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Crossing the Divide
- amabooks
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34 Crossing the Divide Derek Huggins The rains had come. Good soaking rains. The road through the veld of the Sabi North was awash with water and puddles that had lingered after the latest cloudburst. The atmosphere was heavy and charged with electricity. Far away, thunder was still knocking around in the heavens. But it was cooler and that was a relief for Greg Stanyon. He was heading for his camp at the disused ranch house on Wiltshire Estate after a night at the Enkeldoorn Hotel. He was hungover from the effects of beer and cigarettes. He’d had a good time, drinking lager and playing poker-dice for the next round with the distinguished, greybearded hotelier and a crowd of Afrikaner farmers. It had been expensive, but at least it had relieved the boredom of his lonely patrol. During the long drive the country changed from the pale rainwashed fields of the Tribal Trust Lands to the undulating grasslands of the ranch where cattle grazed contentedly. The transformation was immediate. Drumming over a cattle-grid, Stanyon saw a group of men on the road ahead and instantly slowed down. They wore overalls and several had sticks in their hands which they were using to poke at something small and dark at the side of the road. As they did so, they jumped back, as if in fear, but laughing, while clutching at each other. As soon as they heard the vehicle, they stood still and watched him approach. Stanyon braked hard and skidded to a stop. He put his head out of the window and said, “Mangwanani. What’s going on?” There was no reply. “Ini indaba?” he asked again. Still there was no answer. He was even more curious. He got out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Crossing the road, he passed through the gathering to see the object of their amusement. And there, on the verge, was an owl, a big bird, tawny brown with saucer-like eyes and pointed ears. It stood motionless with an air of seemingly cold detachment. One wing hung useless and the trailing feathers touched the ground. Stanyon turned to the men. “Why do you tease the bird?” he asked. There was no reply. 35 They looked uncomfortable and averted their eyes. “Why are you teasing it?” he asked again more coldly. Then, leaning quickly forward, he pulled the stick away from the hand of the nearest man. There was no resistance but the man looked startled. “Hey, come on,” he challenged. “Answer me.” He poked him in the chest with the stick. “We were playing,” answered a tall man in white overalls. “Playing?” the white man said contemptuously. “Yes,” said the foreman. “It was only a game. The zizi looks polite, but he becomes very angry when you get close to him.” Stanyon looked at the owl, which remained stock still. “Look,” said the foreman, “I will show you.” He extended the stick he was holding towards the owl. The bird swelled its breast feathers, hissed loudly and struck out at the stick. “That’s enough,” Stanyon warned the man angrily. “The game’s over. Leave it alone. And as for the rest of you, get back to your work. Go on. Hamba.” The men turned away, meandering across the road to the fence line from where they regarded him sullenly. Stanyon studied the bird. Then he went to the rear of the Land Rover and returned with his sleeping bag. Unzipping it, he approached the hissing owl, cast the bag over it and ensnared it in its folds. Gathering up the bundle, he hurried back, arms outstretched, deposited it on the floor of the vehicle and closed the door. He got in and started the engine. He looked at the men as they tightened the wires of the fence. “Boss up!” he shouted to them as he drove away. Arriving at his base, the rain came on heavily and he ran for shelter, leaving the owl buried under his sleeping bag in the back of the vehicle. It was in the afternoon that he returned and backed the vehicle close to the low veranda wall. He got out and opened the rear door and reversed another foot or two. Then he went into the house and returned with a broom. Going to the side of the Land Rover he extended his arm through the window and pulled the sleeping bag clear. The owl stood his ground. Stanyon...