Spud - Learning to Fly

by John van de Ruit

  It wasn’t difficult to spot the enormous white truck emblazoned with the emerald green logo:

  HOOPER BROS TZANEEN

  The driver was a rather stern looking black man called Emmerson who said two boys could ride up front with him and the rest had to travel in the back with the agricultural supplies.

  I asked Emmerson how long it would take to reach Mad Dog’s farm. He smiled and said, ‘Long way, umfana. Maybe … eleven hours, maybe twelve hours.’ He then lit a cigarette and ordered us to take a pee because he said we wouldn’t stop until we reached Naboomspruit.

  After fumbling behind his back for some time, Boggo made us draw straws to see which two would ride up front with Emmerson. Unsurprisingly, Boggo drew the longest straw followed by Rambo which means I’m in the back with Vern, Garlic, Fatty, and the agricultural supplies.

  Fatty was sulking because Boggo stated that he was too fat to sit up front. To make matters worse, Emmerson had roared with laughter when he laid eyes on Fatty and repeatedly called him Mafuta. We all bought steak and kidney pies because they were the only things left to eat, while Fatty bought just about everything in the shop, including a tin opener, two cans of baked beans and a large jar of Vicks Vapour Rub. He held the baked beans aloft as he came out of the shop and shouted, ‘Mafuta gets the last laugh!’

  The thought of riding for eleven hours in the windowless back of the truck with Fatty all stoked up on baked beans wasn’t a pleasant one. Rambo and Boggo were the only ones who thought this was in any way funny.

  Soon Fatty, Garlic, Vern and I were locked up in the back of the white truck like animals being sent to slaughter. There wasn’t even anything interesting among the boxes of supplies. Only fertiliser, tools, overalls, and large bottles of liquid that looked suspiciously like acid.

  On the plus side, we found a small shuttered window hiding behind a pile of fertiliser bags. Garlic pulled it open and then gasped in the cold night air like a dying fish. Unfortunately, within seconds the back of the truck was freezing cold and Vern angrily snapped the window shut and then put an entire suitcase of clothes on his body. Fatty honourably offered to give us warning if he felt like farting and promised not to eat the baked beans unless it was an absolute emergency.

  It seemed to take hours to get through the rush hour traffic around the city and everywhere was the blasting of horns and the whistle of newspaper sellers. In the gloomy light of the back of the truck it was impossible to read without getting carsick. I lay down on a pile of hessian sacks and closed my eyes. All I could feel or hear were shudders and squeaks as the truck took us closer to Tzaneen.

  11:00 After dozing off I awoke to find Fatty wolfing down his second can of baked beans using his comb as a spoon.

  ‘Sorry, Spuddy,’ he said. ‘It was an emergency.’

  The rest of the journey was a nightmare. We couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the passing world outside. To make matters worse I no longer felt sleepy and Fatty kept shouting ‘Bombs away’ before letting rip with foul gas that drove me to the verge of suffocating myself in my scarf.

  Only Vern looked completely happy with a night in the back of a lorry after spending all day in the back of a bus. He chatted away to himself and kept himself busy drawing sketches of a bag of fertiliser. It’s at times like these that being a cretin is a bonus.

  Some time in the night we stopped for what seemed like ages. I heard voices outside but couldn’t leave the protection of my hessian bags for the frosty night air. I heard the back doors being opened and then the voice of Boggo as the doors were slammed shut again. And then we were moving again. On and on …

  The dust road woke us all up because suddenly we were being flung around, bashed and battered. I looked at my watch.

  3:46am

  What a night.

  The truck finally came to a halt and the back doors were flung open once again. There was the sleepy face of Dad Dog helping us out of the truck. We followed him like zombies into a darkened farmhouse and into a room with bunk beds. Without saying anything we each collapsed onto a bed and I fell into a warm comfortable sleep.

  5:45 It was like a nuclear bomb had been released in our warm and cosy bunkroom. Mad Dog began his devastation by turning Vern’s entire bed upside down. He then tackled me off my bed, tried to strangle Boggo with an extension cord and leapt on top of Fatty who screamed like a girl. Mad Dog then pulled Garlic out of his bed and barked in his face. Garlic’s mouth fell open but no words came out. The room was decimated within seconds but Mad Dog didn’t seem to care. We hurriedly threw on our clothes and staggered after him towards the dining room.

  Mom Dog isn’t at all what I had pictured in my head. With a freckled face and gingery hair tied in a bun she looks younger than most moms. She smiled warmly at us. ‘Welcome, boys, sleep well?’ she asked.

  It was still half an hour from sunrise but the entire farmhouse was awake. Dad Dog had driven off in his bakkie, and servants were cooking in the kitchen while a great roaring fire blazed away in the living room.

  ‘Drink up,’ said Mad Dog before I’d even poured milk into my coffee. After my second sip he stood up and said, ‘Right, let’s go.’ We all followed Mad Dog out of the dining room through the living room. Fatty looked longingly at the roaring fire and the soft carpet and said, ‘Hey, Mad Dog, china, no offence but we’ve only had like one hour’s sleep …’

  Mad Dog held up his hand and said, ‘The rules haven’t changed, Fatty. You sleep when you’re dead.’

  The rules may not have changed but Mad Dog certainly has. He seems to have doubled in size and his leg muscles are gigantic. The dark stubble lining his cheeks makes him look like a fully grown man and even his voice is deeper than I can remember it being. He led us out through the front door and into the yard. The sky was beginning to brighten and everywhere birds were chirping and tractors were firing to life. The frosted ground crunched under our takkies and Boggo was forced to lean against the front door because he said he had brain freeze. Mad Dog, dressed in short pants, a short-sleeved khaki shirt and dark green veldskoens didn’t seem to notice that the temperature was below freezing. Suddenly there was some loud growling and barking from the opposite side of the house. Mad Dog looked terrified and cried, ‘Oh, shit, boys! Run!’

  ‘Run!’ shouted Garlic without moving.

  ‘The hunting dogs are off their chain!’ bellowed Mad Dog as he sprinted across the lawn.

  ‘Hunting dogs!’ cried Boggo, leaping to attention and forgetting about his brain freeze problems. Then Rambo was running after Mad Dog. Soon the rest of us were running after Rambo. The barking came closer although I didn’t dare look round. It was like I was reliving a nightmare. Why is it that whenever Mad Dog’s around we continually find ourselves bolting from the Hound of the Baskervilles? Poor Fatty was a sitting duck for the hunting dog and as the Alsatian gained on him he threw himself stomach first onto the frost and pleaded for mercy.

  The dog screeched to a halt and then began sniffing the huge lump that lay spread-eagled and terrified on the ground. Then we noticed that Mad Dog was roaring with laughter and clutching at his chest. They weren’t vicious hunting dogs – they were Mad Dog’s dogs!

  Mad Dog only stopped laughing when Rambo picked him up and threw him down on his backside. Then Mad Dog leapt up and dived on Rambo who collapsed to the ground. Thankfully, Boggo broke up the tussle because it was beginning to look like one of those nasty Dad/ Uncle Aubrey play fights.

  Boggo’s sniggering drew our attention back to Fatty lying dead still on the lawn while being humped by Mad Dog’s Alsatian. Fatty didn’t know the dog was humping him and clearly thought that if he played dead the dog would eventually move off. We all fell about laughing, especially when Rambo shouted, ‘Hey, Fatty, nice girlfriend!’

  Mad Dog eventually called the humping dog off Fatty. Turns out the dog is a ‘he’ and goes by the name of Bakgat. The other two Alsatians are called Slapgat and Drollie.

  Poor Fatty copped some more abuse when it app
eared that he had been crying while being humped by Bakgat. He cheered up instantly, though, when Mad Dog promised him a fried breakfast to end all fried breakfasts when we returned from our tour of the farm.

  Dad Dog owns two bordering farms that are separated by a dust road. The house is situated on the citrus farm and on the other side of the road is the game farm.

  ‘No way!’ Garlic was pointing in the direction of the valley. ‘Check all those orange trees!’ Everywhere you looked was orange and brilliant green.

  ‘Sweetest oranges, minneolas and naartjies in the entire southern hemisphere,’ bragged Mad Dog.

  We continued down the hill and soon found ourselves among the orange trees. Just when I thought Mad Dog may have grown up, he branded Vern on the back with a gigantic orange. Vern didn’t know what had hit him and sped off down the hill in a panic with the three Alsatians in hot pursuit.

  Then an arm tugged desperately at my shoulder and pulled me behind a tree. It was Garlic.

  ‘Please officially introduce me to Mad Dog,’ he said in a faltering whisper. ‘Please, Spud. I don’t feel like I can speak to him until we’ve been properly introduced and too much time has now passed for me to introduce myself without looking like a complete idiot.’

  Luckily everyone was distracted with watching Vern eating an orange on a rock like a baboon. I put my arm confidently over Mad Dog’s shoulder and said, ‘Mad Dog, I want to officially introduce you to Garlic, the new member of the Crazy Eight.’

  Garlic was so overcome with meeting Mad Dog that he bowed to him before thrusting out his hand and saying, ‘It’s an absolute honour to meet you finally, Mad Dog. I’ve heard so many of your stories.You’re a legend.’

  A great smile spread across Mad Dog’s naughty face, and he pumped Garlic’s hand before enveloping him in a bear hug. Garlic was so overwhelmed with Mad Dog’s friendliness that he then called him sir by mistake. Mad Dog roared with laughter before saying that Garlic was the perfect replacement for him in the Crazy Eight.

  Garlic beamed with pride and said, ‘I come from Malawi. You ever been to Lake Malawi?’

  There was a collective groan from the Crazy Eight and loud sniggers from Boggo and Fatty, who had stuffed so many oranges in his windbreaker that he looked eight months pregnant.

  Mad Dog didn’t laugh. Instead he said, ‘Of course I’ve been to Lake Malawi. It’s one of the best places in the world!’

  ‘Really?’ gasped Garlic.

  Mad Dog nodded. ‘My mom’s cousin has a cottage up by Cape Maclear.’

  Garlic’s eyes nearly popped out as he uttered a loud gurgle of delight. ‘But that’s near where our shack is!’ he shouted.

  And off they went, Mad Dog and Garlic, marching down the hill in earnest conversation about Lake Malawi. Fatty collapsed against a tree with his face covered in strings of orange. ‘We’re doomed!’ he groaned as one hundred per cent pure orange juice dribbled off his chin and onto the zip of his navy blue windbreaker.

  We walked back to the house into the rising sun.

  8:30 Garlic called it a feast, Fatty declared it a miracle. Trays of eggs and bacon were carried through. Then lids to pots were lifted and suddenly we had mushrooms, tomato bredie, sausages, boerewors, hashbrowns and melba toast. We all gorged ourselves and hardly a noise was heard until the groaning began twenty minutes later. One by one we excused ourselves from the table, thanked everybody we possibly could, and staggered off back to the bunkroom for the sleep to end all sleeps.

  19:00 The roaring wood fire in the back garden melted my drowsiness away and soon I was chuckling along at Mom Dog’s story about Mad Dog’s grossly enlarged head at birth. The Phalaborwa doctor who delivered Mad Dog said it was the biggest head he had ever seen on a baby.

  ‘Pity it had no brains in it,’ quipped Dad Dog as he popped open another bottle of red wine. We all hooted with laughter and Mad Dog lunged at Boggo from across the fire with a red-hot poker.

  ‘What the large head did have in it,’ said Mom Dog with a cheeky grin, ‘was endless curiosity and a strong instinct for the natural world.’ We all groaned as Mom Dog put her arm around Mad Dog who became embarrassed and ran away to chop more logs despite the large pile already under the braai drum.

  ‘Brains aren’t everything, Mrs Dog,’ said Garlic with a serious expression on his face. After more mocking laughter, Mom Dog instructed Garlic to call her Annie or Mom. Garlic blushed deeply in the firelight and seemed almost tearful with emotion.

  ‘There’s nothing like the bush, hey?’ said Fatty peering around into the darkness. Then he said, ‘Surely it’s time to throw on the steaks?’ Dad Dog topped up his wine and asked Fatty how much he weighed these days. Fatty said he had no idea because just about every bathroom scale only went up to 125kg and the last three he stood on he broke. Dad Dog said he had an industrial scale in his workshop that measured up to 500kg. A great mischievous smile broke across Fatty’s face. He glanced at Dad Dog once again and said, ‘So how about those steaks, Dad Dog?’

  After a long debate it has been agreed that Fatty will be officially weighed tomorrow after breakfast. Fatty said this would give him his best chance of busting through the 200kg barrier.

  It was another feast and soon I was overcome with drowsiness once more. I collapsed into bed like I hadn’t slept for days and dreamed that Fatty broke the industrial scale in Dad Dog’s workshop.

  Sunday 5th July

  05:30 I was awake even before Mad Dog stormed into the room and let off a large firecracker that exploded somewhere over Boggo’s bed and left a burn mark across the wall. This time I was first to the coffee pot and was able to drink half a cup before Mad Dog’s excitement got the better of him and he ordered us to set off.

  The .22 rifle slung over Mad Dog’s shoulder meant only one thing: we were heading for the game farm. As we set off it wasn’t clear if the gun was for protection or to kill and maim wildlife. I had a shuddering flashback to my weekend of hiking with Mad Dog last year, when he threw his knife at me and killed everything from a friendly honeyguide to a family cat.

  Vern, Garlic and I had to trot to keep up with Mad Dog’s stampeding march through the orange trees. Fatty elected to give the morning mission a miss because he said it might make him lose body mass for the big weigh-in. Instead he opted to stay at the farmhouse and ready himself for the big moment with some meditation and packet of tennis biscuits.

  At the base of the hill we met up with the dust road and followed it for about a kilometre. On our right was the citrus farm protected by a low barbed wire fence. To our left was a fence eight feet high and pumping with electricity.

  ‘It’s to keep the leopard out,’ said Mad Dog as he chewed on a long stem of dry grass.

  ‘Leopard!’ repeated Garlic and stopped abruptly in his tracks.

  ‘They can still jump the fence,’ said Mad Dog. ‘You never really see them unless you go around at night, and even then it’s still pretty rare.’

  ‘Is that why you have the gun?’ asked Garlic earnestly. Mad Dog laughed and said that unless he shot a leopard right between the eyes, his .22 would be as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. Mad Dog has only seen a leopard on the farm twice in his life, but reckons he often finds their spoor down in the dry riverbed.

  Vern looked around suspiciously as if he thought a leopard may be watching us, while his right hand snapped out a small clump of hair, which he twirled in his fingers.

  Mad Dog carefully unlocked the gate and we followed him into the game farm.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ said Boggo. ‘Where are the animals?’

  Rambo kicked his backside and said, ‘It’s not a zoo, you wop!’

  Mad Dog said that if we wanted to track animals we would have to walk silently and look for spoor.

  ‘Found something!’ shouted Garlic, causing a huge flock of birds to explode out of the grass nearby. Unfortunately, Garlic’s ‘spoor’ turned out to be the back half of Vern’s Adidas takkie.

  ‘Great start,’ s
niggered Boggo and plucked a blackjack from his sock before holding it up to the light and examining it closely.

  There can be no greater feeling than roaming around in the bush at sunrise on a clear winter’s morning. Perhaps standing on a stage in front of five hundred people might eclipse it – and it must be said that since I haven’t had sex yet, I can’t yet confirm how good that might be. Even still, walking around the bushveld on a crisp winter’s morning is still pretty splendid and easily in my top three of all time favourite activities.

  THE WEIGHING OF FATTY

  The gigantic scale had been brought out of the workshop and placed in the driveway. A large crowd made up of Crazy Eight, Mom and Dad Dog and at least twenty farm labourers gathered in anticipation of Fatty’s big weigh in. Speculation was rife about how big Fatty might be, with Garlic throwing around the possibility of Fatty reaching a quarter of a ton.

  Fatty looked nervous – he’s convinced that he’s over 150kg and has been overheard boasting to the Fragile Five that he’s most probably over 200. It suddenly seemed that he was terrified that his weight might prove a disappointment. Then Dad Dog started goading Fatty and suggested that he might not even make a hundred kilos.

  ‘I’ve seen bigger sheep than you,’ he declared before erupting into leg slapping merriment.

  After the chorus of bleating had died down, Fatty took a long and dramatic breath and then stepped up onto the shiny silver scale, which groaned and then creaked under his great girth. The red indicator immediately shot up to 200kg, but then swung abruptly back down to 120kg. Like a seesaw it went back and forth.

  ‘Wait for it!’ shouted Mad Dog.

  ‘Wait for it!’ echoed Garlic.

  And then it came to rest and the gathered crowd applauded.

  It’s now official. Fatty weighs 137.75kg!

  CRAZY EIGHT WEIGHT (IN DESCENDING ORDER)