I had set up a company in Singapore with a friend and my Danish employer. One sweltering day, as I was about to step out into the furnace of the Singaporean streets, my partner caught me in the doorway, phone in hand.
“David! Yes, okay… hmm… I don’t know… hold on, I’ll ask him.”
He covered the receiver:
“It’s Indonesia. An old friend wants to know if we’d be interested in selling a coal mine concession.”
A coal mine? I knew nothing about mining, nor did I want to. So I asked:
“Where is it?”
“Borneo.”
Borneo! Cannibals! My cookbook practically leapt off the shelf.
“Say yes,” I cried, “of course we’ll help!”
The concession, it turned out, was right in the middle of Borneo, 750 square kilometers, about the size of Funen. Not exactly your backyard sandbox. Three weeks later, we were shaking hands in a fancy Jakarta hotel, solemnly signing papers as if we knew what we were doing. Another three weeks on, we were rattling upriver in a longboat, heading for Tumbang Tjuhu.
Tumbang Tjuhu! It sounds like a jungle drumbeat, but in reality, it was Borneo’s answer to Ringsted. Wooden houses, Wild West vibes, and, alas, satellite dishes on every roof. Civilization had arrived: mopeds buzzing, TV shops in shacks, and not a single cannibal menu posted on the town square.
We dropped our bags, hopped on the backs of motorcycles, and roared off into the jungle on logging roads. Orangutans and snakes wisely vanished at the sound of our convoy. By nightfall, the jungle was so black it felt like drinking darkness through a straw. But we did see plenty of coal, and assured ourselves that yes, we could probably destroy the entire rainforest and chase every living creature away for the noble cause of making fat people fatter.
And the cannibals? Still missing from the guest list. So I thought: why not consult the locals for recipe tips? I asked the police inspector and Mr. Amsterdam—two cheerful, round-bellied gentlemen, about cannibal cuisine. They told me that four years earlier, during a tribal skirmish, the Dayak had feasted on fresh liver and heart to absorb their enemies’ strength.
Four years! Ancient history in culinary terms. For a second, I considered grabbing Mr. Amsterdam’s hand and giving it a lick, at least then I could say I’d tasted a cannibal. But no. I chickened out. (Literally. I ordered chicken instead.)
The next day we were off again: eight hours by boat, eighteen by car, three by hotel bed, one by plane, two in an airport lounge, another by plane, and finally two whole days of blissful coma in Singapore.
And the mine? It fizzled out, thank heaven. The orangutans and proboscis monkeys live happily for now. But someday, surely, someone will succeed—with the eager support of the “locals,” whom we’ve carefully taught to read, write, watch Paris fashion shows, and buy Mitsubishi fridges. We call this development.
I call it hypocrisy flambé.
Because we, the white West, have already clear-cut our forests, exterminated our species, and gorged ourselves on raw materials. Now, having perfected greed, we forbid others from playing the same game. They must behave, while we sip our lattes and congratulate ourselves on being “wiser.”
Maybe, just maybe, we should spend a few billion euros conserving what’s left, teaching the locals preservation instead of consumption, and learning, at long last, to take responsibility for our own idiotic existence.
And until then, remember: if you can’t find fresh cannibal at the butcher’s, crocodile will do nicely.