the stick is obviously to protect us from marauding dragons, and we need it. "show me what you'd do with that stick if a dragon attacks," i demand. our guide holds the stick out to his side with flaccid wrist; i'd like to see a little more vim and vigor from my designated protector, but really, the dragons don't seem too threatening. they're all flopped out around the ranger station, some spread-eagled and solo, others sort of semi-stacked on top of each other, exchanging the occasional forked-tongue kiss.
i guess the big guns can afford to seem so casual after enduring the harrowing dragon childhood: emerging from the egg, then immediately scampering up a tree for two years to avoid being chomped on by bigger versions of themselves. a hungry dragon will attack a buffalo, bite it once or twice on the legs, then linger around, following it for the two weeks it takes for a buffalo to succumb to the salivary poison. it's macabre, but hey, it's reptiles. we nine fleshy westerners, all scaltily clad in shortshorts, tanktops and flipflops (one barefooter), would make for a fine dragon feast. we're smaller than buffalo, smaller still than deer, so a quick poisonous strike to the kneecap would down any one of us in well less than two weeks or even the deer's two days. fast food.
or maybe we're not quite as helpless as we look.
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