Don't Eat Me

by Colin Cotterill

  A number of uninvited cadres had turned up at the party. It was as if the news of Chief Inspector Phosy’s victory over the justice ministry had sounded out a warning to all the other ministries. Corruption was no longer a right. The Deputy Minister of Trade was one of the gate-crashers, but he’d brought along a crate of Glenfiddich so nobody turned him away. Siri cornered him in the kitchen of the residence and asked him directly about the import and export of wildlife. He’d expected the man to be defensive and apologetic, but the deputy seemed proud of their record.

  “It was disorganized and fragmented before we got to work on it,” slurred the man. He’d clearly been sampling the scotch before turning up at the party.

  “So, you turned it into a fruitful trade?” Siri asked.

  “Too right we did, comrade.”

  “And what would it take to shut it down?”

  “Shut it down? Are you mad? It’s our fourth biggest income earner. Why would we want to shut it down?”

  Siri frowned and let out an ironic laugh. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “because it’s cruel and inhumane?”

  “Nothing cruel about it, comrade,” said the deputy. “Your type would have us give names to pigs and chickens and let them live a long and happy life while we all starved to death.”

  Siri immediately conjured up the image of the chickens in the yard behind the noodle shop to whom Mr. Geung had bequeathed names and decorated with neck ribbons.

  “My type?” he said. “What is my type?”

  “The bleeding hearts,” said the deputy. “The do-gooders who’d have us all living on yams and coconut meat.”

  “Does it not worry you what the civilized world thinks of us?”

  “The civilized world?” said the deputy. “You mean places like Australia? They exported six million sheep to Europe for slaughter last year. What does the civilized world think of them? I’ll tell you. The civilized world wished it had half their business acumen. What’s a few tigers compared to that?”

  The deputy trade minister was thrown out of the party without his crate of booze, but he’d left a question in Siri’s mind. Why was a tiger worth more than a sheep? Perhaps it was because nobody humiliated the sheep before killing it. Perhaps it was because the death was sudden and clinical, not stretched over months. Perhaps it was because the sheep was sacrificed as part of the chain of survival not for vanity, tradition, some mythical unfounded belief, or for sport. Perhaps it was because the sheep had not known freedom or been given time to build up a bond with its environment and qualify for the right to live out its life as a part of a natural habitat.

  Or perhaps there was just an arbitrary man-decided cut-off line, and the creatures beneath it were not afforded any respect or admiration. He had no definitive answer to the question, but in his gut he knew he was right.

  He walked out to the backyard where the pumpkin was rotating on a spit. Mr. Geung and Tukta had gone to the market early that morning to select a fine fat pig for the wedding roast. They’d chosen a live porker that weighed in at 120 kilograms and were about to pay for it when the pig called Mr. Geung over and whispered so low that the others couldn’t hear her:

  “Don’t eat me.”

  So, Geung and Tukta had paid for the pig, loaded her in a samlor and driven her to the edge of the forest. There, they’d said goodbye to her, wished her a long and happy life, and let her go. They’d returned to the house with a pumpkin because, fortunately, the pumpkin hadn’t said anything in its own defense. And, for whatever reason, that was the day that Dr. Siri Paiboun stopped eating meat.

  The bride and groom, as far as anyone knew, the first ever Down syndrome couple joined in matrimony in the People’s Democratic Republic, were dressed in traditional Lao costumes. They looked adorable. As was the custom, Tukta wore too much makeup and was almost unrecognizable. Despite half a jar of Brylcream, Mr. Geung’s hair refused to sit obediently on his head. He looked so handsome in his white jacket and baggy jongabayn trousers nobody commented on his hair.

  The house, the front- and backyards and half the street were crowded with well-wishers. They were there not only to celebrate the wedding but also to applaud the success of the people-power push that had begun on the first morning after Siri and Daeng’s arrest. The customers had arrived at the noodle shop as usual only to find it shuttered. There were no sounds of movement from within. On the door was a poster-sized note, beautifully written, which read:

  Madam Daeng, Dr. Siri, Chief Inspector Phosy, Nurse Dtui, Comrade Civilai, Mr. Geung and Tukta have all disappeared. Something terrible has happened to them. I love them. So do you. We know they are good people. The customers of this restaurant come from many places: from ministries and offices and hospitals and from the markets and stores. Individually, we have no power. But together there is nothing we cannot discover or achieve. Let us unite to find our friends.

  Thus, the noodle revolt had begun. It was unclear whether there would have been such a tide of indignation had the customers been aware of who wrote that poster. But it had been so eloquently composed it was as if the giant naga of the Mekhong itself had called the noodle customers to arms. At lunchtime, a huge crowd gathered, suggestions were voiced and assignments were handed out. By evening the crowd had doubled and already they knew where Siri, Daeng and Civilai were being held. Someone’s nephew had been charged with trucking them to work camps the following day. It did not take long to work out what was going on at the Ministry of Justice. The crowd did not exactly march upon the ministry training school. That would have been treasonous. Rather, in a very Lao way, they merely dropped by, one by one, to say hello. See how things were going. Hundreds of them filled the tiny complex. Someone might have inadvertently sheered through a telephone line with their scythe. This left the young lads entrusted with the prisoners’ care no way of reporting this casual intrusion. There was no violence.

  The most senior of the noodle connoisseurs explained that there had been a mistake and that a committee of some two hundred people had been set up to right it. Thus, Siri, Daeng and Civilai were freed. But, until they could locate Phosy and Nurse Dtui, there could be no word of this rescue. Not wanting to get into or cause any trouble, the young jailers—two of whom were related to members of the crowd—volunteered to take the place of the prisoners. Should things go badly, they would claim to have been overwhelmed by armed aggressors and locked up. Madam Daeng told them she’d have noodles sent over for supper and perhaps a bottle or two of something refreshing.

  By morning, everyone was aware of Judge Haeng’s intentions. Ministry clerks were spilling their guts to anyone who’d listen. By the second day, word of mouth had spread and witnesses stepped forward without coaxing. Someone had seen a man drive a lilac Vespa from a lockup. Ex-girlfriends of Haeng told of the parties at the airport. Someone had seen Haeng and Maysuk leaving a coffee shop. The court stenographer was only too pleased to hand over transcripts from the tribunal. The momentum of the noodle revolt was already rolling too fast to be stopped. They would probably have taken over the ministry sooner were it not for the rational arguments of the threesome they’d released. Siri told the crowd that there was no hurry. Phosy’s trial was scheduled to go to a fourth day. The noodlers had the time and the resources to refute the judge’s charges by gathering evidence to the contrary.

  They had been too late to prevent the banishment of Mr. Geung and his fiancée. That rescue had to wait. But by the time the couple arrived back in Vientiane, they heard the stories over and over. They heard of the peaceful noodle revolution. They learned how lovers of good food might get together and achieve in a few days what the government had been unable to manage in five years—unity. And as noodle makers, Mr. Geung and Tukta were key members of the movement. They were the Marx and Engels of pasta. And everyone knew their wedding would go ahead because everyone wished it to happen. And that was why the street was crowded outside Siri’s official residenc
e. Success had been a rare commodity in Laos and once found, it was addictive.

  Mr. Geung and Tukta were walking from guest to guest holding a silver tray with a crystal glass on it and a bottle that seemed magically to be always full. They would insist that each partygoer throw back a glass of spirit for luck, and the guests were happy to do so. Chief Inspector Phosy, still in his dress uniform minus shoes, was looking down at the scene from the neighbor’s roof. To his left sat Siri and Daeng nursing a fat pot with two cane straws sticking out of the top. It was perched precariously on the tiles between them, and they took it in turns to suck up the sweetest of rice whiskies. To Phosy’s right sat his wife, more lovely than ever in her embroidered blouse and handwoven skirt. Malee, desperate for sleep but too entranced by the show below, sat watery-eyed in her mother’s lap. She watched Civilai below dancing with his wife to a waltz only they seemed to hear. The band was playing Lao country.

  “Are you sure Comrade Vong doesn’t mind us occupying her roof?” Dtui asked.

  “I’m absolutely certain she’d mind,” said Siri, “if she knew. She’s the type of person who minds. It’s in her blood. She minded greatly when I mentioned we’d be having this little party at my house. She minded even more when I suggested it might be to celebrate an illicit wedding. But when I told her who was getting married, she minded right down to police headquarters and onto a bus to her cousin’s place. We won’t see her again for a day or two.”

  “I have her official complaint right here in my breast pocket,” said Phosy. He ripped it into little pieces and let it snow down on the revelers.

  “I’d like her to play the wicked necromancer in our movie,” said Siri.

  “What news of that?” Dtui asked.

  “We have located a cinematographer,” said Siri. “He’s the cousin of the Fuji Photo shop owner. He’s worked as a grip on films in Thailand. He’ll be back next month to teach us how to turn on the camera.”

  “We now have three scripts to work from,” said Daeng, “Siri’s original, the women’s union rewrite and the Ministry of Culture disaster.”

  “Of course, we’ll use mine,” said Siri. “We have a number of competent actors and actresses and the promise of funding. I have also been looking through my French tourist brochures to select which hotel I’ll be staying in when we get to Cannes.”

  “Assuming we live that long,” Daeng added.

  “And Phosy, what do you plan to do with your dark assassin, Sergeant Wee?” Siri asked. “Toss him in the dungeons and beat him senseless?”

  “No,” said Phosy, “we’ll send him to Huay Xai to one of our secure camps.”

  “That doesn’t sound much like a fitting punishment for a man who turns killer on you,” said Madam Daeng before taking a deep draft of spirit.

  “I know,” said Phosy. “I really had no idea what to do. I left it up to his unit. They agreed he was undisciplined and needed reeducation. I am in the position where I have to uphold the law. I couldn’t let him get away with what he did. But nobody wanted to see him executed for doing something they’d all considered doing themselves.”

  “Phosy and I have already had words on this subject,” said Dtui.

  “I know,” said Phosy. “But in a way, I was responsible.”

  “You told him to kill bad guys?” asked Daeng.

  “No, but I left their fates flapping about in the wind. I said we’d think of some kind of punishment. That wasn’t good enough for a group of officers who were risking their lives to arrest them. They needed to know the felons wouldn’t be let off with a fine. That doesn’t condone what Wee did, but it makes me less inclined to have him shot.”

  “What do you think will become of him?” Dtui asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Phosy. “He’s a resourceful fellow. He’ll probably escape and vanish.”

  “You’re not afraid he’ll come gunning for you?” said Daeng.

  “No.”

  Down below, Mr. Geung and Tukta were posing for photographs and, although the four musicians had stopped playing, Comrade Civilai was still slow dancing with his wife in the garden. Guests came and went but the crowd didn’t seem to thin out at all. They’d put up metal frames to be covered in canopies in case of rain but the night sky was cloudless and the moon bathed the crowd in a mystical glow.

  “I don’t see our poster-writing hero,” said Dtui.

  “Rajhid stayed long enough to put up the decorations and blow up a few balloons and he was off,” said Daeng.

  “The attention would have freaked him out,” said Siri. “And he had more important things to do.”

  “Impersonating frogs and running naked along the riverbank,” said Daeng.

  “No rest for the mental,” said Siri.

  The time had come for Mr. Geung to make his speech. They’d connected a microphone to a portable speaker in the front yard. Given Geung’s stutter, Civilai had suggested they break with tradition and have Tukta give the wedding speech. But Nurse Dtui would hear of no such thing. For a week, she’d been coaching her friend, working on his breathing and his confidence. She had him practice in front of the hospital lab goats, then progress to small groups of nurses. He’d surprised them by achieving a level of competence they hadn’t expected. But, just to make sure, she’d slipped a marijuana cigarette into his pocket and recommended he have a few puffs before showtime. He’d obviously taken her up on that suggestion because he swaggered up to the stage platform and raised two thumbs to the onlookers. When he grabbed the mike, there was a swathe of speaker feedback that instantly silenced the crowd. Dtui crossed her fingers.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Geung began without so much as a b-b-b or a sis-sis, “I am Geung Wattajak and I am an animal.”

  There were a few embarrassed chuckles. Geung went to the corner of the platform, took his bride by the hand and led her to the microphone.

  “This is my wife, Tukta,” he said. “She is an animal too.”

  Tukta had heard the speech many times over. She wasn’t offended. She bowed her head and gave a deep, respectful nop to the audience. Geung looked up at the neighboring roof and pointed.

  “There is my friend, Nurse Dtui,” he said. “She is an animal. And all of you are animals.”

  There was a belt of silence before one drunk shouted out, “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are,” shouted his wife to gales of raucous laughter.

  Ugly the dog, who’d been waiting in the wings for his cue, walked onto the stage and sat.

  “This is Ugly,” said Geung. “He’s a different animal. He’s an animal called a dog. People call him a dumb animal because he can’t speak and because he licks his arse.”

  More laughter.

  “But he can rec . . . recognize hundreds of different scents and he can run fast. So in many ways, he’s better than us. People call me and Tukta dumb animals too. We speak and we don’t lick our arses, but most people think they’re better than us. They can be unkind. Our bodies are clumsy and we won’t live very long and our brains work more slowly than yours. We can’t be doctors and we can’t be prime ministers, but we work hard and we’re kind and funny and we say what we believe. So, my wish on this day, this happiest day of my life, is that we stop thinking we’re better than other animals and start to believe that we all con . . . contribute something different and wonderful to our planet. The tiger teaches us d-d-dignity and how to control our power. The pig gives us compost that grows our vegetables. The lizard eats mosquitoes that give us dengue fever. The fish cleans our rivers and gives up its life to feed our children. If I can have one one one . . . wish this day, it is that we all stop comparing the size of our brains and learn to see the size of each other’s hearts.”

  Even the evening cicadas had fallen silent.

  Afterword

  The Siri series is set in the not-too-distant past. One would like to think that the world
has progressed since then and is addressing its mistakes. One would most certainly hope that cruelty had been eliminated. But all of the circumstances I described in this book are true and—because I didn’t want to thoroughly depress you—vastly understated. You might hope that countries like Laos or Vietnam or China would have learned compassion but far from it. The trade in animals and their parts is more organized, more profitable more widespread than it was forty years ago. As there aren’t enough creatures left in the wild to satisfy the idiots, tigers and bears and pangolins and all their relatives are being farmed in inhumane conditions. Wild beasts are still being shipped around the world to zoos and private collectors, but now they have legal documents. Those documents don’t stop the savagery and wickedness. It’s not all right to take your kids to a zoo because all you see there are the survivors. And even they have a limited shelf life.

  It’s not literature, but try to get ahold of a copy of The Animal Connection by Jean-Yves Domalain. To see what’s happening in Laos and the region more recently take a look at Wildlife Trade in Laos: The End of the Game by Hanneke Nooren and Gordon Claridge. For us tiger fans there’s Tigers Are Forever by Steve Winter and Sharron Guynup. There are hundreds of articles. All we really need is Google and the will to do something about it.