The perfect blade
Some of you might recall from my essay " My unlikely relationship with the jian " the story of how my father bought me a hunting knife when I was 7 years old - and how I lost it. In fact, it wasn't "lost" so much as stolen. Now, after almost exactly 41 years, I have it back. Almost. Anyway, here's the story: You might remember that my father and I entered a rather smoky little specialist blade shop somewhere in downtown Belgrade in December 1972 where he bought me a lovely bone-handled hunting knife. It seemed like a large Bowie in my child-sized hands. And it was love at first sight. I took that knife home with me to Papua New Guinea. Back then we were living in the tiny hamlet of Kavieng on the northern and western tip of New Ireland, just 100 km south of the equator. It was a hot, sticky, remote and totally undeveloped corner of the world where remnants of World War II were still "fresh" - at least in a decomposing, oxidising yet
