Everyone shifts into emergency mode. Rastaman tries to douse the fire by spreading reeds and stomping on them. Frederick has arrived with a hose and is standing on the edge of the pit, showering it with water. The Drill Sergeant is in the pit, trying to bring peace to what is now a war zone. Even Mother Nature has joined the firefight by pelting the ground below with giant raindrops. Despite our efforts, the fire is spreading quickly.
Smashing the burning reeds with a rake and stomping the flames into the mud, I keep one eye on the croc in case he bolts. But he doesn’t. He isn’t going to come out, is he? It’s the perfect time to get a close-up photo of a crocodile. I’ll never be this close to a crocodile again, while in a fire pit, with explosions going off all around me—this really is an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I pull out my camera, zoom in on his fangs, and just as I snap the photo, the camera jerks as the mud swallows my feet. No one has seen me yet, so I can still take another shot without being seen and scolded. I take another shot, but upon reviewing the screen, I see that the smoke has made it blurry. This won’t do.
Snap, snap, snap, I lean from side to side and forward with a newfound flexibility because my legs are heavily anchored in place. The mud swallows my knees.
Satisfied, I put the camera back in my pocket and pull my leg, only it doesn’t budge. I pull again, this time putting my hand on the ground for extra leverage, but the mud quickly swallows it up as well.
Mother Nature has unzipped all the clouds above and in only a few minutes the once-puddles have now turned into pools. I may need help. Everyone’s consumed with putting out the fire, which is almost out. I try again to pull myself out, but my legs won’t budge.
The crocodile inches to the edge of his cave. Shit, he is coming out. The scent of my panic is too alluring for him.
Each time I try to dig my legs out, they just sink deeper. I look back at the croc and again, he has moved out further. Their strategy on land is to skulk and freeze, skulk and freeze, all the while their prey has no idea that the statue is getting closer, but I know he is getting closer. I have photographic evidence in hand of where he was just minutes ago.
That croc is going to get me. Frantically, I pull at my legs, they don’t budge. I can’t dig myself out. It’s hopeless.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” An elf-like cackle tumbles from Fredrick’s mouth. Standing at the rim of the pit he drops to the ground in hysterics. What the hell is he laughing at? Why isn’t he helping me? Can he help me without the Drill Sergeant noticing? Too late.
Standing at the mouth of the pit in front of me is the Drill Sergeant. He has come to rescue me. His face is stained black from smoke. His clothes are ragged and wet. His jacket has been discarded, and his dirty shirt is clinging to his muscular arms and chest.
I hate it that he can be so attractive. In this one moment he looks like a real firefighter, my hero—that is, at least until he opens his mouth. “What the hell are you doing taking pictures at a time like this? Serves you right if that croc snaps your arms off. Maybe that would teach you some common sense.”
“Well who acted like a kamikaze with the petrol bombs? We wouldn’t be in this position if you weren’t a madman!” I scream.
“Well then, get yourself out,” he says, turning away.
“Wait!” He wouldn’t dare. “I need help, I’m stuck.”
The Drill Sergeant’s glare stains my cheeks red. Thank God they’re masked in black soot.
“Come on then,” he snarls.
Rastaman holds onto the Drill Sergeant’s legs as he leans down, and offers me his hand. The pit has nearly flooded around me, it’s too dangerous for anyone to get in. I take hold of his hand, and after a couple of powerful wrenches, he pulls me out. When my legs are free, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls me up the mud wall and drags me across the wet and muddy grass. Rastaman’s laughter joins Patrick’s.
Even through the thick black muck on his face, a dark purple shade of anger is visible. He looks more pissed than the now-homeless crocodile. I am a mud-covered fool. The crocodile survived, and was moved to another pit.
It took us eight hours to clean up what was left of that crocodile pit the next day. The Drill Sergeant never even uttered a word to me the entire time, but there was plenty of laughter amongst the rangers.
I hung my head low and tried to silence their laughter. I imagined I was in the middle of a war-torn country, parachuted in as part of an international rescue effort to rebuild this part of the world after man (rude, rhinoceros-butt caveman) had destroyed it so callously. It wasn’t hard to imagine this while knee-deep in charred remains (even if it was only one rat), black soot, and slimy, fuel soaked muck. I tied my bandana over my face, forming a pseudo-oxygen mask that helped to eliminate the smell of poisonous gasses, but that didn’t stop the pounding headache from the lack of fresh air. The sun had come out for part of the day, producing a hazy mist of condensation that transformed my fellow aid workers into robotic silhouettes digging and clearing the aftermath of devastation.
My cleanup tool was a pitchfork that was missing its center tongs. Each load I lifted was heavier than any dung ball of Kittibon’s. In fact, the pit cleanup made the stable cleaning feel like a holiday.
15
Tree Planting
“Have you ever been tree planting before?” the Drill Sergeant asks.
“No but I’m willing to give it a shot.” Sounds like a relatively clean job. It can’t be any worse than the croc pit cleanup.
There’s a break in the storm, but the forecast for the coming days is grim. It’s the coldest, wettest winter on record in this part of South Africa. Clean-up efforts have been slow and difficult. Even getting around the reserve is challenging because road repairs have been suspended until the storm has completely passed.
“We’ll just stop and fill the tire on the way to the lion camp,” the Drill Sergeant says.
Harrison’s left rear tire is near flat again.
“Lion camp?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s where we’re tree planting,” he says with his usual air of indifference.
“Where will the lions be if we’re in there tree planting?”
“In the camp, of course.”
In the camp? In the camp? Just driving through the lion camp to deliver a carcass is a terrifying experience. Going in with a perpetually flat tire with the intention of getting out of the truck to plant trees—without a weapon, I might add—is just plain ridiculous.
“Maybe we should take Cruiser instead?”
“Cruiser is on another job.”
“But the tire—what if it goes flat when we’re in the lion camp?”
The Drill Sergeant huffs a dismissive sigh.
“Is anyone else coming with us?” The more rangers, the better.
“No.”
Everything I have done up to this point now seems easy compared to this. Even tolerating the Drill Sergeant is easier than this. I’ll do anything, anything at all, as long as it’s not in the lion camp.
Since the storm hit, most of the wildlife has gone into hiding, but not the lions. The lions have been especially active since the storm, and their growls and roars can be heard all night, every night, even from within the concrete walls of the common area. They are charged up from the storm.
Reforestation of this land is a big part of the conservation effort. Hundreds of years of farming have destroyed most of the trees. However, reforestation is difficult and mostly unsuccessful for many reasons. First, there’s no soil to speak of; it’s just dried up, cracked, and hardened clay, an obviously inhospitable environment for planting. Secondly, there’s the drought to consider. Saplings need lots of water to survive, so water has to be brought in. At the reserve, this is a method that is basically one step up from carrying it in a vessel on one’s head. Water is transported in rustic containers that have been filled at the watering hole in a far corner of the reserve, then loaded into the back of a pickup truck, where it endures a long and arduous bumpy ride. Whatever’s left by the time it arrives at its destination is given to the saplings.