Lessons

Never take candy from strangers - ask if they have any carrot sticks. A simple rule, but pretty much the only one I live by. 128 days since my last abduction. To tell the truth, I feel a little lost when I'm not being abducted. I went to a support group for missing persons, but no one showed up. I consoled myself with seaweed rice-crackers and tabouli, even though I wasn't really sure what 'tabouli' was. Apparently it's Arabic for arse-paste.

The candy rule is one of those universal laws you're taught as a kid. Like don't lick knives in the toaster, don't blow-dry the cat while taking a bath, and try not to 'go on fire'. I'd say pretty safely that none of these fundemental rules have been taught here in Maningrida. The kids seem to do whatever they like, and what they like is screaming indoors, climbing on stuff and throwing rocks at shit. They are not so much misbehaved as they are acting like drunk adults. They should know better.

On the way back from lunch I saw three little boys playing in an old water-filled esky, splashing and laughing. Gone are the days when I could just hang out with a couple of my mates, naked in a small plastic box. Childhood is a time of exploration. But what lies ahead for children who don't have any rules worth breaking? And how well equipped will they be to face a world should they ever find themselves outside the insulated world of the esky?

It makes me wonder what other life-skills they might be missing out on. I'm told (by a close personal friend) that Jennifer Love-Hewitt can't ride a bike. She was an awkward pre-pubescent, like a chicken fillet gone wrong - a breastless skin. Her busy professional childhood denied her what many of us take for granted; poverty. Here in Maningrida bikes seem awfully scarce. Where's the joy in getting testicular cancer if you can't use your super-chemo powers to win the Tour De France?

They're in the middle of building a 25m swimming pool here - that's about twelve and an half meters. The plan is to get Bronze Medallions for 30 locals and have them staff it. Although the town may be right by the seaside, swimming (ie. certain death by crocodile) has never been high on the agenda. The beach is so shallow here, even if you did want to get your nipples wet you'd have to pack a lunch for the wade out. Asking locals to get a bronze medallion is like rounding up a herd of cattle and asking them to sit for a motorcycle licence.

I can't comprehend not being able to swim, but thousands of episodes of Baywatch serve as solid evidence that the affliction is rife. Open seas may be one thing, but how do you drown in a pool unless it's of your own vomit? Isn't the human body naturally boyant? Even unconscious people only drown half the time. Babies know how to swim instinctively - we all know how hard it is to drown one of them. Is swimming like getting an erection; when you think about it too much it becomes really difficult to do? Oh, the shame and stigma.

I've decided to put together a basic survial guide for the young people of today. It'll have all the essentials; don't take candy from strangers, but get your drugs from any scummbag who knows a friend of a friend of a friend; don't run with scissors, but keep your cancer-causing mobile phone close to your genitals at all times; don't sit too close to the TV, just get a bigger fucking telly, you cheap bastard. As for the swimming and the bike riding? Enter them all in a triathalon and let Darwin sort them out.