Jimmy’s Golden Gonads

Tired of the same old travel blog posts?

“I was invited to the Magadonians’ most sacred tomb site.”

“I slept in the tribal chief’s hut - on the ground.” 

“I was the first white person to spot the golden two-headed frazzbot.” 

“I ate a lemur’s anus for dinner.”

Well, you’re in luck. I believe I have the antidote for all those repetitive self-aggrandizing egotists.

 OLD MAN CONFESSION

As you must be aware of by now, no personal peccadillo is too humiliating to be set forth for public scrutiny and entertainment. In that vein, and as an absolutely free offer, with no obligation on your part whatsoever to acknowledge any relationship with me, allow me to present the latest in my “crazy old man” behaviours that give even me pause as to whether I should be allowed out without supervision, much less on another continent.

As we were ascending the Chameleon Peak the other day (see previous post), Gege, who was walking behind me, suddenly said,”You probably want to get that repaired when you go home.”

“What the fuck are you babbling about now?” I thought. But in order to be polite, and because of my painfully obvious hearing deficiency, I replied,”I’m sorry. What are you talking about?”

“Your pants. They are….open.”

Ah shit! Based on past experience, I was fairly certain I knew exactly what he was talking about. Tentatively, I reached down to my rear nether regions and, sure enough, aside from a few faint threads, my hand registered nothing but underwear. See for yourself.

The guilty party

My first thought, of course was,”Jesus Christ! How long have I been wearing them looking like that?” 

For a moment, I actually contemplated telling him that’s the way we roll in Canada, but I quickly realized even a Malagasy would see through that type of subterfuge immediately. 

“Thank you,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.”Perhaps I’ll buy some new shorts here.”

Mercifully, the conversation ended there.

Obviously, I was screwed. My only real pair of “good” shorts in tatters. Ah, my friends, but, as I’ve said so many times before, This Is Africa. So this morning, Bosco, a hotel employee who lives here in Ranofira, and I headed for town and dropped into the local supernarché. And while they had absolutely none of the food I was hoping to get (and I’m talking basics here - yogurt, fruit, vegetables, chips, juice) they did have a handsome pair of shorts in my size for 15 bucks, along with a camping cot, shoes and a whole host of  other various illogical items.

Looking good!

You’re welcome.