To be or not to be?
Man it was sure not a snap decision to be a celebrity. It
just sort of fell at my feet – fame was flung and postcards printed. Camera
clicks … my enigmatic smile … my perfect jaw line … my glistening orthodontics
… a skin to die for … a torso toned and triggered. Guess that makes this dude
an icon … in water and on land.
The game begins.
Decisions … decisions will have to be taken. Mine or yours? Backwards or
forwards? Linear or profile? Who first? What’s best? When’s right?
I’ve heard it all in the last few months and then some.
Facts and fantasies of the guide as she shepherds the tourists beside my
vantage spot, their eyes agog.
“Do you know his descendents can be traced back 200 million
years?”
Dudes the family
resemblance is uncanny.
“Did you know his family have been worshipped?”
Fear and respect
inspire legends.
“Can you guess his weight? His speed? His vital statistics?”
The banal assumes
elevated status.
The golfers are more pragmatic.
“Does he return the golf balls?”
Beware, oh my voyeurs. Myths are rooted in fact. Wisdom has
it that my family are guardians of knowledge. Remember to respect that wisdom
lest it swallow you whole. Artists have immortalised my family as symbols of
sunrise and fertility. My ancestors grabbed the foolish and ate the guilty
without a trial.
Ignorance will not
protect you from certainty.
Because that’s what we crocodiles do … and have always done
… for the last 200 million years … and are likely to keep doing unless you dumb
humans kill off the planet.
And just for the record – I’m called Atta Gatta, I’m four
metres long, weigh 100 kilograms, and my best time on land is 17 kilometres an
hour. Although I am prepared to admit the chance of my running for any longer
than five minutes is extremely unlikely. Celebrity dudes like me prefer to
pose. Especially as these marketing-savvy, politically-correct,
flora-and-fauna-conscious kebabs on two legs at the golf course have
constructed a palatial lake as my home away from home.
“Water hazard or what!” those golfers say as if it was an
original joke.
Want to get into the
water and say it direct?
Golfers and crocodiles have more in common than you might
think. Focus is our motto, timing our creed. A golfer locates the target and
fixes his gaze, all the while assessing distance, ground covered and potential
obstacles to the flight of that ball. Crocodiles target their location and gaze
upon their fix … obstacles can be opportunities. A water hazard to a golfer is
but a portent to an Atta Gatta.
Golfers and crocodiles admire strength – the golfers to
swing and hit their object of desire, crocodiles to grab theirs and run. Our
tools of the trade may differ (golfers use clubs and crocs have teeth), but we
both know that we have to be precise, measured and accurate to score. Both of
us play against ourselves … to win.
Concentrate – one
wrong move and it’s splash – but not a birdie!
I first noticed the little girl when she crawled into a
clump of bushes beside the water hazard. Brave of the kid, tooth-pick scrappy,
limbs with no flesh, tangled curls, big eyes with bigger questions. She carried
a chicken with long golden feathers tucked under her scrawny shoulder, its
staccato head pecking a 180 degree trail as the kid walked.
Hey feather–brain, the
gods look after each other. You are not on my icon list.
But the kid didn’t offer me the bird. She stroked its
crested crown and gently massaged its trembling wattle. She lifted its wing and
nudged its head under before folding the wing over. But the kid didn't offer me the bird. She
stroked its crested crown, gently massaged its trembling wattle, lifted its
wing and nudged its head under.
Is that a yoga
approach to fowl calming?
A sort of bird-brain chicken that lost its head but saved
its beak. I liked that. Showed respect … even if I wasn’t going to get a
chicken wing bite … so to speak.
The girl rocked the chicken like a pendulum. It went silent.
So did she. But her eyes stayed fixed on mine. I blinked. Let her know I was
watching … and waiting. She blinked back. The chicken kept swinging.
Check, honey, your
move.
Crocodile chess is not a game for an amateur. Humans boast
that they have their memories. Human brains may be larger and more complex. But
we crocs have patience evolved over megatime … DNA coded … watch and wait. We
know if we wait long enough you humans become careless. Dangle a limb over the
side of a boat to cool in the water. Take your eye of the ball. Forget to check
behind you.
Patience is the patron
saint of reptiles.
The girl moves closer. The chicken remains silent. I blink –
fast.
Her move.
She winks – slowly.
My move.
I leave the starter block. The jaws are tight. I roll twice
in the water. The kid tries to scream. The scream becomes a gurgle. Marinated
chick-kid equals check-mate!
Uncertain certainty… a
sure thing … dead right.
Crocodile tears you call them. Me Me, I put them down to
indigestion. Feathers and femurs are an eclectic starter. What’s that adage?
A bird in the bush is
worth two … chomp, chomp. …
“Hey Graham, knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” replies Graham, the golfer.
“Chicken,” says his partner.
“Chicken who?” says Graham.
The golfer has lost his ball. He’s convinced it’s not in the
water. He heads towards the bushes.
New game started.
“Chick-en the bushes,” says the golfer. They laugh.
Pawn to king dude.
Take-away to rook.
A celebrity croc won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Food parcel to check mate.
Nothing but death is certain.
So agree crocodiles and golfers.
“You got Marguerite a present yet?” asks Graham.
His partner shakes his head and says, “I need to find
something exotic for that arm candy of mine.”
“And expensive,” says Graham. “She’ll expect the unexpected
– big time, big bucks.”
“Such as?”
“Diamond-studded handbag made from elephant-scrotum –
perfect for your girlfriend.”
“Gross,” comes the reply. “Graham, you’ve got a seriously
sick sense of humour!”
Candy is dandy when it
don’t make you sick.
Children scream from behind the bushes … the golfers rush
forward … a grand finale!
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