So we took a twenty minute shortcut through the woods to get to the swimming hole. It took us about three hours of bushwhacking before he finally admitted we were lost. As a matter of fact, we had somehow entirely left the cool dampness of the forest behind and were in some blisteringly hot plateau of scrub grass and cacti. My shins were torn to shit from the brambles and thorns, and my face likely hasn’t been so burnt since. I wasn’t smiling.
On the other hand, his beautiful Italian-Eritrean skin was fairing just fine in the sun, and he was quite content to laugh at our predicament, even as we snuck through these bizarre little crack colony trailer squats we kept coming across in the bush, keeping an eye out for big dogs. Every time we slipped our bloodied and awkward bodies through another barbed wire fence he would pretend to cock a shotgun and say in some very not convincing southern hick accent:
”Yup. Butt-sex with trespassers and feeding bodies to the pigs. That’s pretty much my bag.”
Eventually we somehow found our way back to camp. I think I dreamt of thorn bushes and pigs that night.