We all enjoy the good night hunting jokes, but know this, morons, that concealed within the funny tales of night hunting are the victims of rape, teenage pregnancy, bastards, single mothers and destroyed dreams. Laugh on now, jerks.
Three of the treks were characterised by driving rain, calf-deep mud, thigh-deep water, swept-away bridges, and overgrown trails, crawling up slippery slopes on hands and knees and lots of bloodsucking leeches.
To my lament on a Facebook post on the widespread practice of cutting down of straight, tall trees for prayer flags, I got a few customary likes from close friends but one comment struck a discordant note.
Attending my hometown festival for the first time I was exploring the stalls for hoentay, tongba and rainbow trout delicacies, and there was no way a piece of rope woven from yak hair could draw my attention. But somehow while passing by a tent I couldn’t help notice the slingshot hanging among yak tail, bells and other yak products.