Column:

Bauxite to Bangkok

By Dan Friesen

Published Feb. 6, 2007

Seriously. You know nothing of life. I thought I had seen some shit. Yeah, I took a dump on my friend Ben's car. Yeah, I used to smoke daily joints with a one-armed Vietnam veteran who lived next door to me. Yeah, I got high with a guy who killed a man (self defense).

Until this week, I knew nothing. As you might recall, last week, Paramonga and I were attempting to flee to Ghana to avoid "religious persecution."

Well, we almost made it to the border. About 20 kilometers from freedom, our bauxite truck got boxed in by some Ghanaian militiamen. I tell you, there is no experience quite as disempowering as being dragged from your cozy bauxite truck, blindfolded and thrown into a van at gunpoint. Paramonga was very agreeable publicly, but when we got a moment alone, he confessed that he felt it was a bit excessive to blindfold a man with two glass eyes. I agreed.

I thought we were dead for sure, but about 42 hours into our captivity, one of the militiamen approached me with an offer. About 42 hours and 5 minutes into our captivity, I realized that Paramonga's cousin had set us up. My head was spinning, and I started to question everything, specifically whether the cousin was actually in the bauxite business. The militiamen took my laptop, which contained lots of sensitive information (porn) and told me I would only get it back if I played along.

It turned out that the militia had recently been taken in a confidence scheme by a British man who only was identified as "MH." He proposed money laundering and tax evasion schemes to the militia, and when they appeared to be working, they trusted him implicitly. They should have known better. Six months later, he was snug as a bug in a rug in Bangkok with $18 billion of the militia's budget.

As MH was personally acquainted with the militia and all their members, none of them could possibly get close to him. That was where I came in. I was unfamiliar and had a naive, innocent quality I could use to my advantage. Paramonga's cousin is a goddamn snake.

All things considered, I decided to take on the challenge of retrieving the militia's money and getting sweet revenge. I had no desire to spend one more hot second in Africa, and plus, I have always had a raging boner for the idea of the seedy Bangkok underworld. I wouldn't get to experience the nightlife, though, as the militia told me that I would only have one night to track down MH. To make matters worse, I found from reading his dossier that MH was quite a devotee of chess, and (to quote a former associate) "he gets his kicks above the waistline." No drugs, no hookers, no hookahs, no drinking blood, no fun. When I told Paramonga about this, he suggested we make a break for it. In the end, calmer heads prevailed, and we decided to take on the mission. I wanted my porn back, and Paramonga couldn't find any booze at the militia compound.

There are real problems with a 600-word limit, namely, that I can't include all the details I would like. In this case, I think it's a plus. The trip was gruesome. We searched every chess room and eventually found MH. I thought we were going to negotiate with him, but unbeknownst to us, the militia had followed our every move, and when we made contact, they stormed in, guns blazing. Every chessboard was covered in blood. There were bodies everywhere. Last week, I was a hard man. Today, I'm humble.

Paramonga and I stowed away in the first boat we could find. It was bound for Japan. I want to go home. Paramonga says he feels like a new man. He says he might never go home. We'll see where the wind takes us.

Editor's note: This column is a fictional story and is part of Friesen's study abroad

columnist joke.