I’m in Sri Lanka, and the guy driving this wears an orange sarong, no shoes and an open striped red shirt showing off some serious ice. He has clipped nails on his right hand, talons on left, and he waves, claws the air and shouts whilst driving at break neck speed through the jungle. He’s the definition of awesome.
Plus his name sounds like Sugar.
Apparently he’s a thug, besties with the President, and ‘broke down’ for 40 minutes, in front of a leopard eating a pregnant deer, so his safari passengers could see some action.
Basically he’s the sort of guy I’d fall in love with. If I could speak Sinhalese. And he wasn’t older than my Dad. And if my Dad’s reaction to me bringing him home would be to hide my passport.
But as such terrible obstacles lie between us, and I feel our deep love is ill fated. Plus, it may not be the most enduring love; I’ve fallen in love with everyone from the Customs official to the wild boar.
So I’m just going to have to sit in quiet reverie, nursing a bowling ball bladder and unrequited love. But it’s not a total loss. Today I have had my first brush with true badass.