Whopped and BK’d

I do not think they are called «Boko Karam»; its abbreviation would fit our title.  We imagine those in the borders of Nigeria and Cameroon wreaking havoc to political structures on both countries, the ones who abducted 276 schoolgirls from northeast Nigeria›s Chibok.  The girls› future has already been directed elsewhere other than a return to the classroom.

They are called Boko Haram, translated “Western Education is forbidden”, a militant Islamic Jihadist movement accused by the US in 2013 as a terrorist organization, officially called Jama’atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda’Awati Wal-Jihad, (People Committed to the Prophet’s Teachings for Propagation and Jihad).

 I live in a University town where Aerospace, Medical, Engineering, and Normal School have all relocated from downtown Shenyang, and have a high percentage of students from Africa.  I once kidded a girl if Boko Haram was named after the Burka (the first a headgear and the last an attire that hides everything including the eyes that looks only through a mesh) and the Hajib, but she did not think that was funny.  She was Hausa from Kano, Nigeria where once I landed when my London-Lagos (Yuruba land) flight sheltered because a Taureg sandstorm threatened.  That was also where I saw more burkas in one place and where Hausa and Boko Haram prevails!

The Hajib is rather common in the department stores and subway stops near my dwelling as many students are proud of their cultural heritage, resist the wind force and dust on the hair, and provide comfort from the cold, but I look at them more from the fashion perspective rather than their Sharia meaning.   Having lived in Kentucky, Virginia, Texas, and North Carolina, where the Ku Klux Klan wore the caparitos that Nazareno priests processed with during España’s Holy Week quickly made me separate symbol from their significance. 

But I was BK’d this week.  That is not an acronym familiar to pugilists whose KO and TKO is more the familiar lingo.  My friends keep forwarding me news blips of boxer-turned-Philippine legislator Manny Pacquiao, especially after he won his last two Macau bouts.  

At 36, Pacquiao needs to climb the ring with perennial verbal foe Floyd Mayweather who at 38 guards an undefeated record.  Of course, their bout has been five years in the making, but the current betting is that one will be held within six months, now that Dallas Cowboys’ owner is bidding to hold the event at his 100K seat stadium in Texas with a minimum take at $50 million to each fighter. 

Still on boxing, we just learned that Mickey Rourke at 62, after his last professional bout in 1994, KO’d his 29-yr old opponent (who allegedly took a dive) in Moscow to improve a career record of 7-0-2.  I last noticed Mickey, Academy Award nominee, in Wild Orchid filmed in the Copacabana of Brazil (where I spent a month outside of Rio Bonito).  He was with Jacqueline Bisset, pleasantly tart and playful in the movie, with French Elite super model Carré Otis who was rumored to have had a real sex scene with Rourke.  They were later married and divorced (‘92-’98). 

Otis wrote in her memoirs three years ago how her modeling agency boss raped her at 17, adding her to the recent Joan Collins revelation, noticeable now that Bill Cosby got the accusatory finger on his questionable bed manners.  Shia LeBeaouf claims to have been raped by a fan while his girlfriend waited in line outside a set-up one-on-one encounter with fans.  Lucky guy! 

Boy, and I was just going to follow-up my article on Suba, Kimchi and BK, but I took a round about way to get here, from Nigeria to Macau, Brazil to Hollywood.  It must be the cold! 

Yup, I got whopped at BK (for the uninitiated, that is Burger King, the home of the Whopper).  The fast food service corner finally opened, a suggested venue to meet acquaintances that I avoid.  I walked in the cold the other day, so I ran for warmth at BK.  I looked at the pictures, recalling that BK had Alaskan fish and Persian Gulf fish served in Kuwait (pork was verboten – the Yumbo sandwich unheard of – while beef, sheep and goat meat were imported) but no fins were in the grills in Shenyang. 

Da du zi (big tummy) growled and we knee-jerked.  The Whopper meal cost 35 rmb, thirty-five rides on the bus for me before the rates go double in three more months.  The bun pictures on the wall were bigger and firmer than what came in my plate.  It did not surprise me but the beef on the wimpy sandwich bun tasted like mush dried on the grill.  That, or I had forgotten what beef tasted like.  There was no refill on the soda.  The redeeming virtue of the place was a waitress who spoke English.  Graced with Africans and Caucasians who spoke halting Chinese among its customers, her English came in handy. 

So I was royally whopped at BK, and lighter on the pocket, too, as my oral englisCHe learners come motivated and earnest but hardly paying customers, so I shall avoid getting into the BK arena again, or add more warmth against the cold.  B-r-r-r.