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Allmand Pikan Crunch .... by Adam (2000) _________________________________________________________________ I've been seeing a new dog recently. In Mae Sot, I didn’t really hang out with the growling slabs of patchy sausage that lurk near my house. But at the compound where I have moved to study Thai language is a sweet pup named Koet. It's been nice to enter a relationship with a dog again. Although, like most relationships, our expectations are not always mutual. Occasionally Koet becomes a little too engaged in our patting sessions and his little pink friend awakens and emerges from its den. I throw the dog from me, explaining, "Hey!... Hey buddy! It was just a pat for me. I’m sorry if I led you to believe this was anything more, but it was just a pat." My
motives were pure. Koet is a fine looking animal. But at this point in my
life, doggy love is like a naked Paula Jones on a bearskin rug: too
hairy, too pink and way too canine. To me it was only a pat, but to him things
had obviously developed a little further. Anyway, the heavy patting finished
up and I kept my distance for a few days until I was convinced that he was
ready to keep the cover on the lipstick. Call me old fashioned, but I just
don’t think animals should have sexuality. If a kitten bats his fuzzy paw at
my wiggling toes, I shouldn’t have to worry that it's causing the li’l
tyke to sport a stiffening penis or a release of vaginal fluids. It kinda
steals from the innocence that I ascribe to animals. So... I have now completed seven back-breaking weeks of four-hour training days at the beach resort town Hua Hin. My Thai language skills have now eclipsed those of many local stroke victims. I was shooting for more. The teacher spent most of the seven weeks speaking in half Thai / half English, her tongue wagging about organisational policy - and anything else in her line of sight, including refrigerator magnets, the wind or even diarrhea (ok, diarrhea wasn’t exactly "in her line of sight" but we did discuss it at length. And, no, I didn’t bring it up). We
even traded observations on the varying shades of arm hair on the people in
the room. Consequently, I divided most of my class time multitasking among
flicking peeled foot-skin at the geckoes, self studying from my Thai text,
preparing myself for my upcoming wart-removal surgery and trying to steer the
conversation back to diarrhea. But I didn’t practice much Thai. I even gave
her a huge package of language games and activities, but I guess I didn't hear
her when she said, "Oh, how thoughtful! Why don't I just keep those here,
under the refrigerator for the next seven weeks and then when you are ready to
go, I can wipe the lizard shit off the top and give it back to you without
even looking at it." The
other trainees in Hua Hin were nice. There was the freckle-plated Canadian guy
who didn’t wear underwear and never washed his clothes. The blonde British
cattle scientist who used words like ‘foul’, ‘vile’ and ‘putrid’
to describe most of her experiences. And the chain-smoking, older Irish lady,
who after seven weeks, still didn’t know words like "I" or
"good" or "toilet" in Thai. She is here to teach
learning-disabled kids, so at least she should be able to relate. In Thai, by the way, the word for disabled is "pikan" - I think a rather tasty sounding descriptor. During one week of training we had to share rooms and I was a little concerned that I might have to share with a certain "pikan" volunteer from England. His "pikanity" is not mental, but, rather, he was born with no arms. He has only a couple of digits sprouting from each shoulder, which twirl around as he speaks - his version of hand gestures, I think. He
is a nice enough guy (the obligatory statement to be made about all deviants
from the norm - including myself), but I had some reservations about shacking
up. Hey, don’t get me wrong - this is not prejudice. I don’t mind living
with a guy with one arm or a guy with no legs or even a guy with one arm, no
legs and an extra neck. But I have some reservations about someone with zero
arms. Certain hygiene issues come to mind. I really wanted to ask, "What
do you do when you're finished... uh.. uh.. How do you…you know…clean your
secret bits." After
pondering this, I sensed a smell emanating from his disfigured body. Perhaps
psychosomatic, perhaps not. You know, I’m the first guy to help out a
roommate, but there are certain things that I am not willing to do. For
example, when a roommate is missing any sort of appendage to fix and clean his
nether-provinces after a trip to the toilet, I’m not going to lend a hand.
I’m sure he must have worked out his own systems by now. But I had visions
of walking in on him sitting in a squat position, swinging his bum back and
forth onto the tip of a cone shaped pile of towels. "Would you mind
throwing these on the laundry line when I’m finished," he might ask. At
least I wouldn't have to contend with another common roommate fear: I probably
wouldn't throw open the door and catch him masturbating. Although its possible
to rig up a cone shaped pile of towels for that too. Now that I think of it,
forget wheelchair ramps and anti-discrimination legislation. What the disabled
really need are more conical towel piles to meet their real needs. Anyhow,
this mini-crisis was averted when I was given a single room. We had a surprising announcement at the office recently. We (KHRG - my organization) were nominated for this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. (Not kidding!) I think it was based largely on my four months of slumping behind a monitor editing interviews and playing solitaire. But the others in the office work very hard too, so I should toss a little credit their way. I have really only won a couple awards in my life - top prize in the "Aiming Contest" in Grade 5 - a fact that should surprise anyone who has ever shared a bathroom with me. And the "Wittiest Camper Award" - basically a euphemism for "Mouthy Complainer". Anyway,
we didn’t win the Nobel. This year it went to All My Children’s
Susan Lucci - that bitch - for her role in the reunification negotiations
between North and South Korea. Too bad. I wasted weeks shopping for just the
right pair of hot-shorts and practicing for the moment when I cold strut
through town, gilded Nobel medallion gleaming from inside my nest of
mascara-blackened chest hair. Well, at least the Yankees didn’t win it. The
main reason I entered the human rights field was because there is the
possibility of meeting celebrities. After years of watching leggy supermodels
tussle at the hair of dirty poor kids and glassy-eyed rock stars arranging
benefit concerts, I figured this was my chance to meet Bono or Whoopie
Goldberg or maybe even Louis Gossett Jr.. So you can imagine the thrill when my boss told me that…([get ready to yelp and smack the top of your head)…**WARREN ALLMAND** was in town and wanted to have dinner with ME! Okay, not really with me, but with my boss. But I was invited to come. If you are anything like me, and you’re having trouble swallowing at the mere mention of the name **WARREN ALLMAND**, try lukewarm water with lemon and use the ball of your thumb to help ease the liquid down the esophagus with gentle swooping motions. But
for those of you who have been ON MARS for the last three decades might not
realize that **WARREN ALLMAND** used to be Solicitor General in Pierre
Trudeau’s government in the 70’s!! Gasp! (Extra political bonus info: WA
authored the death penalty abolition bill and was the only liberal to vote
against the budget in ’93, earning himself a punch in the neck and loss of
judicial committee chairmanship from uber-democrat Jean Chretien. Plus, I
think he used to be married to Cher.) Well, Mr. Allmand is now retired from
parliament and, at 114-years-young, is the head of Rights and Democracy, a
Canadian human rights lobby group. Knowing I might be facing security teams, placard-waving teenagers and news media from around the world, I went early to meet him. When I got to the hotel, I spotted him in the lobby. I stopped peddling, flung my bike to the pavement, and ran, arms swinging, right at Warren and his companion. As I drew closer to him I realized, "This guy is small… this guy is really tiny." So when I reached him, I did the only thing I could think of, and I picked him up off the ground, swung him around a bit and said, "You’re just a little guy, aren't you?"
The
dinner went well. My boss droned on about human rights stuff, as Warren
peppered him with incisive questioning along the lines of, "What kind of
fish is this?" and "Anyone want that springroll?" Anyway I
talked to Mr. Allmand about the Canadian election, then only days away. His
predictions proved to be stunningly accurate. He foresaw a liberal minority
government with 107 seats. He was only 65 seats and a majority government away
from an absolutely unerring prognostication. Eerie. I guess you don’t stick
it out in politics that long without learning a thing or two.
Hey,
if anyone wants more info on Burma or our NGO please visit our website for
more information: www.khrg.org We don't discourse
about poop or make fun of disabled people (although I am trying to sneak a bit
of that into the reports), but you can check it out anyway if you want to know
more. Or you can join Canadian Friends of Burma: www.cfob.org
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