Cock a doodle do

February 23, 2009

jackys-in-india3

Are we all embarrassed to bump into fellow countrymen abroad? Or is it just the French… touch?

I run into a lot of French tourists at the pool where I go on Sundays. Here they are, oblivious to the fact that there are other people around, oblivious to the fact that this property, unlike the farm shack where they grew up bathing with roosters, is not their ancestral home and that paying for their room doesn’t entitle them to organize an underwater farting contest.

In French slang, we call them Jackys.

Here is one, complaining about the sashaying peacocks:

Ro vindiou, que j’lentend encore une fois l’ot la, et j’lui tord le cou!

Approx. translation: “Dude, if I hear this damn thing one more time I’ll break his neck”

Here is another one, parading in his blue briefs and protruding belly, trying in vain to get the disgusted waiter’s attention:

Ben vla c’est quelle tete qu’y fait le Jeannot, la, avec son turban d’mariole?

“What’s with the face, man, don’t he look funny with his clown turban?”

The women are more discreet. They sip their lemonade with a stricken face, convinced that death by bowel failure lies at every Indian street corner.

Comparing the prices of the polyester shawls they have been sold as pashminas, they wonder if the machine woven “kashmiri” carpets they’ve had shipped to the rooster farm will reach home safely.

But at 500 euros the “personal shipping insurance” the wicked Kashmiris sell, it should, Germaine, it should.

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