Yeah-eh-eh, my veld is on fire.
That’s not quite what the Kings of Leon sang, but it could be close enough for the East Rand. There is just fire EVERYWHERE. I look out into the distance and there are plumes of smoke scattering just about every horizon. And it’s really windy, so it just looks worse.
I don’t know what it is with the people here, but surely having a mullet does not automatically make you a pyromaniac. Or does it? I don’t know. Actually, there might be some corrolation.
Near every fire has been a man with a mullet driving a Nissan Champ bakkie (which, I can say with all confidence is the official vehicle of the East Rand. I think every Dutchman gets one the day they turn 18). There they stand, hand on hips, staring into the flickering orange flames and plumes of black smoke. And they’re all smiling, with a somewhat manic look in their eyes as the mullet flicks about in the wind imitating the fire.
I shouted to the one guy: “Hey, bro. What are you doing? Isn’t it dangerous standing so close to a blazing veld fire?”
He replied: “Nooit, boet. Don’t for come here wiff your good English speaking voice and tell for me what are a dangerous. I are can eat danger for breakfast.”
“Um… Okay, dude. I’m going to leave now. You’re creeping me out.”
He smiled, his tooth glistening in the sunlight. Eyebrow raised, I turned up the volume: “Yeah-eh-eh, the Dutchman’s on fire.”
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