Apartheid officially ended in South Africa in 1994 when the first democratic election was held, but here, in this small rural town, the reminders of separateness still exist, as they do in many parts of this country. As we pass people, I continue to wave. No, I don’t know what it means to live here, and I don’t pretend to. But what I do know is that everyone deserves to be seen.
In the city, it’s easy to look past strangers, in fact, it’s weird to wave or smile. However, here in the boroughs of Africa, I can’t stop myself. I don’t know why it makes a difference here, but it does. There’s something about Africa that invokes compassion, humanity, and gratitude for not having to find my next meal in a garbage dump.
‘We’re almost there,” the Drill Sergeant says, breaking the silence.
Africa is teaching me to live in the moment, even if it is out of necessity, rather than enlightenment.
“Why do we have to cut branches for the ellies? Doesn’t that go against nature?”
“There aren’t enough trees on the reserve because they’ve eaten them all.”
“But doesn’t that take away from their natural instincts if they don’t have to find their own food?”
“Yes, but we scatter the branches in the elephant camp so they still have to find them. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s the best we can do on our small reserve.”
Makes sense, I guess.
At the end of town, Cruiser turns into a long dusty alley and stops. The alley is lined with small trees and dotted with tall King Proteas, the national flower of South Africa. Each King
Protea has one massive flower measuring almost a foot across. The center is rimmed with pointed petals resembling the sun, and possesses the same energizing and illuminating effect. They look like fashion models swaying down the runway at six feet tall, dressed in the most elaborate shades of pink, purple, magenta, yellow, and orange. Their colors appear to come from the same swatch as the morning sky; bold and beautiful. There are hundreds of different varieties of Protea, and at least five varieties are right here in this abandoned alley. I can’t help but admire their beauty.
Thud. A rusty machete lands near my feet.
“You can use that silly old one.” The Drill Sergeant turns quickly and heads into the trees.
I don’t even know how to hold a machete. Granted, I don’t have a scrotum, but I could just as easily chop one of my legs off with this thing.
“Hey!” I try to stop my commander-in-chief before he disappears, “I’ve never used one of these before.”
“Just pretend the branch is your ex-boyfriend and whack it. I’m sure you can do that, can’t you?”
That’s no help. Pretending the branch is the Drill Sergeant would be far more effective, but I’m not ready to risk an amputation.
I watch him for a few minutes to see his technique. He shimmies up the tree with the machete in his mouth. With one arm around a branch he spreads his legs, positioning his feet far apart on opposing branches. He raises his other arm above his head. Swack! The machete cuts through the branch like butter. Swack. Swack. Swack. One after another, giant branches fall to the ground.
I’ll start with something smaller. A tree not much higher than my waist is the first target. I widen my stance and square off with the little tree.
The Drill Sergeant’s voice trails from the tree. “That machete can slice hairs.”
Focus. I can do this. I will not amputate my leg. I will chop down this tree. I slash the tiny branch with all my strength, but nothing happens. Dammit. Whack. A tiny piece of bark ricochets just near my eye, but other than that there is no damage.
The Drill Sergeant is in his own world, not paying any attention to me—no encouragement, no training. Nothing. I try again, this time, with short bursts of chops, one right after the other, fast and furious. This produces nothing more than tiny notches in the bark. Even the damn tree is mocking me. Chop chop chop chop chop chop. Out of breath and dripping with sweat, I examine the tree. Nothing. It’s got to be the machete.
“Heyyyy!”
The Drill Sergeant ignores me.
“I said, hey!” I throw my arms up in the air for effect.
“What?”
“This machete sucks. It’s useless. Can I try yours?”
“Sure.” He smirks as he tosses the machete onto the ground.
I try chopping an even smaller tree this time. Still nothing happens. Goddammit, there must be some type of technique to this. Maybe if I slice on an angle? Nope. What about this angle? Nada. Straight on? What the hell? From the bottom? Shit. Shit. Shit. I give up and throw the machete as far as I can before slumping to the ground. I hate machetes. I hate trees. I hate the Drill Sergeant. I hate this job. I hate everything about this place. I can’t sleep in my tent. I can’t go one day without being assaulted by an elephant. I can’t do anything the rangers can do. I can’t even use a goddamned machete. I’m useless. That’s why he makes me shovel shit day after day. I should have gone to Cape Town. My bottom lip begins to tremble uncontrollably. Hot tears burn my eyes. Stupid fool.
“Why don’t you collect the branches instead?” The Drill Sergeant barks. And stop crying.
Even he has noticed how completely useless I am at this job. And worse, he saw my breakdown. Well I’m not done yet. Someone has to collect the branches.
We work in silence, other than the repetitive ting, ting, ting of his machete. I lay the branches evenly in the trailer, lining them up perfectly. There’s nothing to my job, and the Drill Sergeant knows it. Trying to make piling branches in a crappy old trailer look like thought provoking, important work is fruitless.
To make the most efficient use of space in the trailer, I jump up and down on the branches. They finally break under my weight. Didn’t need a damn machete after all.
“Make sure you lay them flat,” he orders.
“I know what I’m doing, thank you very much.”
“I guess there’s a first for everything.”
“Excuse me?” My blood pressure starts to rise and I’m about ready to tell him what he can do with these branches.
“By the way, head office wants to know if you want to do a great white shark dive with the shark conservation group. They need to book it soon if you’re going to do it.”
Do I look like I’m insane? “No thanks.”
“Why not? South Africa has the best white shark diving in the world.”
He really is from a different species if he thinks I would even consider something so ridiculous. “Not a chance. I’m petrified of sharks. I’m not even going anywhere near the water, thank you very much.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why do you care if I go shark diving?”
“Because I was going to visit a witch doctor.”
“For what, a personality adjustment?” All the witch doctors in the world couldn’t fix him.
“No, I was going to ask the doctor to put a spell on the great white sharks just to make sure you get eaten alive.”
“Very funny.”
He has the potential to carry on a conversation after all. Now is a good time to start chipping away at that wall.
“What are you afraid of, Gerrit?”
“I am not afraid of anything, Melissa.” His voice is stern and his eyes meet mine for the first time.
“You must be afraid of something. Everyone’s afraid of something, like me and sharks.”
“Nothing.” He holds my eyes for what feels like an eternity. “I am afraid of nothing.” I search for something in his eyes, anything. I find nothing.
At last, he relaxes and begins to chop away at the branches again. “Anyway, you can still get on the morning boat charter. I think you should go.”