For part one see here.
1.54 pm I was greeted at the airport by a man holding a sign with my name on it. He looked suspiciously like TV3 personality Ali Ikram (who may or may not be a terrorist. He doesn’t have a beard. I do. I must remember to shave it off when… if… I get back). I managed to take a photo of my on my tax-payer purchased iPhone before he spotted me.
“Ahhhhhhh Mr Prosser,” he cried throwing away the clipboard, carelessly hitting a burqa-clad woman in the head.
“I am your guide to Wogistan, and I will be teaching you three lessons today. Call me Ali.”
I grunted. Where is my Walther PPK when I need it? I grunted again as he took my bags, then a third time as he opened the door to his beat up old Lada for me. One more grunt to show my displeasure as we drove off.
2:28 pm After stopping twice to blow up school buses full of innocent children, four times to pray, and once to buy a goat we arrived at our first destination. Ali called it the Masjid al-Haram. To me it looked suspiciously like Eden Park. We hopped out of the lada and Ali began to mumble this rhyme,
May your first lesson here be taught:
freespeech is a right whose conditions are fraught.
Words have meaning, even if said without thought
and the wrong words damage oft cannot be unwrought.
Freespeech can be a blessing if used correctly
words thought about and used circumspectly
can have great effect and turn enemies friendly.
Think about what you say, don’t use language abjectly.
Suddenly a large boom rocked the Masjid al-Eden Park and Ali hurried me back into the lada.
3:55 pm Ali’s new goat and I have become very well acquainted.
4:22 pm I looked out the window. The scenery was familiar. Wogistan looked suspiciously like Auckland. I slapped myself. Ali stopped the car in a narrow street. He got out. “Don’t leave me,” I whimpered as I followed him.
“Please bring the goat,” he asked.
We winded our way up a path. I kept asking him where we were going, if we were there yet, if I could try riding Winston (the nick name I had given the goat). Ali ignored me, just smiling and beckoning me on.
4:58 pm As we stepped into the clearing Ali took a deep breath, spread his arms and, with a smile, declared “Welcome to my home, Mr Prosser. Time for your second lesson.”
He opened the door to his home. A small child ran up and hugged him. “Daddy!” it yelled with muffled delight as it buried its head between his knees.
“Say hello to Mr Prosser,” Ali said.
The child hesitantly smiled. “He looks like Uncle Akbar,” it giggled as it ran into another room pulling Ali with.
Dazed, I followed and was momentarily taken aback. A perfect domestic scene stood before me.
“See, we are no different to you and yours, Mr Prosser,” Ali said as he embraced his beautiful wife.
Who knew saracens were capable of love!?
9:37 pm Final lesson time. Ali and I stand on the edge of a tall minaret, which Ali claims is the Al-Aqsa Mosque but I am pretty sure it is the Sky Tower. The wind whips my beard. I really must shave this thing off. I look like a terrorist.
“Look around, Mr Prosser. How many terrorists can you see from here?”
“I’m not sure. It’s hard to racial profile from distances over 250 metres,” I replied.
Ali facepalmed as he pushed me over the ledge.
3 am Suddenly awake. Screaming. Sweating. I fumbled around in bed. I still had my pants on. Something was digging into my thigh. I reached into my pockets and low and behold, my pen knife. Time to write that column for Investigate.