DYB DOB Donkey

This week I’ve been in Bangkok attending a global summit of influential minds on Disaster Risk Reduction, which is all about trying to prepare communities, governments and countries generally to withstand and recover from the effects of natural and man-made disasters.  I was thrilled to be attending the meeting, not only to hear from the world’s leading minds on DRR, but also because I had been asked to present a key note address on the last day, which I was hoping was going to be my big chance to make myself known to these power brokers and who knows, maybe even nab a high-powered, important job in the future.

The discussion topics on offer at the summit have encompassed lengthy soul-searching on setting-up Early Warning Systems which can be operated as soon as the initial signs of a disaster are imminent, so as to alert communities and other parties to prepare for the coming danger.  There have also been detailed explanations of working with communities and various groups on Disaster Preparedness and Response, so that they know what to do when the Early Warning System is activated, and Disaster Mitigation and Resilience, which is all about putting things in place to limit the impact of the disaster on people and their livelihoods.

But as is so often the case with these high-level discussions, all the theoretical jargon and technical know-how immediately get thrown out the window when a real disaster hits, as I discovered this week when my world was thrown into utter chaos by a series of unanticipated, catastrophic events.  

On the last day of the meeting I was up well before the sun, diligently preparing for my presentation.  After finalising the materials and practicing my speech a couple of times, I ironed my shirt and trousers, and headed off to the magnificent hotel breakfast buffet which is a common, essential element of these kinds of global meetings, concerned as they are with improving the lot of those with barely enough household resources to feed their kids.

In the Disaster Risk Reduction biz, when we talk about developing Early Warning Systems, we encourage individuals and communities to look for any unusual events or changes in their surroundings.  Hindsight is indeed a powerful tool for reflection, and through this I must concede that my ability to recognise and comprehend a significant change to the breakfast buffet that morning could well have spared me from the debilitating effects of what followed, however I failed to recognise the significance of the bowl of small, ripe cherry tomatoes which had replaced the more common-place, large, pre-sliced tomatoes on offer during the previous four days.

Failing to heed this important Early Warning Sign, I obliviously sat down to my greasy breakfast and with the sharpened points of my unsuspecting table fork, I pierced the shiny outer skin of a cherry tomato, unleashing all manner of damnation and hellfire in the form of bright, red tomato juice all over my crisp, ironed shirt - my last clean shirt for the week – all within a few short moments of the professional and reputational reckoning upon which my future career in international Disaster Risk Reduction was to be built.

Within a nanosecond of the destructive cocktail of juice and pulp being sprayed from hip to shoulder where moments before there had been nothing but sharp, starchy creases, I was on my feet in the middle of the public thoroughfare, absently wiping sticky yellow seeds from my scalp and ears, while my shrinking spleen emitted an involuntary, guttural groan which rose into the lofty chamber before disappearing into the same, intangible locale as my future career prospects. 

In reflection, it’s quite possible that all may not have been lost at that point, as there may have been some individuals of influence who’d not yet become aware of the destruction my heedless actions had unleashed upon the early morning diners, however my voluble anguish was released with little heed to the number one rule of Disaster Response planning, which is to Remain calm – DO NOT PANIC!.  Instead, I projected a shrill, piercing scream like a couple of over-weight drag queens fighting over a pair of fourteen inch, red sequinned stilettoes, attracting the full attention of every member of the largest gathering of influential minds on international humanitarian responses ever to have been assembled.

Realising my mistake, I made a beeline for the door, only to slip on the organic mess I had created on the shiny parquetry with my clumsy upturning of a breakfast bowl, causing me to land flat on my arse and generating for those influential global minds a close-up view of the world’s first ever edible, indoor tsunami, which proceeded from the epicentre of my soiled behind to the far corners of the restaurant.

Crawling now, I lowered my head in shame and slowly reconstructed a Disaster Escape Route in my mind to guide me out the door and out of sight.  Back in my Safe House hotel room a few moments later, I waited for my hyperventilating to subside and began analysing the situation.  I had come to Bangkok for a reason, and I was not going to let this incident impede my Recovery to a lucrative, fat-cat position on the international stage.  I threw open my wardrobe to take stock of my provisions, only to remember with horror that my Disaster Preparedness for this high-level talk fest had me Stockpiling only the required number of outfits through which to get me through five days of looking as professional as possible, and like I knew what I was talking about, however I had not allowed for Contingencies.  Added to this, I had been schmoozing so much with the ‘Big Wigs’ each night … until well into the messy wee hours, that all previously worn shirts were stained with Guinness and sweaty underarms.

This was truly an unanticipated, catastrophic disaster of career-limiting proportions, but despite the dire circumstances in which I now found myself, I took a couple of deep breaths, gulped down my rising panic and I resolved to make something of this.  “Hadn’t I spent the last twenty years working hard and building my reputational Resilience?”, I reasoned, “Sure I had.  I have what it takes to impress these people with my skills, Knowledge, Attitude and Practice”.  I impressed upon myself that these brilliant DRR practitioners weren’t interested in how I was dressed; they’d carved out their careers through the sweat and tears of responding to some of the most severe humanitarian disasters in recent history: working twenty hours a day for weeks at a time while living out of military-type barracks with limited water and supplies.  They knew what was important in this industry, and it wasn’t the cut of a man’s Armani trousers.  I was going to show them that I too was like them; Responsive in the face of a Disaster.  I grabbed what I could from the closet, and boldly headed for the auditorium.

The Inaugural Global Conference on Disaster Risk Reduction is unlikely to be remembered for anything other than the Global Head of UNDRR, demonstrating the military precision upon which his reputation as a leader of international Disaster Responses was built, directing the Conference Facility Security personnel to chase down and brutally apprehend a scruffy, scab-faced maniac dressed only in a stained Singha Beer singlet, a pair of yellowing y-fronts and army boots, who had burst into the opening session of Day 5, shouting like a lunatic about Dyslexic Rock Renditions.

Attack of the Career-Limiting Tomatoes: Donkey comes a cropper to a pesky fruit at a Bangkok breakfast buffet.  Pic: http://www.bigmike-productions.com

Would you like balls with that?

What is it about working in the food service industry that makes transvestites so angry, uptight and aggressive?  In most other aspects of daily life, cross-dressing men seem to be the life of the party; for instance, stick ‘em in a pair of sparkly, pink-sequinned, eight inch heels, pack ‘em on a bus and send ‘em into the Australian outback and they’re everyone’s heroes; wrap ‘em in a powder-blue feather boa and send ‘em out on a carnival float and the crowds will flock for miles to see their happy grins; or simply whack a diamante g-string and a fruit-laden headdress on ‘em and watch Australian bogans on bucks’ weekends in Bangkok descend upon their lively floorshows like shit-hungry flies to exchange clumsy homophobic slurs for witty, gregarious taunts delivered with a flirtatious wink and a quiver of a massive Adam’s apple. 

But what is it about dressing transvestites in civvies and standing them out front-of-house in classy restaurants and eateries that makes them so friggin’ surly and offensive?

My first experience with a grumpy transvestite waiter/ess was many years ago while working as a lowly volunteer in wonderful Samoa.  In those days, Apia wasn’t quite the bastion of fine dining it pretends to be today, but even then, with the right financial backing, one could aspire to some quality fare in either one of the two-and-a-half star hotels overlooking the harbour.

I can’t quite remember what the occasion was that saw the yet-to-be-Mrs Donkey and I deciding to splurge three week’s pay on a slap-up, pool side lunch, but it was with great excitement and culinary anticipation that we found ourselves deliberating at length over what seemed to us to be an extraordinarily diverse menu.  In reality the selection probably wasn’t all that spectacular given that on this occasion I opted for a BLT, and I was already salivating like Pavlov’s dogs the day the dinner bell got back from the repair shop when the grotesque fa’afafine waiter/ess finally condescended to lift her enormous muli off her groaning stool and to waddle over to take down our order (which she did with a frosty scowl and neither small talk of her own, nor acknowledgement of ours).

An age later, we were alerted to her return by the air of inky black storm clouds her demeanour impressed upon the atmosphere, and despite the warning, we both jumped with fright as two catering-strength crockery plates angrily crashed onto the glass table top. 

Immediately I noticed that my BLT had lost some ‘L’ along the way, that its ‘T’ had been replaced with orange processed cheese and that the ‘B’ had morphed into a thick slice of Spam.  I turned to my happy waiter/ess to alert her to the mistake, only to discover that her massive behind was already thumping off into the distance to get as far away from anything resembling a customer as possible.

After some minutes of mundane deliberations with Mrs D about whether I should alert the surly old cow to the mistake or just to ‘suck it up’ and eat the congealing mess before me so as not to offend, I finally decided, in recognition of the cost and excitement of the occasion, to stick to my guns and ask for my BLT.  I strode purposefully across the concourse to find our congenial Miss, who barely listened to my complaint before dismissing it with an offhand, yet aggressive, “You ordered a cheese and ham sandwich”.

At this I nearly choked on the angry sobs leaping to my throat, but I reined-in my fury by firmly assuring her that I certainly did not, and heaved against her anchoring bulk to drag her over to inspect my soggy meal as some kind of proof that I would never have ordered such a mess.  Firmly, and with no small hint of steel, I demand she take the dish back, and return with my “Bee-Elle-Tea!”. 

Perhaps sensing that my levels of anger and aggression were approaching her own, she tried one more sly parry to ward off the exertion of having to walk the full ten metres back to the kitchen.  “Well who’s going to eat this, then?”, she spat, to which I finally lost all composure, “I don’t care … why don’t you eat it?”.  And she literally stamped her massive hoof in anger as she ungraciously snatched my plate off the table (sending a congealing glob of orange cheese across the condiments and onto Mrs Donkey’s glasses) and tut-tutted off to the kitchen.

After what seemed many hours, my BLT finally arrived and was smashed onto the table in front of me with a thundery stare that made it all too clear what sort of response I’d receive if I dared any further exchange on the issue of my meal.  I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that while lettuce and tomato were now present on my plate, the ‘B’ remained a thick slice of Spam with curious orange butter-knife striations along its surface.

Upon our exit, our wonderful hostess mumbled one last grumpy remark regarding our failure to leave a tip … I wish I’d thought to retort that an untouched BLT was more tip than she deserved … but I’m no Oscar Wilde.

Jump ahead 12 years, and the culinary delights of sunny Port Vila, with its French-inspired cuisine and bustling tourist traffic, is bound to entice.  But there comes a time when even Donkey can have too much of a good thing, and after 10 weeks straight of eating lunches of Vanuatu beef sautéed in butter and drowned in blue cheese sauce, I was looking for something a little … less heavy.

So I wandered along to the most popular patisserie in town and stood for an agonisingly long time to be noticed by the surly maître’ d, who when he eventually turned his heavily-shadowed lids in my direction, gave me an unimpressed once-over and simply walked-off towards an empty table.  Upon reaching his destination, he turned and fixed me a filthy stare in reprimand for my failure to follow, and as I clumsily closed the space between us, he had already slapped the menu down on the table and disappeared.

Menu read and decision-made in 1 minute and 17 seconds … waited to place order with angry transvestite waiter for well over 7 minutes (he only consenting to leave his podium when I stood up and waved him over).  He managed to take my order without ejecting upon me the bile that my presence seem to be generating in his throat, but I waited for almost an hour for my sandwich to arrive.  When it did, it was delivered to my table with all the aggression and clattering pomp that only seven years of study at the Pacific Regional Hospitality Training College for Surly, Disgruntled Transsexuals can instil.

Owing to the lack of choice for reasonable lunch options in the town, I have become exposed to this waiter’s angry countenance at least twice a week, and I run into him in the town at least every couple of days, yet despite my attempts at jovial exchange, his demeanour remains unhappy, unimpressed and decidedly unfriendly.

These are just two examples of grumpy transvestite waiting staff I have encountered throughout the world.  There have been others; the grimacing burger flipper at the Elwood Fish ‘n’ Chip shop, the huge café proprietor in Kolkata who unashamedly serves up whatever she wants to timid, pasty backpackers, regardless of their order, or the young transvestite working at the Phuket eatery who simply refuses to wait on any white male unless he is quite openly gay.  This is not Donkey’s imagination, nor is it some kind of homophobic slur … I am just surprised that these lady boys bother with food service when it quite clearly doesn’t agree with them.  Let’s face it, there’s nothing glamorous about serving sandwiches to upstart white tourists with too much money, but surely there are other jobs they could be doing?  Alternatively, if transvestite waiting staff by day decided to lend their night-time, floorshow flare to the taking-down of sandwich orders, they may just receive more of a smile and an equally affable tip at meal’s end.

Of course, there is every chance that the demeanour of these transvestite waiters is just a reaction to me.  My friend Brad once told me that I am way too butch to be an attractive option for a gay man … maybe my attempts at friendliness with gay waiting staff are mistaken for overtures, and like a heterosexual male bogan from Ipswich receiving unwanted approaches from a drunken, ugly broad while he’s trying to watch the rugby league game, their response is one of aggressive rejection.

 

Get your own f’ing coffee!  Pic: aaronandandy.com

JB. You've done it again

Despite the changin' times, there are some things in life which have, at one time or another, been so much an enjoyable part of who I am, that even if I don't do them as often nowadays as I might like, they still make me feel fantastic, as soon as I embark upon them.

Case in point; I really love a visit to JB HI-FI.  Sure, I might only drop-by once a year these days (instead of at least once a week, as of yore), and sure, the majority of the titles in the CD racks (not to mention some of the CD rack categories) are completely foreign to me, but still, the sense of excitement and anticipation I get when I step across the electronic sensors into that world of yellow, plastic sticky tape just gets my consumer juices going.

While I was only really ever into the CDs side of things at JB, I know there's always been something for everyone there; music DVDs, TV and movie DVDs, hi-fi systems, TVs ... and now a pretty comprehensive range of computers and i-pads – these latter items not really being my bag, but the fact that they are the bag for so many others merely adds to my enjoyment of the place.

But there's something I need to make very clear from the outset, given my observations from today's visit to JB Hi-FI.  While I love/d spending hours and shit-loads of cash on the acquisition of eclectic music from their copious range of fine reggae, dub and alternative rock, and while I even occasionally wandered through their DVDs and hi-fi equipment for a bit of a poke and a giggle, I never once lost sight of the fact that everything in that store was comprised of items that I may WANT, but never constituted anything that I, nor any other member of humanity could ever honestly believe they might actually NEED.

So today, as I was wandering through and having to chase Hambones along isles that I never really knew existed (who knew JB sold turntables, or "decks" as I believe the young folk call them?), I eventually found him after a few, heart-stopping moments of lost contact, in front of a massive array of flat-screen TVs (or should that read, "...an array of massive flat screen TVs"?).  As Hambones proceeded to place is grubby mitts over every one of those impossibly large, shiny screens, one couldn't help but be blown away by their amazing colours and picture clarity.  To enhance this, as these places often do, they had a DVD playing on every one of the thousands of screens, flying you over Antarctica in a balance-altering helicopter one minute, or riding across the African savannah on an abdomen-jolting elephant the next.

As I struggled to pry Hambones' vegemite-smeared paws off an IMAX-sized screen before I got caught by one of the black-clad Easter Island statues which moonlight as JB security staff, I noticed that each of these amazing images were punctuated with writing over a blank screen, which on further investigation, constituted facts and messages about environmental degradation and conservation, climate change, population explosion and other determinants of the health of our dying planet, and I gotta say, it really stuck in my craw.

Here I was, surrounded by walls of massive, shiny, black, plastic, electronic devices, any one of which would probably feed a whole family for a year amongst two-thirds of the world's population; basically the epitome of consumer-driven greed and superfluous acquisition, and they were using messages of peace, conservation and global socialism to sell them.  Surely someone was taking the piss?  I might have thought so, if the footage between each message wasn't so brilliantly drawing my two-year old son under its spell, not to mention a number of others who may have had more years under their belts, but seemingly equivalent intellect.

I get it ... we've gone too far.  While on the one hand, the screaming, talk-back radio listening mobs of Western Sydney Aussie Battlers surviving on the poverty line are leading a national outrage directed at a government which, simply because there seems to be just no other way to tackle the urgent global crisis of climate change, is threatening to "tax us within an inch of our incomes", on the other, everyone still seems to have enough disposable income to purchase a television which is so large that one needs to knock out a wall to get it into their living room.  We're so sick, twisted and confused with our own wealth and greed, that even messages of reduce, recycle and reuse, punctuating breathtaking imagery of what we'll lose if we don't, actually spurs us on to consume more.  Get me outta here!

You can just imagine how big the telley is!  Pic: http://www.realbollywood.com

Ministers finger fags

Any day of the week, Samoa is definitely one of the greatest destinations in the world; awesome beaches, wonderfully lush mountains, natural water slides off the sides of said mountains, fantastic beer, relaxed vibe (bordering-on-coma) and a serious commitment to food (my kinda peeps).

There're also the wonderful, friendly locals; always joking, laughing, dancing and singing, that make the place so welcoming and so much fun. 

Hang-on, did I just say "always friendly"?  That's definitely not quite right ... for starters, Samoans – all of 'em, at one time or another - suffer from the "musu".  This is a cultural phenomenon which, for no apparent reason, turns your normally laughing, joking, cheeky colleagues/friends/partners/waiters/hotel staff into brooding, inpatient, aggressive ticking-emotional-time-bombs in the blink of an eye. 

Seriously, the musu can easily turn a happy, convivial conversation into a spiteful verbal barrage.  For example;

Donkey:  Thanks for taking me to the pub last night, I had a great time.

Mose:     Hey no worries, Donkey, me-ol'-mucka.*  Yeah, it was really fun.  You're pretty good a darts.

Donkey:  You think so?  Ah thanks.  Yeah, I really enjoy it.  Wish I hadn't drunk so much, though.

Mose:     Ha!  It was kinda funny when you downed 17 Vailimas and spewed all over the pool table before passing out on the sea wall.

Donkey:  Urgh!  Don't remind me – woke-up with a washed-up, fermenting coconut next to my face.  Still, good fun.  How 'bout we do it again some time?

Mose:     Fuck off!

And that'll be it for Mose for the next couple of hours.  Next time you see him, he'll be his old self again.  Ah, the musu.  It can make inter-cultural relationships pretty difficult to negotiate for the uninitiated.

So as I was saying, apart from the musu, Samoans are great fun to be around; very generous with their time, their praise, their food.  Great people; very open to newcomers ... oh, unless they happen to be palagi (foreigners).  For those of us who aren't Samoan, there's a special kind of Samoan Pride (read: arrogance) which anyone whose been there for longer than a week will have been exposed to at one time or another.  It's not too bad, really; no violence or hate crimes, just a very Samoan way of talking to make you feel that you're less than the dirt under their shoe ... um, sandal.

Actually, this pride (read: arrogance) isn't only reserved for foreigners, but for all who are considered beneath the speaker in question.  So in the hierarchy of Samoa, a man will display arrogance to a woman, who'll beat-up on the kids, who'll have a stab at the dog, who'll take-on the cat, who'll chase the rat.  And we palagis are right at the bottom (luckily there's no plague in Samoa!).

At the other end of the spectrum are matais (chiefs) and church ministers.  These morbidly-obese blokes lord it over everyone, as the next story demonstrates.

Now this story is completely true (I think ... at least, I've certainly told it many times as though it's a true story ... I've even made it slightly better from time-to-time with a few Donkey-specials, just to make sure my audience is on-board ... so yeah, it's pretty true).

Many years ago, some foreign anthropologists from The States were conducting an investigation into the origins of the Pacific races.  They spent many years researching in countries all over the Pacific, and many years in Samoa, particularly.  At the end of nearly a decade of research, they offered to share (in person) their findings with the various countries of the Pacific, and were invited to do so in Samoa, where they would address a gathering of the Council of Chiefs.

This was back in the days before PowerPoint, but they had lots of slides, and went to great pains to ensure the audience understood the rigour of their research, and the ultimate findings that the peoples of the Pacific, including Polynesians, all drifted east from what is now Southeast Asia, settling, then moving on, then settling again.  They described key evidence of language, art, cultural practices, mythology and DNA as supporting these findings.

After a day of talking, explaining, demonstrating and answering questions about their research, the Paramount Chief stood up, and in the spirit of fine Samoan oratory, went on a one-hour verbal bender which can basically be summed-up as follows;

"Thank you very much for coming here today to tell us about your work.  But we know that Samoa is the Cradle of Polynesia; God put us here and from here all the Polynesian nations were settled."

Nods all 'round.  Paramount Chief ... who's gonna argue?  The researchers (both inferior and foreign) hung their heads, packed-up and went home.

Donkey, too, has come up against this closed-minded, unquestionable Samoan arrogance.  I was running a consultative workshop about health promotion; how to do it better in order to meet the needs of Samoa's most concerning health problems.

I'd wanted to get a few young people along to discuss the cause, and possibly throw-around a few ideas towards a solution to the very high rate of youth suicide in the country.  When I asked the gathering of Church Pastors and Village Chiefs why no young people had come along, I was informed by one particularly large gentleman who, despite his profusely sweating brow, managed to pull-off a spotless white sports-coat with nary a blemish, "We are the representatives of God here on Earth and we speak for our communities, which includes our young people".

OK, so by this time I'm getting the message, loud-and-clear, on the high rate of youth suicide.  "So," I asked, "what can we do about it?".

"Our young people need to be more involved in the Church ... they need to pray more and be closer to their parents and leaders, and especially to God".

Exasperated, I looked to my practical, street-savvy, scientifically-minded, Health Promotion colleagues for a life-line.  All I got were beaming smiles and,

Nods all 'round.  Church Pasters and Chiefs ... who's gonna argue?  This health promoter (both inferior and foreign) hung his donkey-head, packed-up and went home.

And now someone else has come-up against the ol' Samoan Pride.  This time it's an international climate change summit to which, for no apparent reason, someone decided to invite a bunch of senior Samoan Church Ministers.  And the result?  What is the Number 1 root cause of climate change? ...

... wait for it ...

Homosexuals!  Ha!

I love the line in this article from The Register, "...Academics were apparently thrown off their consideration of "Arts in the Age of Global Warming" and "Ecology in Poetry / Poetry in Ecology..."

Nods all 'round.  Church Pasters ... who's gonna argue?  Those academics (both inferior and foreign) hung their heads, packed-up and went home.

* OK, so clearly Mose doesn't talk in cockney-rhyming slang – I was just translating from Samoan into some kind of cross-cultural equivalent ... I think I nailed it!

Wonder-twin powers...activate!  The white-coated Church Pastors from Samoa power-up to tackle climate change in their own, unique, homophobic way.  Pic: adventist.org.au