Wild life...
A few years ago, Papa was driving me to the airport in his old Citroën to catch a plane to Algiers and then England.
At 75 he still drove very adeptly, having spent most of his working life on the road as an ambulance driver. He was doing around 100 km per hour on a familiar road, listening to an imam reciting Koranic verses and nonchalantly giving me a wink each time he expertly avoided a head-on collision with an oncoming juggernaut.
The road to the airport is full of twists and turns, dips and humps but Papa kept pointing out the scenery.
“Have you got pine forests like this in England?”
“Wild flowers like these?”
“Can you smell the wild spearmint, eh? Do you have spearmint in England?”
All of a sudden a black shape jumped in front of the car. Papa slammed the brakes. Screech...Too late... Thump!!!
At 75 he still drove very adeptly, having spent most of his working life on the road as an ambulance driver. He was doing around 100 km per hour on a familiar road, listening to an imam reciting Koranic verses and nonchalantly giving me a wink each time he expertly avoided a head-on collision with an oncoming juggernaut.
The road to the airport is full of twists and turns, dips and humps but Papa kept pointing out the scenery.
“Have you got pine forests like this in England?”
“Wild flowers like these?”
“Can you smell the wild spearmint, eh? Do you have spearmint in England?”
All of a sudden a black shape jumped in front of the car. Papa slammed the brakes. Screech...Too late... Thump!!!
“Bismillah! In the name of God! Why? Why?”
I asked Papa what it was.
“Khanzeer!”
“A pig? I haven’t seen a pig since the French left Algeria in 1962!”
“A wild pig, I mean! A boar!”
We got out of the car and in front of it lay a baby wild boar. No sign of life or blood.
Papa checked his dented front bumper and cursed Satan.
“This must be a bad omen. I’m not sure you should get on that plane!”
I dismissed the episode as a simple accident but he went on mumbling.
“Qu’est-ce qui c'est passé?” A voice enquired. I turned round and recognised a French lecturer who taught at the local college. He had parked his car behind Papa’s and got out to see what happened.
“Papa a tué un marcassin!” Papa has killed a baby boar.
“I did not!” Papa shouted. “The bloody thing jumped in front of me!”
A second teacher got out of the car. The two picked up the animal, placed it in their car boot and drove off with the broadest of smiles.
My brother came to pick me up at Algiers airport. When I recounted the accident, he smiled and said: “Those French guys will probably be having a feast this evening!”
Any funny accidents or supersititions?
Photo: TrekEarth Laurent Vidalin.
....
I screamed and guess what?
30 Comments:
my first thought was, "butcher it IMMEDIATELY!" Quick, hang it by it's heels and slit it's piggy throat! Or something. I really have no idea how or what needs to be done, just that my dad (who hunted) insisted that it must be done immediately to avoid strong flavors.
?????
anyway, I'm glad that it didn't get wasted. Hopefully they used it all, right down to the curl in the tail!
Your papa sounds like my mum!!!
Hayden, I thought you'd think FOOD!
Your dad was right about strong flavours, just think of pheasants.
Bella, does she see omens everywhere?
Ha! My first thought was "dinner," too!
Wonderful post! I love your stories about your dad!
Andrea, I have heard that smoked wild boar is very nice.
Val, I could write a book about Papa. Thanks.
Your dad is quite the character and your writing makes him larger than life. Ever think of compiling a collection of stories? It may not be marketable in the mainstream but I'm sure there would be a circle of those who would take great enjoyment from reading them.
You should write a book about Papa.
CD, you've come up for air!!
I'd have to write the compilation in French. The family wouldn't be able to read it otherwise.
Mary, the idea is germinating...
Don't germinate - do.
Mariposa has been busy working in Tangier, Marakesh and Casablanca.
She is convinced our future is en Maroc mais, pour moi, je pense pas. Para mi, la vida es en Espagna pero......
Je pense comme toi, Goth.
Too volatile! Especially with those mad cousins next door!
El futuro es en Espana... Next week, at least!
I had a similar experience with a wild deer. I left it in the road. It had disappeared by next morning. Someone somewhere was having a lovely venison feast.
I bet she thinks she does, Cream.
Yeah, I probably should have mentioned that I've hit and killed THREE deer since moving to farm country. All in under a year.
Ironically, I feed herds of them in my backyard.
hmm, wild boar... lovely! am I right in thinking that in england you can't eat your roadkill, but the people in the car behind you can?
Just goes to show that one man's road kill is another man's feast.
I agree with mary that a book about your papa sounds wonderful. And to edvard--I am studying the highway code now for my UK driving license so I'll check under road kill and let you know.
Chez nous les sangliers son légion ,comme l'ont été les romains!à force de slalomer ,ce sont les dit romains que nous avons dans la ligne de mire .
J'ai croisé pendant mes promenades en forêt à plusieurs reprise des femelles et leurs petits ,et Je n’ai vu aucun présage ! sauf une fois,un énorme mâle reconnaissable à ses énormes ...!défenses ,ni une ni deux sur la table de pique-nique nous nous sommes perchés , pendant que le "Sus scrofa"piétinait notre casse-croûte ,mémorable ! si l'animale n'avait détruit par la même occasion notre appareil photo
From Deer to Venison, overnight, Cherrybabes!
The poor old dear!
Bella, we'll have to introduce them. Does your mam speak Arabic or French?
CD, fancy being killed by the hand that fed you!
Marcos, I've never heard of this law. You'll just have to tow another car behind you.
Landgirl, welcome. Please find out whether Marcos is pulling my leg.
Dip, j'ai entendu plein d'histoires d'attaques de sangliers, surtout des truies accompagnées de leurs marcassins! Elles peuvent faire des dégâts!
Parlant de Romains, Obélix lui aussi leur en a foutu des tannées tout en dégustant des gigots de sangliers.
I rather like the way they dispose of roadkill in Canada.
Apparently, the mounties or whatever they're called, drive round with lots of sticks of dynamite. If they encounter a dead moose, they shove a stick of dynamite up it's arse and blow the fucker up.
Now that's MY kind of job
From moose to mousse, eh?
Goth, I can imagine that you'll be thinking about old enemies everytime you dispatch one.
Daphnée, mousse de venaison au Porto! Mmmm...
Actually neither though she says her prayers in Arabic.....
Ha! Bella! They can sit and pray together, then...
That they could do - except, can males and females pray together in the same room??
I wouldn't know. I don't do religion.
he paints. he runs restaurants. he travels. he reads. he cooks.
and he tells a great story.....
thanks, cream.
Thanks, KJ, you're so generous!
You should see what happens to a cow when it gets knocked down here too!
Hahaha, this sentence is loaded with ...what's the phrase...double entendre? “A pig? I haven’t seen a pig since the French left Algeria in 1962!”
How is Papa these days, Cream?
Gigi, I've just noticed the double entendre!!!
Papa is still doing great, thank you.
Yay! I love Papa stories! You have a special relationship with your dad. He must be so proud of you.
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