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.
24
Running with Bulls
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.
I look back at him, and then at the Drill Sergeant. “Shouldn’t we let him in?”
“Nah, he’s fine,” he says, shrugging off my concern.
The sun is high, and the sky is a brilliant hue of baby blue. The mountains reach far beyond the reserve’s valley, extending nearly as far as the Indian Ocean a few miles away, which is where the great white sharks live.
Clink, clack, rattle, bang! The railroad tracks at the entrance to town nearly rip our caboose apart.
“Slow down, I want to really see everything this time. Last time, you flew through town.”
“We don’t have time, we’re bringing back a double load of branches. Nothing to see here anyway.”
“There are people to see,” I say just as we pass a group of teenage boys, “Good Morning!” I shout from the window.
They are startled. One hollers back something in Afrikaans. I don’t know what it means, but when he says it, the Drill Sergeant pulls his cap down lower over his face. One even throws a stone at the truck.
“Hey!” screams Patrick.
Patrick covers his head to protect himself from a hailstorm of rocks launched from the group of laughing boys. His cursing is muffled by the bang, crack, toink, as rocks bounce off of Harrison’s already-battered body.
The Drill Sergeant steps on the gas, and again we’re speeding down the road.
At the edge of town, we turn down a dirt alley. It is not the same way we went before to cut branches. There are no proteas lining the sides. Instead, it is heavily overgrown with weeds.
“Where are we going?”
“There is a farmer’s field down here, where the branches are bigger and better,” he says.
Bigger branches?
The narrowing dirt road becomes rougher and bumpier; it doesn’t even look like a road anymore, even for South African standards. We turn another bend, and ahead is an old gate made out of chicken wire. This must be the back door to the farmer’s field.
When the Drill Sergeant stops, he can’t even open his door to get out because we’re so thick in the overgrowth. Patrick climbs over the front of the truck, instead, and pulls back the fence, dropping it onto the ground.
Harrison edges forward, barely squeezing through the small opening. When we come through the other side, we’re greeted by a mob of waiting bulls. They surround the truck, making it nearly impossible for Harrison to pull forward. They are territorial and don’t like us being in their field. These bulls are aggressive, and some are even scratching the ground with their hooves. The Drill Sergeant honks the horn, but it doesn’t dissuade them, and they continue to block the road. Each time he inches forward, it aggravates them further. Finally, he revs the engine and floors it, creating a wake of legs kicking everywhere as they scramble to get out of our way.
The field is rough and full of potholes and shallow ditches, putting Harrison through hell. The trailer squeaks, squawks, and shutters over each obstacle, but stays in one piece, defying basic engineering principles. The bulls are following closely behind—the whole herd of them. A quick count puts their number at about forty.
Harrison stops at the edge of a line of massive trees. There are no skinny trees here, and I’m not going to be able to chop down one of these trees, not even after three weeks of boot camp in the bush wielding a machete every day. The Drill Sergeant and Patrick leap from the truck and shimmy up the giant trees, holding machetes in their teeth. They leave me sitting in the truck that is now surrounded by bulls.
I open my door, but the ringleader charges me before I’m even out. I slam the door just before we’re intimate. “Go away!” I shout through the open window.
Nobody moves. The ones at the back of the pack just move in closer, pushing the ones at the front against my door. The one beside my window has huge horns. I swear they’re bigger than my machete.
I overhear Patrick talking to the Drill Sergeant. “Those bulls are getting pretty aggressive. They don’t want to let her out of the truck.”
“She’s okay,” the Drill Sergeant says with a smirk on his face. “She says she’s not afraid of anything,”
There’s fear, and then there’s stupidity. “Can someone please help me?”
“No, you’ll be fine, you can manage—use your skills,” the Drill Sergeant laughs.
He is just as stubborn as these bulls. Well, they may be strong and stubborn, but they’re not smart. I can trick them. If I just open this door and pretend I’m coming out…
Yes! They fall for it. In one swift movement, I slide across the cab and bolt out the other door. I run around the back of the trailer, but hadn’t really thought of what to do once I got out. The pack is closing in. I must get to higher ground, fast. I climb up the side of the rickety trailer…
“Eeek! Oh my! Ah! Back off, you bullies! Leave me alone! Eeeeeeeekkkkkkk!”
“Are you going to help us, or just play with bulls all day?” the Drill Sergeant shouts.
“Perhaps someone could distract them, or…”
“No, no, you’re brave enough. You’re not afraid of anything, remember? We don’t want to get in your way. Carry on.”
Bastard. I look for a clearing and leap from the back of the trailer. As soon as I hit the ground, I hear the thunder of hooves behind me. I sprint for the closest tree and reach for the lowest branch. I try desperately to pull myself up as my feet run up the side of the tree trying to find some traction, but it’s hopeless.
“Hurry up then! You’re wasting valuable time over there,” the Drill Sergeant shouts again.
I drop my machete and beeline it for Harrison, flailing my arms and screaming. I scramble up the hood and over Harrison’s face onto the roof. The bulls, however, are not behind me because they have long since lost interest and disappeared into the forest. How long have I been running around like an idiot?
Patrick is laughing so hard he nearly falls out of the tree, and I’ve never heard the Drill Sergeant laugh the way he is now.
I can’t even climb up one of these trees let alone chop their massive branches. I resume my previous important position as branch collector.
“I hear you’re going to do the great white shark dive when you leave here,” Patrick shouts down at me.
It’s not true. They’re trying to make fun of me. Up until now I would have never even considered such a ludicrous idea. But, on the other hand, why not do it? Why not face a lifetime phobia and silence it for good? If I don’t do it now, when will I? I’ve never had so many close encounters with wildlife as I have here. My confidence is at an all time high, so why not?
“Yes, I am going to do it.”
“You are?” they can’t hide their shock. Now who’s laughing?