it, is that the death toll will top 500 000. There are whole towns in Indonesia, of 100 000 plus, that they can't reach, and appear to be
devasted from the air.

But, on happier notes, let me tell you about my Christmas. I decided I would manufacture my own Christmas spirit and it went quite well. Everyone knows about Christmas here, but it is not really celebrated per se. It is a national holiday, but that is only because the founder of Pakistan was born on Dec. 25th. Its actually quite a common birthday here. I tried to explain to people here that it's not common at home, because, you see, it gets cold in the winter... and that's when people tend to... cuddle. So, I ordered in a frozen turkey at the local supermarket that caters to foriegners. Turkey is not a common food here, and thus, it was the most expensive turkey dinner in the history of the world. I paid Rs. 3250 for that bird, or about $65 Canadian. But hey, its Christmas. So, I got up early, fired up the oven and got cookin. I served about 12 people, and we had a gift exchange and sat around with the wine and stories until after midnight... it was probably one of the most special nights I've had here. Real Christmas spirit in the Islamic Republic.

Unfortunately, the next day, my own mini-Tsunami struck. I found out that my Grandfather had died quite suddenly. It was certainly a shock. We were quite close, and he was an amazing man, as anyone who knew him could attest. I was quite shaken. Especially given the impotence I feel from being so far away. My sister in Africa, and I can only take solace in knowing that he was very proud of our travels and would have been upset if we had come home just for him. I wrote a small piece that my brother read at that funeral, I won't include it here, since we're already going long, but if anyone would like to read it I will happily send it along. Also, thanks to everyone that sent their condolences, if I haven't responded to you personally, I will soon.

So, that brings us to New Years. I took some time off from work, and had some time to myself in my own grieving process, and by New Years Eve I was ready to blow off some steam. I had committed to bartending for a large charity Ball for a few hours. Wow. That was quite the experience. Looking out over the crowd when they announced that the bar was free for two hours, was something akin to standing in the streets of Pamplona and saying, "oh look, bulls." Four of us went full throttle, until almost all the booze was drained. It was a lot of fun though, and got me primed for the rest of the night. It really was an experience, there is no other way
to explain it. There were nearly 2000 people there, and when I looked out across the crowd, I couldn't help thinking, well, if you invited my whole town to a party, this would still be more people. Not how I would want to spend every New Years, but still, a good time was had by... well... me.

I'm happy to report that my January 1st was uneventful. Sometimes the first day of the year can be indicative of the year to come. For example, last year I locked my keys in my car, while it was running, on empty, with the lights on, at midnight, and had to wait for two hours in the freezing Calgary night, until I got a tow truck, drove home and promptly slid into a telephone booth. This eventuality, in retrospect, apparently means that your entire life will change and you will end up in a third world country by year's end. Who would have guessed?

And so I shall sign off. I will write a full on Chronicle of Dave soon. I know that I have been negligent. I will try to appease my fans soon.

Happy New Year Everyone,

David

Serendipity

Well folks,

In the same spirit as such spontaneous Dave adventures as the “Let’s Drive South Until it Gets Warm” tour of the Florida Keys… or the ever classic, “Let’s drive 9 hours to Cape Breton to party for ten hours and drive home” tour, I embarked on the “We’re going to Sri Lanka day after tomorrow, want to come?” tour. Good times.

Sri Lanka is a small island just off the coast of Southern India, (you may have heard of India, its Pakistan’s sparsely populated neighbour). It’s often called the tear-drop of India, and Marco Polo, inventor of swimming pool hide-and-seek the world over, thought it was the finest island of its size in the world. Which, of course, begs the question, did he not make it to Grand Manan? But no, Sri Lanka is slightly bigger than the gem of the Fundy Bay, with a population of 19 million. Just to make my mother feel that much more worried, the country was mired in a bloody terrorist war up until about two years ago. But, all seems well at the moment. The country is about 65% Buddhist, 15% Hindi (or is that Hindu, I can never remember), 13% Christian and 7% Muslim… does that add up? So culturally, it’s quite diverse. Since Buddhists abhor killing any living thing, animals roam the roads freely and everyone tries valiantly not to hit them. This includes Sri Lanka’s most famous animal, the elephant (except in that case you are less worried about hitting the elephant as you are of the elephant hitting you.)

So, I flew into the capital city of Columbo on Thursday afternoon, in the company of Zubair, (who reminds me so much of my friend Frank Candelorro, that I just started calling him Frank after a while), and Ali Adamjee, (a luxurious gourmand, who’s every word is virtually incomprehensible). First stop was the airport duty free. You should see Paki’s go wild with the sight of cheap booze during Ramadan. Then off to our hotel, where we struck out to see the city. We made it about 500 feet to the bar across the street. I could see what kind of vacation this was going to be. That night we hooked up with an old college buddy of Ali’s named Soren. With true maritime hospitality, he took us under his wing and to a fantastic restaurant with, what do you know, drinks to follow. Soren is the kind of guy that if you called him an optimist, it would be an insult (“That glass half full? Are you kidding? It’s over flowing! It’s the greatest drink in the world”). He really should work for Sri Lankan tourism, because he was willing to convince us that anything to do with his country was the absolute best thing ever! The next night he took us to a high society party, the Sri Lankan upper crust. It was definitely crusty, but an extremely tall woman with a long white wig who we nick-named Cher kept looking my way, so we had a good time nevertheless.

The next day, we hired a car and driver and struck off exploring down the coast. Sri Lanka is amazingly beautiful. On one side of the road are dense jungles, on the other, the beach. The locals are super friendly, but will try to rip you off at any turn. Everything is super cheap, so it doesn’t matter that much. It’s almost like a national pastime. I had the old, give back two 10’s instead of two 50’s pulled on me at least twice that I noticed. Whenever you catch them at it, it’s like you’re in on a joke. Good work! You caught me, now let’s get down to business, amongst chuckles and grins. We decided to stop in a town called Hikkaduwa, at a cheap but excellent hotel called the Moonbeam. From there, we alternately relaxed, drank, slept, and made little forays down the coast. One day we went further south to a large Buddhist Temple, which boasted 200,000 paintings of the 550 lives of the Buddha. On our way back, between bars (having a driver is great), we walked around the old fort walls of Galle, which were built by the Dutch in the 1650’s. Some tourist stuff for sure, but don’t worry much relaxing was to be had.

One of the nights at the moonbeam, it’s kind of hazy which night for some reason, we met our travel buddies. Three Canadian Girls, Naomi, Kerri and Jerilyne and a Hawaiian named Holly. They all teach at a school in Kuwait and were burning off some Ramadan steam like us. So we burnt the midnight oil with them a couple times, but don’t worry mom, I think they were more interested in the local surfers than the 2-Pak-Canuck team, and who can blame them, you should have seen the size of their long-boards.

So then back to Columbo, where we met up with Soren again, with predictable results. We also reunited with our Canadian/Hawaiian pals for some drink and dance. Not only were we capping off our vacations, we were also 7 people flying back to dry countries the next day. Good times.

The original Arab name for Sri Lanka was Saren Dib, which translates along the lines of bountiful island. But it is also where we get the word Serendipity, which, according to the Dave-Ford English Dictionary (only slightly less popular than Oxford) is, you know, making happy discoveries by accident. I couldn’t sum up this spontaneous trip better.

Gone Fishin'

A few weekends ago, I was invited on a fishing trip. When I was asked, the guy beside me replied saying, “Of course he wants to, he’s Canadian.” I told them that this should also be their response to: “Do you want a beer.” I’ve given up explaining that Canadians are not all woodsmen. Lately, I just go with the explanation that Canadians are just like Americans, except more polite, and we don’t think that Jesus is in the White House. I wasn’t sure exactly what a fishing trip in Pakistan was going to entail, but that’s generally the case with everything I do here. Want to do this? Sure, what is it? Want to eat this? Sure, what is it?

So, we struck out at 4:30 AM, or at least, that was the plan. I think we finally were on the road by 5:45. So far, exactly like a Canadian fishing trip. We drove out of the city along the coast for about an hour past French Beach, where we usually go when we are headed “to the beach.” I have no idea why it is called French Beach, and I have even asked, but I certainly haven’t seen any Parisians strolling around. We crossed a small mountain range into the neighbouring province of Bulachistan, Karachi’s province being Sindh. You have to use your imagination on the “mountain” part. We’re not talking the Rockies here or even the Appalachians really. But they’re still impressive pale outcrops of rock that tower above the sand. You really get the sense that a couple of minor tectonic plates had a disagreement over something a few eons ago.

Bulachistan is one of Pakistan’s larger provinces, but it is also the most sparsely populated. We pulled into a village, whose name I don’t remember, and I don’t suppose it would be essential information for any of you anyway. The village is undeniably a fishing village, and you get the feeling that nothing has changed much there in a quite some time. My friend had recently had a boat built and it was tied up in front of the village, along with at least sixty others. The boats are difficult to describe, but that’s not going to stop me from trying. They are open, with no cabin. The front and back are identical and amidships flares out quite widely. You know those Greek warships featured in terrible movies about the fall of Troy? Well, these aren’t really like that at all. Maybe more like a Viking ship, except not really either. You know, maybe try picturing a Venetian Gondola that’s 30 feet long, has a raised section at either end, and in lieu of a swarthy Italian with a pole, has two, big diesel engines on the stern deck. These engines power propellers that are on long shafts that can be raised and lowered with ropes. That way, they can bring the boats right up on the beach. We only used one of these engines and propellers, so I don’t know if the other is back up, or whether they do use both sometimes. The rudder comes up well above the deck and ends in a yoke with a rope tied to both sides. This allows the boatman to sling the rope across his middle and steer by pulling one way or the other. Conveniently, this also allows him a large range of movement on the stern deck while still in control. The design of the boat is very old; when the villagers build one, there are no plans followed or measurements taken, the workmanship has been passed down for generations. Even the slips where the boats are moored are passed down from family to family.

As we were loading the boat, there was a buzz amongst the villagers that a marlin had been caught the day before. I asked about this, and was told it was only a small one, but it was one of the first of the season. How small, I asked.…. Oh, only about 100 Kilos. Right, I thought, now I understand what kind of fishing this is going to be. I looked sceptically at the boat, and tried to imagine hauling a 200 pound fish over the side. The kids of the village were about the cutest I’ve seen. They have dark skin, much darker than those from Sindh province, and their hair is bleached out, I’m presuming by the sun and salt water. This kind of makes them look like little Beyonce’s. They would shuffle up shyly. I’m not sure if they had ever seen the likes of me before. We gave them some candy and they shared it amongst themselves, helping the smaller ones get the wrappers off. Awww.

And then we were off. The boatmen can control these craft with amazing skill. We had two villagers along with us as our crew. The older man was primarily in charge of steering, and he was straight out of Hemmingway, except maybe for the turban. He was old and gristled, with just the right amount of teeth for a big toothless grin. He also wore glasses, which made me think he knew what he was doing. The other guy was younger and in charge of the engine and the fishing gear. He reminded me of a darker version of Joe Walsh, post Eagles, pre- reunion tours. He was also great, with a big smile most of the time. Now, this might be because the two of them consumed more Hashish in 8 hours than I have ever seen in my short life. They were constantly rolling up another joint, and they even seemed to have some form of marijuana that they chawed on like chewin’ tobacker.

We cruised out, and set 8 deep-sea, spinning tackle rods trolling behind us. Any time one would go off, the guys would run to cut the engine, and then we would play the fish in. We caught a few small yellow fin tuna, about three feet long. The fishermen all use an interesting system of hand signals as they pass each other in the noisy boats. First, you raise your hand over your head as if you were holding an imaginary ball. This means, “What’s the story?” Then they use a series of signals to tell you what fish they have caught and how many. We started getting signals from these guys telling us that there were Barracuda (signal: snipping fingers like scissors) schooling back by one of the islands. So we turned around and headed that way.

The island was yet another peak of the mountain range that I spoke of earlier, but it thrust directly out of the water a few hundred feet. It’s pretty impressive. Around the island swarmed just about every boat in the vicinity. They were all making passes through the same area. So picture 50 boats passing pell-mell, higgledy-piggledy, trailing fifty feet of line behind them, and using only hand signals to communicate. It made me think of traffic back in the city. On each pass we were hooking four or five barracuda at a time. Here is a fish that is done in by its love of shiny things. We took in about 20 fish, and I caught the biggest one (ha!), about 4 feet long. It reminded me of fishing Mackerel at home, how you can just drop your line and catch a bucket load. But speaking of Mackerel, when we got back to the beach, someone had caught a large one. It looked exactly like mackerel at home, except, you know, it was over 6 feet long. Of course, you know me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Holy Mackerel.” Don’t worry, no one laughed then either.

On the way home we entered the city limits, and one of the guys said, “Ahhh, back to civilization.” ….I refrained from any comment.

List Number 2

List Number 2

More things I have learned…

1. I must drink more water. “If I don’t pee white, then I’m a frightful sight.”
2. Light switches go up for off and down for on. A big thanks to the Brits for my continually turning the wrong things on.
3. In regards to item #1, I’ve realized that my necessity for water, and my contant ingestion of spicey foods is something akin to mixing a quart of 10 W 30 with a Litre of Evian. See how that mixes.
4. If it is dark, I can be mistaken for a native. This is due in part to my trendy beard. Now I need only work on my tan… AKA my disguise.
5. Pursuant to items numbers 1 and 3, I am going through toilet paper at an alarming rate.
6. In Canada, I could have counted how often I took a cold shower in my life. Here, it is a daily occurrence.
7. Rain is an event.
8. This town is woefully unprepared for rain. A light drizzle has led to two foot deep puddles and roads washed out.
9. It doesn’t take you long to adapt, to forget you’re on the other side of the world. Then you see a camel.
10. The idea that a Canadian is here voluntarily is proportionately just as hilarious to people over here.

At The Walking Park

Hello once again,

Well, I’ve made it through three whole weeks. Not too shabby. Not many bombings to speak of, and only the average amount of violent crime. Luckily I’ve seen none first hand. Although, I have met one guy who is adamant that we should stage my beheading on the internet. I have, so far, been able to hold him off.

Every week day, I go for a walk with Sophie’s father, Javed. He has recently retired, and Sophie feels that I am probably the greatest retirement present he has yet received. In any case, Javed invited me along for his walk on one of my first days here. I didn’t know at that time that I was signing up for the duration.

We drive to a nearby walking park, which is in the middle of my area of Karachi, known as Defence Society (A forbidding name, but a nice area, its name pertains to its former status as military holdings, before it was parcelled off and sold). To enter the gates and park a car at the park costs a marginal 15 Rupees (5 Rupees per person and 5 for the car), in total, this is the equivalent of about 30 cents. The park has two 1 km walking/running tracks. The outer one is for clock-wise walking and the inner for counter-clockwise. This is fortunate, since you can switch tracks halfway through and unwind yourself. (This relates to my theory as to why Nascar fans are too wound up)(Wow, I’m going wild with parenthetical statements today). In the centre of the tracks is a large open green space with play grounds, a place for roller-blading, and a small canteen/café.

I enjoy this daily foray for a number of reasons. It’s nice to get out during the day for one, and to get a little exercise. Since I don’t drive, or at least not yet, I’m usually inside for most of the daylight hours. Karachi isn’t the type of place where you would just up and walk around town. It’s safe enough, but one shouldn’t push it. So, most of my adventures are at night, when Sophie gets home from work. This isn’t such a bad thing, since the heat and I are not yet best friends. I also enjoy the walking park because there is a wide cross-section of people that I see there. Families bring their kids to play in the on the playground and on the lawns. And you never know who will be walking or jogging. Javed has pointed out many judges and politicians out for exercise amongst the regular folks. It reminds me of the Circus Maximus in Rome. It’s also interesting to see the variety of dress. It still gives me a chuckle to see people in traditional dress, long sweeping shirts over baggy comfortable pants, in any variety of colour and pattern, topping off their costume with Reeboks or Nike running shoes. But at least half the people there are dressed exactly as we would for a bit of exercise. One thing that has surprised me in general, is that the number of women wearing complete cover is very minimal. I would say perhaps 2% of women I have seen. This is partially because I have only really been around the middle and upper classes, but still, my stereotyped mind expected more women under cover than not.
At some point during our walk, the sun begins to set, which is my favourite part. The park is situated right beside one mosque, and there are two others within a few block’s radius. As soon as the sun sets, the call for prayers begins, and the loud-speakers mounted on the spires of the mosques begin to blare. All three mosques start at different times, as the time of sunset is subjective, and they each have distinctive sounds. I like to call them “The Three Tenors”, but one is more of a baritone at best. The first one has a high tenor voice, with what I like to think of as a little flair. The next to start is lower, and without as much warbling vibrato. The final one is ten feet off the track, so it is the loudest, and also the lowest, rumbling chant of them all. Together, the three voices mingle in my mind like some kind of Gregorian Chant. Which is a strange pell-mell mix of religious cultural images, I know. It gives me a very surreal feeling. The closest feeling I can remember would be when I was in Florence, Italy, at 6 PM on Sunday and suddenly all the bells began to peal throughout the city. I was blown away. Some might have asked for whom the bell tolled, and I tell you, that day, they tolled for Dave. So, it’s a similar sensation. As the call begins, a few people wander off the track to the side and perform their prayers, but not as many as you might think, in fact, they are in the minority. After the call ends, the sun just sets. I’m not yet used to this either. Being situated right on the Tropic of Cancer means that when the sun sets its not fooling around. No long extended twilight, no hour of dwindling Canadian light before dark. No hasty paddling in my canoe to get down the river before it gets dark. It just starts to get dark and five to ten minutes later it is dark.

Perhaps the strangest thing of all, is that after a week and a half of walking, I decided I would start running a lap. So now I usually run 1 KM and walk 4. And no, an attractive physically fit guy has not just bonked me on the head and taken over the keyboard, it is still Dave. And to all of you who might be thinking, Ha, 5 km, that’s nothing. I urge you to remember that by 6:00, the temperature has sometimes slid from 35 degrees down to 30. The humidity is usually hovering around 20%, and the wind, if there is one, which is nice, stirs up the ever present dust, and it hangs in the air like a smudge. Add to this the sometimes present smell of burning garbage, car exhaust and the rotting pollution of the sea on the breeze, and you might see how one lap running can usually do me in. Oh yes, and I am still horribly out of shape. Although, my Pakistani Weight Loss Program (Pak-Whelp) is progressing nicely. I tell you, I’ve tried a lot of diets, but this one is the best. All it entails is travelling half way around the world, sweating, losing your appetite, and spending an inordinate amount of time on the toilet.

Anyway, I have gone on too long, but have covered a lot of areas in my description of my little jaunts. I figure those that are interested will read it, those who aren’t… oh well.

Hope all is well with everyone,

David

The First List

Hello Everyone,

Thanks to everyone who has emailed me. Its great to hear from you. I am still endeavouring to get back to everyone, but I am slightly hindered by technology, or as I like to call it the "Third World Web. I don't know how many times I've been in the middle of an email and the power goes out or something. Then I never want to bother starting over because I'm too frustrated. So have patience, I will talk to all of you soon.

My next narrative will soon be on its way. However, in the meantime, I thought I would send along my first list. Those who know me well, will know that I am quite partial to lists. This is the first one I compiled, around the time of my first mass email to all of you. Here it is:

List #1 - Things I have Learned... So Far

1. Air-Conditioning is perhaps the greatest invention known to mankind. This was heretofor unclear to me.
2. Fifty years ago, Karachi was a city of 200 000. It now stands (kind of) at 15 million. This explains a lot.
3. Lahore, (a city to the north I hope to visit soon) is said to be one of the oldest living cities in the world, but not in the same way as West Palm Beach.
4. The aforementioned air conditioner makes certain noises at night which makes me think that someone is in my room. This being something I have learned, you would think this wouldn't frighten me. But it scares the crap out of me every time.
5. The large, architectually incredible, sail shaped hotel in Dubai is the only 7 Star Hotel in the world. If only I had $7000, I would spend a night.
6. Instead of a bidet, there is a little hose-showerhead on the wall beside the toilet. This, I am told, is often called a "Muslim shower." This device also scares the crap out of me.
7. Not knowing a single element of a language makes everyday life very intimidating.
8. Not knowing a single element of a language makes you think everyone is talking about you.
9. Jet Lag is for real.
10. Cricket is not quite as hard to understand as I thought. However, one should never forget that in its purest form, it takes 5 days to play. You wouldn't want to get there, and then think, oh crap, I have somewhere to be next Sunday.