“Unjani,” I replied, trying to match his musical intonation.
“Ndiya-phila. Kulungile! Wena unjani?” he sang at me, shaking his assault rifle encouragingly. He paused, open mouthed and nodded quickly, clearly anticipating a response.
Holy shit, I thought. How the hell do I respond? If I cock up, maybe he’ll use that rifle on me. No chance of running, I’d be gunned down in seconds. I wondered if I could wrestle it off him first. Possibly if I was fit and on top of my game, but my head still felt as though it had been used for bare-knuckle punching practice by the King of the Gypsies. Thank God Madame Joubert was starting to do her work, the brass section in my head had begun to pack up their instruments, and the fermenting-camel-dung feeling in my stomach had eased to a gentle glow. I decided to try and imitate what he’d just said.
“Ndiya-phila…”
Njongo smiled warmly and clapped me on the arm. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Don’t bother trying to teach him, Njongo. The British are useless at languages. All they can do is speak their own language louder and slower, the arrogant swine.” Van Blerk emerged from behind a large, open-backed pickup. He was wearing desert boots, combat trousers and a sleeveless safari jacket. “Sleep well?” he enquired.
“Like a corpse,” I replied. “In fact, I still am.”
Van Blerk grunted in amusement. “I thought you’d like to sleep under the stars. I hope you weren’t cold, that was the only blanket I could find. My dog died on it a few weeks ago, it was very sad. Anyway, have some breakfast. This will restore your strength.” He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed me a long, dried sausage. “Droëwors. Survival food. As eaten by the boers on their long march north, escaping from oppression at the hands of the evil British.”
I took a bite. It had a moist texture and a gamey flavour, spiced with coriander seed. I found it very pleasant.
“You’ll need more suitable clothing,” observed van Blerk.
I was still wearing casual office clothes and leather shoes, in stark contrast to van Blerk and Njongo who appeared to be kitted up for some kind of military manoeuvre. Luckily, I had packed more appropriate clothing on the off-chance that I’d end up on safari. I’d quite fancied the idea of seeing some big game before spending the night rolling around with a young conservation student doing a gap-year measuring rhino dung. I’d heard the safari lodges were full of them and I was a big supporter of the environmental movement, especially when it involved fit young women with long, tanned limbs.
I pulled on my hiking boots and, at van Blerk’s direction, slung my bag into the back of his pickup and climbed into the rear seat. I was pleased to see the truck was loaded with a dozen bottles of wine in ice-filled cool boxes, as well as several cases of water. There was also a large bundle of logs tied together with rope, tents, and various cooking implements. Njongo clipped his rifle onto a stand in the open back of the pickup and sat in the front. Van Blerk took the wheel and shut his door.
“We’re well armed for a trip to a vineyard, Wikus,” I probed.
“We’re heading way inland. We’ll need to hunt our own food, and we may need to protect ourselves from leopards. And blacks.”
I assumed this was a joke. If so, it was rather close to the bone, but I was relieved to see Njongo found it very amusing. “Hayi! It’s the whites who are the real problem!” he boomed.
Van Blerk fired up the engine and gunned the pickup onto the road in a cloud of dust, just as the sun began its fiery ascent above the mountains. “It’s four hours to the Groot Karoo. You’d better have some water.” He tossed a large plastic bottle onto the back seat. I took a long drink and polished off the rest of the droëwors. The combination of dried sausage and Madame Joubert’s had me feeling halfway human again.
“By the way,” van Blerk added, “you stink of dead dog.”
3.3
On Safari
We drove for hours through the savage beauty of the Little Karoo, passing through the spectacular rock formations at Montagu then, an hour later, the small town of Barrydale. As the sun climbed higher the brown earth and the rust-streaked jagged mountains glowed as if red hot. If it weren’t for patches of tough, scrubby bush and the occasional startled springbok pronking away from the road, we might have been on Mars.
I pulled fresh clothes from my bag and changed into them on the back seat. The road had long since run out of tarmac, and we now roared over unsealed, stony clay. The loose gravel made a constant, rattling din as it ricocheted off the chassis and our wheels threw up a mile-long trail of dust as we tore through the desolate Karoo.
Njongo handed me a cold beer and I stretched out over the back seat, wondering how I could persuade Wikus to sell me his wine and lead me to the source of Madame Joubert’s magic dust. It would be clumsy to ask him outright and I guessed he might clam up if I were too direct. Once I’d finished the beer my eyelids began to droop, the last couple of nights’ fitful sleep claiming their price.
When I woke we had stopped. I sat up and saw we had pulled off the road. It was mid-afternoon and the red earth danced and shimmered in the distance. We were a few miles from a vast range of iron-hued mountains and the road snaked towards their foothills. My companions were conferring a few yards away and Njongo’s rifle was slung over his shoulder. I clambered out of the pickup and joined them.
“We need fresh food. Droëwors can only sustain us for so long.” Van Blerk held a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon.
“Would it not have been easier to make some sandwiches?” I asked.
“Bread is the work of the devil, Felix. It makes one bloated and saggy. Real men do not eat sandwiches.”
I didn’t argue. I remembered his peculiar assistant and his talk of big birds. It suddenly dawned on me what he meant.
“Volstruise?” I asked, trying to match the pronunciation of van Blerk’s assistant.
“There!” Wikus pointed and lowered his binoculars slightly.
I squinted and could just make out four or five black blobs in a row, about half a mile away, wavering in the hazy heat.
“Njongo! When I give the word, fire a shot in the air,” van Blerk commanded.
Njongo pulled back on the cocking handle and the rifle made a chunky, metallic click as a bullet transferred to the chamber. He rested it against his shoulder, raised at 45 degrees.
“Erm… Won’t that just scare them away?” I asked, putting my fingers in my ears.
“For any other animal, the answer would be yes. But these are escaped Oudtshoorn volstruise. Highly domesticated farm animals. They have been trained to associate the sound of a gunshot with feeding time.”
“That’s very convenient.”
“Indeed. But they demand respect, these volstruise. You have to watch them very closely. More than a hundred of them escaped just last month. Heinrich got careless.”
“Left the gate open did he?”
“Much, much worse. They are strange creatures, very loving animals. They forget themselves and get, shall we say, attached to their keepers.” He looked at me closely. “Very attached.”
“So… what happened?”
Wikus sucked air through his teeth. “A farmhand went to check the gates one morning only to find the fences kicked down. Then he found Heinrich dead next to the feeding trough, gun by his side.”
“They killed him?”
“He had not filled their feeding troughs sufficiently. When you call a pride of volstruise to dinner, by God you had better not disappoint them. They become frenzied when disappointed.”
“So… what did they do?”
“Fucked him to death. He was found coated in ostrich spunk, head to toe.”
I sensed a short period of respectful silence was appropriate. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“The Karoo is a small community my friend. Yes, we were close. But he died doing what he loved.”
Wikus focused his binoculars on the horizon once more. “But we shall not make the same
mistake as dear Heinrich.” He raised his arm slowly. “Ready Njongo?”
“I am.”
After a few seconds he jerked his arm down. “Now!” he commanded.
The rifle cracked and I jumped slightly, despite the fingers stuck in my ears. I focused on the little black smudges in the distance. They bobbed up and down rapidly and reduced in size as they fled into the distance.
“Shit,” muttered Wikus, still staring through the binoculars. “Must have been wild ones. Mind you, most of the escaped ones have been shot already.”
“Yes, if they are attracted by the sound of gunshots, I imagine that was relatively straightforward.”
He continued to stare through his glasses. “Wait,” he hissed. “I think we’ve got one of Heinrich’s birds. A male.”
He passed me the glasses and I focused on the little black smudges. The rest had nearly disappeared but sure enough, one was standing still, its tiny beaked head looking in our direction. Then it broke into a run, straight towards us.
“Incredible animals,” breathed Wikus. “Amazing eyesight and hearing. In speed, second only to the cheetah on the plains of Africa.” Sure enough, the creature was narrowing the distance between us quite smartly, its long legs pumping and throwing up little puffs of dust as its feet tore into the red earth.
“Fire at will Njongo!”
Njongo levelled the rifle and carefully lined up the sights. I plugged my ears and the rifle cracked again. The ostrich continued to advance at speed – in fact I would swear it actually picked up its pace.
“Those feet are among the most dangerous weapons in the animal kingdom,” continued Wikus. “Huge claws. They can disembowel a man in a second. One kick will unzip you like a suitcase.”
“Worth loosing off a few more rounds Njongo,” I suggested, as I watched the bird through the glasses. It was down to a couple of hundred yards and I could see its huge thighs rippling as it powered across the desert floor. Christ, they were as broad as my waist and pure muscle.
The rifle sounded once more but the ostrich remained on course.
“Aim for the head Njongo!” called Wikus.
“No, aim for the body Njongo,” I urged. “The head’s very small. Aim for the fucking body.”
Another shot but the creature didn’t waver for a second. I no longer needed the glasses, the animal was coming into quite sharp focus without them, and I could hear its huge clawed feet thumping against the ground. Good God, it must be covering ten yards with each stride.
“Why don’t you give me the rifle? I’m quite a good shot,” I suggested urgently, surprised at how high my voice had become. I stretched out a hand to Njongo.
“No, Njongo needs the practice,” insisted Wikus. “He’s a terrible shot.”
The rifle cracked again. The beast was getting extremely close now. I began to back away slowly, my eyes fixed on the approaching horror. I could see the beak half open and the wispy head feathers above its evil, beady eyes, flattened by its sheer speed.
“Split up. We’ll confuse it,” called Wikus, who had already broken into a swift trot in the opposite direction. “Every man for himself!”
Another crack from the rifle and I was off like a shot, perpendicular to the approaching bird. I guessed it would be attracted to the sound of the gun and that Njongo would eventually manage to land a hit.
I glanced over my shoulder to see the ostrich had changed course and was heading directly for me. My bowels loosened and I broke into the fastest sprint of my life.
“Run very fast, Felix!” shouted Wikus, in the distance.
“Shoot for Christ’s sake! Shoot!” I screamed, as the pounding of the bird’s huge feet grew louder behind me.
I swear that, for a second, I could feel the giant bird’s beak nuzzling the back of my neck. Despite running as fast as I had ever run before, a horrible image sprang into my head. What if the ostrich did to me what it had done to poor Heinrich? Would it attempt coitus before slashing me open with its horrific talons? Would it be a demanding lover? Might it insist on oral sex?
“Fully automatic Njongo!” hollered Wikus.
There was a deafening roar as Njongo set the assault rifle to fully automatic and squeezed the trigger. I stumbled as the wall of noise hit me, and careered headlong into a patch of scrub, sharp twigs tearing my clothes, grit in my mouth and eyes. I screamed in fear and rolled around, fists flailing pathetically, anticipating the terrible claws slashing at my face and neck.
As the dust settled and tears washed the sand away from my eyes, I peeped from between my forearms.
A great mound of feathers attached to two huge, scaly thighs, each ending in vast, twin-taloned feet, lay just a yard away. I let out a whimper of relief. Then, to my horror, with a blood-curdling hiss the creature’s head reared up on its long, downy neck, beak wide open. Its shining black eyes fixed me with a look of unalloyed hatred before it swayed, blinked its long eyelashes and collapsed onto me. I let out a yelp and scrabbled away, the back of my head bumping against a solid object. It was one of Wikus’s boots.
“Good work Felix! You distracted him just long enough for Njongo to nail him!”
I blathered incoherently as Wikus offered his hand and helped me to my feet. My shaking legs threatened to give way, pitching me back into the mountain of dead feathers.
“I think he liked you, to be honest.”
“Liked me?” I stammered. “Jesus fucking wept!”
“Don’t worry, you’ll feel better when we’ve got him on the braai. Ever tasted ostrich? It’s very lean and rich in iron. Good for the heart.”
Njongo sauntered over looking very pleased with himself, a wisp of smoke still rising from the end of his rifle.
“Great work Njongo! What a team we are. Let’s get the fire going.” Wikus turned to me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Would you like to help me gut this oke? We’ll camp here and eat well tonight. Then I’ll make biltong and droëwors back home from what’s left.”
I felt like telling him what he could do with his sodding biltong, but I held my tongue. I needed to remain on good terms while we were stuck in the middle of the Karoo. Besides, I was still no closer to replenishing my store of Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel.
Njongo and I dragged the logs off the back of the pickup and he soon had a roaring fire going. He then busied himself erecting three tents. Wikus was hard at work gutting the ostrich, a task I chose to leave entirely to him. Suffice to say it involved aggressive plucking, the extraction of armfuls of ostrich guts and a great deal of hacking with a large machete.
“Squeamish eh?” he grinned, arms stained red up to his elbows. “Well, you can dig a pit to bury the remains. Make it deep, we don’t want scavengers.”
Grumbling, I took the shovel and dug a large hole in the stony earth a dozen yards from the fire, working up a fine sweat. I scooped in the sloppy guts and feathers, struggling to avoid gagging, and finished by pushing in the bird’s extremities, including the fearsome claws. I wasn’t even briefly tempted when Wikus suggested I take them home and have them stuffed as trophies. The head, with its hateful beady eyes and long eyelashes, stared up at me as I shovelled sand over the gory mess.
“Make sure you bury the bloody sand too,” called Wikus as he slapped huge, glistening ostrich fillets into a cool box.
Bury your own bloody sand, I thought. But I did my best to lift as much of the carnage-soaked soil as I could find in the fading light and deposit it into the hole. I covered the grave with the pile of virgin soil and rocks I’d dug out first and shuddered. I was pretty sure the bird was dead, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for the vicious fucker to climb back out.
Wikus took a couple of the huge steaks and trimmed them with the machete, placing them on a hinged wire grid, which folded over to clasp the meat securely. Njongo took the grid, balanced the edges on rocks surrounding the pit and poured a generous glug of local olive oil over the meat. The logs had burnt down to a red-hot glow by this time and the juice
s hissed and smoked as they dripped onto the embers.
“Go grab a bottle Felix,” ordered Wikus, pouring bottled water over his bloody forearms and wiping them down with a rag.
I picked out an unmarked bottle of red from the ice-filled cool box in the back of the pickup and returned to the fire. To my surprise, Njongo had extracted three enormous balloon-shaped glasses from a box marked ‘Riedel’. I twisted the cap off the bottle and half-filled each glass, leaving half an inch of sediment behind. After the fourth or fifth bottle the night before, Wikus had explained that he was fanatical about not filtering his wines.
“A winemaker who filters his wine is like a burglar stealing the family silver,” he declared, banging his fist on the table. “And you know what we do with burglars round here?” He made a gun shape with his forefinger and thumb and clicked his tongue as he loosed off a few imaginary shots towards the door. So that was that.
“Impilo!” declared Njongo and we touched the delicate crystal glasses together over the fire.
I sat back, took a deep mouthful of the exquisite, cool wine and felt I could finally relax. The steaks were bathed in another glug of olive oil, plated up and handed round. They were delicious, like a rich, lean beef. Farewell, you terrifying bastard, I muttered to myself, and washed down the succulent flesh with Wikus’s gorgeous, dark Shiraz.
“Ah, the Karoo,” sighed Wikus. “You can keep your Cape Town and your fancy beaches. This is where Africa begins. The real Africa, eh Njongo?”
Njongo nodded slowly.
“Fetch us another bottle Felix. I’m the butcher, Njongo’s the chef, so you’re the waiter.”
And a bloody grave digger, I thought, happy that those pungent guts were finally buried under a couple of feet of Karoo soil. I grabbed another bottle. Everyone’s glass was empty so I did the honours.
There was another delicate ting as we brought the crystal glasses together, then I lay back again and stared at the night sky. It was festooned with stars of every colour, far richer than anything I had seen back in England. The air was warm and still, the only sound a soft chirping from the bush crickets.
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