Full credit to Kevin Broomberg for writing this down, sending it to me, giving me permission to publish it, and putting up with my simplistic edits.
Here in the urbancrows e-rookery we get a lot of comments about the blog. Granted most are spam bots, or messages from lonely ladies in Russia offering me pictures of themselves au naturale if I just click on a link (which is very nice of them), but every now and then something I write attracts real comments from what I believe are real people. Strangely, I got the most comments after I published the “Field Dump” story, which either 1) tells us something about the human obsession with the act of coiling a rope, or 2) highlights a worryingly low level of maturity in geologists’ humour. Or perhaps both.
To date, I hadn’t received a comment that was compelling enough to make me want to publish it as a full post. They’re mostly short anecdotes, or nice feedback that might add texture to a story, but they lack sufficient detail to make the cut.
That changed the other day thanks to my new mate Kevin Broomberg in South Africa. Kevin’s note pushed all the right buttons for me. He spun me a tale about what happened to him and a few colleagues when they met a rather ornery 8ft tall death chicken. The ripping yarn included dangerous wildlife with nasty big claws, misplaced avian sexual desire, and a remote field camp -how could I not publish it? The only thing missing was zombies (which I wasn’t able to write in to the tale, try as I might.)
So, with his permission, a few of his photos and a bit of editing, here’s his true story about a randy ostrich that made life very difficult for Kevin and his crew. Full credit to Kevin for this piece. I’ve done some editing but it’s 99% his work. Sadly, he tells me all the photos he had of this poultry incident (sorry) were fried in a shipping container which baked in the sun for 4 weeks during a move from Dar es Salaam to Johannesburg so we’re having to make do with whatever pictures we could find.
Sex With Giant Chickens
Kevin’s story concerns the giant, flightless, black and white birds we know as Ostriches, which also happen to be the fastest things on 2 legs other than a student chasing a free pint. We’ve all seen them skulking in pokey zoos, or on a David Attenborough program on the BBC -Sir David gazing meaningfully at them in his khaki hat as they strut around the Serengeti. And yes, some of us have also eaten the rather delicious steaks that they kindly provide (guilty!). But I’ve never had a run in with one in the field, which is just as well because they’re not nearly as cute and feathery as Sir David would have us believe.
Kevin was part of a crew working on orebody definition for a mineral sands project on the west coast of South Africa. It’s a stunning part of the world: Icey cold South Atlantic waters breaking in big rollers on windswept beaches covered in chilly looking seals. Other than that, there wasn’t much in the way of wildlife to bother them -a few snakes perhaps, and the odd seagull doing its best to shit on them- but field life was safe and good, helped along nicely by a diet of fresh caught crayfish and cold beers.
However, (cue ominous music…) on the eastern side of their project there lurked a large, male ostrich that I’m going to call Fluffy.
The Handbook Of Malevolent Beasts
African field geologists are taught to identify the common poisonous snakes and the nastiest bugs and what to do if they bite you, but in the summer of ’89, the humble ostrich had yet to show up in the field training guide to malevolent animals.
But, training or no training, there the bird was, and it wasn’t going away. While logging RC drill chips, they would sometimes see Fluffy hovering* around but he never came too close to the rig due to the noise of the diesel engine and puffing of the compressed air. He usually blended into the background and they ignored him. (*Not wanting to split hairs here Kevin, but strictly speaking ostriches are incapable of hovering; just saying mate.)
One sunny day, Kevin’s boss arrived along with the Chief Geologist from the National Geological Survey office for an industrial tourism visit. They had a VW Combi Synchro -a new 4-wheel drive from VW- to ferry the crew from the camp to the nearest town which was 80km away. The camp itself was a thing of beauty, perched just above the rocks next to a small beach on the coast.
The team plus visitors drove out onto the orebody, stopping along the way to take in the view, and scope out the amazingly dull interesting sand that made up the ore body. All very pleasant. And on the way back, they stopped to examine an outcrop of a particularly hard layer found just below the aeolian sands which they thought might be problematic when mining eventually kicked off. It was while they were all banging away with their hammers that Fluffy made his first serious foray onto the scene, and he wasn’t entirely happy.
Red Legged Bastards
Kevin tells me that in the breeding season, the front of a male ostrich’s legs turns bright red as the birds get hot and horny and very territorial, and I have no reason to doubt this rather alarming fact. He happened to notice that the legs of this particular specimen were a very bright red. Anxious to avoid any unwarranted attention from the bird, they kept a close eye on it, but continued hitting rocks. Which is when Fluffy charged them, only to pull up about 10m short in a state of obvious confusion.
As the ostrich mulled over what the 2-legged, kinda birdy pink things were that had strayed into his ‘hood, cock blocking him with whatever it was he was trying to shag, the crew took the opportunity to jump into the truck and close the sliding door. The boss started muttering darkly about “not being able to view his orebody due to a bloody bird.”
It was then that one of the visitors realised he’d left his amazingly valuable hammer on one of the outcrops. But with Fluffy circling the combi about 10m away, looking for something to attack or fuck, nobody in the cabin appeared interested in getting out to retrieve it.
Like me, you might be thinking that this is the point at which normal people would’ve gone home to watch Coronation Street and have a nice cup of tea. But not our Kevin and the boys. They were made of sterner stuff.
Remember Your Bush
Ever resourceful, Kevin remembered hearing from someone who’d heard from a mate, who’d read it in a book from 1890 that a bloke in the pub lent him, that holding a bush above one’s head makes ostriches feel intimidated and it would pack its bags and leave. Yes, a bush. Brilliantly simple in a horticultural sort of way, so long as you can find one and have enough time to pick it.
Again, this is where Kevin and I would perhaps differ in our approach to the situation they found themselves in, after all it was only a hammer. The natural response would be: “I’m not setting foot out there with bird-zilla for your hammer. Get your own bloody hammer.” But no, our Kevin -overcome by an adrenaline surge of misplaced bravery – decided to take matters into his own hands and volunteered to exit the nice, safe truck to retrieve the tool.
Look After The Kids Darling
Taking a deep breath, and quickly scribbling a note to his wife asking her to take care of the kids and feed the goldfish, he hopped out of the combi, broke off a small Namaqualand shrub, and held it high above his head. Lo and behold, Fluffy took a few steps back. Kevin walked towards him, holding the precious bush in the air, yelling “Ha, ha, ha” in as menacing a way as you can shout the word “Ha” while holding a small bush. Which is not very.
The bird kept backing away, never coming closer than 15-20m or so. Feeling very powerful -a newly minted ostrich whisperer- and still holding up the bush, Kevin inched his way around the vehicle to the outcrop and found the very important hammer. Fluffy came a bit closer. Kevin was now 25m from the combi and the bird was 15m from him in the opposite direction but remember -only one of these 2 animals has a deserved reputation as the fastest thing on 2 legs and it definitely wasn’t Kevin.
Safe under the cover of his cunning bush, Kevin decided it was time to walk towards the vehicle, which was the moment the bird was waiting for; the idiot thing holding the bush above its head was obviously running away, so Fluffy charged.
Kevin dropped the bush and darted towards the combi, just with his boss waiting helpfully to slide the door closed the moment he got in. He dived through the shrinking gap in the door, smashing into the other side of the combi, and ended up lying across the laps of the visitors, shaking like a leaf. The ostrich was left peering through the glass, trying to figure out how he was going to mate with the animals inside if he couldn’t get to them.
Phew.
After the usual hysterically-relieved laughter that follows any close shave, they decided that the outcrop, silicious or not, was not worth the hassle and went back to camp to drink beer and whatever other antifreeze they could find. And so ended the tale. Or so they thought.
Some months later, a geophysicist headed into the same spot, properly kitted out for bush work, to undertake a magnetic survey. One of Kevin’s team took him up to the orebody and oriented him with the survey grid, which is when they saw Fluffy, who’d started his circling shit again to impress a new audience of potential sexual partners.
Kevin warned the geophysicist about Fluffy but was assured by the visitor that he had worked in the Kalahari, and he knew all about ostriches. Really. It’ll be fine. And with that, and no health and safety issues to worry about, he got his magnetometer out, and set to work. Kevin headed back to the old farmhouse that doubled as the regional office.
It Didn’t End Well.
If there’s one thing I remember from my limited experience with geophysical instruments during a 3-week summer job in Scotland, it’s that animals love them: they are shiny, strange objects with lovely yellow and red cables that have to be nibbled, sucked, or trodden on. They are animal magnets and I’m guessing ostriches are no exception.
And so it was, thirty minutes later, a cloud of dust approached the camp from the east -a truck being driven at high speed- and a rather shocked geophysicist tumbled out, white as a sheet, bleeding. His leg had been ripped open and the calf muscle was hanging loose. The crew bandaged him up, and drove him to the hospital, where he remained for about 5 days.
As he’d started his work, Fluffy had circled him but since the geophysicist knew all about them, he paid little heed until the beaky bastard attacked at speed. An ostrich has massive talons which they use as highly effective weapons. With a downward swipe of their feet, they rip their foes open, as Mr. Geophysicist found out when the death chicken’s first lunge tore his leg open and severed his calf muscle.
He dropped to the ground, bleeding and his bush jacket, which had been draped around his neck, fell alongside him. The frenzied ostrich started trampling the annoying bush jacket, giving him a chance to salvage something (his life) from the dangerous situation. Thinking that his time was up unless he acted, our man found the strength to stand up and grabbed the bird by the neck, wringing it and killing it. Kevin and the team found the carcass the next day, next to the ripped-up pieces of bush jacket. Kevin tells me that he’s particularly enjoyed ostrich biltong (jerky for you north Americans) ever since.
The moral? Very simple and definitely not philosophical. Don’t fuck with randy ostriches. Treat them with the respect that they deserve.
And Remember..
I love fried chicken, so please send me some KFC if you have a moment. If you can’t, if your local shop is closed for the day, the next best thing is for you to sign up and subscribe to my blog using the feathery subscription box at the top of this page. I’ll be sure to send more dangerous animal stories from time to time, hand coated in the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices and served with that weird bright green chopped up stuff they try to pass off as coleslaw.