19 June 2010
09 June 2010
The Man Who Tamed an Elephant with an Ice Cream
Yes, I remember the man: a short sort of fella; grey flecks in his hair; like a stick insect. He stumbled along the dusty road swinging a pair of worn-out slippers in his right hand. Straggly tufts of curly hair protruded from his armpits and a ragged ruby cardigan hung limp from his bony shoulders. And that wide eyed optimism; his gawping mouth; a grin that took up half his face; rotten crooked teeth; red stains around his lips – evidence of a serious paan eater. His feet kicked out at the dirty, dusty, litter strewn pathway. He came to a stop in front of us and saluted.
It was an unusual gesture; we weren’t officialdom; merely tourist with a desire to see some pachyderms. But there he was – no longer a grin on his face; replaced by the serious scowl of a man demanding respect. Nose aloft; chin and chest pushed out. A bead of sweat dribbled across his forehead, down a wrinkle and onto the bridge of his nose. It dangled on the edge; he strained every muscle – erect. And then it fell.
I saluted – what else could I do: it was clear the poor fella wasn’t going to move. I then stretched out my hand to shake his. This was a mistake. He put his hand against mine and I felt a gummy substance. As I pulled my hand away from his it stuck a little and it definitely needed prising apart. But I couldn’t stay annoyed for long as I was confronted by that toothy grin and a swaying of the head.
“Good to met you sir. It’s a pleasure, sir”.
A real charming fella: I couldn’t help but like him. The rest of the group were growing impatient though – they had come to see elephants and elephants were what they wanted to see! Not some scabby old Indian. And so some voices started to pipe up.
“Hey look here old chap!” “This is outrageous!” “I’ve paid good money for this and what do we get, nothing!” “Standing in the midday sun – it’s just not on!” “They wouldn’t treat us like this back home!” “I want to see the elephants!”
The English like nothing better than to complain and they will find any opportunity to do so. If there were a world cup of complainers, England would win hands down every year.
Eventually the Indian decided to move and shuffled over towards the trees. Our guide, a burly man with a twirly moustache, turned to face us; a proud beaming smile planted across his face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Prepare to be amazed. Set your eye glasses at the ready. Turn your brains on. Open your mouths and get ready to gawk in absolute amazement. Now is your turn to witness one of the greatest creatures on planet earth: swaying ears, muscular trunk, powerful tree-trunk like legs – THE ELEPHANT!”
And from the bushes came walking out the small, skinny Indian man. He stood there looking a little perplexed.
“The elephunt has gone.”
“What’s that?”
“The elephunt has gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I dunno. It’s gone.”
“Well you better bloody find it.”
And with that the man turned and re-entered the bush, still swinging his plimsolls to the rhythm of his walk. The rest of the group were seriously getting annoyed at this point. And I couldn’t blame them.
We stood under the basking midday sun for a good twenty-minutes and there was certainly some grumblings amongst the group.
“Shall we go?” “I can’t bear it.” “I turned down afternoon tea for this.” “Well I’m going home tomorrow and I definitely don’t want my last day spent waiting for nothing.” “Bloody third-world countries – they can’t do anything.”
But with reassuring words from the tour operator, the mass was kept placated for the time being. And then we heard it.
No. Not the low grumbling of elephant footprints: something all together different. It sounded like a song. It sounded like our Indian friend. At first, fast and quiet.
“Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky.”
And then a bit louder.
“Hey hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky.”
We saw him. Shuffling. Not walking. But dancing. Sideways. And shuffling. Is that dancing? We were all a little confused. His arms were swinging around like an orang-utan. But in time to the song that he was spitting out. He headed towards us.
“HEY HEY HEY chucky, chucky, chucky. HEY HEY chucky, chucky, chucky.”
His arms swayed even more; knees bending; legs kicking out and then scrapping across the floor. A whisper.
“Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Chucky, chucky, chucky.”
And then we saw it: the glorious hulking beast. Its ears were flapping wildly, trunk aloft. It was pretty close and didn’t seem too happy. It was clear the song and dance weren’t to the elephant’s pleasing. The Indian continued to whisper his song, head swaying, dancing back and forth across the path of the animal, who continued to head straight for us.
“They’re crazy!”
“What is this?”
“We’re going to die!” screamed an old woman who lifted her umbrella as a form of protection.
The elephant was within metres of our group, when suddenly the Indian stopped singing; stopped dancing; began grinning and pulled from beneath his dhoti an ice cream: a small wafer cone; a chocolate flake inserted precariously in the Mr Whippy ice cream.
The elephant stopped; ears stopped flapping; trunk was at rest; eyes fixated on the sweet treat. The Indian glanced over towards us.
“I think in Englend you name this the ninety-nine ice cream, ladies and sirs.”
He took a bow, held the ice cream aloft and with one swift movement the elephant’s trunk had picked the flake out, twirled it in the air and caught it in its mouth. A loud round of applause rang out from amongst the expectant tourists – I was so amazed that I stood with my mouth wide-open, hands apart, not clapping, but waiting.
The Indian started his little song again; ever so quietly to begin with; he started to sway, moving around in front of the elephant. He pirouetted; fell to his knees and held the ice cream in front of the elephant. The trunk once again stretched out, this time grabbing the whole cone, which it brought to its mouth. A thick red tongue appeared and delicately licked the top of the cream. I was certain the elephant was smiling.
The Indian turned to us for the final time and once again lifted his arm in salute. This time I was not alone in returning the gesture as all of us planted our fingers into our temples. That wide eyed smile. Damn, it’s making me grin just to think back; him standing there in front of us, grinning like a naughty school kid. He lowered his arm, walked over to our tour guide, took some coins for his efforts and sauntered back down the path from where he had come, slippers swinging by his side.
It was an unusual gesture; we weren’t officialdom; merely tourist with a desire to see some pachyderms. But there he was – no longer a grin on his face; replaced by the serious scowl of a man demanding respect. Nose aloft; chin and chest pushed out. A bead of sweat dribbled across his forehead, down a wrinkle and onto the bridge of his nose. It dangled on the edge; he strained every muscle – erect. And then it fell.
I saluted – what else could I do: it was clear the poor fella wasn’t going to move. I then stretched out my hand to shake his. This was a mistake. He put his hand against mine and I felt a gummy substance. As I pulled my hand away from his it stuck a little and it definitely needed prising apart. But I couldn’t stay annoyed for long as I was confronted by that toothy grin and a swaying of the head.
“Good to met you sir. It’s a pleasure, sir”.
A real charming fella: I couldn’t help but like him. The rest of the group were growing impatient though – they had come to see elephants and elephants were what they wanted to see! Not some scabby old Indian. And so some voices started to pipe up.
“Hey look here old chap!” “This is outrageous!” “I’ve paid good money for this and what do we get, nothing!” “Standing in the midday sun – it’s just not on!” “They wouldn’t treat us like this back home!” “I want to see the elephants!”
The English like nothing better than to complain and they will find any opportunity to do so. If there were a world cup of complainers, England would win hands down every year.
Eventually the Indian decided to move and shuffled over towards the trees. Our guide, a burly man with a twirly moustache, turned to face us; a proud beaming smile planted across his face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Prepare to be amazed. Set your eye glasses at the ready. Turn your brains on. Open your mouths and get ready to gawk in absolute amazement. Now is your turn to witness one of the greatest creatures on planet earth: swaying ears, muscular trunk, powerful tree-trunk like legs – THE ELEPHANT!”
And from the bushes came walking out the small, skinny Indian man. He stood there looking a little perplexed.
“The elephunt has gone.”
“What’s that?”
“The elephunt has gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I dunno. It’s gone.”
“Well you better bloody find it.”
And with that the man turned and re-entered the bush, still swinging his plimsolls to the rhythm of his walk. The rest of the group were seriously getting annoyed at this point. And I couldn’t blame them.
We stood under the basking midday sun for a good twenty-minutes and there was certainly some grumblings amongst the group.
“Shall we go?” “I can’t bear it.” “I turned down afternoon tea for this.” “Well I’m going home tomorrow and I definitely don’t want my last day spent waiting for nothing.” “Bloody third-world countries – they can’t do anything.”
But with reassuring words from the tour operator, the mass was kept placated for the time being. And then we heard it.
No. Not the low grumbling of elephant footprints: something all together different. It sounded like a song. It sounded like our Indian friend. At first, fast and quiet.
“Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky.”
And then a bit louder.
“Hey hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey hey chucky, chucky, chucky.”
We saw him. Shuffling. Not walking. But dancing. Sideways. And shuffling. Is that dancing? We were all a little confused. His arms were swinging around like an orang-utan. But in time to the song that he was spitting out. He headed towards us.
“HEY HEY HEY chucky, chucky, chucky. HEY HEY chucky, chucky, chucky.”
His arms swayed even more; knees bending; legs kicking out and then scrapping across the floor. A whisper.
“Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Hey chucky, chucky, chucky. Chucky, chucky, chucky.”
And then we saw it: the glorious hulking beast. Its ears were flapping wildly, trunk aloft. It was pretty close and didn’t seem too happy. It was clear the song and dance weren’t to the elephant’s pleasing. The Indian continued to whisper his song, head swaying, dancing back and forth across the path of the animal, who continued to head straight for us.
“They’re crazy!”
“What is this?”
“We’re going to die!” screamed an old woman who lifted her umbrella as a form of protection.
The elephant was within metres of our group, when suddenly the Indian stopped singing; stopped dancing; began grinning and pulled from beneath his dhoti an ice cream: a small wafer cone; a chocolate flake inserted precariously in the Mr Whippy ice cream.
The elephant stopped; ears stopped flapping; trunk was at rest; eyes fixated on the sweet treat. The Indian glanced over towards us.
“I think in Englend you name this the ninety-nine ice cream, ladies and sirs.”
He took a bow, held the ice cream aloft and with one swift movement the elephant’s trunk had picked the flake out, twirled it in the air and caught it in its mouth. A loud round of applause rang out from amongst the expectant tourists – I was so amazed that I stood with my mouth wide-open, hands apart, not clapping, but waiting.
The Indian started his little song again; ever so quietly to begin with; he started to sway, moving around in front of the elephant. He pirouetted; fell to his knees and held the ice cream in front of the elephant. The trunk once again stretched out, this time grabbing the whole cone, which it brought to its mouth. A thick red tongue appeared and delicately licked the top of the cream. I was certain the elephant was smiling.
The Indian turned to us for the final time and once again lifted his arm in salute. This time I was not alone in returning the gesture as all of us planted our fingers into our temples. That wide eyed smile. Damn, it’s making me grin just to think back; him standing there in front of us, grinning like a naughty school kid. He lowered his arm, walked over to our tour guide, took some coins for his efforts and sauntered back down the path from where he had come, slippers swinging by his side.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)