Rastaman is already in the pit, slicing through reeds effortlessly, making it look easy. Rastaman’s real name is Denver, but everyone calls him Rastaman because he is Rastafarian. He’s quiet and keeps to himself; to this day, I’ve never heard him speak. I don’t even know what language he speaks since here in South Africa, it could be one of dozens.
The pit is ten feet deep and overflowing with thick, straw-like reeds. In some spots, the water is high, but in others, it is just mud. Getting into the pit is like trying to get into an empty swimming pool with no shallow end, steps, or ladder.
Instead of making a fool of myself by attempting to get in this pit, I’ll pass some time by taking some photos. This way, I can look occupied while I see how the rangers get in and out. They don’t offer up any help though, they just leap in and out like frogs; it must come from years of practice. I’m not even going to attempt to do it the way they do, since it would only lead to one thing: disaster.
Frederick and the Drill Sergeant are in deep conference over the pit, trying to work out the best plan of attack, as though this is a complicated undertaking. It’s pretty basic to me, it’s nothing more than a glorified weeding job. There is nothing exciting about it. They both light cigarettes, which is my cue that it will be a while before anything happens.
This is the perfect time to make my move and attempt to get in the pit, while everyone is preoccupied. Perhaps if I go backwards and slowly lower myself over the edge, I can kick my feet into the mud to form a crude ladder. The idea’s good, but on the first “rung” my foot slips and is unable to get a stronghold in the wall. I change legs and try the other one instead, but it yields the same results.
The rangers are still in deep consultation. They’re probably just buying time so Rastaman and I will end up doing most of the work. I’ll have to lower myself down as low as I can go and then drop; it’s the only option. Later, I’ll worry about how to get out of this dungeon of mud. It’s a bit of a drop, but I make it without falling on my butt or slicing off an appendage with my machete.
The reeds are taller than I am, and I can’t see the ground or anything below my waist. This is worse than wading through tidal pools of seaweed forests. This is Africa, so anything could be down there. What if there are snakes in this pit, swimming, poisonous, “thirty-five-minutes-until-death” snakes?
Don’t look down. I am not waist deep in water. There is nothing in here. There are no snakes in here. What if there is a snake in here? Will I ’be able to ruthlessly chop it in half? Eeeeekk.
How do they know there are no crocs in here? What if there is a croc in here? They must have checked. They wouldn’t send me in here if there were any chance a croc was here, would they? Maybe this is all part of the Drill Sergeant’s plan. Maybe that’s why he’s pretending to be busy with the Keebler elf.
Stop obsessing.
I’m not obsessing.
This is a serious concern.
No, it’s not. Just do the job and get the hell out of here.
I whack, chop, slap, and kung fu the reeds. Sometimes the machete slides off the muddy reeds, but most of the time it makes contact and cuts them down easily. With each fallen reed, my morale grows. Yahoo! I can’t see anyone around me. The reeds are too high. Their presence is evidenced only by the familiar ting as their machetes make contact.
Soon, it becomes methodic and almost relaxing, and all thoughts of crocodiles and snakes have been chopped away. After a couple of hours, no reed is left standing. We rake and stack them into one massive pile of sludge. Another conference of cigarettes and Afrikaans slang is underway to decide what to do with the reeds. Do we load them into the trailer and take them to the dump? Do we just pull them out and leave them on the side of the pit? Maybe we should use them as filler to repair the roads.
The suggestion that garners the most support on this relatively boring, cold, and damp morning is to burn the bitches. That’s right. The rangers decide the best course of action to take is to burn this wet pile of waste.
The Drill Sergeant strips a reed down to its core, flicks his lighter, and holds the flame to the frayed ends. After several seconds, it miraculously starts to burn. He turns it upside down like a match and crouches down. Leaning forward, he holds it deep into the pile of wet reeds. Is it going to spark? Will it burn? Is it just my imagination, or does the Drill Sergeant resemble a rhinoceros from behind?
All eyes are on the miniscule glow. No one dares to breathe for fear of blowing it out. Oh no! The flame disappears into a whiff of smoke. Cigarettes are lit for round two of the powwow.
The Drill Sergeant jumps, clapping his hands. “Yes!” They’ve had a stroke of genius. Frederick skips to the maintenance shed.
A few minutes later, he reappears holding a small plastic petrol pump dispenser and a large backup canister of fuel. He jumps down into the pit and ferociously pumps petrol over the reeds, soaking them. His blonde locks are tossed, his eyes are tiny slits and a giddy laugh escapes his lips. He looks like an elf gone mad, crazed with his petrol pump.
The Drill Sergeant is standing by, wearing a huge grin on his face. He strips another reed down to its core, lights it, and this time holds it in a petrol-soaked pile of reeds. Will this tiny flame grow into a raging fire, or will it just fizzle out like its predecessor? The rangers are determined to see its success.
They look like cavemen who have just discovered fire. Each one taking turns gently blowing on the flame, coaxing and willing it to grow. Drops of petrol are added—tiny drops, flirting with the flame, enticing it to ignite. Crack! Pop! The flame races across the reeds. The cavemen jump up and down, and their excited grunts echo through the pit. Snatching the petrol pump from each other, they fight for control to douse the fire with petrol, and each time the pile explodes into flames. BRATATAT.
The sky above becomes thick with black smoke that can be seen for miles away.
The small petrol pump is discarded for the big gun, the backup canister. Frederick dumps fuel directly onto the flames, transforming the pit into a blazing inferno. It’s impossible to see anything through the smoke. Likewise, the air is polluted with burning dampness and the stench of fuel. Clean air no longer exists. My nostrils are burning, and my eyes are tearing into blurriness from the fumes.
This doesn’t slow them down, it only encourages them. They’re mad, completely mad. More and more fuel is added to the fire. The rangers are out of control, drunk with adrenalin, each one of them fighting to hold the canister and the power it contains. KABOOM! The flames are thirty feet high. My skin feels like it may start bubbling off. KAPOW! It’s out of control.
“Crocodeeeel, Crocodeeeeel!!!!” Rastaman screams at the top of his lungs—he has a voice, after all.
What? The Drill Seegeant and Patrick fight their way through smoke and flames to follow Rastaman’s voice. Pulling my bandana over my face, I follow. There, in the corner of the pit, is Rastaman, holding up a clump of long grass with his pitchfork. Underneath of it, in a small primitive cave is a gigantic king crocodile.
“Holy shiiiiiiiiiit!” Everyone screams in chorus once we realize the enormity of our actions.
“Get this fire out! Now!” the Drill Sergeant orders.
This entire time, I’ve been working in the thick camouflaged reeds, unable to see below my waist, unable to move faster than a snail, even dismissing my own legitimate concerns, there has been a giant fang-filled crocodile amongst us, and he is pissed. His yellow eyes are squeezed into slits, and his jaws are slightly open, ready to defend his territory. We have just destroyed his home right before his eyes. We could have just removed the reeds, but no, the cavemen decided to set fire to this king croc’s castle, hammering it with endless rounds of petrol bombs, reducing it to nothing.