Tales of Misadventure
24th February 1991, South Africa
The medication had made Albie dream. A white bird was caught inside his heart and was fluttering to get out. He wanted to open a little door on his body so that it could escape, but he couldn’t find the key. The panicked bird was becoming desperate, hopping and flapping. And the monster was coming …
Albie was jolted awake by the plastic surgeon, Mr Stickland, who boomed a cheery ‘Good morning!’ to his patient.
A blonde nurse stood by as Albie watched the doctor shake head slowly and whistle through his teeth. He appeared to be smirking and was obviously amused by his patient’s injuries. Albie closed his eyes as the dressings were raised on his legs and groin. He winced as the nurse checked first the intravenous drip on his arm and then his catheter.
‘Am I going to be OK? Will I recover?’ he rasped.
‘Oh yes Mr Van Rijn. The good news is that these are just superficial burns. There might be a bit of scarring around the groin area, but you’re young and fit, so they should heal quickly. The lacerations across your chest and along the top of your arm are quite deep. You’ll definitely look like an action hero. It won’t put the ladies off, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘But you’re smiling. I could have died.’ Albie could feel a lump forming in his throat.
The surgeon moved his face close to Albie’s ear. ‘Well, fortunately for you, you were rescued. I apologise for my bedside manner, but in all my years here at Johannesburg Hospital, I’ve never heard of anything quite so bizarre. And this being the craziest city in South Africa, well, the Emergency Room staff thought they’d seen it all – a relentless conveyor belt delivering every conceivable mishap, mutilation and misfortune. That is, until you came in. But the good news is you’re going to be fine Mr Van Rijn.’
The nurse prodded and fiddled with tubes and bandages swathed across Albie’s torso. He sensed her glance at his face. In hushed tones, the surgeon discussed Albie’s injuries with her, before bidding a cheerful farewell and continuing his rounds in the noisy ward.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘You’re young, you’ll get through this.’
‘D’you know what?’ Albie said. ‘I don’t really care about the burns and cuts. I know they’ll get better. I’ve told my boss at the car showroom that I came off my motorbike. I need to use a phone to tell my friends at the rugby club and my mother the same story. I just don’t want anyone to know what actually happened – I’m so embarrassed. And I don’t want to explain why I was there in the first place. For me, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. People just wouldn’t understand.’
‘But what about the people who rescued you? There was a group of them in the Land Rover? In fact, a Mrs Bonnington rang to check on you and wish you a speedy recovery. They rescued all your stuff. She asked me to pass on a message. She said, “You’ll be relieved to know that no-one saw the pipit. You didn’t miss out.” Does that make any sense to you?’
Albie lay inert, watching the ceiling fan. He tuned out from the relentless shouting and clatter of the ward and became hypnotised by the rotating shadow cast against the fly-filled strip-light above him.
Yes. That news was a relief. A big relief.
He remembered Kurt and Fenyang, the safari guide and driver whose quick thinking and strength had saved his life.
Guys, I promise to track you down and thank you personally. One day. One day when I have the courage to face the world and can deal with my shame.
His thoughts forced a choking gasp through his pinched mouth and a tear ran down his cheek. Prone and still, he stared at the whirring fan, replaying in his mind the weekend’s bizarre events.
Two days earlier…
Albie stuffed his sweaty rugby kit into his bag, took a bite of boerewors sausage and sprinted out of the changing rooms. He had to escape before anyone stopped him.
Quick, go, go, go. With his head down and his bag slung over his shoulder, he was eager to avoid explanations and excuses. The tough and rough guys at the club would be completely bemused by Albie’s plans for the weekend. He’d be ridiculed and berated. He’d never live it down. As these thoughts careered through his mind he rounded the corner and slammed into his prop team mate, Henrick, whose gorilla-like frame blocked the exit to the clubhouse.
Henrick mumbled through his gum shield at Albie, ‘Whoa little man! Slow down, you’re keen to get away.’ He pinged the gum shield from his mouth.
‘Why aren’t you staying for a beer? And what’s this about you not playing in the match on Saturday? The guys just can’t believe it. We need you on the squad and we’ve got to get prepped for the British tour in less than three weeks. What’s going on – you’re acting really weird? I’ve just seen Coach who’s totally pissed off with you, man.’
Albie thought for a second.
‘I know, I know. But it can’t be helped. Someone’s flown in and I’ve just got to see them. It’s not weird, it’s personal.’
‘Who can be so important for you to miss training? And what about the braai we’re doing at Pete’s farm on Saturday? I hope you’re coming to that. We’ve got all these Dutch imported beers and the most unbelievable sound system – and the girls, man. Hey Albie, you are totally guaranteed to get laid. You can’t miss out on the braai.’
‘Sorry Henrick. I absolutely must go away this weekend. It’s just something I have to do.’
Embarrassed, Albie pushed past his friend and marched away from the clubhouse, allowing himself to be swallowed up by the night. He stood in the car park and exhaled. He hated letting everyone down and grimaced with the guilt. After the weekend he would brazen his way back to the club. He still wouldn’t tell anyone. They would just move on and focus their attention on competing in the impending tour. His secret would be safe.
And so, Albie found himself camping for the weekend in the Krugersdorp reserve, alone. He had gunned his motorbike leaving a trail of dust across the veldt, some ten miles south of Ravenstone Park Lodge, for a weekend indulging in his own private passion – bird-watching. Right now he was on an ornithological mission. An albino short-tailed pipit (anthus cinnamomeus) had been spotted in the Mpumalang, yet no-one, so far, had been able to photograph it. Short- tailed pipits were rare enough, but an albino! Albie’s lust for success was almost overwhelming. Groups of twitchers would be converging on the Mpumalang this weekend, but Albie was determined to beat them and take all the glory.
Albie had aimed for the tallest flat-topped rocky outcrop he could see on the horizon, bang in the middle of ‘the albino zone’. After an initial reconnaissance he dragged up the contents of his panniers, staked his tent and emptied charcoal into a brazier. From this safe vantage point Albie presided over the bushveldt and a long, narrow lake – a perfect place from which to capture the birdlife on film and take in the pungent aromas and cacophonies of the wild. Relishing this temporary solitude and the abundance of the landscape, Albie felt at one with the vast and powerful environment and set about perfecting the art of bushcraft.
Albie didn’t sleep a wink all night. In the darkness, the bush had come to life and his solitude only served to enhance the surrounding noises rising up to the outcrop – the thudding of big feet, growls, snorts, cackles and splashes from the lake below. Above, the stars were bright and abundant in the black of night, like a spill of Kimberley diamonds on soot. Smells too, were accentuated by the chilly air – an earthiness mixed with musk, dung, blossom and putrefying mud. Albie was excited by his vulnerability with just the dying embers of a campfire and a horse pistol for protection. And no one knew where he was.
At sunrise, he sat entranced by the wildlife which had congregated at the water’s edge. He watched vapour drift along the oily surface of the lake in the coolness of the dawn, as the bushveldt rustled itself awake. A staccato clanging noise emanated from a creature hidden in the bush, dominating the hubbub. Wattled cranes were joined by hadeda ibises. Grey loeries swept in for a quick drink and he spotted hornbills and hoopoes. He thought he saw a flutter of white feathers in the grasses, but no actual sighting of the albino short-tailed pipit, yet. There was still plenty of time. The colours were strong and sharp, the sounds busy and crowded. He perched on his rock, peering through binoculars, swapping them at intervals for his camera. He consulted his reference books, scribbled notes and took photographs – this was heaven.
By midday the sun was high and scorching. It was time to relight the fire, brew more Rooibos tea and flex his stiffening legs. Taking a plastic container and slinging on his holster, he scrambled down to the water’s edge to refill his billycan, simultaneously rotating and walking, ears and eyes straining to check for signs of danger. In his laceless tennis shoes, he squelched across the heavily imprinted shore and scooped up water with the container. At that moment, he noticed that all the birdlife on his side of the lake had vanished. As he turned back towards the rocky outcrop, he sensed a shift in the nature of the lakeside. There was a sound behind him. Plop. But nothing moved, nothing changed. The hot, potent air created an anticipation, a prelude to … something.
His scalp prickled with fear and he eased the pistol from its holster and cocked it. Standing stock-still, nostrils flared, mouth dry, Albie’s heart thumped like a djembe drum.
But the wait wasn’t long. In a sudden, bewildering moment, the mud in front of him erupted as a tonne of Nile crocodile lunged from the silt at the water’s edge darting in a zig-zag towards him.
In a heightened state of alertness Albie’s reflexes were lightning quick. He lined up the pistol, his arm outstretched and pulled the trigger, despatching a single bullet at close range, straight between the eyes of the reptile. Appearing to flip as its legs gave way, the dirt brown crocodile slewed into the mud at his feet. A thousand birds in the distance scattered into the haze at the sound of the gunshot reverberating around the bush. Albie stood panting, shaking and still holding the handle of the slopping water container in one hand, the smoking pistol in the other. A trail of tepid mud dripped onto his eyelashes and lips from the splatter created when the colossus had crashed in front of him.
Then he sat down on the crocodile’s back, and in the euphoria of relief, threw his head back and hooted – a whooping hyena laugh until his cheeks ached.
‘I slayed Goliath. I’m fucking Crocodile Dundee!’
In the half hour that followed, once he had regained his composure, Albie busied himself examining and handling the dead beast. He was fairly sure it was a bull, the combined length of three men and as heavy as a rhino. Still chuckling, he felt its rough, plastic-like scales and knobs on its neck and tail and the creamy-green mosaic of its underbelly as he scraped away the drying mud. Its large sharp claws were black as polished jet and its third eyelids had closed over vacant, staring slit pupils. He eased up the croc’s grinning mouth, admiring the smooth overlapping fangs snagged with blanket weed. Lake water spilled out of its jaws onto the ooze. A pair of vultures circled in readiness high above.
But Albie knew he was the only person for miles around who had witnessed the vanquishing of this monster, and at the back of his mind lurked an uncomfortable feeling that the crocodile may not have been alone. He had an imperative to record his conquest for posterity, like the shark-hunters who hoist man-eating catches onto the quay and pose for the newspapers next to gaping jaws. And he must do this fast. Chortling with excitement, he sprinted back up to his tent and grabbed his rucksack and Nikon.
‘Man! Henrick and Pete, you’re never gonna believe this!’
He photographed the crocodile from every angle, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Click. A close-up of its eyes. Click. Its protruding teeth. Check the focus, watch the light, mind the glare of the sun. Click. He placed the camera on the end of its nose and photographed its flat head down the length of its snout, the bullet hole resembling a Cyclops’ eye. Click. He took shots of its claws, its feet, its solid muscle tail and the ridges which ran along its back like armour-plating. Click, click, click.
What a magnificent, beautiful creature – this is awesome!
He worked swiftly in the heat and stepped back a few paces to photograph the crocodile in its entirety. With shock, Albie realised he had just two pictures left on the film.
Hey, what about me? I’ve gotta be in the picture too, or no-one’s ever gonna believe this. I’ll get the pipit AND I’ll have the croc too!
He spotted a thick, sturdy stick, and in a thunderbolt moment conjured up the perfect trophy picture. Straddling the creature’s neck and with enormous effort, he pulled up its dead weight top jaw, digging his fingers into its nostrils, like a bowling ball. He used the stick to prop open the croc’s jaws.
Still snickering to himself, Albie rigged up the camera on a thirty second self-timer selection and placed it on his rucksack about fifteen feet in front of the crocodile. He checked the focus and adjusted its position once more before bounding back to crouch next to his quarry, his gun raised. Albie beamed for the camera. Click. Just one shot left.
He peered into the crocodile’s mouth which revealed a neutral shaded aperture about the size of a garbage can. A germ of an idea began to formulate in Albie’s mind.
Henrick, you are totally right – I am acting weird. What I’m about to do is the weirdest most bizarre thing I’ve ever done in my life!
He flung his t-shirt and hat onto a thorny acacia bush and stripped down to his boxers. Then he returned to the camera and switched on the timer, this time for 60 seconds. The countdown was on and he knew he had to be quick.
He placed his shorts on the croc’s lower teeth to form a mat. Pistol in one hand he squeezed his slight frame into the reptile’s gaping mouth, around the stick, pushing his legs down inside its cold, slimy gullet.
This feels weird. It’s tight!
Avoiding the stalactite rows of teeth on the upper jaw, he giggled as his limbs descended. Air farted its way out of the croc’s throat and water spurted around him as he forced his body deep inside. From his waist downwards, he wedged himself into the gut of the primeval creature.
Fuck! It’s cold!
He raised his lower arm in a kind of salute to obscure the stick from the camera. Unable to move, his skin began to smart, but he managed to smirk into the lens. He waited …Click. The camera whirred as it automatically rewound the film.
Right, let’s get the fuck out of here. Wow, this is difficult.. I can’t move at all! Fuck! I’m stuck! Agghh! I’m trapped in a sodding vacuum…
Unable to wriggle or gain a purchase in this vice-like grip, he pushed with his feet further into the crocodile’s stomach. Acid started to seep along his legs, searing into his epidermis.
Help me, somebody help me!
Albie panicked and struggled, embedding himself further in the crocodile’s gripping, acidic gullet. He couldn’t breathe. Like a boa-constrictor the dead creature was pressing the life out of him, squeezing air from his stifled lungs. The sun was hot, burning down on his head as he choked a weak shout to the wilderness, unheard by human ears. His arms and shoulders flailed against the upper teeth of the crocodile, sending rivulets of blood from the lacerations down to his hands and onto the gun he still clutched in his fist. Flies buzzed and crawled. Then, as his crushed lungs and heart felt as if they would burst, a dizzying throb pulsed in his temples.
This is it. I’m dying. What a shit way to go.
Albie’s head fell forward, unfeeling, unseeing, slicing his chest on the croc’s sharp lower jaw, as he fainted.
Time passed and the birds returned to the lake shore. His next recollection through blurred sound and distorted vision was of a black man tapping him on the nose. He spoke to Albie, mouthing words which were drowned out by warped buzzing noise in the middle of Albie’s brain.
Who is this? Oh, the pain! Please, please get me out. Save me!
The words raged inside his head, but he was unable to speak. Albie eased open his other sticky eye. Behind the man, he focused on a safari guide and a cluster of concerned individuals in a Land Rover. He could make out bobbing long-lens cameras of tourists. Despite the stinging agony of his skin and his compressed predicament, Albie’s thoughts immediately and irrationally switched to his latest threat.
Fucking twitchers. I really hope they haven’t seen the albino pipit.
The black man called to the safari guide and together, like two burly midwives, they hauled Albie’s limp body from the crocodile’s digestive tract with an audible suck. The black man hoisted Albie over his shoulder and waded into the lake where they both collapsed. Gently he rubbed Albie’s blistered skin, washing away the acid. The safari guide returned to the Land Rover, and holding his rifle, guarded the men as they lay in the shallows. Albie opened his mouth to scream, but managed a silent retch before unconsciousness, once again, brought blessed relief.
He was startled from his morbid torpor by a rhythmic clattering somewhere on the ward, followed by a bang as a pan was dropped on the floor. His subconscious, numbed by the painkillers momentarily transported him back to the buzz of the bush and the firing of the pistol. The same blonde nurse popped her head around the curtain.
‘Hey Albie, there’s a guy here to see you from SABC News. He’s most insistent and he’s got a crew with him. I’ve tried to get rid of him, but apparently the whole world’s crazy about your story – you’re gonna be on television! Although it is theft, somebody took your film from your camera, developed it and passed it to the media. It all happened very fast, but the picture of you being devoured by the croc has been wired around the world. You’ll be in the papers tomorrow.
You’ll have to smarten yourself up, and learn to grin again, Albie. Here, let me hide these tubes under the sheet. I’ll puff up your pillow a bit, like this, yah? C’mon Albie, smile!’
His mouth went dry and he felt the hard lump in his throat again. He stayed still as his sedated mind fought to find a way to escape the media.
‘I’ll bring the TV people in, yah?’ He remained silent.
‘Hey Albie, look! The reporter gave me a copy of the picture from your camera.’ She reached into her pinafore pocket and thrust a photo onto his upturned hand. But Albie lay still, staring at the ceiling.
‘I’ll go and get the TV crew.’
‘No! Wait!’ But before he could stop her, the nurse vanished into the busy ward to collect his unwelcome visitors.
Still doped from the intravenous drugs Albie glanced at the photograph the nurse had placed in his hand.
Standby for world humiliation. What a domkop! What an absolute, total, cretinous idiot.
He brought the photo closer – there was something else.
Holy shit! No, please don’t let it be! NO!
There, perched on a piece of wood sticking out of the mud, slightly to the left of the crocodile’s head in Albie’s trophy shot, was the only albino short-tailed pipit on the African continent.
© Purple Sofa 2016
Purple Sofa 