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

“What was that?” Melanie’s scream awakens me. Fear freezes me. We are both silent, and then I hear what she hears; something snorting and thrashing against her tent. My heart throbs as I strain to identify the sounds just inches away. What is it? A buffalo? Rhino? Lion? Elephant? Anaconda?

“Help!” Melanie shrieks.

“Stay calm. Is your backpack handy?” I try to use a soothing tone while fighting back my own fears. What’s worse is that I flash back to the brownies, the little squares of heaven that I discarded just outside our tents—their scent so alluring that it has beckoned an African monster to our camp. The German journalist I convinced to spend two nights with me on a wildlife conservation project, where I will spend several weeks, is now just moments away from being eaten alive.

Melanie and I met just ten days ago on an elephant conservation project. We spent long days collecting elephant behavior data and even longer nights sharing our dreams and fears. But most of all, we shared a friendship that could only be born in a place like this, a place where life and death are only a few breaths apart and where survival is more than just instinct—it’s a privilege.

Leg two of our volunteer project brought us deep within the world’s most dangerous townships, where we naively believed we would be teaching HIV infected children. However, it was the children who turned out to be the teachers, and us the captivated students.

The final leg of my volunteerism journey found me on a wildlife reserve, where I’m now in the position of becoming prey to the very animals we are here to protect. And I have nothing to blame for our pending demise but my sugar addiction.

“Please help me! It’s trying to get in my tent!” Melanie screams again.

“What is it ?”

I can hear her fear dripping in every syllable. “A lion! I knew a lion would eat me if I came to this place. Why did you make me come here?”

There’s nothing I can do. We have no weapons, and the closest ranger is at least a few miles away. There is no one to come to our rescue and nothing to do but prepare to fight the beast that will momentarily be ripping his way through these canvas walls. Terrified, I begin to pray. If we are to die tonight then please make it as fast and painless as possible, and please, God, forgive me for my sugar dependence.

Waiting for death to overtake us, I realize how unprepared I am. In the city, a woman is prepared for just about any emergency if she has an ample supply of chocolate, caffeine, and a good Merlot. Here in Africa, my survival kit preparation isn’t much different. The key component is chocolate brownies because the only foreseen danger I could imagine out here in the middle of nowhere was a shortage of good food.

It was earlier this evening, at the welcome BBQ, when the lead ranger, a gorgeous and aloof young man named Gerrit, warned us not to keep food in our tents, saying it would attract the wildlife, or worse—bugs. Admittedly, when I first saw Gerrit, I had romantic visions of a burly ranger wrestling lions to save me, but those visions quickly evaporated when his personality proved to be non-existent. In fact, his food in the tent warning was the only thing he said all night.

I had tried to make small talk, “Can you describe the constellations for me?”

But his glazed eyes were fixated on the campfire as he sipped his beer in silence, uninterested in anything around him. The mentality in this farming area of South Africa is that women are more valuable in the home, not outside trying to do a man’s job. I was prepared for some resistance to my being here, but I hadn’t foreseen such blatant indifference and rudeness at my own welcome party. My ego suffered when, after many attempts, I couldn’t even get as much as a polite smile from the handsome ranger. I’m not old by any stretch of the imagination, but my age falls into the latter end of the volunteer age spectrum, further adding to my feelings of alienation.

After several glasses of South Africa’s finest, Melanie and I fumbled our way through the darkness to our tent camp. Gerrit’s warning still ringing in my ears, I gathered the brownies from my safari survival kit. My plan was to dispose of them in the common area, but the outside blackness rendered me too afraid to make the long walk alone. Melanie was already inside her tent, and I didn’t want her to know I’m afraid of the dark. What to do? I could throw the brownies from my tent, but then I’d have to try and find them in the morning to erase all the evidence. And what if a ranger finds them first? I did the only thing I could do, and left the brownies just outside of our tents.

And now the magnitude of my error is evident as the heavy canvas of Melanie’s tent screeches under the claws of the beast trying to burrow through the walls.

“Oh my God!” she screams through hyperventilating gasps.

“Throw your backpack.” I barely choke out the words. Earlier, Melanie said she would sleep with her backpack beside her, and if an animal encroached on her tent, she would simply throw her backpack in the opposite direction. The animal would chase the backpack thinking it was prey (as most animals have poor eyesight, relying on scent instead), and allow her enough time to escape.

“Help me!” Melanie’s pleas are muffled by sobs. It’s apparent she has abandoned the backpack strategy.

The volunteer placement organization said volunteering in Africa would change my life, while at the same time make an important contribution to conservation. They said I would be safe, even in the dangerous townships, and to embrace this rare and exciting experience because this was a dream many people have, but will never fulfill. They said I would be staying in a luxury tent, but the only luxurious thing about this tent is the dim camp light that keeps it from complete blackness. They also said I would see the Big Five up close, but they never mentioned I’d be left to fight them off, alone and defenseless in the middle of the night.

Suddenly outside it has become eerily quiet. “Melanie?” Please God, let her respond.

“Why did you make me come here?” she whimpers.

I could relay the volunteer organization’s justification for giving, but it hardly seems appropriate now.

More silence follows. Collectively holding our breath, we wait to see whether the beast has moved on before we dare make any sudden movements. I try to silence the pounding of my heart. Straining my ears in search of the faintest noise outside, I’m greeted with delicious silence. Time disappears but anxiety grows. Waiting. Praying. Regretting. Questioning. Sweating. Craving. Brownies or Merlot, anything to cut the suffocating tension.

Wait, what the…?

“Is that you?” whispers Melanie.

“No. It’s not you?”

The silence is replaced by monstrous snorts and repulsive grunts from the unidentified snoring beast, his comatose state likely the result of a sugar crash. At the very least, it’s comforting to know that we share a love of chocolate brownies; it makes him less terrifying.