Spud - Learning to Fly (23 page)

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,’ sniggered 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.

Swam in the water tank, drove a tractor (Mad Dog controlled the gears and I steered), shot rifles, chased baboons, picked about a million oranges and didn’t stop laughing at Mad Dog all day. Not bad for a hard day’s work on the farm.

After we had knocked off from our day’s labour, we each had to sign a form in Dad Dog’s office to say that we were temporary workers on his orange farm. It all felt highly official and manly to be working on the farm and signing employee forms. In fact my first full day’s work wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. If the acting thing doesn’t work out I could always while away my days steering tractors, picking fruit and chasing greedy apes with Slapgat, Bakgat and Drollie.

9:30 Mad Dog waited until his mom and dad had driven off to Tzaneen for supplies before making his move. He unlocked his father’s office and sat in the black swivel seat behind the desk. Then he picked up the telephone and carefully dialled a number.

‘Watch this,’ he said.

He flicked a switch and the ringing tone sounded through the loudspeaker.

‘Who are we phoning?’ asked Garlic.

Mad Dog raised a finger to his lips to indicate silence and we waited for something to happen.

‘Hello?’ said a high-pitched boy’s voice that sounded oddly familiar. Mad Dog didn’t say hello back. Instead he said:

The sound of bangs and movement on the other side of the line. Then followed grunting, puffing, and Runt’s breathy voice slowly counting upwards from five. I wasn’t initially convinced that Runt wasn’t bluffing Mad Dog, but then we heard his elbows clicking repetitively and the mass hilarity started. We were rolling around on the carpet clutching our mouths while Mad Dog shouted menacing encouragement like an army general.

After Runt was done, he sounded on the verge of death and tried to quickly sign off but then Rambo jumped in and shouted:

Boggo was seething. The more we mocked him, the more enraged he became. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen Boggo so angry. He paced around the room kicking the air and said if Runt were present he would shoot him in the balls with Mad Dog’s rifle.

‘That’s quite a small target to shoot at,’ said Fatty, but Boggo wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

‘In fact, I’d bet good money that Vern has more authority than you do,’ added Rambo, who was clearly loving Boggo’s public humiliation.

‘Twenty bucks!’ shouted Boggo and thrust out his hand.

‘Twenty bucks!’ echoed Garlic in alarm.

‘Twenty bucks,’ agreed Rambo and shook Boggo’s hand.

Mad Dog leapt up and began dialling again. The laughter and mockery subsided as an uncertain Vern stepped up to the desk and dramatically cleared his throat.

‘Make him run on the spot,’ whispered Rambo to Vern and thumped him on the back. Vern nodded and then furiously licked his lips.

The ringing tone at the other end of the line continued but there was no answer.

‘He’s playing cat and mouse,’ said Mad Dog.

‘Keep trying. We’ll eventually smoke him out,’ said Rambo.

Mad Dog tried again and this time a woman answered in an angry voice.

Vern said nothing and his face began to redden.

The woman hung up. Boggo snorted dismissively and accused Runt’s mom of being a racialist.

Before the argument could continue Mad Dog shouted, ‘Follow me, buggers!’ and tore out the office, across the lawn and down towards the orange trees.

While Mad Dog, Vern, Fatty and I dug for worms among the orange trees, Rambo and Boggo settled their argument with a nasty fruit fight. Rambo won, although Boggo managed to thunder a ripe orange into the back of Rambo’s head, leaving his hair caked in orange juice. It didn’t take long for us to fill two tins with wriggling earthworms before Mad Dog led a charge towards the storeroom to find fishing rods and tackle. He then set off at a steady sprint for the dam with us once again galloping behind, desperately trying to keep up.