How to pronounce the Secretary General’s name

(via : New York magazine)

So all those “mooning” jokes at the UN finally reached the ears of the secretary general ?

Note:

Briefly, I worked as an auditor for a UN project. While auditing Value Added Tax redemptions (the UN is tax exempt because its a well-heeled humanitarian organization). I discovered they were filing VAT claims for individual purchases (5 reams of paper, a computer mouse, 50 rolls of toilet paper and so on). For most of these items, the cost of processing the VAT was higher than the VAT itself.  I was subsequently relieved of duty for suspected insanity. (Though at at point I was merely acting like a true vulgarian)

Coastal under-class

Met random fishermen in random villages along the coast. Average incomes are around 9,000 shillings a month (about $125) – for a family size of 2 adults and 3 children (second, third wive and their kids not included). About 50% of that income is spent on food purchases : rice, vegetables, meat. The biggest fishes are sold to middlemen and wholesalers, the fishermen consume the leftovers. Every member of the family works towards generating an income. Boats are rented from a few boat-lords.

I found a large, white, but now red and sun-burnt volunteer in one of these villages. “I love this place”, he said without enthusiasm [and without an exclamation mark in his tone ]. His blackberry phone had discharged, week long power outage. What was he doing here ? Some obscure plan to build latrines. When I asked the villagers about a toilet, I was directed towards a clump of bushes, which seemed pleasant enough. The half-constructed latrine was some distance away – the brittle concrete radiating heat , hordes of flies and the smell of fish-bait. What problem was this cement horror solving?

One of the most lucrative businesses here is that of a liquor store. Most are run by enterprising groups of women. In another village, named after grains of mineral-salt, I met an old woman, an important person, one of the eminent palm wine brewers of the area. Lots of drunken men lay in the shade of baobab, most in an incoherent state. The other profitable enterprise is also run by women – a kind of thread, woven out of the tail bones of a shark, used for making fish nets.

What do they all think of the elections ?
We didn’t vote, we don’t have ID cards.

Few have ID cards here (which explains the low numbers on voter rolls, despite high population). Getting one requires lining up in some foreign government office, scratching the right palms, and answering difficult questions : “Are you really a Kenyan…?”, “Are you a muslim?”. Its just easier not getting an ID card – what would you use it here for anyway ?

Everybody knows, everyone else. Moreover, they see little reason to vote.
(One wonders, does an ID card serve any real purpose, apart from being a way of identifying someone negatively ? Clearly the history of this ID-card is rooted in colonial controls)

Borrowing and lending is via a local money-lender / pawn-broker who mortgages cash at atrocious interest rates, but users of his services are rare – for there isn’t much worth mortgaging. He showed me some of the abject pawned items: an ancient radio set, a silver bangle, a clock (one of those winding varieties, what use is a clock here anyway?).

It feels far away and remote, not for its distance, but because of the way the people ask with wonder about a remote and mythical place called Nairobi.

The boss is always right

Disasters may be bad for some, but the thunder of God works both ways, for we have landed a financial windfall. More resources, the fresh smell of a new 4×4, more chocolates, more of everything.

Our newest recruit appeared today – young, blue-eyed, blond and foolish.   The boy began his introduction with a burlesque babble – one originating from the iPod, wikipedia generation, instant solutions for everything. World hunger solved by typing a URL.   The boss who has problems using a computer, had him for dinner.

“What is the difference between an expat and a racist ?”, the boss said quietly, like a whispered expletive.  Cesspool of rotting monsters concealed behind a boyish smile.

That threw the boy, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, the favored answer from the youth nowadays: if-its-not-on-the-internet-i-am-not-bothered.

“One week”, the boss said, gurgling laughter.

Later, I heard a banging of doors, and other great sounds coming from the quaking caverns of the wash-room, where the young boy had a ripping row with the walls and bathroom fittings.  The boss was still laughing.

Armour

I have been watching the heavily armoured Kenya police severely battering the general population into submission. I did a bit of research and found that much of riot gear was purchased with donor money from the Swedish government!

This is a time of great opportunity. Apart from my earlier suggestion of funding the supply of humane rubber bullets (after all there is a way to humanely beat up people)- I also see vast possibilities in proposing hi-tech voting machines (donors would line up to fund that).

Mini Crisis

We had another crisis meeting in the office. Some experts flown down from the mother ship.

So expert#1 (a suit, with itchy balls? kept scratching himself) and expert#2 (a worn woman, with droopy breasts and a glassy smile – *exactly* the type who would sleep with expert#1) opened their laptops and projected a “contingency plan” on the wall.

Nothing exciting, just something to cover all our asses in case the country melts down. Then we had a round of introductions – of us to the experts#1 and #2. Here is where I committed a serious gaffe, one of those that will ultimately bring me down:

First, the boss introduced himself : “I am so & so, I have had 25 years of experience in so & so, I speak 8 languages, and I am a Linguist”.

Next, it was me, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, startled from my reveries, doodling on paper – abstract positions that I could make with Mugithi, but I managed to speak up:

“I am so & so, I have had <a few> years of experience in so & so, I speak 3 languages, and I am a *Cunnilinguist*.”

The boss staring at me, his face breaking into a painful grin, like the dawn of a distant and terrible sun. And expert#2 – eyeing me now, with some curiosity and amorous darkness.

I fled the office early; on Kiss FM they were announcing clashes in Kibera and the City Center. Still soaking in acute embarrassment, I contemplated joining the protesters, maybe I could set my car on fire ? or hurl it like a projectile at the helmeted policemen (the car isn’t mine really, one of the perks of being the jerk on the job).

(NOTE: Mugithi tells me Kenyan aren’t adventurous enough in bed. Cunnilinguists are apparently hard to come by, something to do with Kikuyu men not liking fish.)