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

I nod my head in agreement and begin tossing rocks again. The pain in my back has disappeared, along with my previous beliefs about the Drill Sergeant being sub-human. He’s not as much of a Neanderthal as I once thought he was.

When the truck is finally full, I climb in the back, this time balancing myself upon the rocks. I see him looking at me through his side mirror. I’m looking at him, too.

We arrive at a section of road pitted with grooves so deep that even the game vehicles could easily snap an axle if they attempted to drive this route. They’re full of mud at least four inches deep.

The Drill Sergeant reverses to the edge of the first deep groove. It’s going to take several truckloads. Crap. Nothing is easy in this place.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask.

“The main thing is to make sure you lay the rocks flat so no sharp edges are pointing up, otherwise they’ll pop a tire.”

The Drill Sergeant throws the rocks down to me, while I place them like bricks, careful not to let any sharp points stick out. This work is a lot easier than the load up. I’m working as fast as I can to keep up with the speed in which he’s throwing rocks to me. He tosses the rocks just outside of the grooves, so they don’t splash me with mud.

“How come there’s no machinery here to do this?” I ask.

“In South Africa, we do things the way they were done a hundred years ago.”

“That’s obvious, but why?”

“Because we have no money.”

I never thought I’d be rebuilding a road by hand. It’s hard work, but healthy work. There was a time when I may have thought this kind of work was beneath me, but not now. Now, I am rising up to the new challenges that are given to me each day.

“Ouch!” I shout, while gripping my finger, trying to snuff out the sharp pain from a stray rock thrown by the Drill Sergeant.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a cocky smile.

Soon we’re back in the rhythm of placing rocks. I’m completely engrossed in placing a particularly difficult stone when I hear the Drill Sergeant let out a long slow whistle. He’d better not be looking at my butt again. I look up, but it is not my behind he is whistling at. Just a few feet in front of me, in between the truck and me, are the mama and baby rhino.

“Stay put,” he whispers.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand erect. “What do I do?” I whisper, without letting my lips move.

“Don’t panic. Just relax.”

Easier said than done when there are a couple of tons of horned prehistoric beasts beside me.

I’ve failed at one of the very basics in survival training when working on a reserve, I let too much distance get between me and the truck, and I’m in a crouched position, making me appear weak to the wildlife. If I try and make a run for it, it will look like I’m challenging them. Instead, I have to be assertive without appearing intimidating. I’m not supposed to move or make eye contact. I’m screwed.

My thighs are burning and cramping. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. My hands are sweating inside my gloves. My mouth is dry. My breath is fast and shallow. My body, against all my conscious internal commands, is showing every sign of anxiety possible, instead of behind relaxed and assertive.

The mama rhino breathes heavily through flared nostrils, creating puffs of swirling dust. She stomps her feet and shakes her head back and forth. Her rage is building. She is about to erupt. Her three-hundred pound baby mimics her, stomping and huffing and puffing. Little shit. The Drill Sergeant will save me; he always saves me. Why the hell isn’t he saving me?

Rhinoceros have poor eyesight, they’re almost blind, and rely heavily on scent, instead. If I throw some rocks in the other distraction, as per Melanie’s technique, I may be able to distract them long enough to get away.

My idea comes too late. The rhinos rush. I cover my head and the ground stirs under the weight of the dusty duo. I can’t run even if I want to because my legs are cramped, and the pair is too close. The rhinos storm past me just barely out of arm’s reach.

The Drill Sergeant is shouting from the back of the truck. “Run, get in the truck, go, go, go!!!”

I can’t move. Damn you, legs, MOVE !

“Get up, woman!” he shouts again.

“I can’t, my legs won’t move.”

“You have to stand up. Move. Now!” he shouts louder.

I pry my legs up and against all odds began to run towards Harrison.

When I reach the tailgate the Drill Sergeant grabs me from under my arms and pulls me into the back of the truck. I scramble over the rocks to the cab of the truck to catch my breath, and look for the rhinos.

It is not me the rhinos were charging. On the opposite side of the road is the hormonal male, and in their ongoing turf war, Mama and Baby are chasing him—not even noticing, or perhaps just not caring that I was crouched down in a gulley before them.

I give myself a once-over. My legs feel like overcooked noodles, but I’m otherwise unscathed.

“Why don’t we switch for a bit?” the Drill Sergeant says, jumping down to the ground, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That was incredible, they came out of nowhere. It happened so fast.”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen anyone turn so white so fast before,” he laughs as he begins placing the stones.

“No, I mean it. That was incredible. I’m not afraid anymore… of anything!” I’m filled with pride.

“You got lucky. It was chance, nothing to do with skill,” he says easily.

I throw the rocks quicker and he places them just as fast—it’s quickly turning into a competition. I carefully choose a large stone and wait for the opportune moment when the Drill Sergeant is completely distracted and unsuspecting.

Plop, splash , the rock lands in the mud puddle right below the Drill Sergeant’s face and splatters him from forehead to chin with mud, dripping from his eyes and the end of his nose.

The Drill Sergeant doesn’t even wipe his face. Instead, he whips a handful of mud and it splats right in my open, cackling mouth. My laughter is cut short as I spit out the grit that is stuck in the back of my throat and on the front of my teeth.

“It was pure luck you didn’t get trampled!” he shouts.

I choose another rock, this time bigger, and again smack it down into the puddle just below him, walloping him with another splash of mud. “It wasn’t luck, it was skill!” I shout back.

This time, I laugh with my mouth closed, as I anticipate another handful of mud will soon be cannoned at me, and it is, accompanied by the Drill Sergeant hollering. “Luck!”

I pick up a few rocks and throw them in quick sequence, spraying bullets of dirt while yelling. “Skill, skill, skill!”

He fires back, this time scooping handfuls of mud at the back of the truck. I jump down, and with both feet I dive into the pit, soaking both him and me. We both stomp our feet, splishing and splashing until we are covered from head to toe in mud, both of us in hysterics. Every time a mud bomb explodes, tension is released, and with each layer of mud that covers him, a layer of the Drill Sergeant’s tough outer shell is shed, and he becomes more human.

Seeing him covered from head to toe in mud makes me want to get even closer to him. He is becoming more and more irresistible by the day. It takes every ounce of control I have not to throw myself at him instead of the mud.

Harrison speeds down the highway in a haze of noise pollution. The rickety old trailer in tow rattles as the thousands of pieces of wire bits holding it together are stretched to their extremes with every pothole. Patrick, the ranger who resembles a Keebler elf, is in the back of Harrison, holding on for dear life with his eyes squeezed shut to prevent a hair whipping injury from his long blonde locks.