Hunting Hogs with Huki

Light from the full moon litters the darkness created by the overhead crown of tropical trees. A dense thicket of branches and foliage sway in the wind forcing the moon's rays to dissipate and reappear like the strobe of a darkened dance club. This, along with a crimson gash muddied and stinging with sweat, replaces my headlamp lost to a high speed encounter with a low hanging branch.
I am thankful when I see my new-found friend's silhouette stop and motion for me to rest. Chiseled out of the forest and sea he moves through the obscure wilderness with a natural, fluid motion, stealth and silent. Huki, bare chested wearing shorts, a knife, jelly sandals, and a necklace of seeds with a large boars tusk, our quarry for the evening.
He procures a long stick and stabs the top of the tree above me. A barrage of large, heavy fruit falls into my lap, onto my head, eliciting a boisterous cacophony of laughter and giggles. We eat the wild oranges in silence. Exhausted, yet excited for the hunt, I ponder this first day in Nuku Hiva.
The moment I set foot on the dock this morning I heard my opportunity. A loud banging echoed throughout the amphitheater shaped bay. I did not know what I was getting into, and rarely do, but through the old wooden door of the small blue shop I went. Huki was demolishing a concrete wall with a pickax, understood my flailing gesture of helping and relinquished the tool without a word. We then hiked over the ancient moss covered caldera that formed the island. His village lay on the other side and we spent the afternoon clearing a large swath of forest with machetes for the collective village farm.
Then, out of the silence, like the crack of lightning, came a distant bark. One of the dogs had caught a scent. Next followed the thunderous echo of the rest of the pack. Huki disappears into the darkness yelling my name as he went. I crash through vines and over small cliffs haphazardly, but the village will eat well tomorrow!