Lessons from the French school.
Back in the day there was a guy called Chad, and also a country, somewhere down there in the dirty sands of Africa, where a bunch of those little kiddies ran around playing and screaming and falling over stuff and sometimes even picking up guns to kill each other – yes, it’s a nasty business, that war, and lots of those wimps in the “First World” as they call it feel all squishy inside when they see a tyke with a Kalishnikov on the television. They say “oh, that’s terrible, it can’t be happening, they’re just children after all”, as if the mediaeval world from which this nasty modern planet of ours burst out from under has actually receded into the horizon, into the history books, into the dark grey annals of times gone past where the witches were burned and the men sent off to death, while the women and children tilled the fields until they all died at the ripe old age of fifteen. What can I say: we’ve made progress there, but in other ways we’re still very far behind.
But, of course, amongst the poor warmongering tribes where the world still spins around the moon in the painted desert, where spirits still live with you in your mud hut and where half of your siblings won’t see their fifth birthday, where the capital cities have painfully long names that no one in their right mind would try to remember, where water is scarce but bullets are abundant, kids grow up pretty fast. They never have a chance to play PS2 until their eyes bleed, to get folds of flab under their underarms from sitting and eating cheese puffs and listening to their stomach gurgle while whatever bullshit the television feeds them kicks it up a notch and they are forever trapped in the suburban dream of accumulation, inflation of the body, obsession with increasing income, and to ultimately getting that two car garage so they can do it all over again to another generation of vegetables – no, they’re stuck out there in the real world, between the earth and the sun, living life at its most base. Some pansies from Paris saw their simple lives on television and decided they needed to be “saved”. Or something.
Thus, buying and selling children has become something of a cottage industry in the Saharan region, saving kids from their own environment and growing up with skills that they may actually use for survival once the entire world goes up in flames. Better to inundate them with ignorance and an obsession with Dolce and Gabana than have them learn to hunt and wage war. When once they could have been the generation that built a desert nation from the ashes of a global holocaust, now they’re stuck in cheap flats in Parisian suburbs hoping no one throws a Molotov through their window. Life is a twisting game, and that one’s a dead end; but according to their saviours, they’re “safer”. From some things, anyways, like consciousness.
Thus, we get a few groups of people heading to visit their buddy Chad and take the kids aside. The ruse is that you have a school somewhere, just over the ranges. Making up a fake name, some business cards and official looking documents, will undoubtedly be more than enough to convince the poor villager to part with three of her fifteen children. She may not even notice. Tell the kids they’re going someplace magical, give them teddy bears and toys, maybe some sweets to get their brains hooked on first world foods. Then pay off a few people at the airport, and you’re on your way.
It really is that simple. These African countries generally don’t care much about what you do with their kiddies – they’re too busy making them. Some villages are chock full of kids, ripe for the pickings of the white folks there to save them. Smuggle the kid through to another country if you’re unsure of immigration laws. Pal up with a cargo outfit that ships aid in and out. Really, once the kids are in your possession, it’s smooth sailing on the blowing sands.
The other option is simply to head to the old slave markets of Mauritania or Niger and foot the bill up front. Some Jesus loving types do just this, since money is an abstraction after all, compared to leaving a child for slavery. Of course, no one ever asks the kid if they want the slavery of the Bedouin tribes living from day to day in the open desert, or the slavery of the nine to five grind in a nameless corporate compound. And once you’ve discovered which one you prefer, it’s usually too late to do anything about it.
Good kids should only cost a few hundred dollars apiece at the slave market – peanuts compared to the Air France flight back to Paris, and the fake documents proving it’s your adopted kid. For under a grand you’ve got yourself another inductee into the Western World. Congratulations.
This avenue for getting yourself your own army of kids to do your bidding is undoubtedly cheaper than the alternative, legal adoption, or the worst of all possibilities, marriage and family. But naturally you need to question your motives – why ship the kid back? Why send him or her to a life of indentured servitude in the corporate brothels of Western Europe?
Catch and release, I say. And I’d wager that if you went down south and started shopping for slaves, your epiphany would likely end with you in your own Bedouin clothes, building your own tribe, with your own contingent of child soldiers. It’s a vast area out there and your own fiefdom isn’t such a far off dream after all. It’s always a question when one visits Chad – are the whiteys saving the children, or vice versa?