A Post For My Favourite Uncle: Of Banana Peels & Dog Poop

My Uncle A passed away recently. It wasn’t unexpected for we saw him deteriorating slowly over months – a losing battle with cancer that he’d fought valiantly well for a long time. But that doesn't make the loss any easier. With his demise, I felt the loss of a kindred spirit though I often joked that he had to be my favourite uncle only because he was my only uncle. Of everything else, the things we shared most in common was a penchant for good humour, a weakness for practical jokes and a fondness for beer.  

And so it was that several years ago, we decided to prank my Cousin U and his wife AP when we went to visit them at their house. Amongst Uncle A’s many talents was the ability to mould squished, blackened banana peels into the most remarkable likeness of dog turds. Before our visit, we sat at home, laboriously crafting these fruity ‘turds’ under his expert guidance. Once done, we left them to air dry and blacken nicely. 

AP, ever the hospitable hostess, fussed over us at their place. It was the first time she was meeting this uncle and she was determined to ensure everything went well. There was excellent food and drink and general bonhomie. Brandy, their delightful Golden Retriever, bounded excitedly around us. 

As the afternoon wore on, Uncle A discreetly placed the ‘turds’ on the floor, very close to where Brandy sat with his tail wagging furiously. He then sneakily veered the conversation towards Indian cities and pollution. Cousin U and AP agreed that our cities were dirty and pitiable. 

“Bangalore really stinks, doesn’t it?” said Uncle A. “In fact, I can smell something shitty right now.” 

I agreed and shot a disgusted look out the open windows even as I battled an awful feeling of laughter bubbling up inside me. 

Uncle A continued sniffing the air theatrically, a revolted expression on his face. Then he looked directly at the ‘turds’ and exclaimed, “Oh! Your dog has pooped here!”

Cousin U and AP were horrified. Brandy looked even more thrilled that everyone’s attention seemed to be directed at him and became more boisterous. Cousin U tried to reprimand him for his indiscipline, but Brandy just looked pleased as punch, showing no remorse for the crime he’d been accused of. 

AP looked stricken and prepared to clear up the mess, apologising profusely and insisting that this was very uncharacteristic of Brandy. “No, no, don’t worry about it,” said Uncle A reassuringly. As a harried AP approached to clean up the mess, he added “We really love dogs, don’t worry”. And then, without any further ado, he leaned over and picked up the ‘turds’ with his bare hands and proffered them to her. AP visibly blanched in sheer horror.

At this point, Cousin U had caught on and began to laugh, as did everyone else in the room. 

Uncle A, wherever you are now, I’d like to say “Rest in peace” but I know you’d find that terribly boring. Instead, I wish you well and hope you are surrounded by plenty of banana peels, dogs, and gullible people with intact funny bones. I’ll catch up to you when my time comes. It’ll be easy I think – I’ll just follow the trail of laughter and sheepish souls slapping their foreheads in realisation. Keep our cold beers ready like you always did, okay?

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.)
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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.
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“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.

Regards,
Basically Blah.”

Yawning Tortoise Shelldom Bites

Anyone who knows me well would know that nothing rarely excites me more than the prospect of spending time with some little four-legged creatures.

So on a day-trip to Prison Island, which is about an hour by boat (if you can call that pile of wood a boat) from Stone Town, I looked forward to visiting the tortoise sanctuary. A boat named “Desire” deposited us on Prison Island.

The beach was lovely – cool cobalt-blue water that gently lapped up to fine creamy sand. However, it was close to noon and the blazing sun was soon burning me to a crisp.

Prison Island is home to the endangered Aldabra Giant Tortoise. I entered the tortoise sanctuary and was immediately glad for the cool shade the numerous trees afforded me. I soon forgot about the heat. I was so taken in with the sheer number of these gentle and sociable creatures.

There were tortoises everywhere – grey lumps that moved lethargically sometimes but remained stationary for the most part. The smaller babies were quickly grabbed for pictures.

“Do not sit on the tortoise,” a sign announced at the entrance. I could see how people could sit on these great big mounds – either accidentally, mistaking them for a rock, or intentionally because of the novelty.

I sauntered around, curiously watching the tortoises. Some were eating, some were sleeping, some were contemplating moving and a few were copulating (it is breeding season). Their ages were painted on their shells. The old lady of the house is a 189 years old – which is only middle age for these fascinating shelled beings.

I sat down on a stone bench to rest. I suddenly noticed a 28-year-old tortoise taking a keen interest in me from about six or seven feet away. Did I look like spinach? Did he fancy Chanel's Chance? With a curiously intent expression in his eyes, he moved at an astonishingly rapid pace and made a beeline for me. He plodded up and sniffed my foot before looking up at me.

We had a moment. A long moment. I was entranced. I patted his head, stroked his neck and tickled his chin. He gazed up at me adoringly and I was mesmerized.

And then he yawned, his enjoyment evident on his amused crinkled face.

After a good five minutes or so,as more people gathered around, he slowly moved away, possibly to compare notes with another comrade. The two of them soon seemed engrossed in deep contemplation with their heads banded together.

As I left, I silently thanked that tortoise for according me such a remarkable moment. True, it was a simple moment. Nondescript even. With a grey and wrinkled tortoise.

Life gives you many special moments. But how many of those come ensconced in a tortoise shell?