Hlongwane has been burning firebreaks for 30 years. Sixty years old, and he’s seen it all. It’s a chilly June morning at the top of Keartland’s Pass, and a phalanx of fire warriors straggles up with fire beaters, water-packs, and paint tins full of petrol and old mealie cobs. The sub-induna has the privilege of carrying Hlongwane’s backpack, complete with little wheels and a picture of ‘Mickey Mouse and his Friends’.
Hlongwane shouts at his friends all the time. This is the only way his orders can be heard above the roar of the furnace that precedes us as we make our slow way along the Sunset Trail. I think, also, that he finds it easiest to keep his rabble of arsonists in check under the cosh of his constant, booming voice. When he uses his walkie-talkie, he signs off with an ‘Out!’ that would scare the living daylights out of any fire-god who’d dare have impure intentions today.
Smoke billows in enormous clouds, and the heat sears at anywhere closer than throwing distance. Occasionally, the wind shifts and flames approach, like a swarm of bees that has seen something that bees like a lot. Hlongwane never hesitates: at the first sign of a contrary wind, he barks like a Baskerville hound, orange overalls run around like madmen, and the fire is out. A short breather, the wind dies down, and we’re off again.
Eventually, we reach the
We have no time to admire the vista; the fire is turning down to the north and we need to rush over the ridge like lemmings to stay ahead. If I had time to think, I’d be wetting myself, but we make it. When we reach the bottom, and the fire is out, my knees begin shaking – how they do this every year and never have any accidents or injuries is a mystery.
I look back up the mountain, seeing the neat firebreak all the way down. It is strangely and immensely satisfying to see. Hlongwane looks too, and then smiles at me. ‘How are you, Sir?’
‘I’m glad you’re old, Mickey,’ I say.
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