Melissa Haynes - Learning to Play with a Lion's Testicles

My chariot comes to an abrupt halt.

The Drill Sergeant leans out his window. “Would you kindly shut up, Madam? We are looking for buffalo, and your screeching—that I dare say is worse than a Hadeeda—will not exactly entice them to come forward.”

Yeah well have you seen your butt lately? Cuz if you had you’d probably think you were looking at the rear end of a rhinoceros. If only my castle had a guillotine.

“Why are we looking for buffalo?”

“Deworming. Have you ever de-wormed a buffalo?”

“Of course not. And why do we have to de-worm wild buffalo?”

“Storm, all the moisture, it’s precautionary,” he says matter-of-factly.

The Drill Sergeant stops the truck and gets out of the cab. In his hand is a large syringe. It is nearly as long as my arm. What am I supposed to do with that? Do I have to sneak up on a buffalo from behind and… oh, disgusting, I can’t do that! Maybe we inject them by mouth? But how does he expect me to get a syringe in a buffalo’s mouth? Maybe I’ll have to inject it subcutaneously into a layer of muscle. But where, and more importantly, how do I do that? What if I get pulverized into smithereens? I won’t do it. I refuse. I don’t have to do anything. This is preposterous, and tantamount to mutiny!

The Drill Sergeant climbs up into the back of the truck and begins separating piles of Lucerne.

“You can’t make me do this,” I say stubbornly. “It’s a little out of range you know.”

His voice is tinged with his usual annoyance. “What are you talking about now?”

“You can’t make me inject a buffalo. I will do most things, but I am not going to do that.”

“Well do you think you can inject a pile of Lucerne?”

I blink. “Inject Lucerne?”

“Yes, Lucerne.”

“Well I didn’t know, I…”

“When the buffalo come, throw one bundle to each buffalo. Think you can handle that?”

I nod.

“Are you ready?” asks the Drill Sergeant, who is now comfortably back in the cab of the truck, smoking a cigarette.

I draw out the medicine and quickly inject each stack. We wait, but there is no thundering of hooves, no ambush from the sagebrush, no buffalo to be seen or heard. We wait in silence.

I try to think of something to say but nothing comes to mind. I could tell him about my victory, but he’d think I was trying to prove something to him. I could tell him why the death of the hartebeest affected me, but we don’t have those kinds of conversations. Heck, I’m just finally starting to understand him. And he’s all over the place; one minute he has incredible insight, and the next he’s acting like a Neanderthal. He’s too complicated. I can’t understand what he says half the time, anyway.

“Here they are,” the Drill Sergeant whispers. “Wait until the first one gets here, then start throwing it. Only one stack per buffalo.”

The first buffalo races up to the back of the truck, catching me a bit off guard. I try to throw a heap past him, but he ducks and weaves in perfect sync with my moves, and I can’t get it past him. He’s getting frustrated waiting for me to throw it, and so is the Drill Sergeant.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” the Drill Sergeant yells.

“I, uh, well, he won’t move.”

I throw a pile at him quickly to avoid further insults from the Drill Sergeant, but the dang buffalo tries to catch it. The pile gets stuck on his horns. He is still trying to shake it off just as the next buffalo arrives. I lean forward with my rake to try and knock it off his horns.

The Drill Sergeant puffs on a cigarette, and watches in disgust. “What the hell are you doing with the rake? Throw the Lucerne!”

I throw the next pile at the second buffalo, but the first bull gets to it first. I have to get the stack off his horns so he doesn’t eat the other one’s food. I try to use my rake again, but am quickly surrounded by buffalo.

The second bull tries to eat the Lucerne off the first buffalo’s head. The first buffalo takes it as an assault and charges back. I throw another pile to try and break up the fight, but this just causes more chaos. The third buffalo takes a head butt to the rear from the second buffalo that is running away from the first. The Drill Sergeant flicks his cigarette out the window, shaking his head.

I throw another pile, far away this time, to try and separate the gluttonous beasts. I continue throwing piles quickly, and as far as possible.

Observing the frenzy that is taking place, it is obvious that our strategy—or maybe just my execution of the strategy—is not going as planned. Each buffalo is eating the other’s Lucerne. The first buffalo is still wearing his dose instead of eating it, and the fattest one seems to be eating everyone else’s. He’s probably going to overdose. The Drill Sergeant’s face is now a light shade of purple.

I laugh. “How do you de-worm a buffalo anyway?”

“It’s a lot easier than the final jobs I have planned for you before you leave us,” the Drill Sergeant says through clenched teeth.

It has only been two days since the storm has passed, but already the mud is hardening and the ground returning to its former parched state.

The wildlife has come out of hiding. Herds of springbok, a few hundred deep, are seen leaping across the weary roads as a new energy fills the air.

The ellies frolic in their watering hole that is now overflowing in mud. Selati rolls in the luxurious brown goo, and appears to be smiling. Even Kittibon looks happy.

The hormonal rhino is quick to get back to work, trotting around his territory in muddy breeches and a muddy snout marking the perimeter to keep out trespassers.

The giraffes stand together chewing in rhythm, as though nothing has happened. The storm’s only lasting effect on them is knee high socks of mud.

Today we’re driving a real game drive safari vehicle. Poor old Harrison is back in the shop again. We’re perched in my favorite spot, the upper ridge, where we can see everything below in the valley. The Drill Sergeant and I never speak much, so it’s a given when we sit at this spot that we won’t disturb one another with idle conversation. That is at least, until today.

“There’s a good game on tonight. South Africa’s playing—8 o’clock,” the Drill Sergeant says unexpectedly.

“Oh.”

“Do you have any plans tonight?” He asks while looking out the windshield.

What plans could I possibly have? Tent reorganization? Laundry in the camp sink? Haggling with Mama Magda?

“No.”

Still looking out the windshield, he mumbles, “Well, if you want to come and watch the game, I could pick you up.”

What’s going on? Is the Drill Sergeant asking me on a date? I have never felt more awkward than I do right now. Why the hell do we have to be having this conversation here—in our peaceful place—where I never have to worry about trying to make small talk? And after all this time, now he decides I may want to get out of my tent camp and socialize?

A twig snaps. The brush rustles. The Drill Sergeant holds his finger up to his lips, motioning me to be silent. Thank God for whatever it is. One more minute of this awkwardness, and I’d puke. The noise grows, but ever so faintly. The source of the sound is moving towards the edge of the brush.

She eventually reveals herself, a female Kudu. Kudu are easy to find on five star menus, but not so easy to find in the wild. They are timid and elusive, especially the male, thus earning him the nickname, the Grey Ghost.

They usually travel in herds of females with one male at the center. When they move, the females always lead the way, ensuring the safety of the male, who will not move until he knows it’s safe. I’ve never seen a male kudu in the wild.