Joon as a slightly older man
Dear reader, due to unforseen technical difficulties, we were not able to offer you this most excellent second installment of what happened on the Iriwaddy, until Monteith from the IT department was able to put matters right. He is currently on secondment to the Russian Government where he is ably asisting them in decoding sensitive videotape linked to the Trump presidency. We hope to release these scintilating images in installments soon. But for those who have waitied, at last, the tale of two tourists upon the far flung mudlfats of the Iriwaddy, (try saying it wih a mouthfull of marbles) can be resolved once and for all. And a parental warning, some of the scenes depicted here may be distressing to miners.
Time to get back to the ferry
We tipped the potters as advised by Joon. He then started talking about how interesting the Australian currency was. He asked us to show him some. A fiver, a tenner, – did we have a one hundred to show him? How did it compare to US currency? Could we show him some of that?
The tension was indescribable
We were travelling back towards the ferry, Joon’s head lolled at alarming angles as he slept. On waking he told us more about the tsunami, saying how important it was that we visit the makeshift village of the survivors. We were not that keen. He was insistent. They really like having visitors he said. The children love to high five foreigners he said. I felt sick in my stomach. The Wife* felt sick in hers. We were in deep, and sinking. Come he says, leading us along a shit lined path. I hang back, look at the healthy caged pig and think of bacon.
Don’t give them money says Joon. That would be bad. But you could give them rice, yes, rice would be good, the head man will see that it goes fairly to everyone. Can I meet the headman asks the savvy Wife*? Probably not here responds Joon. Let me take you to the rice merchant he adds, you can buy a bag and they will deliver it! We reluctantly go to the rice merchant. After a show of unlocking storerooms, we are admitted and shown stacks of rice, some of which have names written on them, ‘from Sven from Sweden’ ‘ from Karl, Germany’. You write your name on the bag you give says Joon. Samples of long grain and short grain rice are produced, with the comment that one is superior. Only $55 for a fifty-five kilo bag Joon tells us with joy. Ah, a thousand dollars a tonne I respond and bolt for the car. Desperately I google rice prices. Bullshit price I know. I tell Joon his price is outrageous. He says I misunderstood, he meant $55 for two bags. Oh Christ I say under my breath. Why is your husband so angry with me Joon asks the Wife* for the fourth time. Foolishly I agree to pay for one bag of rice, not two.
The monkey’s were trained in the art of subterfuge
We go back to the ferry in silence. As we alight the taxi, having paid the driver Joon says he expects to be paid too. How much? People pay me 60 to 75 he says. We are aghast. HTF did we get into this? We give him slightly more than half what he asks, he feigns gross offence. We walk off. On the return ferry we see him, obviously in search of hi next ‘clients’.
At the end of the day a trip that should have cost less than fifty, been most enjoyable, cost us three times that, left a sour taste, and I cannot find my wallet.
The Wife* understands my distress.
* The term ‘Wife’ is used in its generic sense. Only our closest friends call us Gen and Eric
Indeed, what will happen to Cecil sans wallet. Is he working to pay off his rice debt, or as we speak getting into ” Rice Futures”. Either way it’s bubble bubble toil and trouble, and these rice bubbles are liable to go ” Snap Crackle and Pop” at any moment. Hold fast as we await his next thrilling installment. From India no less where the rice paddies wear sari’s.