A weekly ode to the joys of moaning about your holiday, by Tim Roxborogh.
It took until I was 28 to learn the proper way to get inside a tube of ointment. Granted, the purchasing of ointment has not exactly been hobby of mine, but it was both a eureka moment as well as a highly embarrassing incident that led to me finally finding out.
Luang Prabang, Laos, 2010 and I'd just come off my bicycle in a collision with a young local woman on a motorbike. Miraculously she was fine and I was okay, but for a bruised tailbone and a grazed elbow. Having said my apologies (the crash was entirely my day-dreaming fault) and paid for minor repairs to her motorbike, I rode my now slightly wobbly bicycle to the nearest pharmacy.
This was not a fancy air-conditioned place, but a more humble shop on the dusty outskirts of town. The pharmacist spoke no English, though she could see I'd lost some skin on the asphalt and would need ointment and bandages. I handed over the money and decided to put the ointment and a bandage on then and there. Only problem, I didn't have a pin! How else was I going to prick the little tin foil seal that sits under the lid of every tube of ointment?
Asking whether the pharmacist had a pin (and using some over the top charades-like hand gestures to simulate a pin-prick), she cracked up laughing. Not only was I yet another silly Westerner who had come off his bike, but I was a dummy too! She grabbed the little lid of the ointment and flipped it upside down, revealing a sharp, submerged plastic point. A sharp, submerged plastic point that I'd spent my whole life thinking was for decoration. Simply bung that upside down lid on the tip of the tube and you've got flowing ointment for Africa! Or Laos. Who knew?*