---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Ice King” Down in the Dirt (v141) (the January 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

King of the Jungle

Jonathan Pickering

    When new acquaintances ask about the lion’s head above my fireplace, I lie. Many of the facts are the same: I did go on safari by winning an essay contest hosted by my once favorite magazine with my piece “Soul of the Season.” I did travel to East Africa. And I did kill the lion. The rest I make up; lots of great white hunter stuff; the kind of thing people want to hear. This is the real story.
    It took three flights and 26 hours to go from Salem, New Hampshire to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. To cap off the journey, a driver took me two and a half hours from the coastal urban chaos of the city, out past the expansive shanty town, to the rural high plains pinned with thatch hut villages among the marvelously varied countryside somewhere deep in Morogoro Province. Left alone to crunch down a dimly lit gravel path that was lined with waves of elephant grass, I knew my adventure had begun.
    Night was just scaring away twilight at Ujasiri Ranch as I was let me through a set of large, iron gates. The guard’s rifles and militant green uniforms: black boots, berets, black leather belts and chest straps should have shocked me, but I was too tired to care. Once my identity was confirmed a bag boy swooped in from the shadows and ran my things off to my room as the guards escorted me to a bonfire. A concierge greeted me, his face flickering in the fire light. I focused on his half-moon smile as he explained the details of my schedule, the basics of the ranch, and other amenities: gym, pool, stables.
    When this was over I slunk in with the hunters and their families, taking a seat on a worn hunk of rock to watch the staff showcase some traditional Gogo music. A conductor with a tribal stick and a dark, horse hair wand swatted the air with his tools, directing the dancers encircling him as they performed a simple jig: stamps, claps, and a series of upbeat chants set to the beat of hand drums and rustic lyres.
    When the Gogo music was finished the staff served us Ugali and Nyama Choma: a thick slab of porridge that we were instructed to roll into little balls served over kale and beans in a sweet tomato sauce paired with a semi-spicy grilled chicken and banana skewer.
    After my meal, the loud chatter from our happy group began to bother me. My eyelids fluttered. I shuffled to my room and was soon down to my boxers, enveloped in cotton sheets, haloed by a mosquito net. The last thing I did that night was wander my eyes along the intricate pattern of falling leaves carved in the faux ceramic arabesque that covered one of the walls of my suite. I can’t remember ever sleeping so well.
    In the morning our group met Will, the head of the ranch. Will, a burly, older gentleman with an air of divinity about him who dressed in olive drab fatigues and spoke with an English accent, led a safety seminar before we hit the trails for the day. The one mantra that was bored into our skulls was an easy one to remember: never leave your guides.
     I have to admit, I bought into it. From my pith helmet down to my above-the-knee khaki shorts and canvas gaiters that protected my ankles from whip scorpions and baboon spiders, I looked, and must have felt, like every other middle-aged joker who was still holding onto their childish adventure-dream of stalking and conquering one of the world’s most seemingly ferocious beasts.
    My skin prickled loading up the jeep after shaking hands with my two guides, Omary and Noel, a pair of lean yet muscular young men. Omary was easily distinguished by a short scar that ran from just above his right eye to just below it in an almost perfectly straight line. Noel could be picked out in a crowd due to his comically oversized ears. While the pair went through a final equipment check, I tried to impress them with handfuls of stunted comments based on the research I’d done concerning the region. Omary and Noel were all smiles and pretended to pay attention, well aware of the fantasy they were a part of and how they were supposed to fulfill it.
    Now, all of this wasn’t new to me. I was an avid hunter for most of my life. Next to my lion’s head are all the bucks and mallards I’ve accrued throughout the years from all over New England – each as prized a trophy as they are a memory. This trip was different though. Over four thousand miles from home, in a place I’d never imagined I’d visit; the sweltering heat coming off the Serengeti, the smell of white Thumbai stamens stuck in my mustache, the sound of pipits rustling off baobab trees as our bygone military jeep bungled along the bumpy spider web of trails that led deep into the unknown. It was fierce. It was raw. It was primal. I loved it.
    Sadly, the first day was all foreplay and no sex. We’d rumble along as if at random, stop for Omary and Noel to examine some detail of the scenery, perhaps march a few thousand yards to follow a track I could never see, at which point we’d hump it back to the jeep and continue on our way.
    The day ended around three, well before the danger that darkness brings to the highlands. The thrill of the hunt had faded slightly after a day without so much as spotting a concrete sign of our prey. Omary and Noel were optimistic though and convinced me they found evidence that would give us better chances the next day.
    The three of us hit the trail at dawn the following morning. Things got off to a slow start again, and my backside began to get irritated from the rocky roads. To try and remedy this, I lay down in the back of the jeep and ended up falling asleep.
    I was thrown awake when we came to a sudden stop. Omary and Noel were all apologies as they helped my boots meet the dusty earth.
    “Why did we stop?” I asked.
    “We think they are nearby,” said Omary. Pointing, he added, “Look.”
    I followed Omary’s finger and saw a big pile of droppings in the road, flies swarming. I yanked the rifle out from the back of the jeep. The hunt was on.
    Two hours later, the hunt was off. I tried my best to keep up with Omary and Noel as they ambled like gazelles across the alternately bush or grass filled plains, Noel hacking away some thicket when it got in the way. As the brush we traversed thickened, my guides had to continually stop their progress and wait for me to slug up from behind.
    As morning gave way to noon, the sun menaced my sweat glands to spit every ounce of fluid from my body. Noticing I was dehydrated, tired, and hungry, Omary and Noel stopped our pursuit in a shaded grove. Between sucks from my water skin, I dove into a bag of Doritos and a tuna sandwich while Omary and Noel studied the golden flatlands.
    As I was finishing my lunch, Omary spotted something in the distance and pointed. Noel shot up and whacked Omary on the shoulder to action.
    “Please, wait here,” Noel commanded before they sprinted out of the grove.
    The last of the Doritos crunching in my head, I carefully stood up and questioned the thicket they vanished into.
    “Omary? Noel?”
    Nothing. Only the intense hum of the insect cacophony that was always present.
    I hollered at the brush: “Omary!? Noel!?” expecting them to suddenly pop from the thicket with a laugh. All that returned was more quiet; just a whimper from a peaceful hush of wind against the insect chorus.
    Remembering the mantra Will had explained back at Ujasiri: never leave your guides, I made a decision and bungled headlong into the brush.
    The tall grass only lasted a moment, and removing a briar thorn off my safari jacket, I emerged on an open plain dotted with shrubs and saw my guides under an umbrella tree.
    Trying not to cramp up, I began to jog over. As the heat waves off the plains settled and the scene came into detail, I saw that Omary and Noel weren’t alone. Omary was pulling another man from the bottom branch of the tree. With a big, final tug, Omary yanked the man to the ground. The earth coughed up a puff of dust. The man was pulled to his feet by Noel who then shoved him up against the tree. Omary clawed a hacksaw from his hands and tossed it aside.
    Moving closer I could see the man was just out of his teens. He had a frizz of wild, black hair, a gaunt face, and wore dirty, cut up jeans that were several sizes too big, a ratty tee-shirt, and tire scraps tied with red and white cord for shoes.
    As I came within earshot I could hear Omary and Noel scolding the young man in Swahili. Any time he would look up Omary or Noel would give him a smack on the cheek that kept his eyes on the ground. I watched from a safe distance, unsure what to do.
    After a few seconds the young man tried to burst past my guides, throwing his hands in their face as he pushed off the umbrella tree. As quick as a vulture being tossed a scrap of carrion Noel had the man in a headlock and forced him over a nearby stump. The young man began to cry out. I stepped back, frightened by the shouts.
    Omary pinned him down with his knee, and with one of his free hands, covered the young man’s mouth. With his other hand, Omary stretched out the young man’s arm. Tentatively, I started to signal my guides. Noel removed his machete from its hanger on his cargo shorts. Fear danced through my body. I coughed past it and yelled out a warning.
    Looking over at me with wide eyes, Omary lost control of the young man’s arm. In the same moment Noel raised and dropped the machete. The young man’s arm flailed and his hand found the blade. The metal dug deep into his paw between the middle and fore fingers, splicing his flesh past the wrist. Noel yanked the machete free. The young man’s arm splayed apart in either direction like a torn piece of paper. Omary jumped off the young man’s back allowing him to riot and wave his injured arm – an animal sprung from its trap. A slap of blood thwacked against the shimmering, yellow short grass as pained shrieks bleated from the victim. Noel stepped back to avoid the blood but was struck across the chest and face regardless. I went to one knee and began to vomit up my lunch with a few big heaves.
    Blowing wisps of sick off my mustache Omary and Noel ran to my side as quick as spirits. They started to haul me back toward the jeep like their drunken friend. The screams of the young man carried on the hot breeze as Omary and Noel yammered in Swahili. I didn’t try to catch a hint of what they could have been saying. Instead, I stared at the bloody machete swinging from the hanger on Noel’s shorts.
    That night a rainstorm dowsed Ujasiri Ranch. Holed up in my suite, I sucked down my mini-fridge’s supply of Ndovu beer and watched the downpour in the scarce light outside my suite’s backdoor; the gruesome event running over and over in my head like a looping film reel: the screams, the blood, the deliberate nature of it all. Toward morning I managed to sleep for a few hours.
    A banging woke me up what seemed like moments after I closed my eyes. Hung over, I trudged to the front door and turned the knob to reveal Will standing broad-shouldered, puffing out his chest. He had a plate of eggs, bacon, and cup of mint tea.
    “Hello Mr. McElerey, I hope you slept well,” Will said in a tumble of words and big strides as he entered my room, “have I got good news for you this morning.”
    “Oh?” was all I was able to force out as I sat down on the bed.
    Will placed the tray of food on my lap. Putting his hands together like a beggar he said, “Certainly. Such a rare thing, but trackers were out this morning and found some beautiful specimens just a few miles outside of camp. And Mr. McElerey...”
    His words hung in the air for a few seconds before I realized he was waiting for me to answer. I looked up.
    “They’re beautiful. Real trophies Mr. McElerey.”
    I didn’t respond, and instead, went for the food.
    “Well, I see you are hungry. But get ready, get cleaned up, and meet me outside in an hour,” Will said with a smile and a clap of his hands that caused my head to pulse.
    He used his big strides to move to the door, open it, and begin through. After a beat, Will turned and looked back at me.
    “Real trophies Mr. McElerey. Real trophies.”
    An hour later Will and I were speeding down one of the many trails that led away from Ujasiri. This time we traveled inside the comfort of an air conditioned SUV.
    As we rattled along I began nodding in and out. Will worked to keep my eyes open by telling me animated tales about his greatest hunting trips, like the time he tracked and killed half a herd of water buffalo in Uganda to feed a starving village, or the time he hunted down a twenty foot rock python just north of Port Elizabeth that had tried to constrict a boy in his sleep.
    After a lull between tales, Will’s tone grew more serious.
    “About yesterday Mr. McElerey.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I know that, well, what your guides did, you have to understand Mr. McElerey that...”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Oh, right Mr. McElerey. I just thought you might want me to explain what you saw. See, this is their land too, not just mine, and they have a right to protect it. It’s not the states out here you have to understand,” he said, finishing with a chuckle.
    “I don’t want to talk about it Will.”
    “Right, of course you don’t, I apologize.” And then, a beat later, “We’ll be there shortly.”
    But I couldn’t let it rest.
    “Why did they do it?” I asked.
    “The man was a poacher.”
    “What was he poaching?”
    “He was actually just a spotter. He cuts down the branches in the area where the animals are.”
    “And they just cut his hands off if they feel like it?”
    “Like I said, it’s their land. If someone came into your home and tried to take your things what would you do? This land, the animals, it’s their livelihood. And not just theirs, but their villages.”
    Will continued:
    “They do it to send a message Mr. McElerey. When that man returns to his village, the other poachers know he has been caught and not to poach on Ujasiri. Really, he got off lucky. Sometimes the punishment can be much worse.”
    “And you approve of it?”
    “It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove. It’s the way it’s done.”
    I was lost for words. All the questions I had no longer seemed to matter.
    “I don’t expect you to understand Mr. McElerey.”
    We rode in silence for the next half hour. The monotony of the drive was only broken when Will pointed out a dazzle of zebras galloping through a patch of sodden, muddy grassland.
    Eventually, Will pulled the SUV around a tight bend and was stopped by a dozen or so guides standing in the road. I followed him out as he greeted the trackers in Swahili.
    For the next twenty, Will and his small army of trackers led me at a calm pace through some even plains. We came upon a sunny clearing where a pride of lions was lazing on top of some flat rocks under a gathering of knotty trees. A mangled cow carcass was nearby. Will quietly motioned at a male lion set off from the rest. The lion flicked its tail as it yawned and stretched its bloody paws.
    Will and a guide set up a tripod and attached a rifle. When they were finished, Will put his eye to the scope.
    Stepping back from the gun, Will whispered something in my ear: “There you are Mr. McElerey.”
    He patted me on the back as I peered through the scope. The rifle was aimed center mass – a kill shot.
    Breathing heavily I hesitated and watched the lion preen and slap its tail. I was astounded by the creature’s size. Viewing it in such detail I could see the beauty of its fur, the thickness of its paws, the little, black speck in the middle of its large, green eyes. I started to sweat. My stomach churned and my head began to pound.
    “There you are,” whispered Will – he was right in my ear, “take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and squeeze.”
    Following Will’s instructions, I took in a deep suck of hot air and let it out peacefully, thinking about how far I’d come for this moment, both as a traveler and as a hunter. I swallowed hard and squeezed the trigger.
    The shot rang out over the plains. Birds blew off their trees. The lions scattered.
    “You got him!” Will said with a jump and a laugh. The guides, all smiles, came over and shook my hand.
    As I stepped back from the rifle Will grabbed my shirt at the shoulder and gave me a playful shake. My pith helmet fell off and rolled in the golden tall grass. Will was quick to snatch it from the ground, dust it off, and place it back on my head. I heard the chatter of walkie-talkies crinkle back and forth and smelled the sulfuric odor from the smoke that twisted up from the rifle.
    I waited with Will as he talked about the specifics of the lion, details I can’t recall, and tried to mime his joy. He offered me a cigar and I accepted. Smoking, we watched the guides fan out and scare off the remaining lions with whistles and chimes. They roped the dead lion’s hind legs and then unceremoniously tugged it over to where Will and I were sitting.
    It took some time, but the trackers eventually positioned the beast so its head was turned over its shoulder and it looked at rest. Will took a digital camera from one of the guide’s rucksacks.
    “Now, get behind it Mr. McElerey, here comes the best part.”
    I obliged, forcing out a grin as I knelt over my kill.
    “Say Ujasiri Ranch.”

-

    I don’t know why I didn’t tell the whole truth behind my safari when the magazine called and interviewed me. I suppose I didn’t want to remember what happened, so I simply focused on what I thought they wanted to hear: the shock of a new and exotic culture, details about the African wilds, and of course, the thrill of downing one of the world’s most deadly predators.
    When my family and friends asked many of the same questions as the reporter, I answered the same way. Both parties were enthralled. And once I began telling the story this way, I couldn’t go back.
    After a few weeks, everyone I knew had been let in on my adventure. The pictures from Ujasiri were posted and liked on Facebook, and the excitement of my courageous battle of man versus beast became just another piece of people’s memory. I even stopped thinking about the young man with the frizz of wild, black hair, his heinous shouts, Noel’s bloody machete swinging from its hanger on his cargo shorts.
    The only sign things weren’t what they seemed, was that I stopped hunting all together. Although this was easy to cover up too, because those I’d always gone on treks with assumed that since I’d moved on to big game, bucks and mallards no longer did it for me.
     Weeks passed. I thought I’d put it all behind me. Then, one day after working late, I came home and there it was: the lion’s head above my fireplace between all my other trophies - the most opulent jewel in my crown as king hunter. My wife explained that it arrived in the early evening and the delivery driver was instructed to hang it for us. My wife could think of no better place than our living room.
    And there it rests to this day. Taking it down would mean I have to tell everyone the truth behind my safari. No, it’s easier just to leave it up and keep the fantasy going.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...