Saturday, January 19, 2013

First One Out is a Rotten Egg

The email read:

“Dear Ms Blah,
We sincerely apologise for the incident. Could you please date the rotten egg? We can then take measures to see that such incidents do not happen in future.”

Umm…. I’ve only ever dated rotten eggs. If there’s a rotten egg out there, he’s got my number.

Oh, hang on. They meant a rotten egg quite literally. My mind drifted back to my recently concluded African safari. (I will tell you more about the actual safari in a separate post. This post is dedicated to the aforementioned rotten egg.)

It was the penultimate day of the safari. Our safari party settled down to lunch at the designated picnic area at Tarangire National Park. I opened my lunch box and was immediately besieged by an adorable squirrel and several bold Superb Starlings.

SK opened his lunch box, and everyone and everything in the vicinity dived for cover. While filling our lunch boxes at the camp in the morning, I had most wisely opted not to pick up a hard-boiled egg. SK was quite clearly not so prudent.

As it turned out, the egg was in an advanced stage of putrefaction.

Code Red, everybody, we have a decomposing egg. I repeat. We have a stinky decomposing egg.

The trouble with decomposing eggs is that-- Well, actually, there are plenty of troubles that come with rotten eggs as we soon found out.

For one, there’s the sheer bile-evoking stench. And now, we were faced with a dilemma none of us had faced before in our lives.

We had to dispose of this decomposing egg during a safari in an African national park where disposing of trash of any sort is strictly forbidden.

They don’t provide trash bins in the designated picnic areas as that would pose a problem for the animals that forage around in the vicinity. You take your trash back with you.

So, we had this egg on our hands now. Lovingly wrapped in a paper serviette that did nothing to mask the horrible smell.

Have you seen a squirrel gag? No? Just try offering it a putrid egg. The giraffes we’d been watching, idling by the river, had galloped away. The elephants were no doubt packing their trunks for an emergency evacuation back to Kenya.

To put it in an egg shell: Houston, we have a problem. How do we get rid of this egg?

“Giggling is not the answer!” I was admonished. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered, “but it’s the vapours from that egg.”

A giggling woman and a fetid egg do not make for good company and I soon found myself alone, warily regarding the pestilent egg.

* Thunk, thunk, thunk *

I wheeled around. SK was right in the centre of the picnic area, digging a hole with the heel of his boot, quite oblivious to the curious stares of other safari goers. SK was part of my safari party. I did not want to be considered mad by association.

“What are you doing?” I called out in horror, “The toilet is the other way”.

“Digging a hole. I’m going to bury that egg,” he shot back.

“In the middle of the picnic ground?” I hissed.

“Then what do you suggest we do with it?”

“I don’t know. It’s your egg. Of all the eggs, who asked you to pick that one?”

Clearly, this egg was sowing some seeds of serious discord. We gingerly tossed the egg back into an empty lunch carton and placed it on the front seat of our safari Land Cruiser. Rotten eggs always ride shotgun.

Emmanuel, our driver/guide, was normally very cheerful and chatty. But within five minutes of having sat in the vehicle, he was strangely mum and perturbed.

He stopped the vehicle abruptly. “Spotted something?” we asked looking out at nothing. Emmanuel grunted. Then he deftly opened the lunch box, picked up the offensive egg and flung it into the depths of tall green elephant grass. “The smell was terrible,” he announced, his good mood now restored. “Ay, Pumba!” he chuckled, pointing at an unfortunate warthog that was fleeing the now egg-infested area.

“Another Ngorongoro Crater is going to form there. Only we will know what really caused it,” said SK, his good humour returning as well.

As we drove away, I spotted a group of vultures swooping into the area. No doubt a decomposing chicken egg would be a rare treat.

“The rotten egg date, as is the case with a lot of rotten egg dates, is easy to remember. December 28th was the only day that we did not spot a single lion.

Basically Blah.”


  1. This post reminded me of the chemistry lab. The hydrogen sulphide gas which is hugely reminiscent of the rotten eggs.

  2. @SEPO: Ugh! Yes! Not very pleasant memories those ;)

  3. Jambo Flower!

    Famous YOkinawa saying there is -

    disappointed is the damsel who picks
    the crummy one hoping
    to find a gem

    I think it is true!

    Thank you.

    P.S. Show karibu please?

  4. Flowery damsel picked a crummy one,
    More stale than KO’s rock-hard bun.
    Little did she know,
    How he would grow
    To become the shining star of Naked Gun.

    P.S. Ay, pumba! Uh-heh-uh-heh. Asante sana!

  5. Please do not compare rock-hard buns to rotten eggs, Ms. Blah.

    ~~~The buns are "hurted"~~~

  6. Blah - Don't you mock me buns!:p

  7. Just to be clear, you are referring to eggs, right?

  8. @Smriti: I'm always referring to eggs, 'my dear' :)


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