The Snap Shot

The Snap Shot This was self published in August 2007 in a collection of my short stories.

THE SNAP SHOT By Annie Harrison 22nd February 1991, South Africa The dermatologist at Johannesburg Hospital shook his head slowly from side to side, whistling through his teeth. He raised the dressings and examined the welts and burns that wove their way up and around Albie’s legs and groin like melted candle wax. Albie winced as the nurse checked the intravenous drip on his arm. His grimace detracted briefly from the rictus downturn of his mouth, his sole, immovable expression. The shadows under his eyes contrasted with the fright-induced pallor of his skin, giving him the visual persona of a glum clown. So deep was Albie’s misery that the pillow beneath his hair was soaked from the steady trickle of tears from his dull, staring eyes.

“You are a very lucky man indeed, Mr Van Rijn, but you also know how foolish you have been, don’t you, eh? You will survive this, but your skin will never recover. We’ll have to do grafts onto your legs and you’ll have permanent scaring on your lower body. Another hour and you would have literally dissolved, man. Did you know that of all the creatures roaming this planet, none has more concentrated levels of hydrochloric acid in its stomach than the crocodile?”

His disdain was absolute, compounding Albie’s feelings of turpitude and regret. Snatching at the yellow curtain surrounding Albie’s bed, the doctor left

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The Snap Shot him to wallow in his self-pity and consider his invalided future. The 22-year old lay inert, subsumed with melancholy, watching the noisy ceiling fan rotate methodically. Clang, clang, clang, clang. He tuned out from the relentless shouting and clatter of the ward with its cloying stench of disinfectant. He lay hypnotised by the opaque flutter of the rotation cast against the fly-filled strip light above his bed.

In this sterile environment, his thoughts turned to Kurt and Fenyang, the safari guide and driver whose quick thinking and strength had hauled him from the shadow of death. He resolved to track them down and thank them personally for saving his life, one day. One day if he was ever discharged. One day if he had the courage to face the world and unburden himself from his shame. The thought of his release from hospital forced a choking gasp through his misshapen mouth, and retriggered the well of tears. Prone and still, he stared at the whirring fan, replaying in his mind the tragi-comedic events that had conspired to leave him scarred for life and were turning him into a short-lived tabloid celebrity.

*** Albie was camping alone in the Krugersdorp reserve. He had gunned his motorbike in a trail of dust across the bush, some ten miles south of Ravenstone Park Lodge to arrive at his chosen spot for his weekend of solitude. He had aimed for the tallest rocky outcrop he could see on the horizon and this one was blessed with a flat top. After an initial reconnaissance he dragged up the contents of his panniers, staked his tent

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The Snap Shot and emptied charcoal into a brazier. From this safe vantage point Albie presided over the bushveldt and a narrow lake – a perfect place from which to capture the wildlife on film and take in the pungent aromas and cacophonies of the wild. Relishing this temporary solitude and the abundance of the landscape, Albie communed with nature and set about perfecting the art of bushcraft, far removed from the artificiality of his urban existence.

Although rested, Albie didn’t sleep a wink all night. In the darkness, the bush had come to life and his solitude only sought to enhance the surrounding noises rising up to the outcrop – the thudding of big feet, growls, snorts, cackles and splashes from the lake below. Above, the stars were bright and abundant in the black of night, like a spill of Kimberly diamonds on soot. Smells too, were accentuated by the chilly air – an earthiness mixed with musk, dung, blossom and putrefying mud. Albie was electrified by the his vulnerability with just the dying embers of a campfire, a personal alarm and a horse pistol for protection. And no one knew where he was. No one.

At sunrise, he sat mesmerised by the wildlife which has congregated at the water’s edge. He watched as vapour drifted along the oily surface of the water in the coolness of the dawn, as the bushveldt rustled itself awake. A staccato clanging noise emanated from a creature hidden in the bush, dominating the hubbub. Clang, clang. Clang, clang. Wattled cranes were joined by hadeda ibises and black collared barbets. Grey loeries swept in for a quick drink and he spotted hornbills, hoopoes and a lilac-breasted roller. A lone Burchell’s coucal scratched around a tree, before taking unexpected

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The Snap Shot flight. He glimpsed a lithe flash of leopard, camouflaged against the shoreline, slinking back into the veldt. The colours were strong and sharp, the sounds busy and crowded. He perched on his rock, peering through binoculars, swapping them at intervals for his camera and consulting notebooks. Albie was in heaven.

By midday the sun was high and scorching. Albie decided it was time to relight the fire, brew more Rooibos and flex his stiffening legs. Taking a plastic container and slinging on his holster, he scrambled down to the water’s edge to refill his billycan, simultaneously rotating and walking, ears and eyes straining to check for signs of danger. In his laceless tennis shoes, he squelched across the heavily imprinted shore and scooped up the container with cloudy water. He noticed that, at present, all the wildlife on his side of the lake had vanished. As he turned back towards the rocky outcrop, he sensed a shift in the nature of the lakeside. A sound behind him. Plop. But nothing moved, nothing changed. The hot, potent air created an anticipation, a prelude to … something.

His scalp prickled with fear and he eased the pistol from its holster and cocked it. He stood stock-still, nostrils flaring, mouth dry, his heart thumping like a djembe drum.

Albie didn’t have to wait long. In an instant the mud appeared to erupt as a tonne of nile crocodile lunged from the silt at the water’s edge in a darting zigzag towards him from just thirty feet away.

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The Snap Shot

In his heightened state of alertness Albie’s reflexes were lightening quick. He lined up the pistol, his arms outstretched and pulled the trigger. A single bullet was despatched at close range, straight between the eyes of the reptile. Appearing to flip as its legs gave way, the dirt brown, archosaur slewed into the mud at his feet. A thousand birds scattered into the haze at the sound of the gunshot reverberating around the bush. Albie stood panting, shaking and still holding the handle of the water container in one hand, the smoking pistol in the other. A trail of tepid mud dripped onto his eyelashes and lips from the splatter created when the colossus had crashed.

In the palpability of relief, Albie sat down on the crocodile’s back and laughed. I have averted death and pitched myself against one of the most lethal creatures in Africa. And I have won. Little Albie van Rijn from Rivonia! I have slain Goliath. I’m fucking Crocodile Dundee! He threw his head back and hooted - a bellyaching hyena laugh until his cheeks ached.

In the half hour that followed, once he had regained his composure, he busied himself examining and handling the dead beast. Albie estimated this bull crocodylus niloticus to be the combined length of three men and as heavy as a shire horse. Still chuckling, he felt its rough, plastic-like scales and knobs on its neck and tail and the creamy-green mosaic of its underbelly as he scraped away the drying mud. Its large sharp claws were black as polished jet and its third eyelids had closed over vacant, staring slit pupils. He eased up the croc’s grinning mouth, admiring the smooth overlapping fangs snagged

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The Snap Shot with blanket weed. Lake water spilled out of its jaws onto the ooze. A pair of vultures circled in readiness high above. But Albie was the only person for miles around who had witnessed the vanquishing of this monster. He had an imperative to record his conquest for posterity, like the shark-hunters who hoist man-eating catches onto the quay and pose for the newspapers next to gaping jaws. Chortling with excitement, he sprinted back up to his tent, grabbed his rucksack and camera and inserted his last roll of film into his Nikon. He photographed the crocodile from every angle. Click. A close-up of its eyes. Click. Its protruding teeth. Check the focus, watch the light, mind the glare of the sun. Click. He placed the camera on the end of its nose and photographed its flat head down the length of its snout, the bullet hole resembling a Cyclops’ eye. Click. He took shots of its claws, its feet, its solid muscle tail and the ridges which ran along its back like armour-plating. Click, click, click. Albie stepped back a few paces to photograph the crocodile in its entirety, when with shock, he realised he had just two pictures left on the film. What about me? I am the conqueror. I want to be in the picture too, or no one will ever believe Albie van Rijn’s incredible conquest. He spotted a thick, sturdy stick, and formulated in his mind the perfect trophy picture. Straddling the creature’s neck and with enormous effort, he pulled up its deadweight top jaw, digging his fingers into its nostrils, like a bowling ball. He used the stick to prop open the croc’s jaws.

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The Snap Shot Still sniggering to himself, he rigged up the camera on a one minute self-timer selection and placed it on his rucksack about fifteen feet in front of the crocodile. He checked the focus and adjusted its position once more before bounding back to crouch next to his new friend, his gun raised. Albie beamed for the camera. Click. Just one shot left. He peered into the crocodile’s mouth which revealed a neutral shaded aperture about the size of a garbage can. A germ of an idea began to formulate in Albie’s mind. Those gaping jaws fringed with teeth would make a wonderful close up. It would be even better if I could be in the picture too. If I squeeze, I could slide in through its jaws, leaving just my head sticking out. Now that would be a picture! A thorny acacia bush was the receptacle for his t-shirt and hat as he stripped down to his briefs. I must hang on to my pistol, just in case, and my canvas shorts will have a role to play in my cameo. He returned to the camera and switched on the timer. The countdown was on and he knew he had to be quick. I mustn’t screw this up. He placed his shorts on the croc’s lower teeth to form a mat. Pistol in one hand he squeezed his slight frame into the reptile’s gaping mouth, around the stick, pushing his legs down inside its cold, slimy gullet, easing open the thick skin valve that prevents water from passing through the crocodile. This feels weird. It’s tight! Avoiding the stalactite rows of teeth on the upper jaw, he giggled as his limbs descended. Air farted its way out of the croc’s throat and water spurted around him as he forced his body deep inside. From his waist downwards, he wedged himself into the gut of this primeval creature. It’s so cold! He raised his lower arm in a kind of

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The Snap Shot salute to obscure the stick from the camera. Unable to move, his skin began to smart, but he managed to smirk into the lens. He waited …Click. The camera whirred as it automatically rewound the film. But when he came to ease himself out, Albie realised he had become trapped in a vacuum. Shit! I can’t move. I’m fucking stuck! Help Unable to wriggle or gain a purchase in this vice-like grip, he pushed with his feet and his left foot pierced the pyloric sphincter at the entrance to the crocodile’s stomach. Strong acid started to seep along his legs, searing into his epidermis. Help me, somebody help me! Albie panicked and couldn’t breathe. Like a boa-constrictor this dead creature was pressing the life out of him, squeezing the air from his stifled lungs. He choked a weak shout to the wilderness, unheard by human ears. His arms and shoulders flailed against the upper teeth of the crocodile, sending rivulets of blood from the lacerations down to his hands and onto the gun, which he still clutched, limply. Flies buzzed and crawled. Then he passed out. His next recollection, four hours later, was of a lean black man tapping him on the nose. Albie eased open one sticky eye and saw a blurred cluster of concerned individuals in a safari Landrover behind the man, peering anxiously. The man called in English to the safari guide and together they hauled Albie’s transuding body out of the crocodile’s mouth. Like two burly midwives the men heaved Albie’s limp, bleeding torso from with an audible suck from the crocodile’s digestive tract. The black man hoisted Albie over his shoulder and waded into the lake where they both collapsed. Gently he rubbed Albie’s loose, blistered and partially digested skin, washing away the

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The Snap Shot acid. The safari guide in the Landrover, holding his rifle, guarded the men as they lay in the shallows. Albie open his mouth to scream, but managed only a silent retch. *** Clang, clang. Albie was startled from his morbid torpor by a rhythmic clattering somewhere on the ward, followed by a bang as a pan was dropped on the floor. His subconscious, numbed by the painkillers momentarily transported him back to the buzz of the bush and the firing of the pistol. A starched nurse popped her head around the curtain. “There’s another guy here to see you. This one’s from the PA and he wants an interview. They’ve developed your film and you’re famous. The picture of you being devoured by a croc has been wired around the world. You’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.” She looked at Albie pityingly, smiled and vanished into the busy ward. He exhaled wearily at the inevitability of a media circus and cast his mind back to his rocky outcrop. Right now, it would be glowing with the heat of the day and the lake would be still and dark. The sun would be dropping behind the horizon of wind-blown thorn bushes and rocks. A flamingo sunset would be spreading across bushveldt. By now, the carcass of the giant crocodile would be ripped apart and consumed. The creature at the top of the food chain would have slithered to the bottom, now providing nourishment to a different strata of life. Another day passing in the African bushveldt. Clang, clang.

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The Snap Shot Another tear rolling onto the pillow. Plop. Another photo opportunity too far. Click.

Based on a true story.

© Annie Harrison

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