Sniper
29th July 2006, 09:33
I pinched this from another forum. One of the funniest things I have read in a long time.
DISCLAIMER FOR THE HIPPIES: I would find no enjoyment in hunting like that. I just find it an amusing story, nothing else so keep the animal rights opinions down.
I spent roughly a week and half in Africa, namely, South Africa and Zimbabwe. First off, everywhere on the continent is beautiful--even a shit-stained slum with starving children has a majestic background and an "oh shit they'll kill me for my watch" quaintness about it.
The purpose of my journey was to spend a few days in South Africa, catch up on my apartheid jokes, and then traverse to Zimbabwe to hunt wild beasts and use their skins as conversation pieces in my apartment.
For the most part, Johannesburg is like an amalgam of all the best cities of the world rolled up into one. It's also fucking huge--after a day of driving around, you're pretty sure it's the nexus of the universe. But most importantly, unless you're in some type of armored vehicle with gun ports, don't get out of your car in downtown Johannesburg. The place is like Blade Runner--except it's overrun with Algerians, and thus everyone is saying "donne-moi t'argent."
For the most part, South Africa rocks--the booze is plentiful and inexpensive, and the people are friendly. You do have to tip everyone though, regardless of how little they've done for you. I'm not sure what the penalty is if you elect not too, but I'm pretty sure you are killed. Much to my disappointment, nothing really insane happened in South Africa. All though a little Algerian guy followed me around all day trying to sell some god awful picture of a lion-- I swear to christ, the little fucker was everywhere. We'd drive 20 miles to a cafe, and when leaving, he'd jump out from a bush and hold up the picture dramatically. At first I found it pretty funny, but when he ended up on the street outside our hotel, I decided to just buy the damn thing and forego the risk of waking up in a bathtub full of ice with both my kidneys missing.
After days of pacifism and street people in Johannesburg, I desperately wanted to shoot something, and a scenic road trip and hunting exotics awaited us in Zimbabwe. Our destination was basically cut off from the rest of the world, because we opted to exclude the "professional" safari/hunt companies, and go for some rugged African who would entertain us.
We struck gold--absolute, complete fucking gold in the form of a Nigerian guy named "Ojo" (whose name we later found out symbolizes a "difficult birth"). He liked to drink, he loved music by Men at Work, and when we first met up with him, he was wearing a T-shirt that said "Kiss me I'm Polish."
Though he was funny and gregarious, Ojo drove like a goddamn retard. His poor driving was highlighted by his habit of making direct eye contact with us whenever we asked a question. This tactic nearly wrecked the SUV about 40 times, and each time he would correct himself after veering off the road, his response would always be a quizzical "someone has moved the trees."
Now, when we first got in contact with Ojo he assured us that we didn't need to bring any firearms to Africa, he would take care of everything. Ojo's idea of "taking care of everything": upon reaching the hunting site he simply opened up a few boxes and handed out enough Ak-47's to outfit a rifle platoon. Much to the discomfort of our party, two of the rifles had blood stains on them.
What Ojo lacked in professionalism, he made up for in charisma. He proceeded to hand out the AK's to everyone in the group, and issued a brief speech of the fundamentals of firearm safety: "Shoot anything you would like to make a rug out of."
We immediately came upon a herd of zebras about 150 yards distant, and my friend was selected to take the first shot. He encountered some problems working his rifle, so Ojo quickly demonstrated the proper technique, by emptying a 30-round magazine at full-auto into a group of motionless zebras. He must have dropped 6 or 7 of them, while we stood there in utter shock. Breaking the silence, Ojo proudly yelled: "Rugs for every person!" Fucking surreal.
We quickly learned our affable tour guide would do anything for money. This provided endless entertainment. With the hunting day over, and our vehicle jam packed in animal skins, we spent the rest of the daylight hours finding ways for Ojo to win bets. As we were pretty soused on some local African liquor whose named consisted entirely of consonants, we told Ojo we'd give him $100 if he could successfully wrestle a giraffe. The dude went ape-shit! Since there was only a little bit of daylight left, he was frantic to find a giraffe before nightfall. He never did find one, and that's probably a good thing, because we'd all have felt pretty guilty if we were somewhat responsible for his death.
Upon our arrival back at camp, Ojo treated us to an unknown meat dish he described as "animals of Africa." After our meal, we were presented with more consonant-laden liquor, and that's where everything just goes blank. I distinctively remember having some of the most horrific nightmares of my life, and waking up by vomiting up massive quantities of my own blood.
The next day, I was pale as hell, and felt like I hadn't slept in days. I expressed a concern to Ojo that I might have malaria, but he seemed pretty indifferent now that he wasn't being paid. We did have to make it back to Johannesburg though, so I figured I'd talk to a doctor there if the problem still persisted. After an emotional good-bye to Ojo, we made our way back for our final nights stay in Africa, and our flight back to the states the next day.
As the plane was taking off, and our trip fading into memory, the only thing on my mind was Ojo, and the fact that I had to take a shit every 15 minutes.
DISCLAIMER FOR THE HIPPIES: I would find no enjoyment in hunting like that. I just find it an amusing story, nothing else so keep the animal rights opinions down.
I spent roughly a week and half in Africa, namely, South Africa and Zimbabwe. First off, everywhere on the continent is beautiful--even a shit-stained slum with starving children has a majestic background and an "oh shit they'll kill me for my watch" quaintness about it.
The purpose of my journey was to spend a few days in South Africa, catch up on my apartheid jokes, and then traverse to Zimbabwe to hunt wild beasts and use their skins as conversation pieces in my apartment.
For the most part, Johannesburg is like an amalgam of all the best cities of the world rolled up into one. It's also fucking huge--after a day of driving around, you're pretty sure it's the nexus of the universe. But most importantly, unless you're in some type of armored vehicle with gun ports, don't get out of your car in downtown Johannesburg. The place is like Blade Runner--except it's overrun with Algerians, and thus everyone is saying "donne-moi t'argent."
For the most part, South Africa rocks--the booze is plentiful and inexpensive, and the people are friendly. You do have to tip everyone though, regardless of how little they've done for you. I'm not sure what the penalty is if you elect not too, but I'm pretty sure you are killed. Much to my disappointment, nothing really insane happened in South Africa. All though a little Algerian guy followed me around all day trying to sell some god awful picture of a lion-- I swear to christ, the little fucker was everywhere. We'd drive 20 miles to a cafe, and when leaving, he'd jump out from a bush and hold up the picture dramatically. At first I found it pretty funny, but when he ended up on the street outside our hotel, I decided to just buy the damn thing and forego the risk of waking up in a bathtub full of ice with both my kidneys missing.
After days of pacifism and street people in Johannesburg, I desperately wanted to shoot something, and a scenic road trip and hunting exotics awaited us in Zimbabwe. Our destination was basically cut off from the rest of the world, because we opted to exclude the "professional" safari/hunt companies, and go for some rugged African who would entertain us.
We struck gold--absolute, complete fucking gold in the form of a Nigerian guy named "Ojo" (whose name we later found out symbolizes a "difficult birth"). He liked to drink, he loved music by Men at Work, and when we first met up with him, he was wearing a T-shirt that said "Kiss me I'm Polish."
Though he was funny and gregarious, Ojo drove like a goddamn retard. His poor driving was highlighted by his habit of making direct eye contact with us whenever we asked a question. This tactic nearly wrecked the SUV about 40 times, and each time he would correct himself after veering off the road, his response would always be a quizzical "someone has moved the trees."
Now, when we first got in contact with Ojo he assured us that we didn't need to bring any firearms to Africa, he would take care of everything. Ojo's idea of "taking care of everything": upon reaching the hunting site he simply opened up a few boxes and handed out enough Ak-47's to outfit a rifle platoon. Much to the discomfort of our party, two of the rifles had blood stains on them.
What Ojo lacked in professionalism, he made up for in charisma. He proceeded to hand out the AK's to everyone in the group, and issued a brief speech of the fundamentals of firearm safety: "Shoot anything you would like to make a rug out of."
We immediately came upon a herd of zebras about 150 yards distant, and my friend was selected to take the first shot. He encountered some problems working his rifle, so Ojo quickly demonstrated the proper technique, by emptying a 30-round magazine at full-auto into a group of motionless zebras. He must have dropped 6 or 7 of them, while we stood there in utter shock. Breaking the silence, Ojo proudly yelled: "Rugs for every person!" Fucking surreal.
We quickly learned our affable tour guide would do anything for money. This provided endless entertainment. With the hunting day over, and our vehicle jam packed in animal skins, we spent the rest of the daylight hours finding ways for Ojo to win bets. As we were pretty soused on some local African liquor whose named consisted entirely of consonants, we told Ojo we'd give him $100 if he could successfully wrestle a giraffe. The dude went ape-shit! Since there was only a little bit of daylight left, he was frantic to find a giraffe before nightfall. He never did find one, and that's probably a good thing, because we'd all have felt pretty guilty if we were somewhat responsible for his death.
Upon our arrival back at camp, Ojo treated us to an unknown meat dish he described as "animals of Africa." After our meal, we were presented with more consonant-laden liquor, and that's where everything just goes blank. I distinctively remember having some of the most horrific nightmares of my life, and waking up by vomiting up massive quantities of my own blood.
The next day, I was pale as hell, and felt like I hadn't slept in days. I expressed a concern to Ojo that I might have malaria, but he seemed pretty indifferent now that he wasn't being paid. We did have to make it back to Johannesburg though, so I figured I'd talk to a doctor there if the problem still persisted. After an emotional good-bye to Ojo, we made our way back for our final nights stay in Africa, and our flight back to the states the next day.
As the plane was taking off, and our trip fading into memory, the only thing on my mind was Ojo, and the fact that I had to take a shit every 15 minutes.