I had spotted the guy from across Hampstead Heath, that idyllic little park in London that conjures up scenes of all those great (if not tortured) British romances. I believe I had read on a signpost that the Heath had once been some nobleperson's hunting grounds. From the number of people sunning themselves on the lawns this day, it was clear it still is...
From a distance he had the look about him I was looking for. He appeared to be one of these Southern African bush dudes with tanned leathery skin, hair bleached from time outside (where they naturally always were- life in Africa is lived in full and constant view of the sun) and a face full of thick scruff from not bothering with the ritual of shaving for the general lack of a mirror. They usually had muscles on their muscles developed from a life of toiling in the manual labor that must be exerted in creating a home in harmony with (in spite of) the elements of the bush. A worthy trophy for a girl who was used to bush meat.
Around his neck he had an object that appeared to compliment what currently encircled mine- a bone shard necklace, made from the remains of a zebra or a giraffe, dangling from a think black rope likely made of some sort of animal skin. My wrist bore a bracelet of hair from an elephant’s tail. On my ankle was a band of ostrich eggshell beads held together by the skin of some other animal. I have to admit I thought I was giving off the proper vibe.
In my head it couldn’t have been more obvious than if I’d stood before him with Sunday’s edition of the want ads printed upon my (more than adequate) forehead: “Adventurous, rather rough around the edges and well traveled (especially outside of resorts and tourist traps) bush chick seeks male with same. I can’t cook but you can (over a campfire you made yourself out of the wood that you chopped down to prepare the fish you just caught and cleaned and steamed in the wild banana leaves you just found like your grandmother taught you how to do), but I’ll be more than willing to join you for adventures and push the Landrover out of the mud and help you fix flat tires during the rainy season. And I have my own Leatherman. Call me on your sat phone, I have signal one day per week if it’s not raining!” Seems reasonable enough, right?
Perhaps I should have known from the Abercrombie perfection in the “messiness” of his straw hat, or the subtle lack of frayed edges on his “vintage” plaid shirt. I definitely should have noticed the put on lameness of the way he limped around on his ace bandaged foot (that had clearly not been broken to the point where the bone stuck out and his friend had to drive him 150k down an unpaved bush road in the dark during elephant mating season after stitching the majority of the wound closed using only a camel thorn and some fishing line he just happened to find under the seat.)
It was confirmed for me when I complimented him on his necklace by purring “I like that bone around your neck,” to which he responded… “Oh don’t worry, I think it’s plastic.”
I started and instinctively shook my head in disbelief. What was this? How could he not know I had been expecting him to accept the compliment with a shrug and a story about how he had killed and cleaned the animal whose bone this once was and carved his necklace and one for his little brother out of the bones?
Plastic? Seriously?
This guy was an animal I no longer recognized, or at least it wasn't what I was hunting. I could only guess that this was clearly a decoy of some sort, a shimmery mirage in the desert. I forgot to take into consideration that they breed them differently off the continent, and there may not be as many "big game" as there were there.
Huh.
I let a slow smile creep over my face and backed away cautiously. I guess you never know what kind of savages are out there.
;-p
