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

“No. The porcupines don’t even want this garden.”

“So what happened to it then?”

“It failed for many reasons; lack of resources to build and sustain a garden, drought, and the shitty soil conditions, of course.”

The garden project had been passed around the reserve because tending to a garden isn’t high on most testosterone-driven rangers’ priority lists. It doesn’t quite stack up there with handling lions, crocodiles, and elephants. Therefore, the project was put on the back burner for a rainy day, something that has seldom happened in the last century. The Drill Sergeant leaves as fast as he can, obviously no different than the other rangers who have no interest in this project.

The only tools to use will be the heavy, rusty, prehistoric tools in the stable. I’ve heard of planting a garden in harsh conditions before, but even the moon could sustain more life than this desolate plot.

The elephants aren’t in the stable, so there’s no risk of Kittibon spitting water or hurling branches at me. Harrison—the human, not the truck—is watching a soccer match in his quarters. Even over the buzz of the vuvuzelas (the terrible horns invented for sports fans to blow into during sporting events), I can hear his bad habit through the thin walls.

The stable looks like a pigsty. Tools are scattered everywhere, the floor is covered in wood shavings, and the wheelbarrow is still full of dung. The wheelbarrow is still full of dung… It hits me, just like it hit me across the face on so many cold mornings. Except this time it’s not whipped at me from the trunk of a domineering female elephant. Ellie dung. Ellie dung is the solution to this garden! I can’t believe there is a deeper meaning to all that dung I’ve had to endure. Kittibon can make a contribution around here after all.

The dung will hold water, be easy to plant in, and act as fertilizer. There’s an endless supply of crap here. These giants make mountains of it daily. Bless the over-worked bowels of Kittibon, they will sustain life after all!

Getting the wheelbarrow into the garden space is difficult. The Drill Sergeant neglected to tell me how to turn off the electricity running through the fence. The technique employed is to tip the wheelbarrow back so the front wheel clears the lower wire, and then going through the other side myself and pulling it through. The slightest wrong movement will result in being zapped by a few thousand volts.

Load after load after load of dung is carted in from the nearby mountain of dung storage. Then each ball is whacked and flattened into patties with the heavy rusty shovel. My arms, back, and legs are on the brink of exhaustion—this is like no gardening I have ever done before—but this garden has a much higher purpose than any other.

After many hours and countless wheelbarrow loads, the garden is coming together in the form of a deep plot of luscious-looking dung.

Just as I dump the last load of dung, I sense someone behind me. Slowly turning around, her monstrous presence shadows me.

Kittibon reaches her long trunk over the wire fence, inhaling only inches away from my head. I drop to the ground, to get just out of her reach. Under me is the pile of green tomato plants I pulled out earlier. She stretches her trunk long, getting even closer. I reach beside me and pluck a sickly-looking green tomato from the ground and offer it to the beast. She sucks it right out of my fingers, curls her trunk up in one snap, and lobs the tomato into her mouth.

Before I can move, her trunk is in my face again. I humbly offer her another tomato, and she sucks it up with even more force, repeating the process again. This time I pick up a tomato and lob it over the fence, just beside her, which gives me enough time to get on my feet and out of her reach. Selati has now joined her at the fence. There are branches and stones on the ground all around them. Is there going to be another battle?

Kittibon and Selati both raise their trunks high above their heads and open their huge, gaping mouths, revealing mouthfuls of flat, white teeth. I toss a tomato into Kitty’s mouth. Then I toss one to Selati, where it hits the target, but before he can close his mouth on it, Kittibon reaches her trunk inside his mouth and steals it.

The green tomatoes are a treat. Kittibon bats her long lashes at me. She can be so charming when she chooses to be. The Drill Sergeant was right, she is a typical female. It’s going to take more than eyelashes to get more tomatoes.

“Shake!”

Each time I said this to Kitty in the past, she answered me with a trunk full of dung to my face, defying any outside authority. Today she won’t shake either; instead she only opens her mouth wider.

“Shake.” I say it louder this time in a deep voice.

She doesn’t move, either. This is a monumental standoff, but it is nothing more than a mind game—a war of wits.

“Shake!” I yell it this time in an even deeper voice, and as I yell it, I take one step towards her.

There is a long pause as we square off with each other. Last time we did this, she broke Harrison’s face when she whipped a rock at me. But not this time. I can’t believe it. She is actually shaking her head from side to side. It’s slow and more of a half-effort, but she does it. I toss a handful of tomatoes into her mouth and then into Selati’s. This small act of sharing tomatoes signifies a colossal moment in international elephant relations.

After the final tomato is tossed to Kittibon, she strolls away without any unprovoked assaults. It’s official; a peace treaty has been reached.

With peace in place, it’s time to plant some seeds in this fertile plot of poop. There are two packages of peas and two packages of lettuce. It’s not much, but it is a starting point.

Using a discarded ellie branch, I make rows of two-inch-deep trenches. The ellie branches are then used as rustic markers at the end of each row. It looks primitive, but it fits in just fine here.

Big and round, the pea seeds are easy to plant. The lettuce seeds, on the other hand, are tiny and tedious to plant; one tiny seed in, cover it, and move on. Another tiny seed in, cover it, and move on.

Out of the monotony, a voice is heard:

“You’re not fearless.” The voice comes from deep within. It is Fear himself.

“Yes I am.”

“No, you’re not. You need me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“You need me to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?”

“From being alone. Without me, you are all alone. All those nights in your tent I distracted you. I saved you.”

“I didn’t need you. I’ve been sleeping in my tent, without you, no problem. You made me look like a fool.”

“Without me, you would have to look at yourself, and that is more terrifying than anything I have shown you.”

“This is crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You need me to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From what is growing inside of you. It chips away at your spirit and cripples you. Without me to protect you from seeing it, it would engulf you from within and destroy you.”

“What is it ?”

Fear goes silent.

There is nothing crippling me. I am stronger than ever. I’m not running anymore. I’ve come to terms with Death and accepted it. What can be more devastating than loss?

When I open my mother’s bedroom door, her scent overtakes my senses and fills the room as though she is there. Her bedroom had remained untouched since the night we went to the hospital. Her old slippers with the paisley print still sit on the floor beside her bed, waiting for feet to slide into them. The covers are pulled back. On her bedside table a dime store paperback is dog-eared just a few pages in. Beside it sits a glass of water, half empty on a coaster, protecting the teak wood underneath. My father’s smiling portrait faces her pillow.