This morning, the male rhino, suffering a temporary fit of hormonal rage, decided to thrash the pump and accompanying main pipe. When we arrive at the scene, there are two young, inexperienced rangers trying to fix the problem. Even I can see that they appear to have no idea what they’re doing. Their blank expressions say it all, even as they hold tools in their hands and look at the mess of miscellaneous parts strewn across the muddy bank.
The Drill Sergeant looks at the mess the rhino has left behind. “Silly old rhino is frustrated.”
The rhino isn’t the only one who’s frustrated.
The Drill Sergeant doesn’t waste any time assessing the situation. He leaves me sitting in the truck and begins shouting orders in Afrikaans. The rangers hang on to every word he says, as though he is a great intellect or something. He’s pointing his arms here and there, wrenching tools from their hands, and stomping about like a Napoleonic general.
He’s wearing black rubber boots that make it easy for him to maneuver on the muddy bank. The young rangers are wearing tennis shoes and sliding all over the place as they run around trying to fill his orders. It’s an obvious fact that the Drill Sergeant is wearing dark green khaki slacks (the necessary ingredient for Khaki Fever) tucked into his boots, and a heavy, rainproof jacket that’s also lined in khaki fleece.
He hoists the main pipe up onto his khaki-clad leg, and like a seasoned professional, he begins to saw off the banged up end of it. It seems pretty simple at first, but the more I watch him, the more I am becoming enchanted by his barbaric grunts and orders as he hacks and saws through the thick plastic.
Once complete, he reaches for a large black gasket, one that he had commanded another ranger to find in the reeds when we arrived. That ranger had fumbled desperately wanting to please the Drill Sergeant. When he found it, he jumped up and down, eagerly presenting it to the Drill Sergeant, who merely snatched it out of his hand in disgust. I have the perfect seat to watch him from the truck. What a sight.
Before he attaches the gasket, he has to remove the old pipe that is stuck inside the gasket. He pries at it with a pair of pliers, ripping apart the pipe with brute strength. Sweat is forming on his brow and flies begin to dive-bomb his face to taste his salty sweat. Anyone else would be swatting at their distraction, but he is unaffected by them. He looks up at the truck and beckons me over with one annoyed wave of his arm.
I blindly obey him and scramble over the slippery bank in my tennis shoes. Arriving at his side, I am bamboozled by his authoritative air of confidence. He takes off his coat and passes it to me. I giggle out loud as I accept it. The young rangers look at me questioningly. Even I don’t know why I just giggled. I hold on to it tightly, feeling the softness of the khaki fleece as he grunts out reprimands at his co-workers.
He attaches the pipe back to the pump and signals to the other ranger to power it up. It sputters and pops, and then with a deafening rumble, it spits a puff of smoke into the air and hums into its routine pumping cycle. I choke on the scent of petrol and wave the smoke out of my face. As a last resort, I cover my face with his coat. The khaki fleece brushes against my cheek, and his scent overpowers my senses. I feel a slight flutter in my stomach, and that’s when it hits me… I’ve got The Fever.
Ack! I drop his coat in utter disgust, trying to escape his scent and the softness of his coat that, only moments ago, covered those bulging, solid muscles. I must regard him for what he really is, a Neanderthal.
However, never before have a pair of black rubber boots looked so sexy. There’s nothing sexy about black rubber boots—what the hell am I thinking? This is the fever, that wretched, hideous, Khaki Fever.
My hormones are multiplying by the second in this battle of passion, turning me into a raging rhinoceros myself. In any moment, my actions will make thrashing a pump look like a mere inconvenience. He possesses some type of potency, vigor, and prowess over me beyond my control. Before now, I would have thrown myself at the lions before I threw myself at him.
I will not succumb to this fever, I can’t allow myself. I must remember all of his annoying traits; his aloofness, his indecipherable accent, and his words that aren’t really words that litter almost every sentence he utters. And I can’t forget about his incessant smoking habit, his inability to carry out a conversation, his simplicity… that innocent simplicity that is so sweet. Stop it! There is nothing innocent about it, it’s hillbillyish. He is a hillbilly Neanderthal, plain and simple. Yet, there’s something incredibly sexy about that rugged hillbillyness, something I would like to… pleh! Spit out those treacherous thoughts, you imbecile!
If these feelings don’t dissipate in a hurry, I will be forced to throw myself into the watering hole. His momentary blips of reasoning cannot erase the fact that he is my nemesis. At least that is what I have to convince myself of. He is my nemesis, my hero… no, my nemesis. My nemenistic hero, or is he my heroic nemesis? There is nothing attractive about him. So what if he has strong legs and strong arms and beautiful brown curls that dangle around the back of his neck, and the greenest emerald eyes that I… aaaahhhhhh… this is a disaster.
I must keep my wits about me; must not lose it now. Only a couple of days to go, I can fight this fever. I have survived being pursued by a lion, attacked by elephants, being stuck in a mud pit with a crocodile, and the terror of sleeping in a tent. I can protect myself from this. This is immaterial compared to everything else. Actually, it’s not. Matters of the heart are more dangerous and unpredictable than anything else. Shit.
Not now, not when I’m so close to the end. The end… the shark dive is the finale to this adventure, the last fear I have to conquer, and it’s only a couple of days away. I need to focus on that, instead. But, I can’t. I can’t stop looking at him. I will pierce these eyes out if I have to—these obsessed eyes that can’t look away. He is going to notice me gawking at him. He will know he has defeated me, beaten me, and weakened me.
The Drill Sergeant looks over at me. Dear God, look relaxed, aloof, and stop smiling, dammit.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yes. Fine.” I try to sound as calm as possible.
“Hmmm, all right then. Let’s take lunch. I’ve got the biggest challenge yet for you this afternoon.”
If only he knew how challenging it is to stand before him right now without doing something unsightly.
No need to eat lunch today. A cold shower is far more important than eating. This is the best thing to do when one notices the first signs of a fever coming on, and for best results, follow this with yet another cold shower.
26
Peace Treaty
When the Drill Sergeant arrives, I’m still shivering from the anti-fever cold-water therapy. I had contemplated feigning illness and being unable to work this afternoon, but didn’t want to throw away my final day.
“I’ve got to go to one of the neighboring farms,” he says.
“For what?”
“Shoot a cow. She won’t stand up.”
“Another one?”
“Yep. Do you want to come or not?”
“Not really. What can I do instead?”
“Well, there is one job you can do,” he pauses. “It’s not very exciting, but no one else wants to do it.”
“What is it?”
“You can clean up the garden.”
“There’s a garden here?”
“Yes, it’s in the tent camp. You haven’t noticed it?”
How could I not have seen a garden in my very own tiny plot?
The Drill Sergeant walks me to a triangle of land on the corner of the tent camp, beside the elephant stable. An electrical fence surrounds a desolate patch of dry, cracked earth, littered with puddles and stringy dying plants that were randomly placed in no particular order. I’m tempted to laugh. “This is a garden?”