I reckon that perhaps I should start near the beginning.

It was in the early 1980's and I found out about a jungle hunt in a remote area of Bolivia. In point of fact, I had never ever even been in a jungle at that point and I knew that I must hare it off to South America and hunt the jungles for incredibly exotic beasts like tapir, agouti pacas, white lipped javelina, and of course and always - el tigre - the jaguar.

After some incredibly bad advice from the booking agent, my beautiful girl friend and I showed up right in the middle of the rainy season. The first thing that the guide asked me was, 'Why do you come now?'

Every day it started to rain for about four hours or so. Heavy rain. Everything was damp, mildew. Bugs were horrible, of course. Chickens had no feathers on their necks or heads from parasites. An emaciated old horse with a huge draining sore leaned against our old shack every day. Just standing .. sort of out of the rain.

We slept in hammocks with mosquito netting as it would not have been a good idea to sleep on a bed with the vermin. Creepy crawlies, for sure.

In those conditions the hunting was horrible but we did the best that we could. The roads were, as you might imagine were almost impassible.

I shot a snake one night that the Bolivians thought was so scary that they would not approach it after my 30-06 (borrowed as Customs kept my guns until after I flew back to Canada) took off its head or close enough to end his career.

And then one day, in the midst of all of this, Lady Margaret came up to me and said, ' Richard, the men are calling you The Jungle Cat!

I was absolutely amazed. The young fellow from the Great White North - so far away from his home ..and the tigreros were calling me The Jungle Cat.

I may have been soggy, flea bitten, and certainly getting grimier and rougher looking by the day .. but what a compliment!

A humble man by nature .. forgive me, but I suppose that I just might have strutted a bit for few days after that.

And then I got to thinking..

Back in those days, there was a television show called Lobo about a Southern sheriff. He had a bungling deputy called Perkins. An overweight dude, balding, little piggy eyes, who thought all the women loved him (they decidedly did not) and whenever he was assigned a new case, the man would crouch and mutter, ' Time for the jungle cat to spring into action!'

I walked up to Jose, the guide and asked the gentleman if back in the city, back in Sucre, did they ever get a television show from the U.S.A called 'Lobo?'

'Si.'

A great nickname if one does not get too nosey about its origins.

Many years later my long suffering wife along with my lovely niece and I spent a month in Africa hunting and visiting old friends.

We did a guinea fowl shoot in South Africa (rather memorable when one of the South African hunters accidentally shot himself in his thigh with his pistol shortly after leaving the place for his home in Durban or some such place.)

After landing in Windhoek I rented a bakkie and off we went. A few days later I contacted my great friend Helgaard to tell him that we would be arriving at the big concession that he was in charge of. Around four in the afternoon.

My amigo told me that the front gate was locked but that he would unlock it so we would merely have to open the gate and proceed on to the headquarters.

We arrived safely (everyone drives in the wrong lane in that wonderful country) at about the same time as a white truck arrived. And who should step out but my great buddy. Helgaard is about 6 feet all or so, a lean 160 pounds, heavily tanned wearing his normal fedora and dark sunglasses.

Fantastic! Jumped out of the Toyota 4x4 and ran up to him. He held out his hand for me to shake. No bloody way! This was my friend Helgaard! Twice we have gone into the long grass after wounded leopards! And won!

I gave him a big hug! My lady, who adores Helgaard and his wife and all of the family came up to also hug our friend.

By then I realized something was not quite right and said to Margaret - 'I do not think that is Helgaard?'

It was a young PH working on the same concession.

From then on, in Northern Namibia, some folks referred to me as 'Lover Boy'.

Not bad if there are no questions asked.

Times are always changing. That can be either good or bad.

Last October I was sitting on the banks of the Kafue River in Zambia. With my 10x Leica binoculars I was doing my best to locate a big crocodile for my hunting partner, Old Sir Phill.

Eventually a big troop of yellow baboons appeared on the other side of river so soon I was watching them as they fed, and the little ones played and generally all did their normal routine.

And then one of the dog baboons mated with a female.

Some time later I met up with one or two of the hunting party and mentioned what I had just observed.

'Pervert!'

Well Scruffy, you have been reduced to a "pervert"

It will take a while for that one to wear off.

Yep. So much for 'Scruffy'! Be careful what you post!

Great story telling and bit is funny to see the digression of nicknames.

Thanks Scruffy! I needed a good laugh today!!

Great story!!

Funny.

Great writing.

You should write a book. Seriously.

quote:

Originally posted by Nakihunter:
Great writing.

You should write a book. Seriously.

He's written a handful. Great reading.

Yep, Scruffy has written a fair sized
stack of funny books.

George