RESOLUTION 404: UN HQ, New York; 2014.
The prince formerly known as Obama turns to his trusted aide. “Sambo, what’s that cat’s name again?” “Which one, bong?” “The one from Uzbekgasland or something like that.” “Prime minister name is Shavkat Mirziyoyev,” says Sambo, before belting out the Uzbeki state anthem and working the room with a plastic basket full of secret NSA dossiers strung around his neck. Two for six dollar, bargain for you. He’s not having much luck on the hustle. Everyone’s read the selection already.
Three years earlier: Prince Obama is addressing the UN Security Council on the grave and pressing matter of punters buying bracelets off street kids in Cambodia. A consensus is reached despite delays for French demands the resolution be issued in la langue français. The general idea: it has to stop. The kids will be encouraged to skip school. And besides, it’s past their bedtimes. Sacré bleu!
Cut to Pasteur Street, Phnom Penh. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. What an anal-nuisance it once was when those unkempt urchins rolled by, forcing me to blindly fish in my pants pockets for a 500 riel note because I know there’s a stack of US fiddies floating about in there as well and I don’t want to look like a knob pulling out the entire wad and handing over a whole 12.5 cents of it. Cheers, UN; now I can guzzle my beer tower sans guilt and conduct my philandering in peace.
And of course I’ll be sure to conveniently blur the lines of the UN edict and extend the do-not-engage advice to anyone employed in the panhandling sector. So to the wandering widows wielding scales, thanks anyway, but I really didn’t want to know my weight after downing six Anchor jugs and mauling a Katie Perry with Chuck Norris chaser in the first place.
Ignore the poor and solve institutionalised poverty. So, so simple. But surely the global community can come together in a cuddly group-hug and do better still? UN Proposition 404: Why not send disadvantaged Khmer folk with their certain intrinsic skills around the world to solve those pesky problems the rest of us can’t? It should also free up some street space for those beardy asylum peeps Abbott’s about to pitch this way. A win-win for all concerned.
The Khmer certainly know how to work a hammock. Think Lehmann Bros, circa ‘07. String five dozing, unemployed hammock-bound bongs up side-by-side in the office and super-stressed Wall Street execs can pull one end of the chain back à la those ‘80s clackety balls and let go to calmly watch as they hypnotically cascade off one other and back again with a brain-soothing ka-chung. GFC averted.
Social unrest kicking off in Kiev? Disgruntled mobs refusing to budge from city squares? No problem. Send in the idle wet-season Khmer wedding DJs and see those lazy ne’er-do-wells disperse in no time. Your Bangladeshi garment factory is attracting unfortunate scrutiny for shoddy construction? Some Jenga-domme bar girls on hand will have that engineering up to scratch in a flash. Bothersome Guantanamo detainees won’t break, despite endless hours of forced listening to Lars Ulrich whine about illegal downloads? Time to introduce your crack team of interrogative Khmer tuk tuk drivers. What’s your name? Where you come from? Where you going? You’ll have full confessions as to the Afghani conspiracy to kill both JFK and JR in minutes.
Stereotypes may carry a kernel of truth, but they don’t necessarily speak the whole cob or caboodle. Some Khmer are lazy. I would be too if I was obliged to serve drunken buffoons like me 16 hours a day for $80 a month. Those nosey locals do tend to ask where you’re coming from and going a lot. But so does every conversationally mind-numbing backpacker I encounter when they mistake me for one of their own simply because my flip-flops are constructed from cardboard Angkor-carton cut-outs. Bar girls are good at Jenga. Fuck knows why.
The point is, now I can be a do-nothing do-gooder and righteously tsk-tsk over my gin and tonic at those ignorant tourists buying books from bludging amputees. It’ll just encourage them to forgo cellular regeneration. But perhaps instead of lecturing on the evils of offering bananas to orphans, the world would be better served if the UN focused on the more insidious specifics of the problem: i.e. idiotic people buying Paulo Coelho books.
So next time you see a street kid selling newspapers, don’t be afraid to pick up your complimentary copy of Advisor and keep those Mr Potato Chips coming.