I’m Being Hunted by Poachers for My Tattooed Skin

We all know poachers are ruthless hunters who harvest rare animals for their body parts. But at least they only do this to animals.

Or so I thought, anyway.

From the first moment I saw a person with a tattoo as a small boy, I knew I wouldn’t get just one. I knew I’d end up covered in them. And that’s exactly what I did as soon as I was old enough to go to a tattoo parlour.

Over the years, I accumulated all sorts of awesome ink in both black-and-white and colour. Tattoos on my biceps, forearms, thighs, shins, hands, feet, torso, chest and neck—pretty much everywhere short of my face. And I was only holding out on that until I could quit my current corporate job and get a career where it’s not prohibitive.

My parents were never crazy about my tattoos—fairly normal for many parents I expect. But they still accepted my love of body art, even if I stood out on every family greeting card. They warned me that people with so many tattoos can lead dangerous lives, being mistaken for gang members or attracting the ire of the police. I’d just remind them that I got my tattoos because they were cool and expressive, not because I was some reckless miscreant.

I certainly never expected my tattoos would attract the danger they did, from the people they did.

Some of my tattoos included skulls, roses, portraits, lyrics—the usual cliches. But my favourite tattoo, by far, was the one embroidered across my chest: of a lion. Lions had long since been my favourite animal, and I was inspired by their strength, resourcefulness and bravery. I had less opportunities to show this one off, but it was the one I kept closest to my heart—literally.

Unlike my family who were more reserved and conservative about tattoos, my girlfriend absolutely loved them. It was the first thing she complimented when we met. Dove only had about half as many tattoos as I did, but she was always talking about how she wanted to get even more. We were both adventurous, free spirit types living mundane, ordinary lives and felt a kinship over the months we dated.

One day, Dove surprised me with tickets for a trip to an African safari—something I’d always wanted to do.

I was thrilled. She knew how much I wanted to see a lion in real life and how much we needed this adventure. It was so thoughtful.

So, we embarked on our trip to Tanzania together, which consisted of 2 flights and a drive in a safari buggy to the resort. It was gorgeous, a refined lodge right in the middle of the wild Serengeti. Endless savannah stretched on for miles around us, punctuated by the occasional boab tree and the golden sunset. There was more art in that view than anything on my body.

Truthfully, I’d had some concerns about showing off my tattoos here, which was rare for my usually confident self. I was unsure if other cultures would be as accepting of my tattoos. But Dove assured me that it was fine and reminded me that I should own who I was. And, for our first night, we received nothing but friendliness and acceptance from everyone we encountered, with my arms and legs on full display in short sleeves and shorts. The trip was already going great.

On the day of our first safari tour, we befriended another couple in the safari buggy. Cliff and Krista were also tourists like us, and what’s more was, they also had a few tattoos of their own. They ended up showing off theirs after complimenting our more visible ones. The pair told us how they’d travelled the world collecting a new tattoo in every country. I was again reassured that being a tattooed traveller was common.

The safari that day was completely incredible. We got to see giraffes, hippos and zebras, all in their natural habitats throughout the Serengeti landscape. Unfortunately, notably absent were lions, which failed to make an appearance that day. I was disappointed by this but figured there was plenty of time to see some before the trip’s end.

In addition to the various animals we spied through our binoculars, we also took note of a band of intimidating looking figures in the distance. They were dressed in hunting attire and seemed to be Westerners, which was noteworthy. What were they doing here? I asked our local tour guide and his face instantly looked disquieted. He then bemusedly answered.

They were international poachers.

I was shocked. Scummy poachers were out in broad daylight near a tour group like that? Our guide explained that there was an underculture here of poachers hunting endangered animals for their ivory, pelts, innards and more. All the poor animals we’d seen on the tour. However, apparently, the Elite Harvesting League—standing in the horizon, clad in hunting gear, observing us—were different.

They never seemed to poach anymore—at least not when detectable—and hadn’t for years. Hence, why they were allowed on the reservation at all. It didn’t make sense to me. What was the point of them staking out the wilderness if they weren’t looking for animals? More disconcertingly was me detecting that the figures seemed to be observing our open vehicle, and had binoculars of their own.

One of them was looking right at me. I looked away.

That night back at the lodge, my girlfriend and I enjoyed our dinner at the hotel restaurant. It was great to unwind from our jam-packed day of animal-spotting in the chirping, savannah twilight. Dove had enjoyed the day as much as I had.

At this point, I noticed some men approaching our table. Confusion turned into abhorrence as I slowly recognised them as figures from the elite poaching group we saw before. Far from keeping their distance, the animal-killers were coming over to talk to us.

“My apologies for the intrusion, dear chap” said the distinguished-looking man. He was middle-aged but ruggedly handsome, addressing us in an upscale British accent. “The name is Hayes. I just wanted to compliment you both for your magnificent tattoos—particularly yours, sir.”

I was taken aback by this. I was used to occasional compliments about my ink, but rarely while I was eating a meal—and never from cold-hearted poachers.

“Uh, thanks” I offered stiffly.

“Oh, the bounds of human artistry are truly impressive—as is our capacity to withstand pain. I imagine all of that body art was more than a bit excruciating, eh?”

“Actually, I have a pretty, uh, high pain tolerance…” I mumbled back.

By now I was very weirded out and uncomfortable about this jerk’s “compliments”—but I also didn’t want to start a confrontation and ruin our dinner.

Dove, on the other hand, had no compunctions about telling him off. She passive-aggressively jumped in with her own rebukes.

“This dinner is so nice, I’m sure glad no one poached this for us. Cause animal poachers are the fucking worst monsters ever” she snarled, barely acknowledging the men next to us.

Hayes scrunched up his face in a look of forced shock.

“Why have no idea what you’re implying, madam,” he replied indignantly. “There is no evidence that me or my companions have hunted an animal in years. Anyway, we must be moving on.”

They wished us luck on the coming safari and left. I heard Hayes and his friend loudly joking as they returned to their table.

“Now, let’s see who can finish their meal first? I’ll give you a head start, Boggs. It’s only fair.”

With them finally gone from the table, I felt a bit unsettled about my girlfriend antagonising these strangers—but more than that I was proud of her for standing up for our values. We hated poaching and she’d made it clear for both of us. We went to bed in our hotel room, excited for another day on the savannah tomorrow.

Instead, however, we were woken in the middle of the night by a muted zipping sound. Even to my half-asleep mind, it sounded like a bullet. More bullets whizzed by our bed almost silently, erasing any doubts of what they were. Someone was shooting at us through our hotel window.

Dove instantly sprang to action.

“We need to get out of here and run!” she screamed, having already pulled on her clothes. No such luck for me.

Diving and weaving, we both ran from the hotel room and out of the lodge, while bullets sounded behind us. It was the middle of the night, there was no one around and our lodge was isolated out in the Serengeti—whoever was shooting at us clearly had a good vantage point in the surrounding brush.

My girlfriend then pointed out one of the buggies from the safari—our only chance to escape the relentless rounds of bullets at our heels. Making it outside, we jumped into it and were heartened to see the key already in the ignition.

With that, she accelerated us out into the cold night of the savannah and away from the frenzied gunman out for our heads. The midnight air whipping past us as we drove cut like a knife—I hadn’t had time to put anything on like Dove, and was just wearing my boxers. Right then, I felt stripped down like an animal that might roam these plains.

Finally, we stopped driving the buggy. I was starting to think that it might have been a bad idea to drive out here. We didn’t even have a cell phone to try our hand at reception.

That’s when Dove offered me a sip of water from a bottle in the glove compartment. I was tired out from all that sprinting for my life. Gratefully, I accepted a deep swig. I didn’t look to see if she took one herself. A few moments later, I began to feel myself starting to pass out.

The starlit blackness of the Tanzanian night sky was replaced by a starless blackness as everything went dark.

When I finally awoke, I immediately noticed that I was tied up. The next thing I noticed, wrestling with my bindings and looking around the torchlit space, was that I was in a cave. The dark and rocky area was filled with various poaching equipment—things like traps, tranquilizer darts and rubber bullets. I already had a decent idea of the group that had put me here.

As my eyes adjusted to the torch lined cave, I at last registered the horrible sight opposite me. Sitting against the cave’s opposite wall were the partially flayed bodies of Cliff and Krista—the traveller couple from the day before. Revolted, I noticed that the skin where their tattoos had been was removed. In fact, it seemed that they were still alive, bleeding out their remaining life.

Immediately upon seeing this, I began to panic. Where was Dove? She wasn’t beside me in here—which meant she was likely off having the same cruelty done to her.

Out of the shadows, I saw a figure approach. Hayes, the poaching group leader from before, strode over to me on the floor as confidently as he’d approached me at my table. He beamed at me the way a collector beams at a mounted elk head on his wall. I was more aware of my exposed skin than ever.

“I must say, James, the full view of your tapestry of tattoos is as spectacular as I’d heard it was” he mused. “Thank you for running out of the lodge and being driven here yourself. You made it so easy for us, even though you were only being shot at with rubber bullets.”

I froze in horrified understanding.

“Your hotel doesn’t like when we abduct guests directly from the premises. Ergo, our charade to corral you out with minimal damage to the building.”

I’d had enough of this sicko’s speech.

“What have you monsters done to Dove?! If you don’t return her unharmed in the next ten seconds, I swear I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”

Almost as if heeding my warning, Hayes smiled and nodded into the darkness. Someone walked up beside him, in similar hunting attire—a short sleeved shirt and shorts. They weren’t maimed at all. They were one of them.

To my devastated shock, Dove walked into the torch’s glow and put her arm around Hayes.

“Hi James” she grinned back coldly—in a British accent to match Hayes’. So she wasn’t American, either. Nor did she have any tattoos on her arms or legs.

“Oops, I missed a spot” she laughed.

With that, Hayes leaned over and devilishly licked her arm, and Dove proceeded to rub away the remaining fake peace sign tattoo on her arm. The rest of her temporary tattoos had already been scrubbed off. Then she proceeded to make out with the group’s leader, right in front of me.

This whole safari tour trip, this whole relationship, had been a setup to lure me down to the safari. But why?

“You see, my charmed James” Hayes explained while Dove canoodled with him. “I became enamored with the beauty of human tattoos many years ago. The artistic imprints of black and coloured ink upon human flesh outstripped any pelt of an animal. Not only is its sales value greater than that of fur, ivory, or organs—but humans are so much easier to hunt and kill. You’re the easiest marks.”

His words made me feel dehumanised more than his bindings.

“We learned we wouldn’t even need to leave our location in Tanzania. Tourists would literally come to us—and globetrotters were the most likely individuals to be tattooed. Only when tatted game dried up, would we need to lure you over.”

Hayes ducked down to my level, looking me in the eyes.

“You truly have the most impressive tattoos of anyone I’ve ever hunted. I’ll enjoy the long work of skinning you alive—superstition says the skin is better that way.”

Someone else here might have begged for their life, cursed them out or dissolved into terror. But I didn’t.

“If I’m your most majestic capture” I said, looking Hayes back in the eye. “Then I deserve a head start and chance for you to re-capture me. It’s only fair.”

Hayes smiled. He knew I understood him. He was a hunter through and through.

After contemplating and agreeing, the two brought me to the mouth of the cave and released my bindings. I could see that the sun was rising over the Serengeti. It never felt so good to be unbound.

“Your head start is 30 seconds, James. Go!”

Half-naked, I ran into the morning savannah. Behind me, I knew the entire poaching group stood, waiting to shoot, maim and recapture me. I expected it too. I’d just wanted one more moment of freedom.

Soon, bullets began to whiz past me again—real ones this time. I pounded the dry grass under my feet. This was it, I was sure.

However, instead, I heard the poachers begin screaming.

Turning around, I saw the most magnificent sight of the trip. Both what I’d come to see and never anticipated.

There was a wandering pride of lionesses ripping into the poachers, pouncing upon them like a helpless game in the daybreak. I smiled. The Elite Harvesting League hadn’t hunted animals in so long that they’d underestimated them. They’d carelessly set up shop right in their territory.

And behind the lionesses, there was a lion—with a majestic mane that looked just like my tattoo. Magnificent.

Somehow I was able to find my way back to the discarded buggy that I’d raced way on, and returned to the resort. I returned home shortly after—I’d gotten all the safari experience I needed.

It was a truly miraculous outcome that I survived being skinned that day in Tanzania. But I’m not naive. I know that any of the surviving poachers who weren’t eaten that day—even deceitful, devious Dove—might come after me again. They can buy a plane ticket to the US if they want.

In light of this, you might assume I want to hide or remove my tattoos.

But I won’t. There are others like me, hunted for our tattoos by the league. We’ve banded together and we’re fighting back. Seeing the lion in the dawn that day reminded me to wear my tattoos proudly and defend them.

It made me proud to be a lion myself—a survivor.