Mr Beavan, a resident of New York, Fifth Avenue no less, has decided to forsake the tradition of lavatory paper as we in the Western world use it. Mr Beavan, as reported in the NY Times, much prefers the good old Arabian practice of hosing off, known as Qadaahul Haajah to those in the Muslim faith. And why shouldn’t he, I mean lets face it, Arabs have effectively managed to change the face of New York City and so why shouldn’t they have a say in New York toilet habits too.
I can only imagine most soldiers returning from their tours of Iraq will have mastered this hygienic habit; what better reason is there for going to war than returning home having adopted the best of the enemys’ customs.
Anyway, Mr Beavan intends practicing this foreign ritual for a year, maintaining that he’s contributing to the world’s well-being, his environmental footprint has shrunk he says. Like all authoritarian men who relish a good dogma Mr Beavan has directed that his wife, whom we are assured is gorgeous and Prada loving, as well as his young daughter, are included in this lifestyle. This double-barreled surname bearing wife works for Business Week and obviously understands fiscal matters better than environmental, not that she’s not making an effort. Anyone prepared to eat cold crud out of Tupperware needs to be respected.
You see Mr Beavan intends to write a book on his holistic lifestyle and he’s hoping each one of us is going to be so fascinated with his pitiful little existence; that we’re going to gorge ourselves on this anal retentive chronicle about how he survived his year of hardship.
This attention seeking desperado has taken environmental concern and turned it into a self promoting circus.
And the reason that upsets me is because I’m a dedicated compactor.
Yep, three weeks now, going on 4 and the reason I’m on this frugal road is directly linked to the United States of America, the world’s biggest consumer; San Francisco precisely, which funnily enough is where compacting began.
I’ll have to side step here and explain our travels and how I embraced this change of life.
Roger was invited to attend a meeting in San Fran sometime in Feb by a profit-swollen drug company who has been testing drugs on R’s patients here. They paid for his business class ticket, but not mine – obviously being the servile wife I offered to travel in the back with all the other schmucks, but my husband, knowing what’s good for him, said ‘no, no, you must come with me’. That’s my boy. Obviously this was pre-compacting days, when my footprint was obese, when I was a fat cat lapping it up off the gravy train.
So we, who have never had a holiday together, who have together accumulated literally 1000’s of good carbon emission free points, whose husband’s environmental footprint is that of a dung beetle; traveled from darkest Africa to the bright New World on a freebie.
Look, I don’t want to pretend business class is all its cracked up to be; yes, the seats lie flat; no, the food’s still disgusting and the loo’s even worse, in fact I couldn’t believe it – they’re exactly the same as in cattle class, with the same pee all over the place. You pay six times as much for such stuff.
But, there was a glimmer of hope …
Before I left home, friends, not believing we were actually going to go somewhere together threatened: ‘don’t even consider coming back home without having joined the mile high club’.
So, returning home we where in a brand new plane; we were seated with our backs facing forward; they have these two seats together, all sandblasted Plexiglas, you’re sort of enclosed in this little hokkie of a thing – just the two of us.
Before takeoff I have my complimentary glass of champagne, the doctor had his seatbelt on tight, practicing the fetal crash position. Naturally he wasn’t at his best, having just spent 15 hours San Fran to London without a cigarette and now could look forward to another 12 hours onto Jhb of breathing nothing but good stinky 3rd time inhaled, recycled air. So what better time to launch into the sexual seduction.
‘Hey this is a nice little hidey hole …. Look if I push this button the partition comes up and no-one can see us’
‘Have you got your seatbelt on? Don’t play with the plane, we can’t afford to have it breakdown half way home.’
‘Mmmm maybe later we can have sex in here.’
He lunges for my champagne all snarly, ‘give me that, you’ve obviously had enough, Christ what is wrong with you? How can you think of something like that at a time like this.’
‘I was only joking’.
‘WELL IT’S NOT FUNNY’ he snarls. Mr Paranoid, Mr I Hate Flying, Mr Addict in need of a fix.
So my point being – don’t travel BC unless the company’s paying, because, quite frankly, you’re going to need a strong shot of Viagra if you’re going to manage to accomplish anything more than flaking out with the free booze and the inflight entertainment in the cramped, stinky confinement.
Rather spend your money on a fabulous hotel room and nice restaurants. And I have to say we had such a great time in SF. Roger’s a hardened Americanophile – I see there’s no word for ‘foreigners who love America’, I wonder why that is? He loves their loud confidence, their unselfconsciousness. He likes the order, the rules and regulations. After this wild place it’s comforting to feel secure.
It was all good: the food, the weather, scenery, etc. The only thing that was truly obscene for me was the shopping. It was just too much - literally. We stayed down town, near Pier No 1; it seems all the mega stores are around Union Square / Market Street. I couldn’t deal with these acre sized stores with floor upon floor of clothes and shoes.
Watch this space for more on compacting and the environmental and social concerns of a white African living a post colonial life in the back of beyond. I intend living a Mr Beavan and Mrs Conlin-Beavan life. The race is not over until the book’s published.
