Vote For the 2009 Canadian Dickhead of the Year

    Voting is now open for the 2009 Canadian Dickhead of the Year!  You don’t have to be Canadian to vote.  Everyone in the world is invited to vote, so spread the word!

    I have collected for your consideration ten worthy candidates who made the news during 2009.  They’re all exceptional dickheads, but only one gets to be named the Canadian Dickhead of the Year.  You decide.

    Here they are, in alphabetical order:

1. Dr. Moustafa Adams

    This Edmonton doctor, an Egyptian-born Muslim, is suing Air Canada for $162,000, alleging racial profiling after a dispute with a flight attendant during a flight from Edmonton to Cairo, via London.  At Heathrow Airport he was interrogated by police for 45 minutes.  On the return trip, Air Canada made him sign a document promising not to create a disturbance.  Adams claims he has been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of Air Canada’s treatment.  As well, he claims he has suffered guilt, shame, degradation, mental anguish, fear, flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks, and a phobia for flying.  (Source: Edmonton Sun, September 20, 2009)

2. Keith Barton

    This 73-year-old Minto, New Brunswick, man smashed six dogs in the head with a hammer to “euthanize” them.  Five of the dogs died.  Barton had been charged with failing to provide properly for the dogs under the provincial SPCA Act.  Testifying in his own defence, he said he feared what might happen to his dogs if they were taken away by the SPCA, so he decided to euthanize them himself.  He said he believed he had the right to do this.  (Source: Fredericton Daily Gleaner, January 8, 2009)

3. William Blair

    Toronto Chief of Police William Blair allowed thousands of Tamil protesters to block downtown Toronto streets, as well as the Don Valley Parkway and Gardiner Expressway, on numerous occasions from April 27th to May 16th.  The protesters were demonstrating their support for the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam.  (Toronto has the largest population of Tamils outside of Sri Lanka.)  Not one protester was charged with blocking any roadway.  Instead, hundreds of police officers were occupied for extended periods watching (and protecting) the protesters and directing traffic, thereby compromising the safety of the rest of the city.  When Blair was hired in 2005, he said his main concern was to combat racism.  That year he became the first Toronto Chief of Police to march in the Gay Pride Parade.  More recently, he held a recruitment day in the gay ghetto to encourage gays and trannies to become police officers.  (Sources: cnews.canoe.ca and Toronto Star, April 27 to May 16, 2009)

4. Daniel Jacques Chartrand

    This 39-year-old caregiver left an elderly man with Parkinson’s Disease lying in his own urine and feces while he spent the sick man’s money.  Approximately a million dollars was spent on luxury cars over a period of two years.  The elderly man was discovered emaciated and lying on the floor.  He eventually died in a nursing home.  A judge called Chartrand’s callousness “despicable” but was constrained to give him a light sentence because of precedents and because Chartrand was schizophrenic.  (Source: Ottawa Sun, August 11, 2009)

5. Crystal McPherson

    This Winnipeg crack addict tried to set a house on fire because she didn’t like the quality of drugs she was getting.  Asked why she set the fire, Crystal McPherson told police: “Because they are a bunch of fucking crackheads and they ripped me off.”  The 37-year-old addict threw a pop bottle filled with gasoline on the porch of the house, starting a small fire.  A resident was able to put it out.  (Source: Winnipeg Sun, March 27, 2009)

6. Erik Millett

    The Principal of Belleisle Elementary School in Springfield, Newfoundland, dropped the singing of “O Canada” from the school’s morning routine.  Principal Erik Millett made the decision for the sake of “cultural diversity.”  He said he did not want to force children to sing “O Canada” if it went against their beliefs.  He also said that the anthem was a distraction to students.  Few people have objected to the new policy, according to Millett.  (Sources: Saint John Telegraph-Journal, January 23, and cbc.ca, January 28, 2009)

7. Christine Papakyriakou

    This 52-year-old accountant from Hamilton embezzled over $7 million from her employer, Andres Wines, to feed her gambling addiction.  Now she is suing two Niagara casinos and the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corp. for $10 million for giving her perks designed to keep her gambling.  Papakyriakou also gambled extensively in Las Vegas and Aruba and on the Internet.  (Source: Hamilton Spectator, April 25, 2009)

8. Prof. Ayelet Shachar

    This University of Toronto legal scholar says that people born in prosperous countries should be forced to pay a tax for their citizenship.  In her book, The Birthright Lottery, Prof. Shachar says it is sheer luck if we are born in a nice country — not something we actually deserve – and she likens it to European feudalism, where land passed untaxed from one generation to the next.  She says that the benefits of being born in the right place are like an inheritance and should be taxed.  The money would, of course, be doled out to people in the Third World, who were not born so lucky.  For Americans, the “birthright privilege levy” would be about $1,000; for Canadians, a little less.  (Source: Toronto Star, May 2, 2009)

9. Brittney Simpson

    This 19-year-old woman from Kitchener, Ontario, assaulted an Olympic torch bearer in the town of Guelph.  Simpson was one of a large group of protesters known as the Olympics Resistance Network, who carried signs with the slogan “No Olympics on Stolen Native Land.”  The torch bearer was knocked down, but the flame did not go out.  Simpson was charged with assault.  The Olympic Torch Run has been harassed by the Olympics Resistance Network and aboriginal protesters on several occasions.  (Source: Canadian Press, December 28, 2009)

10. Mahmoud Yadegari

    This 38-year-old Iranian immigrant, now a Canadian citizen, has been charged with attempting to ship pressure transducers to Iran for use in uranium enrichment for nuclear weapons.  Mahmoud Yadegari purchased the devices from a Boston-area company and falsified the paperwork in order to export the items without a permit.  The company tipped off U.S. agents, who in turn tipped off the RCMP.  (Source: Toronto Star, April 18, 2009)

HOW TO VOTE

1. Vote by e-mail only.  The address is crad166@yahoo.com.  

2. Pick your THREE favorite candidates, and tell me your FIRST CHOICE, SECOND CHOICE, and THIRD CHOICE.  They will be weighted 3 points (First), 2 points (Second), and 1 point (Third).  The winner will be based on total aggregate points.

3.  Votes will be accepted until May 31, 2010.  Everyone is eligible to vote — not just Canadians.

4.  Your personal comments are welcome, but they must come by e-mail.  Don’t post them in the “Comments” box.  I will publish the best comments.

5.  The winners (top three) will be announced in June.

    The previous Canadian Dickhead of the Year ran in 2003.  You can view it at www.cradkilodney.net.   

    Got a news item for me for next year’s Dickhead Contest?  E-mail it to me.  The Dickhead candidate must be Canadian, he or she must be named, and the news source must be indicated.

    Copyright@ 2010 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

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    Copyright@ 2010 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

 

Exotic Cities, Part Twenty: Vinh, Vietnam

    Our world tour of exotic cities is almost at an end.  I’m sure you’ll agree it’s been great fun and extremely enlightening.  Don’t complain that you’re maxed out on all your credit cards after all this globetrotting.  You’ve still got that Christmas bonus to spend, don’t you?  And we’ve got one more place left to visit: Vinh, Vietnam.

    Vinh is an enchantress among cities, but without the Circean evil that turns men into swine (as in Ottawa, for example).  Vinh is eager for tourism after being overlooked for so many years.  They want to catch up.  And seven out of ten travelers agree: a vacation in Vinh is more delightful than a root canal.

    Vinh is located on Vietnam’s “Gold Coast,” so named because of the anthills containing gold.  In fact, Vinh is the Anthill Capital of the World.  It is home to the Asian tiger ant (Solenopsis mendacis), the same variety that attacked Joan Collins in Empire of the Ants.  Early Spanish explorers noticed the grains of gold in the anthills and took them as a sign that they were close to the Golden Grail, also known as El Dorado.  But they got lost in the Forest of Blinh and were eaten by the monster Smatma.  After this disaster, King Charles II forbade all further exploration in the area, so the French were able to move in uncontested.

    There are no good travel deals to Vinh, unfortunately, because there isn’t a whole lot of tourism yet.  (The round trip from Toronto cost me about $3,700, and Air Canada’s nuts were stale.)  But once you get there, you can load up on counterfeit designer goods that you can resell back home.

    The best hotel in town is the Ramada Vinh, which is surprisingly affordable for all its luxury, with an average room rate of about $150 per night.  In the lobby, gilded domes frescoed with sweeping clouds and hanging gardens frame chandeliers of 24-karat gold and  crystal.  The marble floors are polished to mirror perfection.  A broad arch opens to a garden with a pool.  Goldfish cruise lazily in a rock-rimmed pond.  In the suites, painted cherubs smile down on a massive raised bed, and a 60-channel projection TV screen drops from the ceiling.  The bathrooms of Italian marble and French onyx are stocked with Egyptian-cotton towels, robes, and slippers.  Press a button, and the red satin drapes part, giving a view of the rolling hills and a new housing development.  A masseuse is available 24 hours a day, and she will massage you with her well-oiled naked body.

    General Manager Freddie Ho greeted me personally.  He said he was my biggest fan in all of Vietnam, although my books are officially banned.  I said I was surprised to find such opulence in a  Communist country.  “This is the new Vietnam,” he explained.  “It’s Communist in theory, but it’s becoming more capitalist in practice.  Just get the tourists in and get them to spend their money.  And Ramada wants a piece of the action.”

    Freddie was too busy to show me around town, so he put me in the able hands of his good friend Dan Van Nguyen.  Dan was evasive about his occupation, saying only that he was well-connected and did things for people.  “Sort of a fixer,” he said.  “I help people with their problems and needs.”  He offered to fix me up with hookers, but I declined.

    The first thing every visitor wants to see is the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh, which is in the village of Kim Lien, about 14 kms northwest of Vinh.  There you will find multicolored dancing fountains surrounding Ho’s statue.  He is holding two children by the hand, and a cocker spaniel sits beside his feet.  The gift shop sells every sort of Ho souvenir, and all the employees are amputees, so if you’re a liberal, you just load up with all you can carry.

    On the outskirts of the Forest of Blinh, where nobody goes for obvious reasons, you will find the villages of the Dogon people.  The Dogon are ethnically unrelated to the Vietnamese, and nobody knows their true origins.  They are a pacifist people who have an ingenious method of preventing fighting.  All their dwellings have such low roofs that you can’t stand up straight.  The idea is that if somebody gets mad at somebody else and tries to stand up, he can’t, so there’s no way they can fight without looking stupid.  Predictably, all the Dogon have a stooped posture.  They worship the ant, and they leave scraps of food at a giant anthill for “protection.”  They also practice a dance on hot coals as a puberty rite.  Boys and girls must dance on the hot coals to become adults.  It’s part of a religious belief system, so you can’t criticize it.

    Quyet Mountain is on the outskirts of Vinh.  It’s the home base of the Vinh Paragliding Club.  Paragliders launch themselves from the summit and glide over the Lam River, which skirts the city.  The Lam has a lot of crocodiles, and the paragliders compete to see who can traverse the river the most times without falling in.  You should check out some of this action on YouTube.

    There is a muscular exuberance in the Lam’s rapids, danger in its floods.  But on most days the river welcomes the adventurer with lyric grace — except in typhoons, when everything up to the size of a water buffalo is swept away and killed.

    Go east to the coast about 10 kms and enjoy the pristine white beach at Cua Lo.  Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart were seen there recently, and according to observers, they were getting pretty romantic.  It’s easy to understand why.  Cua Lo is a romantic dream, with its blue water, palm trees, and strolling troubadours singing Vietnamese love songs and playing the mandolin, while flocks of pink flamingoes circle overhead in search of fiddler crabs, their favorite food.

    Speaking of food, try the seafood at Em Ghet Anh, a popular seaside restaurant.  Their specialty is boiled moray eel served on a bed of seaweed.

    Downtown Vinh is an artful example of East German social realist architecture, with its gray, cube-shaped public buildings flanking its wide streets.  Luxury Soviet-made limos blend in with smoky little Trabants and a few odd rickshaws.  Smartly dressed traffic cops keep everything moving efficiently as they blow their whistles and bark repeatedly “Mu cac tao!…Mu cac tao!…”

    At the top of Quang Trung Street you will find Vinh’s most famous landmark, “Uncle Vinnie” — a 60-foot-high neon ant.  He’s the city’s unofficial mascot.  (What else would you expect in the Anthill Capital of the World?)  The Vinh High School athletic teams are called the Tiger Ants and they wear a logo like Uncle Vinnie.  The cheerleaders do this cute little “Ant Dance,” and if you’re sitting in the right place, you can see the cracks of their asses.

    While on that subject, there is a strip club on Le Mao Street called Thang Nguc Lon, which is always busy, although it is pretty tame by Western standards.  They feature a lot of B-list American strippers who have gotten too old or too fat to work in good clubs in the U.S.  SaRenna Lee headlined there for a month, and the audience loved her.  They thought she had the biggest tits in the world.  But what do the Vietnamese know about big tits?  Their women are all flat-chested.

    That could change, however.  Two enterprising brothers, Sy Ba Tran and Van Quyen Tran, have gone into business as breast implant specialists.  The former auto mechanics don’t have medical degrees, and even in Vietnam they wouldn’t normally be allowed to do any sort of medical work, but Dan Van Nguyen said this was something he was able to “fix.”  The brothers only accept out-of-town patients, by the way, so nobody in Vinh ever gets to see the results of their handiwork.

    The Buddhist monastery is a minor attraction.  The monks are renowned for their extremely long toenails, which are supposed to demonstrate inner peace.  You can make a donation and light a candle and sit with them while they chant, but these guys never bathe, and all that incense isn’t enough to conceal the fact, so pretty soon you want to get up and leave.  However, the Jonas Brothers spent a whole day in there and said it was the most spiritually uplifting experience of their lives.

    Vinh is the home of the Vietnam Museum of Human Rights, but blacks and Jews are not allowed in.  The museum has a big display devoted to Jane Fonda.  What Jane Fonda has to do with human rights is beyond me, but the Vietnamese love her and worked her in somehow.

    The best attraction if you’re looking for something really edgy is the Vinh Arena, which stages matches of an extremely violent form of martial arts cage fighting.  The contestants wear spikes and fight with sticks.  Dan Van Nguyen told me there’s always blood, and they average three or four deaths a year.  He also said that World Wrestling Entertainment had been to Vinh to check it out and were interested in doing some kind of business deal, and he was trying to help them with that. 

    For shopping, you have a lot of street vendors and little shops selling counterfeit goods, which I referred to earlier.  Dan said the authorities don’t mind because the designers and brands are exploiters of Third World labor, so it’s okay to rip them off.  The People’s Committee that administers Vinh calls this “social justice.”  And they collect big licensing fees from the vendors, so it’s a lot of revenue. 

    If you want more sophisticated shopping, you want to go to the Roman Mall, which is designed to look like ancient Rome.  There is a daily royal procession led by a centurion.  Moving sidewalks from the street whisk shoppers into the mall.  But to get out, they must pass through a door that will not open unless they are laden with a certain minimum weight of merchandise.  (So put a brick in your counterfeit Gucci bag before you go in!  Oh, and another thing: don’t use your credit cards, or you will get a rude surprise in a month or so.  Use the local currency.)

    The Ramada Vinh has a very nice French restaurant.  Head Chef Thi Hai Dinh serves up an elegant kea parrot Michels.  Here’s the recipe:

    Season one large kea parrot with salt, pepper, garlic, and sage.  Place in casserole with three ounces of palm oil, two cups of  chopped kale, and two cups of chopped rhubarb.  Put in oven at 350 degrees and baste frequently.  After 20 minutes, transfer to stove top, add six ounces of malt vinegar, cover pot, and simmer for 10 minutes.  Then add one cup of water, once ounce of anchovy paste, and a cup of finely chopped pickled beets.  Bring to a boil and cook for 5 more minutes.  Serve with rice.  (Heston Blumenthal does this with gold leaf on top, but I think that spoils it.)

    Dan and I had a late evening drink with Freddie Ho, and we talked about the “new” Vietnam.  Freddie said the Vietnamese people were no longer anti-American.  In fact, hundreds of them sent cards of condolence to Jennifer Aniston after the death of her dog, Norman.

    Freddie surprised me by producing two of my books, Junior Brain Tumors In Action and Malignant Humors, which he asked me to inscribe personally.  (You can try searching for these books, as well as my others, at www.abebooks.com, but I have no control over prices on the collector’s market.)

    I asked Freddie and Dan if Vinh had a “sister city,” and they said no.  I offered to find one if Dan could fix it with the People’s Committee.  “Easy as one, two, three!” said Dan with a big smile.  So I found a suitable city the next day.

    I’m happy to report that Vinh’s sister city is Nanaimo, British Columbia, Canada.  Mayor John Ruttan liked the idea because Nanaimo didn’t have a sister city and deserved one.  And although he knew nothing about Vinh, he said, “We’re ‘Left Coast,’ as they say, and I guess the Veet-namese are, too, seeing as how they’re Communists, ha, ha!  And if there are any more of those boat people who want to come over, tell ‘em we have a real nice harbour where they can tie their yachts.”  The Mayor and his wife will be visiting Vinh sometime in 2010 (and this is a heads-up to Air Canada to make sure their nuts are fresh this time!).  Mrs. Ruttan is keen to pick up a few Gucci knock-offs.

    Recommended vaccinations: retroperitoneal fibrosis, Camurah-Engelmann Disease, parrot fever.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Nineteen: Maiduguri, Nigeria

    Close your eyes and sit back.  Allow yourself to be borne aloft by fairies.  (The flight crew is gay.)  You’re floating now, as if in a dream, traveling across time and space.  Soon you will land in the Shangri-la of Africa.  The fairies are setting you down gently.  Now you can open your eyes.  A big sign reads: “Welcome to Maiduguri, Nigeria.”

    This is a land where the past meets the present.  Both get drunk and stagger out, looking for the future.  The imperfect is found dead by the side of the road, and the subjunctive gets accused.  A dangling participle and sentence fragment are held as evidence.  A conjunction is held to parse the sentence, and the subjunctive is represented by the future perfect and the conditional, but the active voice is exclamatory and demands an interjection.  Eventually, an adverbial clause is arrived at, the solecism is ruled ungrammatical, and the subject is thrown into a parenthesis until the dative, ablative, and gerundive cases shall be resurrected from their graves and illiterates playing video games shall perish in hell.

    Look for the bright yellow school bus marked “Ritz-Carlton Maiduguri.”  It will whisk you away at a good twenty miles an hour along the airport road, allowing you to take in the color and fragrance of the endless fields of rafflesia on either side.  You’ll recognize the hotel by its lime-green exterior and faux Corinthian columns.  We’re expected.  General Manager Francois Cnockaert is waiting to greet us personally.  The man is ageless.  He has a portrait in his attic that ages for him while he remains young.  I told you this was Shangri-la, didn’t I?

    Nigeria has been made wealthy by its vast oil resources, so you will not find the sort of nasty, horrible things that exist in the “not nice” countries of the Third World.  And it’s not just your ordinary crude oil; it’s Nigerian Sweet Crude.  Ask any refiner.  A tanker full of Nigerian Sweet Crude is worth killing my sister for.  (Come to think of it, a gallon or two would suffice.)  And Maiduguri has its own refinery, so that gasoline can be made fresh on the spot.  It is, in fact, the only refinery of halal gasoline in the world.  An imam stands beside the pipeline chanting “Allah…Allah…Allah…” all day long as the gasoline flows through.

    Francois was frantically busy with a crowd of visitors attending the Shadfly Festival (more on that in a moment) and promised to meet up with me later.  In the meantime, he introduced me to my host who would show me around — Prof. Hani (“Call me Hank”) Rabe, Head of the Canadian Studies Dept. at the Maiduguri branch of the University of Nigeria.

    “You are my hero,” Hank confessed with a blush.  “I have several of your books.  I have told my class that you are the greatest Canadian writer of all time.”  The Canadian Studies Dept. was made possible by an administrative error on the part of the Canadian International Development Agency.  They sent a large sum of money to the wrong account to pay for a hockey rink.  The university simply kept it, and CIDA never caught their mistake.  So Hank got his longed-for Canadian Studies Dept., of which he is the only faculty member.  There is one course, and four students are enrolled, although two rarely show up.

    “The Maiduguri region was the home of an ancient civilization called the Snake People,” Hank told me, as we rode along in his classic ‘72 Plymouth Duster, whose Slant-6 engine still purrs smoothly after all these years.  “Almost nothing is known about them, except that they must have been very advanced.”  Why is that? I ask.  “The fact that they left nothing behind means that they cleaned up after themselves.  That proves how advanced they were, you see.”

    “I get it.”

    Although the Snake People are considered extinct, there is, in fact, one of them alive today — Shirley Brown, City Councillor of Bristol, England.  One of my neighbors, Ghrugnanasampa Thavakugathasalingam of 61 Town Centre Court, Scarborough, has called the Snake People “a bunch of ugly nigger monkeys.”  But, hey, look who’s talking!

    The Ngadda River, which flows through Maiduguri, lends a special charm to the city, owing to its pristine nature.  And every November the shadflies come out of the river to fill the air by the millions for several weeks.  It’s one of nature’s great spectacles, and it provides the occasion for the world’s only Shadfly Festival.  Although harmless, the shadflies can be frightening to those experiencing them for the first time. Local people show off their courage by allowing themselves to be covered with them from head to foot.  The shadfly is celebrated with good humor and creativity, and the festival adds a boost to the economy.  The Shadfly Queen is crowned to cap it off.  The current Queen is Basaratu Mojisola Bakare-Giles, a nude volleyball player who has been linked romantically with Tiger Woods.  The shadfly phenomenon also occurs in North Bay, Ontario, in June and July.  No one knows why these insects come out when they do, but they’re only around for a short time, so everyone tries to enjoy them.  All shadflies belong to the order Ephemeroptera.  They are mentioned in the Tibetan Book of the Dead, as well as The Book of Mormon.

    Another insect of importance to Maiduguri is the wasp.  The city boasts the world’s only wasp apiary, where scientists have used the “royal jelly” of the queen wasp to make an anti-aging skin cream (not yet available in North America).  The 1960 movie The Wasp Woman offers a dramatic look at the possibilities held out by wasp “royal jelly.”  (Omarosa recently ordered a huge shipment by courier, so let’s keep an eye on her!)

    Also of importance to Maiduguri are the famous Nigerian green sheep, also known as Gewad Greens, or just “Gewads.”  The green color is a genetic trait and not related to what they eat.  The sheep are raised on a ranch owned by the benevolent society Boko Haram, which sells wool caps and sweaters to tourists and to stores in many countries.  They also sponsor a fashion school famous for its daring lingerie and swimwear. 

    Get up early for a day trip to Lake Chad, which is shared by Nigeria, Chad, and Cameroon.  Lake Chad is home to the African carp (Carpio terribilus), a huge, aggressive fish known to jump out of the water and attack people — even pursuing them onto land in some cases!  It is a favorite among experienced fishermen, who like to stuff this inedible fish for display.  (Eminem landed a 100-pounder after a two-hour battle!)

    The only good beach at Lake Chad is known as Koos Beach, which is a topless beach on the Nigerian side.  Fergie likes it a lot.  Elsewhere, the lake is bordered by marshes and desert shrublands, which are the habitat of several rare species of gerbils, including the horned gerbil, the cyclops gerbil, and the elephant gerbil, whose rough, crinkled skin makes it an ideal pet for Kanapathipillai Suvannavisayagamoorthy of 35 Valleywoods Road, North York, who has two retarded children and a mother who never bathes (see “Dung People of Sri Lanka,” Canadian Wonder Magazine For Children, July, 2002).

    Lake Chad, by the way, was first explored by the Vikings, and fragments of their settlement can be seen on the south side of the lake, just across the Chad border, on the Lake Road, about 100 meters from Nianaiebi’s Lemonade Stand, which is owned by Nianaiebi Diorra, boyfriend of Kayla Kleevage.  Kayla has become a very popular performer in Chad, Nigeria, Cameroon, and the Central African Republic since she became too old for American club audiences. 

    There’s “old” shopping and “new” shopping in Maiduguri.  The old shopping is found in the city’s central plaza, which is bordered on all sides by quaint little shops and outdoor stalls, most with no names.  There are a few noteworthy ones.  There’s a store where traditional Muslim women go to buy their unmentionables.  There’s a shop that sells all sorts of live birds, lizards, and snakes (some poisonous).  There’s an herbal shop run by Madame Folashade Ahiata Price, whose specialty is poisonous plants.  (The CIA has relied on her expertise in bumping people off in such a way that nobody can prove it was murder.)  And there is a large shop that sells ammunition in bulk.  There are dozens of barrels full of bullets of all calibres and types.  You take a scoop and fill a bag, just like a bulk candy shop.  Every round is guaranteed to fire or you can return it for a replacement.

    I mustn’t forget the Walking Stone in the middle of the plaza.  This is a plain stone spire about fifteen feet high, with a plot of grass and a little fence around it.  You will find people walking slowly around this stone any hour of the day or night, and in any weather — and always counter-clockwise.  They could be “walking the stone” for a variety of reasons — to express their piety, atone for sins, search for inner peace, or contemplate a problem; or they could just be lunatics or bums with nothing better to do.  One merchant warned me, however, that a tourist — especially a Westerner — must never walk the stone, or people will think he’s poking fun at them.  One tourist not only walked the stone but walked it clockwise and was beaten to within an inch of his life for such insolence!

   The “new” shopping is located in the Maiduguri Mall, on the outskirts of town.  It’s modern, air-conditioned, and full of happy, prosperous Nigerian consumers.  The flagship store is Mighty Maidi, a department store.  All the sales clerks are young Muslim women, but not like any you’ve ever seen.  They wear a kerchief over their hair, which is normal for Muslim women, but from the neck down they’re dressed like sluts — big tits pushing out of their bras, micro-skirts, black fishnet stockings, and high heels.  (You’ll find this throughout the mall, in fact.)  You’ll be in there browsing for a long time, and you won’t leave without buying something.  These babes know how to be persuasive. 

    The mannequins in the clothing stores are dressed the same way, but since they’re not real, they don’t have to wear a kerchief.  They’re molded with absurdly huge tits and asses.  There’s even a store that just sells life-size foam rubber sex dolls, with tits as big as you want and any combination of features, and with fuckable, washable holes.

    I bought a ton of pipe tobacco at Big M Smoke Shop, and it was so stupidly cheap I couldn’t believe it.  Almost everyone in Maiduguri smokes, by the way, and there are no laws whatever regarding smoking.  And tobacco taxes are minimal.  (If that doesn’t qualify as Shangri-la, I don’t know what does!)

    The Maiduguri Mall is 50%-owned by Mack-Cali Realty.  The other 50% is owned by a Nigerian syndicate known as Manuke Khara.

    Hank Rabe and I had dinner at the Old Sawmill, the most elegant restaurant in town.  It used to be a slaughterhouse, and some of the old fixtures were left in during the conversion to give it a funky atmosphere.  Head Chef Abdoulkadir Ali Musse serves up a mighty fine monkey stew.  Here’s the recipe:

    Hack off arms, legs, and head of monkey, and rip out internal organs.  Trim remaining meat away from bones and chop into one-inch pieces.  Season with black pepper and brown in a skillet with palm oil and a splash of rum.  Transfer to stew pot, add three cups of fish stock, a chopped turnip, a cup of chopped celery, a dozen radishes, two chopped sweet potatoes, a half cup of corn starch, a tablespoon of basil, a tablespoon of marjoram, a tablespoon of sea salt, two or three chopped cloves of garlic, a teaspoon of dry mustard, an ounce of Angostura bitters, and a half cup of mayonnaise.  Simmer over a low-to-moderate heat for 1 1/2 hours.  Jessica Simpson and her date, soccer player Giovanni Tegano, who plays for Juventus, appeared to love it.  They sat at the table next to us.

    Later we went to Neek Hallak, the most popular nightclub.  There we caught a wonderful performance by musician Mbuke Jumgwuthka, the world’s foremost player of the kuntigi, a small, single-stringed lute made out of a sardine can covered with goatskin.  I recognized Madonna and her boyfriend, Jesus Luz, in the audience.  (She was disguised with a wig, but I still picked her out.)  They were clearly enthralled.

    Hank and I went back to the Ritz-Carlton for a nightcap with Manager Francois Cnockaert, who gave me the straight dope on Nigerian e-mails.  The Maiduguri branch of the Bank of Nigeria is the one that has all those secret bank accounts that people who e-mail you want you to help them move out of the country.  However, the money is all in the local currency, the naira, not U.S. dollars, and if you offer to help the frantic person who is praying to God for your benevolent assistance, you will be asked to pay for the rental of the cargo plane needed to transport all those banknotes to Switzerland. 

    Francois had a copy of one of my books, Blood-Sucking Monkeys From North Tonawanda, and asked me to autograph it, which I was happy to do.  (You can try searching for this collector’s item, as well as my other books, at www.abebooks.com, but I have no control over prices on the collector’s market.)

    Francois had heard that I was an expert at arranging “sister city” relationships and asked if I could find a sister city for Maiduguri.  He was close to the Mayor, who couldn’t speak English, and was acting on his behalf.  I told him I would do it before I left.  And I did.

    Be pleased to inform Her Majesty that Slough (rhymes with “cow”), Berkshire, England, is now the sister city of Maiduguri, Nigeria.  The Chief Executive of Slough Council, Ruth Bagley, is “thrilled beyond belief” and calls the new relationship the best thing to happen to Slough during her tenure.  She plans to visit Maiduguri sometime in 2010 and is very keen to get her hands on some of that wasp jelly anti-aging cream.

    Recommended vaccinations: Chikungunya virus, Rosai-Dorfman Disease, epidermolytic hyperkeratosis.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Eighteen: Choibalsan, Mongolia

    How could we do a world tour of exotic cities and neglect Mongolia?  Impossible!  My many Mongoloid readers would never forgive me.  Mongolia is far too fascinating.  And I have uranium investments there.

    But we’re not going to Ulan Bator.  It’s too crowded with tourists this time of year.  Instead, we’re going to Choibalsan, the capital of Dornod province, in the eastern end of the country.  It’s less well-known but still has a tourist trade.  And the weather is nice right now — just a tad on the cool side, with one sunny day after another.

    So I’m on this cute, little Saab 340 of Eznis Airways, coming from Ulan Bator.  Across the aisle is a lady from New Zealand – Cherie Howie, a reporter for the Marlborough Express.  She looks unhappy.  What’s the problem?  Well, it seems that some nasty person nominated her for New Zealand Media Twit of the Year.  Her co-workers tried to reassure her that it was only a nomination; she hadn’t actually won yet.  But her editor was not amused.  He said she had to redeem herself.  So he put a big world map on the wall, closed his eyes, and threw a dart at it.  And wherever the dart hit, she had to go there and get a story.  The dart hit Choibalsan, Mongolia.

    “It’s not so bad,” I told her.  “The dart could have hit the middle of the ocean.  At least it hit a place with people.  And I’m told that Choibalsan is very interesting.  You’re sure to find a good story.”

    When you get to the airport, there’s a minibus waiting to take you to the Swissotel Choibalsan (comfy, unpretentious, moderately-priced), whose General Manager is Bart Westerhout.  “This is the best posting I’ve ever had,” says Bart.  “I could have gone to Paris or Geneva, but I jumped at Choibalsan.  The climate is invigorating, the people are upbeat, and the food is superb.”  Bart has a vast knowledge of Mongolia and the Choibalsan region, and I learned some surprising things.  “Genghis Khan hated this place.  It’s the only place in Mongolia he couldn’t stand to be in.  He felt there was something evil about it.  And he may have been right.  There is a legend that an evil spirit, which is referred to as ‘The Evil One,’ comes to Choibalsan every thirty-three years.  Two-thousand-and-ten will be the thirty-third year.  That ought to pack in the tourists!”  What happened in 1977?  “That was before my time.  But local people say there was an outbreak of mass hysteria in the Buddhist monastery.  The monks claimed The Evil One had appeared.  They resorted to two days of non-stop chanting to drive it away.  Several people and some animals disappeared.  The government investigated and dismissed the whole thing as superstition and capitalist propaganda.  Today, the older people still believe in The Evil One, but the young people don’t.”  And does this Evil One have a name?  “It has a name,” says Bart, “but you must never speak it aloud, or you will die.  Before you leave, I’ll write it down on paper for you.”  Wow!  Now there’s a story for Cherie Howie!

    Another surprising thing I learned was that, despite the early Mongols’ reputation as horsemen, modern Mongolians are afraid of horses!  “They won’t even get on a pony,” says Bart.  But outside of town there’s a zebra ranch!  The government brought them to Mongolia as an experiment to see if they could adapt to the climate and also as a possible food animal.  The zebras adapted, but no one wanted to eat them.  So they serve only as a tourist attraction.  You can ride them if they’re properly tranquilized.  Another good story for Cherie Howie!

    Choibalsan has an east side and a west side.  The west side became seriously depopulated and fell into ruin when the Russians left, and the east side is where the action is.  But…something really big is brewing on the depressed west side: a hockey arena is being built!  And this story hasn’t hit the media in North America yet, but Bart is in the know, and he gave me the straight dope:  Jim Balsillie, who is trying to buy the Phoenix Coyotes and move them to Hamilton, Ontario, is secretly creating a Mongolian Hockey League!  For what it would cost him to buy the Coyotes, he could build a half dozen rinks, sign a lot of young players from the minor leagues, and create a complete league.  “The Mongolians will love it,” says Bart.  “It’s a novelty.  It’s a sport.  He’s made some good connections in the government.  It’s going to happen.”  There’s another  good story for Cherie Howie!

    Or so I thought.  I met the reporter for lunch at the Verena Restaurant and told her about The Evil One, the zebras, and the hockey league.  “No, no, no,” she said.  “The readers of  the Express don’t believe in superstition, they have no interest in zebras, and we don’t play hockey in New Zealand.”  Okay, well, I tried to be helpful.

    The Verena specializes in the local delicacy — sheep brains.  Head Chef Elshad Abasov is a master of it.  He gave me his recipe for Sheep Brain a la Choibalsan:

    Remove outside skin and soak brain in cold water until blood has run out.   Then put brain in pot with two quarts of water, four ounces of red wine vinegar, two onions (quartered), one carrot, one half head of red cabbage, two stalks of rhubarb, six okra, one tablespoon salt, one half teaspoon black pepper, one half teaspoon sage, one teaspoon chopped ginger, one half teaspoon chili powder, one tablespoon juniper berries, one sprig of dill, one sprig of rosemary, and two bay leaves.  Bring to a boil and simmer for one-half hour.  Remove brain, cut in half, and serve on bed of orzo and  cottage cheese.  Pour rest of the pot over the brain.  Heston Blumenthal has added this dish to the new menu at the Little Chef restaurant chain (U.K.) with great success.  (And you thought Brits had no taste, didn’t you?)  Cherie Howie went to the ladies’ room to throw up, but I suspect it was a trick to stick me with the bill.

    Not far from the Verena is the Choibalsan Music Hall.  The Mongolian heavy metal rock band Hurd was in town, so I went.  I have no idea what their songs are about, but they were loud, and they threw pieces of raw meat at the audience.  Hurd will becoming to Canada in April of 2010 for a tour of the Atlantic provinces, and Rita MacNeil will be opening for them.

    The Dornod Midget Ballet Company, based in Choibalsan, puts on a distinctly Mongolian version of Swan Lake.  You can see them at the Choibalsan Little Theatre, located on the bank of the Kherlen River, next to the mental hospital.

    There’s good shopping in Choibalsan, especially if you’re into guns, leather, and liquor.  The biggest surprise, however, is fashion.  The tremendously popular avant garde designer Helmut Lang has opened a big boutique and is setting the fashion world abuzz with what he calls the “Mongolian Psycho” look.  His proteges, Michael and Nicole Colovos, have been managing the label since 2005, but Lang has returned to manage the Choibalsan outlet personally because of his Mongolian roots.

    Lots of little shops sell quaint novelties, including busts of Elvis and Genghis Khan, but most of these stores are run by Chinese, oddly enough. 

    You can rent a Jeep and go visit the Organ Pipe Cactus Wilderness, a unique mini-ecosystem an hour’s drive north of town (bad dirt road, so drive slowly).  Here you will find the Mongolian leatherneck turtle in abundance.  Visitors can rent guns and shoot them.  The shells of the leatherneck turtle are fashioned by local artisans to make party hats and protective athletic gear.  (Where’s Cherie Howie?  This is a story!)

    At Bart Westerhout’s suggestion, I went five miles west of town to view the Moukalaba-Doudou Industrial Park, where all plants and animals have been exterminated to allow for coal mining, oil and gas drilling, and the manufacturing of toxic chemicals.  The multi-colored plumes of smoke are breathtaking at sunset, and any birds flying through them fall dead to the ground.

    Beside the park runs the Waka Canal, which carries untreated sewage from Choibalsan.  New grooms are invited to test their fortitude by diving into the canal to retrieve money scattered by their friends as part of a traditional Mongolian marriage custom.  It’s a scene straight out of The Magic Christian.

    Elsewhere, the Mongolian Institute of Aluminum Siding offers the visitor a stunning display of artistic and industrial metalworks.  Tuesdays are “pay what you like.”

    The steppes of Mongolia are mostly devoid of trees, but a rare exception is the forest of okoume trees south of Choibalsan.  The wood is used to make furniture for movie stars in Beverly Hills, and the fruit is used to make weight-loss products advertised in The National Enquirer. 

    Earthquakes happen occasionally in this part of Mongolia.  When the earth splits open, giant prehistoric bugs emerge to devour people and livestock.  But such events do not cloud the spirits of the normally optimistic Mongolians, who are used to adversity.  Indeed, Choibalsan’s official motto is “Gii chii pizda,” which means “The future has to be better.”

    Back at the Swissotel, I asked Bart Westerhout if Choibalsan had a sister city, and he said no.  We agreed it should have one.  So he invited the city’s Mayor, Shukhratjon Aikoraev (“Call me Shooky”) to come over for a drink.  Shooky doesn’t have any real governing authority.  He’s sort of a figurehead, who spends most of his time in a smoke-filled gambling den, but this was the sort of thing he could do within his limited power.  Sister city?  Great idea!  And I knew just the place — Bismarck, North Dakota.  Same climate, same geography, same spirit.  Mayor John Warford (“The fighting orthodontist of North Dakota”) was thrilled with the idea.  Bismarck didn’t have a real sister city (we won’t count Mandan), and with the mayoral election coming up in 2010, what a gift it would be to the community!  John Warford deserves to be reelected, and I urge all Bismarckers to vote for him.

    Cherie Howie happened to meet us in the bar, and I had a ton of story ideas for her: the rock band Hurd, the midget ballet, the Helmut Lang boutique, Organ Pipe Cactus Wilderness, the industrial park, grooms diving into sewage for money, the Institute of Aluminum Siding, the okoume tree forest, the earthquakes, giant bugs, and, best of all, Choibalsan’s new sister city!  But it was no, no, no, no, no.  Not for the readers of the Marlborough Express.  “Then what the heck are you going to write about?” I asked.

    “Cats,” she said.

    “Cats?”

    “Yes.  House cats.  How people here love their cats.  Our readers love cat stories.”

    Now that’s journalism!

    Before I left Choibalsan, Bart Westerhout slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand.  “You wanted to know the name of The Evil One — the name that must never be spoken aloud.  Promise me…you won’t even look at it until you’re on the plane back to UB.”  So I promised.

    Climbing into the cool autumn air, with the exotic city of Choibalsan fading from view, and Cherie Howie with her laptop out, putting the finishing touches on her cat article, I nervously unfolded the paper that Bart Westerhout had given to me and read the name of The Evil One.  And please…don’t ever say this name aloud:

    GORGULAX.

    Recommended vaccinations: Dyggve Melchior Clausen Syndrome, sacrococcygeal teratoma, Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Seventeen: Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua

    A potato-hungry Nicaragua can be grateful for a city like Puerto Cabezas.  This lovely little port on the Atlantic coast is surrounded by vast potato farms, which grow 80% of the potatoes eaten in Nicaragua.  They are the Balurde Brown variety, not seen in North America.  Long lines of trucks rumble out of Puerto Cabezas on the only road into the city, which goes all the way to Managua.  It is referred to, appropriately enough, as the Potato Highway, and it was described by Ernest Hemingway in one of his lesser-known stories, “At Noon Cometh the Spud Truck.”

    This part of Nicaragua belongs to indigenous people, the Shinnecock Indians, who raised potatoes and ducks since their beginnings.  The ducks, however, got wiped out by some sort of bird flu, which was probably brought to Nicaragua by Balboa in 1513.  He was looking for another ocean, and the Indians pointed south and said, “It’s that way.”  So he and his men went that way and “discovered” the Pacific Ocean.  And along the way they had sex with a lot of Indian women, who were “easy,” so that’s how Nicaragua got a large population of Spanish-Indian hybrids.  The women are pretty hot.  Bianca Jagger is a good example.  She got her start at fame as the country’s Potato Queen of 1964, and she is still the country’s favorite celebrity.

    Tourism is just starting to take off in Puerto Cabezas.  Local people still regard North Americans as “los estupidos norteamericanos,” because of the thousands of liberal white kids who went to Nicaragua back in the 80’s to pick crops and show solidarity with the peasants.  It is pretty stupid when you think about it: paying your own way to Nicaragua to pick crops for nothing.  And these are the same fools who protest against “exploitation” of cheap labor in the Third World by big American companies.  Well, as I always say, if you identify with the poor, you’re destined to be poor.   The people I know who went to Nicaragua to pick crops still live like poor bohemians, and when I offer to give them good stock tips or to teach them how to sell options, they laugh and say, “I don’t have any money.”

    But a second wave of visitors is finding Puerto Cabezas as a tourist destination, and that’s good as long as they avoid the rest of Nicaragua.  Managua, for instance, is a total f—ing ripoff.  You must never spend a single minute in Managua.  So forget about getting to Puerto Cabezas via the Potato Highway, which is too dangerous for tourists.  And forget about flying from Managua to Puerto Cabezas.  The airlines suck, they’re a ripoff, and the airport at Puerto Cabezas is, to be euphemistic, rather basic, and landing there is risky except in daylight and in perfect weather.

    So your best access to Puerto Cabezas is the Royal Caribbean cruise ship Joker of the Seas.  Joker is the “cheap” ship in the fleet, and it offers a bargain-priced cruise to some of the less-visited destinations, such as Devil’s Island.  Joker will give you three days in Puerto Cabezas, but you can always get off and stay longer and pick up Joker on the way back.

    You’ll want to stay at the Carlton Hotel Puerto Cabezas, which is the only hotel up to civilized-white-people standards.  General Manager Massimiliano Perversi runs an efficient inn with about 50 rooms, averaging a very reasonable $150 a night, not including the $10 “health tax” the government charges you for bringing your civilized-white-people diseases into the country.  Some of the rooms in the Carlton are fitted out in bizarre fashion.  For instance, you have “crypt” rooms, where you sleep in a big coffin, and there are all these skeletons and monster figures and creepy sound effects.  “It was Daniel Ortega’s idea,” explains Perversi, referring to the President of Nicaragua.  “He comes up here occasionally with a lady, and they like things kinky.”  Other theme rooms are “The Mummy’s Tomb,” “Spider Island,” and “The Tingler.”  There is also a special party room, Room 13, that is reserved for Ortega, but what’s inside is a closely guarded secret.

    Fishing is the other important aspect of life in Puerto Cabezas, besides potatoes.  The city’s canneries process tons of hagfish every day.  When the cannery whistle blows, the whole street rumbles and groans and screams and rattles while the silver rivers of fish pour in out of the boats.  Capt. Neptaly Arias, captain of the fishing boat Zorra, is the port’s most colorful character.  His eye for a hagfish is rivaled only by his eye for a  woman.  “Here the hagfish is king,” he says.  “There are many varieties of hagfish, but the Atlantic hagfish is the most delicious.  And they are prized by the ladies, who put them in their vaginas while they are still alive.”

    Arias says that there have been years when the hagfish simply went away for no reason.  Then the Indians had to resort to their sacred magic to bring them back.  One ritual is the burning of zozobra, a 40-foot-high effigy made of wood and chicken wire, meant to represent sin.  All the people must write down their sins on paper and place them in zozobra, or they must place any object connected with their sins in zozobra.  When the effigy is full of all the people’s sins, it is burned to expiate their guilt.  Another ritual is the “stickdance,” which is practiced nowhere else in the world.  The most beautiful Indian women must dance naked around a tall stake.  Then they are tied to the stake and whipped by the old women to make them scream.  The screams are heard by the hagfish, who become excited and return.  It’s  all part of a religious belief system, so you can’t criticize it.

    Hagfish is served everywhere in Puerto Cabezas, but unless you are willing to risk diarrhea, your best place to eat is at the Carlton’s restaurant.  Head Chef Rosalina Dolmo Martinez gave me her recipe for Hagfish Puerto Cabezas:

    Rinse six Atlantic hagfish to remove superficial slime.  Place in pot of boiling milk for five minutes, then transfer to casserole dish.  Sprinkle with cayenne pepper, salt, and turmeric.  Cover with tomato sauce.  Bake at 350 degrees F for 25 minutes.  Prepare bed of mashed potatoes using Balurde Brown potatoes, with two tablespoons of lard blended in.  Sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese over potatoes.  Pour finished hagfish and sauce over potatoes.  Gordon Ramsay has called this recipe the most outstanding fish dish he has ever eaten. 

    The bars in Puerto Cabezas are on the edgy side, serving mainly fishermen and sailors of the Nicaraguan Navy.  It’s best to have a local person as your escort, otherwise the patrons and staff may play rude jokes on you because we are still “estupidos norteamericanos” in their eyes and therefore fair game.  Capt. Arias took me to the Hagfish Saloon, which is owned by his friend Raul Barahona.  Patrons like to engage in a gruesome variation of arm wrestling involving hot coals, and on Saturday nights the place is turned into a makeshift boxing arena, where drunken toughs can vent their aggression and betting is encouraged.  There is also a dwarf dishwasher who is feeble-minded, and the patrons take turns tossing him into a net.  Raul insists the lad enjoys it. 

    Sailors are also drawn to the city’s two whorehouses.  You need an escort there, too, if you’re an “estupido norteamericano.”   Both are owned by a relative of Daniel Ortega.  Capt. Arias says all the girls are clean.  Many of them are Russian.

    Shopping is concentrated in the Pelotudo Market, which used to consist mainly of farmers selling potatoes off their carts.  But the market has gone upscale for the growing tourist trade.  Tim Horton’s has a donut shop.  Harry Winston has a jewelry shop.  Takashimaya, a big Japanese department store chain, has moved in, as well as American Apparel and Toys R Us.  And guess what!  NO CRAPPY CHINESE MERCHANDISE ANYWHERE!  Amazing!  There is one store that is very peculiar, however, according to Capt. Arias — The Anti-Aging Shop.  “They sell cosmetics to keep the skin looking young.  But there are almost never any customers in the store.  They don’t run sales or promotions.  They don’t advertise.  They don’t have a website.  And they’re not even listed in the Yellow Pages.  Yet they remain there year after year, occupying expensive retail space.  What does all that add up to?” he asks, giving me a sly look.  I confess I don’t know.  “Ach!  Estupido norteamericano!  It’s money-laundering!  Don’t you see?”  Wow!  You could have knocked me over with a feather!

    Puerto Cabezas has two beaches, Malecon and Panocha.  They’re fine to sit on, but that’s about it.  There’s no surfing.  Bathing is at your own risk, on account of the occasional shark.  Don’t go there alone, and don’t carry any money or valuables.  The death rate for Malecon is about one per 10,000 visitors, and Panocha is closer to two per 10,000.  But the latter is a topless beach with lots of hot women with big tits, so it’s worth the additional risk. 

    A mile north of town is the Haunted Lighthouse of Death, so named because a visitor died of food poisoning after eating a hamburger from the snack bar, and his spirit haunts the lighthouse seeking revenge.  Before that it was just the Puerto Cabezas Lighthouse, but these people know how to turn tragedy into opportunity.  The lighthouse actually serves little purpose from a nautical point of view, since there are no reefs or dangerous currents.   But it’s a make-work job created by the government, and if the lighthouse-keeper isn’t too drunk to attend to his duties, the light is turned on at night to serve as an aid to drunken pilots looking for the airport.

    South of Puerto Cabezas is an artificial lake that you won’t find on any map.  It’s referred to as Ink Lake.  This is where the Sandinista government dumps the bodies of writers and journalists who have gotten up the government’s nose.  The name was the inspiration for the Canadian story anthology From Ink Lake (Vintage Canada, 1995), which, unfortunately, was a poor seller because I wasn’t included in it.

    Puerto Cabezas is the site of the world’s only shelter for “hand-walkers.”  These are mentally deficient people who walk on all fours like animals.  Apparently, there are a lot of them in Nicaragua, but no one knows why.  The Indians regard them as cursed.  The shelter is operated by the Church of Santo Cabron, which raises money by selling mail order ministerial credentials through classified ads in tabloids (suggested donation $50).  Father Jesus Humberto Canales, a self-ordained minister not connected to any particular denomination, was once photographed with Hillary Clinton and milks it for all it’s worth.  He also has interests in racetracks and casinos in South and Central America.  The hand-walkers appeared in a documentary on NOVA.  One of them has been offered a scholarship to study sociology at Northeastern University in Boston.

    A new attraction scheduled to open late in 2010 is “Triassic Park,” which will feature large Komodo lizards that roam freely.  Jon Gosselin is the major investor behind it.  He says it’ll be a great outing for parents with too many children.  He also intends to use it for a reality show about a bachelor who has lots of girlfriends, and they all live in this big park full of lizards.  (But TLC isn’t going to get it!)

    Puerto Cabezas doesn’t have a Mayor as such.  Instead, the de facto  power broker of the city is potato tycoon Ernesto Echavarria, who is very tight with Daniel Ortega and the Sandinistas.  I was fortunate enough to meet him over dinner at the Carlton, along with Massimiliano Perversi.  By an astounding coincidence, it turned out that Echavarria owned one of my books, I Chewed Mrs. Ewing’s Raw Guts, which was given to him as a gift by an “estupido norteamericano” from Toronto, who went to Nicaragua to pick potatoes.  This book is an out-of-print collector’s item, and you might possibly find it (along with my other books) at www.abebooks.com, although I have no control over prices on the collector’s market.

    I asked Echavarria if Puerto Cabezas had a “sister city,” and he said yes — Burlington, Vermont.  I was surprised, so I investigated further and found that Burlington had seven sister cities, which Echavarria didn’t realize.  We agreed that Puerto Cabezas deserved an exclusive sister relationship, and I said I would find another sister city for it.  And I did — Blenheim, New Zealand.  The deal was sealed with Mayor Alistair Sowman of Marlborough District Council, who will be visiting Puerto Cabezas as a special guest early in 2010.  Capt. Arias promises to take him to both whorehouses and get him drunk at the Hagfish Saloon.  Whether Sowman gets to party in Room 13 at the Carlton, however, depends entirely on President Ortega’s schedule.

    Recommended vaccinations: Colorado tick fever, Erdheim Chester Disease, Waldenstrom’s macroglobulinemia.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Sixteen: Cotabato City, Philippines

    Imagine yourself standing at the mouth of a great river, looking out at the sea.  Through the mist you can see two islands, Imaklik and Inaklik.  On a nearby pebble spit, native Yukaghirs cook walrus meat beside their yarangas, their baydars stacked neatly against a giant sequoia.  The wind blows the mosquitoes out to sea, leaving the eland and moose free to nibble the wild beets and scallions unmolested.  The sound of the crwth can be heard, along with a maiden singing in a strange language.  Floats made of inflated seal stomachs drift in the river, while overhead a flock of cassowaries fly toward their nesting grounds in the Arakamchechen Peninsula.  The sea, the sky, and the land are pure, clean, and peaceful.  Guess where you are….No, not Moncton, New Brunswick!  You’re in Cotabato City, Philippines!

    Book your trip on Philippine Airlines and pay with your American Express Card, and your recommended vaccinations will be free.  Depart from Vancouver, Los Angeles, San Francisco, or Las Vegas, and fly to Manila, then change planes to Awang Airport, which serves Cotabato City.  Look for the pink luxury bus that says “Raffles Cotabato.”  That’s your hotel.

    Nicholas Emery, the General Manager, runs the poshest inn in the city.  Expect to pay about $275 a night (or if you go during the typhoon season, there’s a 50% discount).  The Raffles touch is unmistakable: Lost Continent seagrass carpet, faux-penguin-skin headboards, petticoat-shaped chandeliers with multicolored lasers, vibrating bamboo bimbo rocker, digitized stereo spider monkey screeching from within the walls and ceiling, Spanish Inquisition brocade wall hangings, giant cactus pedestal, spacecraft-style transformer shelves with wheelchair assist, voice-activated hand-shaped entertainment pods, sandstone bathroom with jungle canopy, objets d’art imported from South Moluccas, Baroque combination desk/bar/coffee table/drug station, robot mini-fridge and rare earth ceramic stove ensemble, oversize walk-in closet with Victorian gynecology sex chair, replica Corinthian spitoon, Lunar Receiving Lab environmental control system with Rocketdyne bug zapper, and Siberian-style gulag party bed, flanked by avant garde waterfall from the House of Szemetlada (Oroszlany, Hungary).  Nick Emery is the author of the children’s book Tomaso, the Unhappy Potato Beetle, and he is the godfather of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.

    My host for this visit was Butch Bustamonte, who is the head of the John Ashley Fan Club.  John Ashley, star of Frankenstein’s Daughter and other B movies, is idolized in Cotabato City since he produced several movies in this part of the Philippines, including Beast of Blood, Twilight People, and Mad Doctor of Blood Island.  There’s a monument to the handsome actor in the city’s park, and Butch took me to see it.  It’s a fine life-size statue depicting John Ashley as he appeared in High School Caesar (probably his best film), surrounded by a well-manicured bed of crocuses and Venus flytraps.  The monument is cared for by Cotabato City’s civic organization, the Spitola Dumbasa.  The “SD,” as it is referred to, also runs a cake-decorating school for ex-convicts and sponsors the annual Philippines National Spitting Championships, in which boys compete in various spitting skills.

    “John loved the caves.  They’re the main attraction of the city,” said Butch.  He was referring to the Kutawato Caves, a long underground network right under the city.  No other city in the world has such a feature.  Don’t bring the kids on this outing, because the caves are 7 km long.  It’s pretty spooky down there, even with the lighting.  I thought of a good tag line for promoting the caves: Feel the Evil.  Butch laughed and said it was a good one and he’d suggest it to the City Council.  I noticed there were numerous passages that were roped off, and Butch explained that those areas were unsafe.  However, there had always been rumors — call it an urban myth,  if you like — that those roped-off passages led to the underground caves of an ancient race called the Deroes, who may still be alive.  Mysterious disappearances of people and animals have been attributed to the Deroes, including Amelia Earhart and Gordon Brown’s pet hamster.  Butch said John Ashley always believed that the caves led to something the government didn’t want people to know about.  The caves also have a lot of bats.  Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom visited the caves, because Khloe, like her sisters, is fascinated by cave bats.  Odom hated every minute of the tour, according to Butch, and couldn’t wait to get out.

    After the cave tour, Butch took me to eat at a fancy restaurant called Putanginamo, which specializes in zebra mussels, a delicacy for which Cotabato City is famous.  Head Chef Cornelio Cuevas-Pena is the originator of Zebra Mussels Cotabato, and here’s the recipe:

    For the Sauce Cotabato, put four ounces of butter and three spoonfuls of flour in a saucepan and heat until smooth.  Add one cup of eel broth, bring to a boil, and mix in three egg yolks and a can of evaporated milk.  Add a half teaspoon of cayenne pepper, one chopped clove of garlic, and the pulp of three or four moonseed fruits.  Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes.  For the zebra mussels, wash first to remove grit, then put in casserole with four ounces of white wine and one cup of water.  Bring to a boil, add six chopped shallots, and boil until mussels are open.  Remove the mussels to another vessel and strain the broth.  Serve on the half shell with the Sauce Cotabato and a side of french fries.

    The South Seas Mall, which opened in 2005, draws a lot of tourists, although it is plain and unremarkable by Western standards.  You may prefer the funkier old shopping district downtown, with its odd boutiques.  Kulangot T-Shirts, owned by Ramiro Villagrana, specializes in “mistake” t-shirts with unrecognizable faces and misspelled slogans.  They will custom-print anything you want on a t-shirt.  Pokpok, owned by Marin Agudelo, sells local handicrafts such as eelskin wallets and handbags, burqas for Muslim women, and a wide assortment of personal care products that failed safety tests in other countries.  And Braulio’s Sex Shop, owned by Braulio Soto-Loera, specializes in Filipino porn, which is heavy on exploitation and violence (and you don’t even mind that the Filipina women are flat-chested).

    The biggest surprise of my trip was walking into a dimly-lit second-hand bookstore and finding a worn copy of my 1980 classic, Lightning Struck My Dick.  I bought it as a gift for Nick Emery for $2, since he has a weird sense of humor.  You can try looking for this book (and my other ones) at www.abebooks.com, which serves the collector’s market, but don’t blame me for the high prices.

    The theatre district had two hit plays running while I was there — Cebu Boo-Boo, a musical comedy about life in a Filipino prison, and Shoes, a musical about Imelda Marcos. 

    One item you won’t find in any tourist guide, however, is the Washday Problems Center (note the American spelling), which is a CIA front located in a nondescript building above some stores.  I promised the Agency not to reveal the location.  If you should happen to find your way in, you will see people in white smocks doing laundry.  They’re testing laundry products, ha, ha.  The man in charge is named Mike, and he says he’s from Syracuse.  No, I won’t tell you what these people are really doing.

    Cotabato City is steeped in religious tradition.  Filipinos have always been extreme in their religious devotion, and there is no better example than the Good Friday “Procession of Flagellation,” in which devout Christians drag heavy crosses and whip themselves with flails until their backs are bloody.  The procession begins on Ecorse Road at the St. Rodan Church (named after the patron saint of virgins seeking husbands in the U.S., which rules out all Russian and East European women), then goes along Washtenaw Avenue, then along Packard Road, Geddes Road, and Textile Road, arriving finally at Jollibee, where everyone has milk shakes and burgers.  Street vendors will try to sell you souvenir whips, but they are poorly-made Chinese crap that falls apart after one or two uses (big surprise), not like the authentic Western-style horsewhips I use on that Socialist bitch Olivia Chow, who likes severe ass whipping.  (Hazel McCallion used to be into that but now says she’s too old.)

    I should mention that nutrias roam freely in Cotabato City, and tourists are always alarmed because they mistake them for giant rats.  These big rodents are quite friendly and gentle, and it’s okay to let your kids play with them.

    There are a lot of Muslims in Cotabato City, but they’re just as benign as the nutrias, so don’t worry.

    Speaking of Muslims, Cotabato City now has a “sister city” with a Muslim Mayor — Luton, England.  Mayor Muhammad Riaz has come a long way since the days when he stuck windshields on Vauxhalls at the local auto factory.  Now he’s the Mayor of “Britain’s best town” (according to a survey).  He’s eager to network with the prominent Muslims in Cotabato City and find out about such things as e-mail security, banking laws, and the police.  “We can help each other,” he says.  And he doesn’t mind admitting that he’s ambitious.  “So I’m a pushy Paki.  What of it?  Today Luton, tomorrow the world…..Don’t print that.”  England was once such a great country.  You can read about it in books.

    Somewhere in the U.S. there is a Dr. Jeffrey Brown, who was a dead ringer for John Ashley when he was a young man.  Every time I see a picture of Ashley, I think I’m looking at Jeffrey.  If you think you know him, ask him if he went to Syosset High School and if he remembers his next-door neighbor.

    Recommended vaccinations: dracunculosis, cholinergic urticaria, Yunis Varon Syndrome.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Fifteen: Pisagua, Chile

    Do you mind if I take you to the driest desert in the world?  Don’t worry.  I won’t let you die (unless you’re an anti-capitalist protester).  I’m one of the world’s experts on desert survival.  Just read my article “How To Survive In The Sahara Desert” at www.pointsincase.com.   

    But we’re not going to the Sahara.  We’re going to a secret place — hidden, remote, mysterious — a place where time stands still, as if in a dream.  It has been compared (inaccurately) with Michael Jackson’s Neverland.  Exotic animals roam freely, and men lost in deep thought step in their shit.  It is situated on the fabled Coast of Pirates, near the northern tip of Chile.  It is the “Miracle of the Atacama” — the exotic city of Pisagua, Chile.

    No one knows how old this city really is, for it is built on ancient Inca ruins that have never been accurately dated.  The descendants of the Incas lived here in the Golden Age of Pirates.  They traded with all the legendary pirates, including Blackbeard, Calico Jack, Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Bill Mazeroski.  The inhabitants of Pisagua traded borax, which they mined in the desert.  The pirates used it for their laundry.  In return, the pirates traded colored beads of little value, because the local people were not good in business.  This may offer a clue as to why the Inca empire collapsed.

    All along the coast north and south of Pisagua, the pirates are reputed to have buried caches of treasure.  They have never been found.  But adventurers still try their luck, walking the beaches with their metal detectors.  Rogues have sold numerous maps over the years purporting to show the location of treasure, but all have been denounced as fakes.  Does this mean there is no treasure?  No.  The coast is still largely unexplored.

    Fly to Arica, Chile, and leave that crowd of tourists behind and take the bus south to Pisagua — a place usually bypassed.  There is one good hotel — the Waldorf Astoria Pisagua, which is moderately priced.  Its General Manager is Dirk De Cuyper, to whom the Atacama Desert is like heaven.  “For years I worked in Shanghai,” he says, “but I got sick and tired of being surrounded by slitty-eyed Chinese bastards.  You’re from Toronto, so you know exactly what I mean.  My soul longed for the desert — but not one with any Muslim bastards either.  The Atacama beckoned to me in my dreams.  I don’t know why, but I just had to come here.  It’s the driest desert in the world, you know.  Dead bodies that are left exposed don’t decompose.  They just dry up like mummies.  The landscape on the other side of the highway is as bleak as the moon.  What hotel manager wouldn’t love a place like this?”  Enough said.  Rent me a suite long-term!

    The Waldorf Astoria Pisagua used to be a prison.  When Pinochet overthrew Allende, he banished thousands of Commie bastards to the north of Chile, and most of them died there.  The prison at Pisagua was eventually closed, and Waldorf Astoria bought it and turned it into a hotel.  (Big secret: Waldorf Astoria is going to buy Alcatraz and turn it into a luxury resort!  You heard it here first!)  Renovating it would be a challenge, so the company gave the job to the famous Mexican designer Carlos Raul Gil Barragan, whose TV show, Prison Makeover, is distributed internationally on satellite by Televisa Networks.  The basic boxy layout was left as is, but the interior spaces are cleverly broken up with mirrors, partitions, and windows, along with avant-garde furniture and unusual wall paint.  So the eye fails to see the right angles and sort of slides over things instead.  It’s a bit like the stealth profiles of modern warships, which scatter radar and are almost invisible.  I’m going to buy one and get close to a Greenpeace ship and blast it out of the water.

    The hotel is known for its excellent spa, which makes use of natural deposits of borax, iodine, and nitrates.  These minerals dissolved in the hot water rejuvenate the skin and cure arthritis.  They also cure eating disorders.  Kelly Ripa, Victoria Beckham, and Tori Spelling have all been to the spa and have benefited from it.

    The Waldorf Astoria Pisagua also has quite a good restaurant.  Dirk De Cuyper gives all the credit to his Head Chef, Roberto Aguayo Briseno.  “He just showed up out of the blue and said he wanted to cook.  I didn’t know anything about him, but I decided to give him a chance.  He’s brilliant.  He could be working in Paris or Rome or London, but I’ve got him here in Pisagua, Chile.”  Chef Roberto’s specialty is llama stew.  Here’s the recipe:

    Remove head from llama and send it to PETA, along with a note telling them to shove it up their ass.  Clean carcass and carve out large rump portion.  Also save blood and liver.  Cut rump into two-inch pieces and put in large pot and cover with equal parts of water and white wine.  Add sliced carrots, coarsely-chopped onions, a bouquet garni with plenty of thyme in it, a tablespoon of salt, and two tablespoons of peppercorns.  Let stand for 48 hours, then drain and remove meat to a platter.  In a large frying pan place one-half pound butter and a half cup of flour, and stir over medium heat.  Add pieces of llama and simmer for ten minutes; then add the juice from the original pot and a glass of water or bouillon, bring to a boil, cover, and simmer slowly.  Separately, parboil and fry in olive oil two cups of pearl onions, and a half-pound of salt pork in half-inch squares.  After 1 1/2 hours of simmering the meat, add the onions, pork, and a cup of  mushrooms, and continue simmering for another 1/2 hour.  Chop the liver fine, mix with the blood, and stir into the stew just before removing from the stove.  Don’t let the liver boil.  Season to taste and serve with a sprinkle of chopped parsley.

    Of course, llama is probably not available where you live, so you’ll just have to come down to Pisagua to enjoy this dish.

    Llamas roam freely in this part of Chile, and they’re seen all the time by the writers and artists in the “colony” outside of town.  This is what I was referring to in the introduction when I mentioned men lost in thought stepping in animal shit.  These artists and writers rent little cabins for next to nothing, and they have a quiet place to be creative.  There are about two dozen cabins scattered in the desert between the town and the Pan American Highway.

    But according to Dirk De Cuyper, the current lot of writers and artists is rather suspicious.  “These guys don’t look or act like writers and artists.  When they come into town, they don’t want to talk to anyone.  What are they writing?  What are they painting?  They’re evasive.  They could be wanted criminals, for all I know.”

    I got curious, so I went over to the Elbow Room, the town’s main drinking place, to try to meet some of these people.  The bartender pointed out two of them for me.  “That one’s a poet, and the other one’s a painter,” he said, indicating two scruffy, sullen-looking guys with hats pulled down over their faces.  So I went over to them, I said I was a Canadian writer, and I asked to see some of their work.  One fellow gave me a suspicious look, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that was soiled and yellow with age.  It was a photocopy of a poem:

    Dialogue of Deaf Persons

–Are you an American?

–No, I am another.

–Are you a tourist?

–No, I am two ones,

  for I’m not alone but with me.

–What o’clock is it?

–It is seven o’clock ben.

–Yes, it’s seven o’clock at my sock. 

    I knew the poem was a plagiarism, and I knew who the poet was.  ”Very interesting,” I said.  “What have you got?” I asked the other one.

    The “artist” gave me a twisted grin and pulled a much-traveled paper out of his pocket.  “I’m still working on it,” he said, his rotten teeth showing.  It was obviously a tracing of an illustration from a magazine ad for a mail order art school.

    “That’s very good,” I said politely.

    “Thank you,” he said.

    Later, I took a long walk out to the area of the colony and discovered a bank of mailboxes by the road where these people picked up their mail.  I wrote down some names for the benefit of the morbidly curious: Gabriel Tapia-Lemus, Ramiro Hernandez Lucatero, Alberto Molina Infante, Martin Moreno Oseguera,Galindo Nunez Melgoza, and Ismael Rios-Gallardo.  Those are certainly great names for artists and writers.  Maybe my suspicions and Dirk De Cuyper’s are all wrong.

    I spent a lot of time at the Elbow Room, which is mainly a fishermen’s hangout.  The fishermen go out for tuna, skate, pollock, and herring.  Sea lions can also be seen from the window of the tavern, cavorting in the surf, but they are protected by law.  The fishermen drink a local liquor called cara de cona.  I asked what it was made from, and they laughed and said, “You don’t need to know.  Just drink it.”  This is the sort of place where you’re apt to get beaten up for ordering a banana daiquiri.  (Just ask Adam Lambert.  He’ll never come back.)

    Because Pisagua is not yet well known to tourists, visitors can enjoy a relatively uncrowded beach.  A few boats will take tourists out for a day of fishing.  Otherwise, there are no special attractions.  Main drawback: no hot babes anywhere in sight.  This beach needs help. 

    The only day tour you can go on is a bus ride out to the salt flats, where you can watch flocks of flamingos and puffins next to each other.  This is the only place in the world where these species are found together.  On the way back, you will stop at an abandoned borax mine, where hundreds of dead bodies of prisoners are stacked on pallets.  They’re absolutely dry.  Now, that is the sort of tourist attraction you’re not going to find anywhere else!

    The night sky is brilliant with stars (northern Chile has the best viewing conditions in the world), and the local astronomy club likes to set up their telescopes and let tourists have a look (remember to give the boys a tip).  It was here in Pisagua, in fact, that Comet Pelotudo 2005 was first identified.  This comet is now believed to be correlated to the appearance of the 17-year locust, a discovery which, if confirmed, would be “of immense importance to mankind,” according to David Suzuki’s housekeeper.  The comet is also unique for its violet color and approximately rectangular orbit.

    You know by now that I try to find “sister cities” for my Exotic Cities.  In searching for a sister city for Pisagua, I looked for a place in or near a desert, and one that I felt deserved the same sort of tourist boost as Pisagua.  And I found it: Halls Creek, Western Australia, on the northern edge of the Great Sandy Desert.  I was unable to reach Council President Jim Craig of the Shire of Halls Creek, but I was able to reach Warren Olsen, the CEO of the Council.  “I’m the guy who gets things done around here!” he shouted over the phone.  “The Members of Council are a bunch of useless, do-nothing slackers!  I’m the one who keeps Halls Creek from sinking straight down to the earth’s core!”  Olsen never heard of Pisagua, but the deal was done in less than five minutes.  “That’s how I do things!  Just do it!  Bang!  If you were dealing with the Councillors, it would never get done!  So you tell those Pisagua people, if they need something done here in Halls Creek, talk to me!  And another thing.  Who do you think got the toilets fixed around here?  I did!  And who gets the payroll done?  I do!  And who sends out the tax bills?  I do!…”  I love this guy.  He has a hostile, authoritarian personality, just like me.  Give guys like us some real power, and then step out of the way!  Nuke the homeless!

    Before I left Pisagua, Dirk De Cuyper told me about the town’s biggest mystery — a series of little signs that suddenly appeared by the side of the road about fifteen years ago, long before he came to Pisagua.  “They apparently were put up overnight, but nobody knows who did it or why, and the locals have never understood them.  You’ll see them on your way out, on the right side of the road, just before you get to the Pan American.  They’re spaced about a hundred feet apart.  They’re easy to miss if you’re not paying attention, and the lettering has gotten bleached by the sun and is pretty faint.  But you can still read them.”  De Cuyper refused to tell me any more, but from his smile I inferred that he fathomed this mystery that the locals couldn’t.  So, on my departure by bus, I made sure to get a window seat on the right side.  And, sure enough, I saw the signs:

    When morning sun…

    Shines on your head…

    Forget your job…

    Go back to bed…

    Burma Shave.

    Recommended vaccinations: parvovirus, nemaline myopathy, Eales Disease.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Fourteen: Goma, Congo (DRC)

    Hey, all you hot and horny singles!  We’re going to party!  We’re taking a trip to — wait for it — GOMA…CONGO!  Bring your friends!  If you don’t have any friends, you’ll make some when you get there.

    Now, let’s be clear on which Congo we’re talking about, because there are two of them.  We’re talking about the big one — the Democratic Republic of the Congo.  The good old DRC.  And any country that calls itself the Democratic Republic of whatever has got to be a great tourist destination.  (Remember how much fun we had in North Korea?  Scroll back to June 11 if you missed it.)

    The other Congo is that little wiener country on the left that’s shaped like a turd.  That one’s called the Republic of the Congo, or “Congo-Brazzaville,” which is only known for the song Brazzaville Teenager, written by Bruce Jay Friedman.  It’s populated mainly by mincing fairies, not like the big black studs in the DRC, whose grandfathers stripped the rubber off trees with machetes way back when.  These are the kind of men chicks go for.  So it’s no surprise that loads of single women flock to the DRC to meet the sort of big, hard masculine men they can’t meet here in North America (we won’t count retarded Hispanics).  And Goma is the magnet that draws them, because it’s always been known for its night life and singles scene.

    An air-conditioned luxury bus will take you from Goma’s international airport to the front entrance of the Novotel Citygate Goma, managed by Rod Munro.  Rod numbers among his friends such celebrities as Chris Brown, Ozzie Osbourne, Rachael Ray, Johnny Depp, Sen. John Edwards, Ashton Kutcher, Kevin Federline, Venus Williams, John McEnroe, and Dr. Phil McGraw, all of whom have stayed at the Novotel.  (Paul Bernardo also stayed here a long time ago, but he’s not a friend.)  Rooms run from $275-$475 a night, but there are package deals available from several online travel websites.  Many suites are decorated with romantic Valentine themes.  Nicole Richie and Joel Madden spent a week in the most expensive suite and went through endless bottles of  pink champagne and a mountain of caviar.

    Rod was too busy to show me around, so he turned me over to his good friend Mutiat Titiola Olubi, who owns the DRC’s biggest magazine publishing company, Modern Congo, Ltd.  Her stable of magazines includes  Modern Congo Homemaker, Modern Congo Beauty and Fashion, Modern Congo Gardener, Modern Congo Single, Modern Congo Woman, Modern Congo Business, Modern Congo Health and Fitness, and Modern Congo Mercenary.  Because of my reputation as the funniest living writer in the English language, “Muti,” as she prefers to be called, was only too happy to take some time off to be my tour guide.  She enjoys the single life and the glamor of a vibrant, cosmopolitan city like Goma.  “Kinshasa is bigger, but it’s dull.  Goma is the happening place in the DRC.”  And most of what is happening is in the district known as the Magumba Quarter, which reminds me of the Yonge Street strip in Toronto in the 70’s, before immigration turned it into a sewer of imbecility.

    Did you know that Goma is the comedy capital of Africa?  Bet you didn’t.  The Magumba Quarter is famous for its comedy clubs, where up-and-coming stars hone their skills before moving on to the big clubs in North America and Europe.  (What famous comic with initials C.R. has been hiding his Congo roots for years?)  At the Club Ebola, we caught an act by Benjamin Okey Ahuama (don’t change that name!), who was hilarious.  Here’s one of his jokes: Mike Tyson goes into a supermarket looking for rapeseed oil.  He goes to the aisle with the cooking oils, where a stock girl is stocking shelves.  He can’t find rapeseed oil, so he says to the girl, “Don’t you got no fuckin’ rapeseed?”  The girl says, “I don’t even know what that is.”  “You don’t know what rapeseed is?”  “No,” says the girl.  And Tyson says, “Bitch, I’m gonna show you what rapeseed is!”  The crowd couldn’t stop laughing over that one!  (Congo is the rapeseed capital of the world, so that’s why the joke works so well there.  In the West we call rapeseed “canola” — I guess because we don’t like to call things by their proper names.)

    Mike Tyson, by the way, is the biggest celebrity in the DRC, even though he’s never been there.  He’s so popular they even renamed the Virunga National Park the Mike Tyson National Park.  The park, which is not far from Goma, is the home of endangered mountain gorillas, and it has almost as many monkeys as Los Angeles.  It is also the home of Murray, the Congo Wonder Dog, a cartoon character in a rare, collectible comic book by Robert Crumb .

    A great place to eat in Goma is the Mkundu Restaurant, owned by Eustace Kwarko Adjepong, who is also the head chef.  The specialty of the house is rapeseed-fried fish, served on a bed of rapini.  Fresh fish is supplied daily from nearby Lake Kivu.  Ratfish is very popular, as well as striped burrfish and cabezon.  Congo truffles are also on the menu, and they are as good as the most expensive truffles from France.

    The Magumba Quarter buzzes with activity all night with clubs catering to singles.  The music is loud, the drinks are strong, and the women dress for sex.  Wet t-shirt contests are the latest craze.  (Girls Gone Wild will be putting out a video produced in Goma.)  The college students from Kinshasa flock to Goma during spring break.  The hottest club is Disco Mbwajike.  You’ll see people lined up around the block to get in.  (Dress like a pimp or a whore and slip the doorman a fiver, and you’ll get in a lot faster.)  It’s a good place to score drugs, and the police never set foot in the place.  The owner is Mpindi Mbunga, who has a cousin with the same name in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  Mbunga says that a lot of Congolese trace their ancestry back to America and should therefore be referred to as “Americo-Africans.”

    Goma also has its own Oktoberfest (in October, of course), which is a bit of the old Belgian influence.  (The DRC used to be a colony of Belgium, and don’t they wish they had it back!)  The favorite beer is Leopoldbrau (in honor of King Leopold II of Belgium, of course).  Goma really swells with visitors during the Oktoberfest — especially visitors from Rwanda.  Goma is right on the Rwandan border, and Rwandans love Goma for its night life, hot women, and great shopping.

    Goma is right on the shore of Lake Kivu, and the lake is a great attraction for its natural beauty, clean water, fishing, and speedboat racing.  The Lake Kivu speedboat races have become a big event, and ABC is planning to televise them.  The current reigning champ is David Sunkwah Yeboah, who is sponsored by Castrol.

    About 20 kilometers north of Goma is the majestic Nyiragongo Volcano, which is a great climb for an experienced climber.  The volcano is active, however, and every few years it erupts and makes life interesting for people in Goma.  The lava flows are picturesque, and if you’re a boomer, you go, “Oh, wow!  Psychedelic!”  And you put on a Ravi Shankar album and get stoned and watch the lava go by.  And when it cools, you can go out and collect nice, fluffy pumice, which you can wash with and not pollute the environment with soapy chemicals.  And then you can make carvings out of the pumice and sell them by the side of the road so you can live frugally in a commune and not have to conform and be a wage slave and pay taxes for the Evil War Machine.  And if the lava destroys your little house, you just build another one and don’t get angry with Mother Nature, who is just doing her thing.  The volcano is the result of the Congo tectonic plate subsiding into the Sub-Saharan tectonic plate, leading to a metamorphic fractal collusion.  This phenomenon was illuminated poignantly in David McFadden’s book A Trip Around Lake Kivu (Coach House Press, 1990).

    The Ebola River lends its name to lots of stores and businesses in Goma, such as Ebola Pizza, Ebola Escorts, Ebola Cinema, and the Ebola Candy Company, which is famous for its licorice women.  Of course, when most people hear the name “Ebola,” they think of Ebola virus.  And it’s true that the Ebola virus originated in the Ebola River region, but that’s more than 500 miles away from Goma, so there’s no need to worry.  (Ebola virus got started by jigaboos fucking chimpanzees, but we shouldn’t criticize them, because white people have spread some diseases, too.)

    Goma now has a “sister city” in Canada — Ottawa.  Mayor Larry O’Brien loves the new arrangement.  “We need some Congo people in Ottawa.  We need their spiritual purity.  We’ve got lawyers who can get them in as refugees.  They’ll like it here,” he says.  And he points out the similarities between the two cities.  Both cities are on a border.  Goma is right across the road from Gisenyi, Rwanda, and Ottawa is right across the river from Hull, Quebec.  And, like Goma, Ottawa is the comedy capital of Canada.  O’Brien’s wife, Colleen McBride, was actually born in the DRC, in the village of Bunia.  The Mayor and his wife like to visit the DRC whenever they can.  The Mayor finds some public official to have lunch with, he calls it official business, and Ottawa City Council pays for it.

    Before I left, I had a nice dinner with Rod Munro, and we talked about the bad press the DRC has gotten and whether it’s a safe place for Americans to visit.  “It’s safe,” he insists.  “Americans have no problem here.  However…there is one person who must never set foot in the DRC.”  And who might that be?  “Michael Moore.  There’s a tribe here called the Jambazi, and they practice cannibalism, and they have a major cannibal hard-on for Michael Moore.  I met their leader, Kuchigku Bunga.  He told me, ‘We gonna cook and eat de big fat man Michael Moore.  He feed de whole village.’”  There’s no obvious explanation why the Jambazi have selected him.  Maybe it’s just the way he looks.  They just want to eat him.  According to Munro, the Jambazi have a plan to lure Michael Moore to the Congo on some pretext of doing a documentary.  And once he’s in their clutches, he’s dinner.  Well, I, for one, would not be sorry.

    Recommended vaccinations: elephantiasis, leptospirosis, Forbes Disease.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com

Exotic Cities, Part Thirteen: Darvaza, Turkmenistan

    Take me from the land of Oz,

    Take me far away because

    I want to get back to Darvaza,

    Yes, I want to get back to Darvaza,

    Darvaza, Turkmenistan,

    That’s…Darvaza, Turkmenistan.

    Remember that one?  The Atomic Bananas, 1957.  If you were ever a mental patient in Toledo, you heard it a lot.  Now you can’t find it anywhere — not even on eBay.

    In her book Gurgling Brooks (Bobbs-Merrill, 1929), world traveler Myrna McDougal describes her travels through central Asia, including her visit to Darvaza, in the Kara-Kum Desert of what is now Turkmenistan: “From a distance, the Pillars of Gthoth rose majestically, framing the setting sun, which cast vivid beams of orange light across the flanks of the Schlegpeh Mountains.  Overhead, great bats and eagles looped gracefully above the copper-red sands.  The call of the hyena could be heard in all directions.  And the faint aroma of boxwood and fox grass drifted like a dream over our camp.  Our bearers (native Ayumyalas) told us their legends of how the world was created in this place, making it the center of the universe.  The water in the oasis, they claimed, could give a camel great strength and give a human being visions of Paradise.”

    Okay, so we know the water is really good.  Throughout Turkmenistan, a popular saying is “he drinks the water at Darvaza,” which explains why a person is acting weird or stoned.

    To the locals, the place is always referred to as Darvaza Oasis, because historically, that’s what it is.  It has always been a resting place for merchants from all over central Asia, carrying a wide variety of goods.  Caravans carried beans, rice, mushrooms, yogurt, potash, copper, marble, exotic birds, and umiak eye-glaze murder monkeys from Qarshi to Balkanabat; cedar, incense, dates, gourds, pineapples, girdles, hoses, paint, and gangster art retro pudding sponges from Herat to Novvy Uzen; chalk, gemstones, ladies’ shoes, cosmetics, tubes, nails, springs, farina, and prison cockle subsonic bitchamooga from Uyuk to Qum; animal skins, candles, whips, lard, fireworks, shower curtains, board games, cheese, and harridan space zomba fruit gungles from Jamnagar to Sosnovka; lingerie, cigars, goat meat, kitchen utensils, patio furniture, iodine, tree bark, and marsupial smash hammerhead screaming skulls from Yarkand to Gurgan; and rum, party hats, office supplies, starch, glue, musical instruments, whale oil, carpets, peppers, ropes, dildoes, doilies, pumpkins, and gorgaleptic urine bipolar disorder winkies from Patchogue to Syosset.

    But to the modern world, Darvaza was an unknown town of no particular interest — until 1971, when a gateway to hell was opened!  An oil and gas company drilling for natural gas accidentally punched into a gas-filled cavern.  They decided to empty it by burning off the gas, believing it to be no more than a superficial pocket.  The result was an explosion.  The ground collapsed, leaving a crater 60 meters across, which has been burning ever since!

    “Of course, it’s not really a gateway to hell,” explains Hotel Manager Amanda Hyndman of the Excelsior Darvaza.  “But it’s a great tag line for publicity.  It’s the only tourist attraction in the country outside of the capital.  There’d be no hotel here without the crater of fire.”  The Excelsior offers a good view of the crater, which is about two miles away.  Of course, local people are so used to it, they scarcely look at it any more, even though much of the town owes its livelihood to it. 

    Why has no one tried to put out the fire after all these years?  According to Hyndman, it could theoretically be put out.  “You’d have to bring up a bunch of bulldozers from the capital, but it’s a long trip on a bad road.  And people here don’t particularly want to put it out.”  But what about the effect on the environment?  “What environment?” says Hyndman.  “This is a bleeping desert.”

    Tourists are generally led out on foot in the daytime.  They’ll stand around the crater while the tour guide gives a talk, and then after a half hour or so, they leave.  It’s more impressive at night, but if you go then, you’ll find yourself stepping among a profusion of big, ugly spiders.  They’re harmless but gross.

    Local businesses exploit the crater as a theme: Gates of Hell Ice Cream Shop, Fire Crater Cinema, Hellgate Massage Parlor, Crater Gas Station, Hellfire Donuts, and Kemal’s Crater of Fire Kebabs (which serves extremely spicy goat kebabs).  The local high school calls its sports teams the Fireflies.  (Unfortunately, they have no one else to play against, because Darvaza is so remote.)  And all up and down the main street, you will find a predictable assortment of souvenirs, including post cards, videos, DVD’s, and t-shirts that say “My friends went to Darvaza, and all they brought back was this lousy t-shirt,” along with a picture of the fiery crater.

    According to geologists, the fire could burn itself out at any time or go on burning indefinitely, so the government of Turkmenistan is reluctant either to spend the money to put it out or to invest heavily in the development of Darvaza as a tourist attraction.  Some people are in favor of diversifying the economy; others worry that if the fire goes out, any money invested will be wasted. 

    Elsewhere in Turkmenistan, other towns want to have a crater of fire, too.  Geologists say similar gas deposits could exist.  But the government is afraid of scam artists showing up.  (Like this: “For twenty thousand dollars, I’ll give you a crater of fire like Darvaza.  I know where to dig.”)  I know some Vancouver stock promoters who would jump on that opportunity!

    Some environmental busybodies from France showed up at Darvaza and made a fuss about the fire polluting the environment, and they were going to make a complaint to the U.N.  They disappeared mysteriously and have never been heard or seen since.  (Never get up other people’s noses when you’re in the middle of a desert, okay?)

    A few celebrities have visited Darvaza, which always excites the locals.  Brad Pitt got stoned and tried to piss in the crater and almost fell in, but he was saved in the nick of time by a baker’s helper, who was following him.  Pitt swore the boy to secrecy about the incident.

    David Beckham was here to try his luck at Turkmen foot-and-elbow fighting, a martial art peculiar to Turkmenistan.  There’s a big vacant lot behind the Crater Gas Sation, and young men go there for some foot-and-elbow fighting when they’re bored.  Really skinny guys seem to have an advantage in this sport.  Beckham was invited to take on the local champ, who was built like a bean pole, and after allowing the boy to score some points, he knocked him out cold.  Beckham wasn’t sure if the crowd was going to turn on him or not, but after a few seconds of shocked silence, the onlookers cheered.  So now David Beckham is unofficially the foot-and-elbow fighting champion of Darvaza, Turkmenistan.  (In a lot of Muslim countries, they probably would have cut his head off.)

    Paris Hilton was also in Darvaza to obtain a purebred Turkmen Alabai dog.  Muslims generally don’t like dogs, but the Alabai is greatly admired in Turkmenistan because it is very good at killing snakes, Communists, and homosexuals.  Hilton found one she liked and took it home with her.  (And don’t get any ideas.  Unless you’re as rich and well-connected as she is, getting a purebred Alabai in the U.S. is next to impossible.)

    Tourism in Darvaza has been growing gradually, and the increased revenue has led to a few improvements at least.  The bus station has been modernized to include two flush toilets and air-conditioning.  The main street has been paved, and parking meters have been installed (although they are generally used to tie donkeys and camels).  An outdoor tennis court has been built (wrong dimensions), as well as a go-cart track and mini-golf.  And the Turkmenistan government has built a new prison to house the worst criminals in the country.  It has a courtyard with a guillotine and a public seating area for the viewing of executions.

    Foreign capital is cautiously dipping its toes into Darvaza to take advantage of its cheap labor.  Chinese companies are now manufacturing silly putty, pet toys, guns, and glow-in-the-dark shoelaces for the central Asian market.  And Tata Motors intends to set up a factory to build a three-wheeled car called the Firebug.  It will be rugged enough for bad roads, and it will get 50 miles a gallon on any fuel, including cooking grease.  And if it tips over, one person can set it back up.

    There is no official local civil authority or police force in Darvaza.  Instead, the local mullah, Mohammed Orospu Cocugu, who is blind, and his four retarded sons keep the peace as they see fit.  They’ve got their own system, and it works, and you can’t criticize it, otherwise you’re an ethnocentric bigot.

    Darvaza High School offers the only correspondence course for shepherds in the entire world. It is recognized for academic credits in the Province of Ontario, and student aid is available to immigrants with long, unpronounceable names.

    And another highly visible public work is planned for Darvaza, in case the crater of fire should go out.  Architect Bayram Shamuradov has been commissioned by the government to erect a 100-foot-tall  “Spider Tower.”  It will have blinking green lights at night, and visitors will be able to climb to the top and take pictures of the desert (or whatever).  It will be built entirely from scrap metal scavenged from abandoned gas wells.

    Darvaza now has a sister city, and you’ll never guess where!  No, it’s not in the U.S., or in Canada either.  It’s in Australia!  The town of Coober Pedy, South Australia, is Darvaza’s sister city.  Coober Pedy is the opal capital of the world.  Most of its residents live underground.  And from the air, it looks just like Darvaza!  Mayor Steve Baines is delighted with the arrangement.  “They’re in a desert, and we’re in a desert.  They have ugly spiders, and so do we.  So it’s a perfect match!”  Baines still gets confused between Turkey and Turkmenistan, but that’s okay.  He’s just thrilled that I would give his town international recognition on my blog page.  He would also like me to explain to everyone that he is not that seriously into cross-dressing (“just once in a while at a party to get a laugh,” he insists).

    Amanda Hyndman says the Excelsior is pretty desperate for business since natural gas prices fell off a cliff (the hotel gets half its business from the oil and gas industry), so tourists can expect stupidly cheap deals.  By September, the worst of the heat is over, and by December, there are almost no spiders.

    Recommended vaccinations: Binswanger’s Disease, vesicular stomatitis, choroideremia.

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: crad166@yahoo.com