Last night, I was marking some homework, and in the space allotted for the teacher’s name, one student had written, “Sir David Fork.”

Now, I found it strange enough to begin with, that by taking on this teaching job, I had suddenly been knighted (although sometimes I feel I’ll have deserved it in the end). It’s disconcerting to be referred to as “Sir David,” and makes me feel that I should somehow be out battling mythical beasts and competing in upcoming jousting tournaments. But now, to discover that one of my students has, after two full months, thought my family was named after an eating utensil, really gets my tines in a twist, if you will.

Sir David Fork, knight of the round dinner table, proponent of culinary Etiquette, arch enemy of the uncouth, hand-eating, Earl of Sandwich. Oh what manner of adventures await him?

Unfortunately, complete enjoyment of my coolerator was not destined to last. One lazy Saturday morning I was suddenly startled awake at exactly 7:15. From atop my air-conditioner there arose such a clatter; I sprang from my bead to see what was the matter. I ran to the window, and what should I see? But two strutting pigeons staring right back at me. Quickly I banged on the air-conditioner and they took off in a flurry of beating wings. Yeah, so there, take that! I went back to bed.

Half an hour later they were back. A low guttural growl escaped from my throat. Just ignore them, I thought to myself. But then they started one of their pigeon dances, clicking and clacking and cooing with all the fervour of an avian hoe-down. “Damnit!” I ejaculated (verbally) and jumped up to bang on the A/C again. This time however, they stopped dancing, but they didn’t take off. They had me figured. Vaguely, I wondered why I somehow attract the most intelligent pigeons in town. I cranked open my window and shouted, “Get outta here!” The pigeons were startled, but unfortunately, so was the servant in the adjacent yard. I waved reassuringly, realised I was naked, and quickly decided to return to bed.

Everyday, at exactly 7:15, the pigeons would return. It got to the point where my alarm would go off at 7:00 and I’d tell myself I could afford to stay in bed a bit longer, or at least until the pigeons came. By this point, no amount of banging and thrashing on my end of the air-conditioner would come close to scaring them off. By craning my neck, I could see that a ledge ran about 8 inches above my A/C, creating the perfect little cranny for the damned doves. And given my experience at Subaru Kazoo’s place, the last thing I wanted was for them to settle down and make a nest. I just couldn’t afford the heartache.

Finally, one weekend morning, I had had enough. My eyes were set in solid determination and my mind sorted through a melee of competing solutions. I marched downstairs and enlisted the help of my intrepid servant Paul. Together we swept the neighbourhood in search of scrap wood and other various odds and ends from the many houses under construction. Paul wasn’t too happy about this, I think mainly because he didn’t like people seeing his boss out rooting through the trash looking for treasures. Living with two Canadians, poor Paul must just roll his eyes some days.

Having found enough material, we collected some tools and returned to my room. We removed the iron bars from my window frame, and then alternatively holding each other’s feet we leaned out over the abyss, inspecting the problem. Like grand-masters at a teenage Tetris tournament during the great game-boy craze of 1991, we shifted blocks of wood, rotated cardboard boxes, and spun pieces of Styrofoam into place. A small crowd of servants began to gather in the neighbouring yards that share our back wall. Most likely, they were attracted by Paul’s continual shouting, “Boss, are you ok!” followed by my embarrassed assurances that I was fine, at least physically. After some trial and error, I fitted the last piece of the pigeon puzzle into place and wiggled back inside. Now I just had to wait.

The next morning, I watched as a Pigeon came swooping in and abruptly pulled up short in front of the perplexing mess of plywood and polyfoam, hovering in mid-air like giant, ungainly hummingbird. Finally, he flew across to the opposite roof, and continued to stare right at me. I stared back, my fingers twitching over a non-existent six-shooter. Ha! I thought, I have won. The superior intellect has once again conquered the annoyances of the birds and beasts.

That is, until this past weekend, when I heard a clatter, and walked to the window just in time to see a pigeon work a piece of wood out of my conglomerate to send it plummeting to the ground below. With what I swear was a smug look back at me, the bird crawled sedately right inside the jumble of wood. They had found the key-stone! The last piece of the puzzle, the all-important chunk of wood that blocked all entrance. I thought about how there was no way I was taking my window apart again, about how I had now created the absolute perfect nest for the birds, and about whether those damn birds had it figured out all along.

Unfortunately for the state of my dress clothes, no available ricks were apparent, so I started down my shortcut behind a park to avoid the traffic and crowds in front of my local Mazaar. As I turned a corner, and worked on breathing through my mouth as I passed an open garbage dump, I saw a group of men arguing noisily on the other side of the road. One guy, with a little toddler of a girl straddling the gas tank of his motorcycle, suddenly drew back and punched another fellow right in the face.

Whoa, I thought, that was unexpected. My stride faltered a bit, as part of me felt like I should say something, and the other part of me insisted, “Head-down, keep walking you damn fool, you don’t belong here.” The man jumped off his bike, grabbed his victim by the Kurta and gave him three quick jabs to the jaw. The other men were alternately trying to hold him back and cheer him on; it was difficult to tell which was which actually. By this time, I had inadvertently slowed my pace and was directly opposite them.

Suddenly, with his fist pulled back for another go, the aggressor turned and stared directly at me. Oh shit. His fist hung in the air, and I really didn’t know what to expect. But then his fist unclenched, and still holding the other man, he snapped a quick salute and yelled to me, “Hullooo Boss!” with a big grin. I was a little taken aback. I stammered out a quick “’Salaam Alaikuum,” and hearing the white man give them “The Peace of God” set the whole group to grinning and giggling. A few of them returned the peace, “Walaiku Asalaam,” and I felt a strange pride that somehow my distinct cultural difference and the strange socio-economic interplay that was happening here had calmed their argument.

That pride was somewhat diminished however, when the man gave me another smiling wave and then promptly returned to beating the snot out of his friend.

Journey: Hey you know those massage guys with the oil that stand on the side of the road?

Me: Yeah

Journey: I just found out recently that they’ll do anything… anything… if you ask them.

Me: I just took that for granted. Why, are you interested?

Journey: Ha, no, but I look at them differently now, I think, you know, who would want that from one of those slimey guys?

RJ: Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean, they’ll do anything?

Journey: You know… anything… male or female.

RJ: Sexually?!

Journey: Of course, what did you think I meant?

RJ: Oh, I thought you meant like, “Go get me a sandwich.”

Journey: Oh… well, probably that too.

At school the other day, I was asked to stand in for a teacher who was absent. It was a Grade 5 Urdu class, so I knew I wouldn’t have much to contribute to their education that day. After I affirmed, that yes, I’m in a TV show, and that yes, my name is David, but my name on the show is Mike, and that yes, I was wearing a red shirt in one episode, and yes, I do like the colour red, but it is not my favourite, I decided I might as well go with the ole standby: The time-trusted Q&A session about Canada.
“Does anyone know where I’m from?” I asked. They all nodded yes. “Where then?” I prodded.
“Spain!”
I was a little taken aback. “Uh, no, not Spain.”
“France!”
I surreptitiously checked my underarm odour, “Nope, but I do speak French.” I hinted.
“The UK,” shouted out one little guy.
“That’s not even a country.”
“Africa.”
“That’s a whole continent! There’s over fifty countries in Africa.”
“Egypt.”
“No, no,” I tried to clarify, “I’m not from Africa.”
“But Africa’s a continent.”
“Right, so I’m not from any country in Africa.”
“Egypt?” asked the same student again.
I sighed, “No, not Egypt… That’s in Africa, you can rule out that entire continent. But I am from a really big country.”
“Russia!”
“No, not quite that big.”
“America.”
Finally we were getting somewhere, “That’s close,” I said, “but not quite.”
“Australia?”
“No.”
“Austria?”
“No.”
“Afghanistan?”
At this point, I figured these guys were messing with me. “No, no, no.”
And then, seemingly at random, the answer finally came, “Canada?”
“YES! Canada, you win!”
“What do I win?”
“My gratitude.”
“Oh”
Immediately another hand shot up. “On the TV show, you’re from Canada too.”
I shook my head, “Then why didn’t you guess then?”
“Cause TV’s not real.”
He had me there. “No, no it isn’t… Does anyone have any questions about Canada?”
One hand went up immediately. “Yes?”
“In Canada, when an ambulance drives by, do people pull over?”
“Yes, you have to, that’s the law.”
“Oh good.”
I looked around. No further questions. Apparently, their curiosity for Canadian trivia was limited to Emergency Vehicle procedures.
And that was it.

It was going to be a long class.

“Um, anybody need any help with your English homework?”

I was a little confused, so I said, “You mean… I look like a particular comedian?” He shook his head, “No-no, you just have a stand-up comedian look about you.” I thought for a moment, and then said, “Well, thanks… I guess.”

It wasn’t until much later that I realised that really, this was all just a fancy way of calling me “Funny-Lookin.”

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.

Anyway, the gardener was now saying something about how I had to go with him because he was done in the house. I couldn’t really figure out what he was doing in the house anyway, since surprisingly enough, the gardens are all outside. “Done in the house?” I asked to clarify. Big nods, “Yes, yes, done in the house… I go.” I was still a little hazy from the nap, and my mind was shifting lazily trying to communicate in this mixture of the language I command and the one I slaughter. “You are going,” I said slowly, following him down the hall, “because you are done in the house?” He turned back, nodded and said, “No,” which threw me even further behind the ball. I still couldn’t figure out why he was beckoning me to follow him. In my mind, if he was done in the house and wanted to go, then he should feel free. But then I thought, maybe he wanted me to lock the gate behind him. Ah yes, that must be it.

I was basically back in the land of the living now. The last shreds of afternoon fantasies had slid to the wayside and my wide-angle lens had slid back into focus. I followed the gardener to the gate. He ducked in to the vacant gate-keeper’s hut to grab something, and I started to open the gate. I turned back to find him facing me with a grin on his face and an AK-47 in his hands. Apparently, my head wasn’t as clear as I thought. “Jee-Sauce!” I shouted jumping backward quickly and smacking awkwardly into the gate. “House!… in house!” he was saying, gesturing with the barrel of the assault weapon. Quickly, I tried to file through all the reasons my gardener might have for taking me hostage. I’d only been in this house for maybe two weeks, and as I said, I’d only treated him kindly. It wasn’t until he said, “Gun in house,” that I registered the similarity to his earlier remarks. “Ohhh,” I said, “You want me to keep the gun in the house?” He was all smiles now, “Yes, yes, Sahib, in house, more careful being.”

I had to agree that the gun would indeed be safer in the house, than at the unguarded gate. He handed the gun to me and I took it with no little trepidation. I recognized it now. The security guard for my housemate’s company had worked the gate for our Christmas Eve party to help people with parking and keep out any undesirables. Apparently, he had left his semi-automatic weaponry behind when he had left that morning. Vaguely, I wondered how that could happen. I mean, I’m always forgetting my sunglasses wherever I go, but come on… I examined the gun, and saw that it either didn’t have a safety switch or it was disabled. With my hands shaking slightly, and the slight, but real, worry that I might accidentally shoot the dining room windows out, I thumbed the switch to release the fully loaded magazine. Hollywood style, I pulled back the mechanism and sure enough, another round popped out of the chamber. I sighed, placed the whole works on the dining room table to frighten someone else, walked upstairs and once again asked myself what the hell I’m doing here.

But you know, it is a rush seeing yourself on television, no matter what it is. And honestly, the show wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty terrible, but happily, it was not the complete catastrophic destruction of all things good and natural in this world that I thought it might be. I also happen to have the inside scoop that the episodes do get better… marginally. I took over writing around the fifth episode, so I guess I have to get behind the show at some point there. In the meantime, I was pretty confident that not many people would have caught the episode. But sure enough, within days, I had aunties and co-workers stopping and saying, “I saw you on TV!” Usually, I responded with a simple, “I’m sorry.” But even though I’m living proof that you only have to be in the right place at the right time to be on Television (oh, and being white helps), people still have an inherent respect of someone on the screen, no matter the quality.

But I guess that’s where things have to start. You put some shows out there, you make some money, you make a better show the next time, and then gradually you’ll have a solid base to work with. And it’s cool to be a part of that. But this morning, I had a sobering thought. When I return to the school to teach next week, I know for damn sure that one of those kids will have seen the show. I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me before, but I’m going to have to face that one down.

And now… the only thing to do is to start scheming for my own show. Look out George, here I come… And as it happens, I’m already here.

Yes, it’s admittedly difficult to get into the Christmas spirit here in Karachi, but I tend to try my best. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but I believe that it’s the spirit of Christmas that matters, so I did my best to consume as many Christmas spirits as I could, without decking the halls with pools of unpleasantness. You see, the real trouble, is that Christmas just comes sneaking up on you over here. There’s none of that month and a half long build-up of the North American Christmas scene, which has less to do with what Christmas is really about, and more to do with selling a million sleigh-loads of GAP khakis. As a result, I had no running tally of how many shopping days I had left, and with a shock, about a week before Christmas, I realized I had better get around to ordering my Christmas turkey. It was then that I learned of the Great Turkey Shortage of 2005, and that my bird this year would be even more exorbitantly priced than last. Something to the tune (a carol I presume) of $100 for a ten kilo bird. A far cry from 79 cents a pound. I shrugged it off though, figuring that it was indeed Christmas, and the only time of year I would allow myself to drop that kind of dough on frozen poultry.

One way that I measure the success of my Christmas season is by the number of turkey dinners I’m able to consume. By that measure, all things considered, I did pretty damn well. Christmas Eve, my friend Komal cooked her first ever turkey for Steve, her Canadian fiancé (who I happen to be staying with at the moment) and 30 odd guests. It was a great success, and as a Christmas connoisseur, I give her full marks. I played bartender, a role I am quite comfortable in, whether it be professionally, on stage or off. It was a great little shin-dig, considering I really didn’t know anyone at all. The last guests left, and I slid out to a get together nearby and came home just in time to call Mother at 3 AM. I don’t think she noticed my inebriated state, at least, no more than usual.

Christmas morning, I woke up at 11:00 to my cell phone ringing and ringing. I picked up, only to hear Norma, Steve’s coworker from Newfoundland (and you thought I was strange) screaming in my ear. “Dave! The only other goddamn Maritimer in Karachi and you’re sleeping through Christmas lunch! Get your ass over here!” Fair enough. I got up, took a shower and got my ass over there. I entered a scene that would have chaos theorists in a tizzy. Kids were running and screaming and peeing everywhere, wrapping paper was scattered about, and Norma was yelling curse-filled instructions in the kitchen. I took a deep breath and smiled… Ah, now this was Christmas. I rocketed into the Kitchen, cracked a beer and started cooking. The turkey and all the fixin’s were phenomenal once again, and I stuck around to watch the kiddos open some more presents, cause really, nothing beats it.

So then it came time for me to don the apron and stuff my bird, so to speak. I planned to cook on boxing day, but logistical issues made me postpone a day. So on the third day of Christmas, I set aside my turtle doves and got to work. I threw out open invitations and coordinated with my pal Ameena, the queen of the dinner party and self proclaimed opiate of the masses. She took care of appetizers and the opening courses and I stuck to Turkey, garlic mashed and veggies in a cheese sauce. About an hour and a half into the cooking, I opened the oven and thought to myself, you know, I shouldn’t be able to hold my hand in here like this. I touched the turkey and thought, you know, this really shouldn’t be ice cold. Then I had a fleeting memory of some wise figure saying, “Watch out for those local ovens, you just never know.” My turkey was cursed. I was upset, so I stuck my head in the oven, but only so I could light that sucker up, top and bottom. Now, as Big Dave Lewis would say, I was cooking with gas.

In any case, the late, great turkey was finally ready at about 1 am. By that time, everyone was starving, but the back-bar was covered in empty bottles, so the Christmas cheer was palpable. To my relief, it was just as juicy and tender as always, thanks to the skills handed down to me from my mother and grandmother before her. A secret technique that, faulty ovens notwithstanding, has now, literally, been enjoyed the world over.

At that point, I changed out of my kitchen garb and entertained until dawn. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. A little snippet of Christmas in the Islamic Republic. Falalalala-lala-la-la.