• Don’t make me strip my mood on you — This is an expression that I’ve heard the Drill Sergeant utter at me more than a few times. I think it means don’t make me lose my temper with you, but I can’t be completely sure.
• Playing with a lion’s testicles — There is nothing perverted about this expression. It literally means to take chances because to try and play with a lion’s testicles would be very risky, indeed.
Just now — This expression has, by far, caused me the most grief since I have been here. The term “now” means the exact opposite as it does back home. There is nothing now about it. It literally means “later,” and I have no idea why they put the word” ‘just” in front of it. I think it must only be to add further confusion to this sloppy expression.
As if the language barrier didn’t present enough confusion, I have to deal with the sounds as well. Yes, sounds. God help me.
• Long whistle — Many times while I was reciting a story, the Drill Sergeant would suddenly break into a long, drawn-out whistle. It doesn’t come at the climax, nor does the whistle come at the end of the story as feedback. The whistle can be heard at any random time, and most of the time it comes when you least expect it.
Bottom line, if you hear a long whistle when you’re talking, just continue talking. I think it may be a way of acknowledging you’re being heard, sort of like a head nod in other countries.
• Hhucck — This is a similar sound to what Harrison makes, but it’s short and fast. It usually appears at the beginning of a sentence, but sometimes appears midway through a sentence, as a way to separate thoughts, like a verbal comma. This may be the equivalent of “Uh,” or “Um,” in English.
The Drill Sergeant finds me just as difficult to understand as I do him. Large blocks of our conversation are filled with “What?” or “Pardon me?” or the inevitable, “Uh huh,” and, “Oh, really?” as I try to figure out what he has just said. He says he can’t understand my “American.” It is obvious he doesn’t understand me, which is made evident by his vigorous head nods at inappropriate times, or his silence when I deliver a punch line to a joke—anyone else would be roaring with laughter.
The learning curve continues.
13
The Wake of the Storm
The brilliant colors of the African sunrise are nonexistent this morning. There are no fiery shades of red, orange, or magenta illuminating the valley. Instead, the sky has been painted, using a palette of the darkest shades: midnight-blue, purple, and the occasional bolt of silver, all set against a background of the most melancholy, yet electrifying shade of grey. This dark, ominous energy is even more formidable than the sun’s display of fiery shades. It feels like something evil is upon us.
The mountains are veiled in dark grey cloaks, hiding from the presence that has overtaken this valley, and even the Hadeeda are noticeably quieter this morning.
“Did the storm keep you awake all night?” the Drill Sergeant asks.
“Storm?”
“Didn’t you hear the storm?”
I hadn’t heard a thing. Nothing. In fact, I have a confession to make. There is a slumbering scandal that has been unfolding here at the reserve, and it is this, I didn’t sleep in my tent last night. All right, I haven’t slept in my tent once since Melanie left. Instead, I spend my evenings in the common area, like a stowaway, seeking asylum from the darkness and dread of that awful tent.
What’s worse is that I’m relishing in this scandalous act, even going to bed early and sleeping like a log. I was even awakened by my own snoring last night, and I don’t mind saying that it’s glorious—every single moment of inactivity. Just to sleep within concrete—to feel its cold, strong walls around me—gives me intense satisfaction and unspeakable pleasure with the knowing that I am somewhat safe.
My justification for this cowardly act is a strong one. I work hard all day under the iron rule of the Drill Sergeant, doing demanding physical labor, and I can’t afford to spend sleepless nights in my tent, staring at the ceiling and imagining all the ways I’m going to die at the mercy of a wild animal or a lunatic drifter in the middle of Africa. Who can blame me for wanting to avoid certain death out there?
Every day I clean the elephant stable… alone. Then the Drill Sergeant fills my afternoons with more tedious physical labor or, if he’s in a good mood, he’ll have me do species data collection. Thus, I need my rest to remain alert and capable.
There’s no harm in me absconding to the common area night after night. After all, no one knows I sleep there. The Drill Sergeant caught me the first time, but I have never slipped up again.
My buddies, the Hadeeda, wake me up faithfully every morning, allowing me enough time to sneak back to my tent before the Drill Sergeant arrives. I wait until I hear him pull up outside, and only then do I emerge from my tent—with my shoulders back and chest puffed out—stretching as though I’ve just awakened. I’ve got the act down so well, he doesn’t know any different. And besides, I don’t see him sleeping in a tent. He’s got a small house on the other side of the reserve. So that’s my confession, and I ain’t sorry for it.
Our first stop, as always is the elephant stable. My face is covered with a bandana and a hat protects my head. Not a morning passes that Kitty doesn’t launch bombs or branches at me. Needless to say, I’ve stopped lacing her feed.
This morning, the elephants are pacing and anxious to get out. Maybe the old cow will spare me an assault for once. The Drill Sergeant goes outside to open the back doors for them as I prepare to load bails of Lucerne into the truck for our morning patrol.
Kittibon stops pacing when she sees me and goes straight to her water tub. She begins feeling around the bottom of it with her trunk but it’s empty. She turns her head and stares at me with a big brown eye through the pillars. She almost looks sweet as she bats her long curled eyelashes. What? No branches? No dung?
“Are you ready to call a truce now Kitty?”
She doesn’t budge.
“You started this whole thing. First it was shit in my face. Then when I covered my face, you hit me in the head with branches. Why? What did I do to you? I clean your house, I cut branches for you. Well, okay, I pile branches for you. I’ll admit that what I did to your tray was wrong, but you almost killed us the other day. That’s not right.”
Her stare deepens.
“All right, I’ll get you some water but you better be nice to me from now on.”
I lob the hose into the tub from a reasonably safe distance and turn on the tap. Kittibon begins filling her trunk. The Drill Sergeant opens the rear doors and Selati bursts outside. Kittibon continues to drink. The water level quickly descends, her trunk inhales faster than the hose can fill the tub. Poor thing must be dying of thirst.
SSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOUUUUUUPPPPPP.
“ACK! You wicked elephant!”
“What the hell is going on now?” the Drill Sergeant yells, while running inside.
“That cow just soaked me. She tricked me. She pretended she was thirsty, and then she sprayed me!”
My hat and bandana were useless armor under the powerful force of an elephant’s water-filled trunk. Kittibon, the reigning cow, saunters out the back door.
The Drill Sergeant smirks. “Elephants are smarter than people, some more than others, I see.”