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Description
“That one there”, you say, pointing at an overripe red bird strutting in full view on a slimly bowed stalk. “Get it.”
I do, just in time before it can spread its heavy wings and fly away.

It was exactly two months ago on a sultry afternoon when first I drew back the copious curtain of foliage to catch a glimpse of your house in all its delectable mystery, squatting in the middle of a putrid green lake. “To deter visitors”, they said.

They said a lot; that you were old and crazy, a recluse. They said you carried secrets that one would have to brave the man-eating crocodile-infested waters around your abode to learn, secrets about the jungle that no one else knew. They made me laugh, the melodramatic idiots. I retorted that I wasn’t afraid of those crocodiles, being a woman and not a man. The locals were unimpressed. You smile as I tell you this. "Perhaps they did believe these tales," I say. Perhaps they were simply hungry for an outside audience, a black-browed, pale-cheeked girl who was hungry for what they had to say; and they told her what she wanted to hear.

We go shooting indiscriminately through the woods. Usually you tell me to use my shots carefully, not to waste, but today is different, and the forest knows it. It is even more beautiful than usual. Luminous green filters through the shades of foliage, veil upon veil that lets only the purest of warm photons through.

I found no man-eating, or, for that matter, woman-eating crocodiles. Instead there were sleek snakes, slithering through the thick undergrowth into the bright red clay ground underneath where I wouldn’t have seen them had it not been for their brightly patterned scaly skins, surprisingly smooth and pleasurable to touch.

We reach the shallow stream and I crawl onto my hands and knees, scrabbling in the luxuriant moss to peer into the water. It’s another world, dank brown with algae and silver with bream. You want a shot at the fish, but I put an arm out to stop you.
“Don’t,” I say, teasingly. “You’ll never get them through the water. The reflections are too strong.”
You comply and we sit with our feet dangling over the ridge, barely touching the fluid, floating window below.

You proudly showed me your sleek equipment, polished until I could see my face in its black depths. You taught me how to hold it steady, how to aim through the lens, how to shoot. And when that was done, we made our first excursion through its dark dense gut, slashing through the underbelly of the forest where sensitive young ferns lay curled in the sandy earth and were sometimes trodden underfoot before they could unfurl. You taught me how to hide lying on my abdomen under murky cobweb-ridden bushes on the soft, mossy undergrowth, and aim into the light. ‘Aim at whatever reflects the sun. Look for reflections,’ you said, over and over again.

Back at the house, you place the red bird shot onto the mantelpiece. Its feathers are a lustrous, glossy red, somehow distilling the golden green light and reflecting its contrast. You have taught me well.

You taught me animal secrets, how to creep silently through the dense bushes like a silky snake. You taught me how to shoot. First the birds, the noisy golden-eyed parrot, the sluggish, ostentatious kouco and the luscious chresanthym, its feathers as soft and smooth as ferny petals. Then the mammals; chattering squirls, laconic byrles, and on one occasion, a grey dappled deer. Sometimes they would hear in time and flee. Other times we were quiet enough. But you would never let me shoot the snakes which slithered around, indifferent.

It’s time for me to go. I pick up the heavy ragged rucksack into which you’ve placed my shots and look up to thank you. You place a sleek black instrument in my hands, which I refuse vehemently. You insist.
“Remember the reflections,” you say again. I nod back, my reply reflected in your grey brine eyes.

I turn and walk slowly down the clearing towards the lake. I look down at the light-dappled water, and up through tiny leaf-framed windows at the sun. And I look back at you, and raise it to my face, beautiful and black and heavy. I put the lens to my eye, and shoot.

Goodbye, my cameraman.

Description
“That one there”, you say, pointing at an overripe red bird strutting in full view on a slimly bowed stalk. “Get it.”
I do, just in time before it can spread its heavy wings and fly away.

It was exactly two months ago on a sultry afternoon when first I drew back the copious curtain of foliage to catch a glimpse of your house in all its delectable mystery, squatting in the middle of a putrid green lake. “To deter visitors”, they said.

They said a lot; that you were old and crazy, a recluse. They said you carried secrets that one would have to brave the man-eating crocodile-infested waters around your abode to learn, secrets about the jungle that no one else knew. They made me laugh, the melodramatic idiots. I retorted that I wasn’t afraid of those crocodiles, being a woman and not a man. The locals were unimpressed. You smile as I tell you this. "Perhaps they did believe these tales," I say. Perhaps they were simply hungry for an outside audience, a black-browed, pale-cheeked girl who was hungry for what they had to say; and they told her what she wanted to hear.

We go shooting indiscriminately through the woods. Usually you tell me to use my shots carefully, not to waste, but today is different, and the forest knows it. It is even more beautiful than usual. Luminous green filters through the shades of foliage, veil upon veil that lets only the purest of warm photons through.

I found no man-eating, or, for that matter, woman-eating crocodiles. Instead there were sleek snakes, slithering through the thick undergrowth into the bright red clay ground underneath where I wouldn’t have seen them had it not been for their brightly patterned scaly skins, surprisingly smooth and pleasurable to touch.

We reach the shallow stream and I crawl onto my hands and knees, scrabbling in the luxuriant moss to peer into the water. It’s another world, dank brown with algae and silver with bream. You want a shot at the fish, but I put an arm out to stop you.
“Don’t,” I say, teasingly. “You’ll never get them through the water. The reflections are too strong.”
You comply and we sit with our feet dangling over the ridge, barely touching the fluid, floating window below.

You proudly showed me your sleek equipment, polished until I could see my face in its black depths. You taught me how to hold it steady, how to aim through the lens, how to shoot. And when that was done, we made our first excursion through its dark dense gut, slashing through the underbelly of the forest where sensitive young ferns lay curled in the sandy earth and were sometimes trodden underfoot before they could unfurl. You taught me how to hide lying on my abdomen under murky cobweb-ridden bushes on the soft, mossy undergrowth, and aim into the light. ‘Aim at whatever reflects the sun. Look for reflections,’ you said, over and over again.

Back at the house, you place the red bird shot onto the mantelpiece. Its feathers are a lustrous, glossy red, somehow distilling the golden green light and reflecting its contrast. You have taught me well.

You taught me animal secrets, how to creep silently through the dense bushes like a silky snake. You taught me how to shoot. First the birds, the noisy golden-eyed parrot, the sluggish, ostentatious kouco and the luscious chresanthym, its feathers as soft and smooth as ferny petals. Then the mammals; chattering squirls, laconic byrles, and on one occasion, a grey dappled deer. Sometimes they would hear in time and flee. Other times we were quiet enough. But you would never let me shoot the snakes which slithered around, indifferent.

It’s time for me to go. I pick up the heavy ragged rucksack into which you’ve placed my shots and look up to thank you. You place a sleek black instrument in my hands, which I refuse vehemently. You insist.
“Remember the reflections,” you say again. I nod back, my reply reflected in your grey brine eyes.

I turn and walk slowly down the clearing towards the lake. I look down at the light-dappled water, and up through tiny leaf-framed windows at the sun. And I look back at you, and raise it to my face, beautiful and black and heavy. I put the lens to my eye, and shoot.

Goodbye, my cameraman.