Kakapo - a short story

The wreck of the Kakapo**

Kakapo, Kakapo…
The words drifted towards me on the breeze, wrapped themselves around my shoulders and breathed into my ears.
Kakapo…
I gazed along the vast expanse of white sand as it shimmered beneath the morning sun.
Kakapo… Come…
The pull was strong. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the rusted hulking outline of the old wreck buried in the sand.
I glanced over my shoulder before turning to gaze at the sea. Sunlight, like a broken necklace of diamonds, lay scattered over the rippling, undulating surface. Beyond the line of the breakers the surfers bobbed on the current. Josh and Sam were also out there somewhere, waiting for the perfect wave. They’d be there for hours, and today lying on the beach held little appeal.
Kakapo…
I turned my eyes back to the shimmering sand – the wreck was a twenty minute walk away. I started towards it.
Yes… Kakapo… Come to us…
The voices were dry and ancient, rustling like aged parchment tossed about by a restless wind. They pulled me ever closer, drawing my feet through the silk of the sand as it rolled between my toes.
I could feel them waiting for me, hovering around the wreck, their gauzy wraithlike forms just visible through half-closed eyes.
Don’t look at them, my instinct warned me, don’t become ensnared in their ancient dreams. They’ll hold you to them, lure you into their sandy grave.
Yes, come to us...
The voices sighed, filled with longing
I forgot where I was as trudged steadily towards them, the sky a vast expanse of blue above my head, the mountains surging upwards towards it. Surreal world. Who knew where reality ended and dreams began. I remembered how my father had warned me of quicksand on the beach, had terrified me of tales of being sucked into the earth to a watery grave. Yet I walked on, the sun warming my skin and bathing me in a golden glow that made me unaware of the chill breath that momentarily swept down from the dune scrub.
I drew closer to the wreck, trembling at the thought that I would soon be close enough to stroke its rusting flanks, to whisper words of comfort to the souls that lingered around it.
Kakapo…
“Hello gorgeous…”
The rough, guttural voice jerked me from my reverie.
A guy was sauntering towards me – not alone, several others followed in his wake, flowing from the bushes on the dunes.
My heart quickened and my palms grew moist. I glanced around. Not another living being for miles around – just the expanse of the beach stretching away towards the mountains, the ocean crashing against the shore. And the ghosts of a hundred departed souls waiting for me.
“Lovely lady…”
They drew closer, encircling me, hands in pockets. I saw the flash of steel. Felt the tremor of the chase ripple through them.
Kakapo…
The ghosts moaned, straining at their bonds.
She’s ours…
But the young men were oblivious to them. They had no truck with the forgotten world beyond the veil. Theirs was the time of now and the state of lustful hunger.
I drew myself up tall, turned back the way I had come and stalked through the circle of my tormentors.
“Walk with us.”
Come to us…
Save yourself.
The young men ebbed and flowed around me, a tide of man-eating crabs, waiting for a moment of weakness.
Don’t run.
I walked steadily, my head held high, bristling with projected indignation.
If we cannot have you, neither shall they…
The men closed in, joshing amongst themselves.
“Lekker chickie.”
“Nice legs.”
“Hey, sexy lady…”
I heard the groans of discontent rise up into a chorus and felt a sudden icy wind at my back. Spinning round I gasped as a black stallion sprung from the dunes and galloped towards me. Its mane streamed in the wind, nostrils flared, eyes burning.
The men scattered, shrieking obscenities, stumbling over one another to get away as the horse careered through them.
My heart pounded a primal drumbeat in my ears and my breath escaped in ragged gasps.
The stallion whirled, sand flying beneath his hooves. He reared up and leapt away , charging towards the wreck, veering right just short of it and plunging into the dune scrub from whence he had come.
I grabbed the moment of opportunity, spinning around and taking off, ignoring the call to glance over my shoulder. As my feet flew over the warm velvet of the sand I heard, in the distance, a pale cry.
Kakapo…


The story above is based, in part, on a real incident, in part, on another personal experience. You can read the actual story of the wreck of the Kakapo here and see pictures of it here.

These images are of the beach where the incident took place. If you enlarge the picture below, you may see a small "dot" in the middle distance, which is the wreck of the Kakapo.



** The picture at the top of the story is nicked from HelgaRainbow's photostream on Flickr and has been "doctored" by me.

Welcome to my Africa

Rwanda... Darfur... Congo... Zimbabwe... South Africa... the city where I live... my neighbourhood...
Insanity prevails. Violence ravages. Respect is a little heard of thing. Life may be taken for one pound or less. I'm sick of pretending. Hoping, wishing that everything will be okay, is okay. It's not. It's broken. Maybe we can blame colonialism. But ultimately, whatever our pasts, it's up to us in the here and now to put things right. And we're not. There are those who are intent on consistently preying upon others. Those who like the terror that threat and violence brings.

Tell me... Have you ever had to think about how to kill someone? Really? Have you ever wondered whether you'd even be able to do it? Probably not. It's not what nice, normal people living in relatively sane societies have to do, is it? Tonight I've had to think about how to kill someone. It makes me feel as though I am tormented by a thousand devils. Makes me hysterical. Only I can't afford to be hysterical. I have to be sane enough, rational enough to protect myself, save my life - and that may mean taking the life of another. Welcome to my Africa.

Six hours ago I was driving home. Minding my own business when I noticed a delivery van had driven up behind me and was edging closer and closer. I took a good look in my rear view mirror. Two guys. Watching me. Okay, I thought, they don't look too friendly. But they probably just want to get past me. I couldn't change lanes - the other lane was backing up with slower traffic. So I accelerated a little. They acclerated. I put my foot down and took off. I've learned to trust my intuition and it was screaming at me. "You're being followed." No. I don't want to be followed. I'm being paranoid. "No, you're not." I know that voice. I made the mistake of not listening to it once before. I zipped in between two trucks in the slow lane, nearing my offramp. The van pulled into the same lane. I pulled onto the offramp. They pulled onto the offramp. I headed right to turn into the arterial road. They headed right. Came up right behind me. Watching. It was the watching you see. It was intense, predatory. Blank masks of faces. Staring. Eyes boring through me. Why me? What had I done? Had I somehow offended them? What did they want? My pulse started to race. You're being paranoid, I told myself again. "No, you're not. They're following you." But why, why would they follow me?
I took a small gap between two oncoming cars and shot across the intersection and bolted up the road. They couldn't make the gap. They had to wait. Then there they were, 500 meters behind me. Two cars between them and me. They veered across the road, back, across into the pedestrian lane. Watching. Keeping an eye on me, making sure they didn't lose me. I didn't dare pull off into my road. Keep going. Drive somewhere public. You'll know then if they're following you. I got caught in traffic at the traffic circle. They moved closer. I sped away. They followed - the quarry well in sight. At the next traffic circle I turned left, pulled into the parking lot of the small local shopping centre. I ducked into an empty parking bay. Watched. There they were. They'd turned into the parking lot too. They were looking. They spotted me. Drove over... slowly - edging closer, stalking the prey. Watching. They drove up behind me, inching forward, paused behind my car, peered into my vehicle - at me, edged on again, creeping forward. The beast waits to pounce. I locked my doors, sat, waited... I couldn't see them, the huge SUV next to me blocked any view. But I knew they were there. I could sense them, feel them... Rank scent on the breeze. The van appeared behind me. Stopped. Waited. I waited, my heart beating in my ears. What did they want? Why me? What was going to happen next? A guy appeared at my window. Round face, wraparound shades. Thickset, stocky.
"I want to talk to you."
"What to you want?" I sounded aggressive, take no shit, take no prisoners. Don't fuck with me.
"I want to buy your car."
"It's not for sale."
He watched me, smiled - a narrow soulless gash across his face. He nodded. Was it knowingly? He moved away. Got back into the van. I couldn't have left if I'd tried. He was blocking my exit. I waited. He edged forward. Nothing for it. I got out of the car. Walked to the supermarket. Lurked behind the flower stand. Watched. They drove level with the supermarket. Stopped. Waited. Watched me. Looked back, watched my car. One took out a mobile phone. The other scribbled something on a piece of paper.
I need to get their registration! The thought flashed into my mind. Determined, I stalked towards them. They saw me coming - took off. Swept out of the parking lot. Gone.

But see, here's the thing. Here you trust no one. Everyone knows a man who knows a man. They might have my registration. They might be able to get my home address. They might come back. I don't know.
I drove home the long way round. I didn't know where they might be waiting, if they might be waiting.
Tears trickled down my cheeks. I was too afraid to be angry. I felt so disempowered. So threatened. I'm tired of the stress. Sick of the fear. This is no way to live. This is rank insanity. This is how we all live. For some it is so much worse. Traumatic stress disorder is a part of our lives. Welcome to my Africa.
This is not my home. This is some strange and violent war zone where terror lurks around every corner, in broad daylight, at night. I am not African.
The burglar alarm is armed. The doors are locked, the security doors bolted, the windows shut, the burglar bars in tact. My can of mace stands ready. My pepperball gun is armed. I know I have to aim at the base of the nose. This will blast the nasal membranes which will shatter and drive up into the brain... Welcome to my Africa.
It is time to say goodbye.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the internet.)