Spud - Learning to Fly (22 page)

Pike’s back from suspension. He seemed to be in high spirits because he chased Meg Ryan’s Son along the cloisters with a screwdriver. Whiteside halted Pike’s rampage and asked him why he was in the vicinity of the house. Pike gave our head of house the middle finger and disappeared through the archway with a sneering face.

Exams begin tomorrow. Seven days of hell coming up!

Swatting fever is upon us. The school is like a morgue as everybody crams in as much useless information as possible. Tempers are frayed and Garlic has been banned from asking questions because Rambo says it undermines school spirit. Boggo is also grafting extremely hard for a man claiming to have illegal copies of all our exam papers.

Overall, I’m not too worried about anything except Maths, which has to be the most pointless subject ever conjured up by educators.

Wish me luck!!

Can’t write much because my hand is throbbing from seven days of furious scribbling. My right hand has taken on the appearance of a nasty claw, riddled with paper cuts and badly chewed down nails. My handwriting is completely shot and my brain is so heavy with jumbled facts and figures that it has to be rested on a soft pillow at all times. The thought of our Crazy Eight bush experience has seen me through from the beginning. I feel ready to set free my inner monster.

Mad Dog called and asked to speak to Rambo. Rambo spent nearly an hour on the line to Mad Dog and scribbled down a series of notes on the back of an exam pad.

Apparently Mad Dog was hugely relieved that Sparerib hadn’t been smashed to death with a brick. Rambo assured him that he was fine and that everything had been smoothed over. Mad Dog said he’s been having sleepless nights about the Crazy Eight being gated for murdering Sparerib.

Great news is that Dad Dog has come up with a surprisingly brilliant idea. In return for working one day on his citrus farm, we don’t have to pay a cent for our holiday. All we have to do is sign a temporary worker’s slip and Dad Dog will write our holiday off to tax and simultaneously schnaai the tax man! Dad Dog is even sending down a truck to pick us up from the bus stop in Johannesburg.

Fatty and Boggo weren’t very impressed with having to labour on their holiday, while Garlic was so excited about the idea of farming that he lost control and asked three questions in quick succession and was promptly hurled in the fountain.

Mad Dog says we are certain to have the best week of our lives and he’s hidden two crates of beer and a carton of cigarettes in a secret location for an almighty thrash in the bush.

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 appeared 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.