However, once removed, freedom can finally move into that space. Guilt filled the contents of my Tupperware container. The seeds had been planted early, how and by whom I’m not really sure, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. Perhaps they were just silly childhood notions that were left to grow out of control. But when my mother died, guilt grew into an overbearing monster that consumed me and sucked me into its void of horror. I was in so deep that I didn’t even realize what had happened. I was shell-shocked.
But here in Africa, I gained the courage to open the lid and examine the contents within. Yes, they were ugly, and yes they were brutal, but they weren’t real.
“Hey look at that!” I say, pointing to one of the roads we just repaired.
One side of the road has sunk and looks like someone or something has dug up all our carefully lain rocks and strewn them as far away as he could. We get out of the truck to inspect the damage more closely, and that’s when the Drill Sergeant sees the evidence that the culprit left behind. The hormonal rhino has left his calling card in the way of two long parallel lines in the dirt; it’s his way of marking his territory. First he urinates, and then he drags his legs in it, hence the parallel lines. This gets the smell on his legs and feet, and then he patrols his area, depositing his scent to let everyone else know this is his territory.
A garbled message comes over the radio from another ranger; Inyanga has just been seen in the central thicket, close to where we are. We continue our search on foot, this time tracking her prints in the sand.
“There she is,” the Drill Sergeant whispers.
He has the carcass’s hind leg swung over his shoulder as he slowly approaches her. She’s skulked down and moves towards us quickly, as though we are the prey.
“Let me do it.” I whisper.
I take the leg from his hands but the unexpected weight of it pulls it through my gloves, and it drops to the ground. I hoist it up over my shoulder and start walking towards Inyanga, who is moving even faster towards us.
“Take a picture,” I say, handing my camera to the Drill Sergeant.
I stop and let the weight of the limb rest on the ground and lean it up against my blood-soaked jeans. I wait. She’s coming even faster now, her eyes cutting through me, she is fearless.
“Drop it and back away,” the Drill Sergeant orders.
I don’t move. I can’t move. She captivates me. She is magnificent. I am engulfed by her spell. Will she leap and pounce on me? Will she think my bloody legs and the carcass are one and the same? Will she jump on my throat and take me down? No, she will not do any of those things, for I am in control.
“You’re crazy, drop it now!” the Drill Sergeant hisses.
She slows her pace a few yards in front of me. Her lips peel back as she opens her mouth revealing razor sharp fangs. A low, deep growl slowly erupts from her bowels and grows louder with every inch it rises. I lean the bloody leg away from my own so she doesn’t try to take them both.
I stand tall, remembering everything the Drill Sergeant had taught me, not making the same mistakes I did earlier. The Drill Sergeant is silent. I can’t see him. I have to keep my eyes on her, not giving her a second to catch me off guard.
She moves forward, glaring at me through narrowed eyes. I hold her eyes and stretch each and every one of my vertebrae to its limits, making myself as tall as possible.
With one fast strike, she snatches the leg from my hand. She backs away, eyes still on mine her powerful jaws holding the heavy leg up high in the air. I back away slowly as well, keeping my eyes on her. She disappears into the thicket, her camouflage coat instantly invisible.
“That was awesome!” I shout, and put up a high five for the Drill Sergeant, which he ignores.
“You’re crazy. That was reckless and dangerous.” But underneath his act of anger, the Drill Sergeant is trying not to smile with pride for his student.
We climb back into Harrison to make the final journey back to my tent camp, mainly in silence. It isn’t until we arrive that the Drill Sergeant finally speaks. “It’s your last night. Do you want to watch a game with me?”
This is it. I can surrender and allow, or I can go and hide in my tent alone. “Yes, I do want to.”
30
Hope
South Africa scored many times the previous night, but they never won the game. The Drill Sergeant and I, however, have a new camaraderie. This unlikely mutual respect has grown from an original repulsion to stronger than fire and water. Just like my neighbors, the enigma known as Bonty and Wildebeest, the Drill Sergeant and I have come to a mutual respect for each other’s disparities.
Instead of trying to kill each other, Bonty and Wildebeest live here together in peace. I had spent so many days observing them, trying to figure out why they hadn’t tried to kill each other. Surely, these habitual murderers would want to kill an outsider, someone who wasn’t of their own kind. But they don’t and, instead, they live together in peace.
On the outside, they have nothing in common, but when I look more closely, I see that underneath, below their awkward or cute exteriors, they are very much the same. They are two strangers that suffer from the same afflictions of loneliness and being misunderstood.
Once outcast from society, another similarity has become apparent, one that can only be seen when in solitary confinement. Their camp is wide open and there aren’t too many trees to hide behind or brush to get lost in, so they are both out on display, unable to hide from one another.
Once everything else is stripped away, they realize that they just have each other. That kinship is what keeps these two ruffians from killing each other, and from dying of loneliness.
Therefore, this enigma is no longer an enigma, it is a partnership between opposing forces, and one that offers hope—hope that reaches far beyond the borders of this tiny microcosm of society. Despite what horrors life throws at us, and the challenges that make us question our own faith, hope is what keeps us moving forward, even in the darkness. And Hope is what the Wildebeest’s name shall be from this day forward.
31
Super Predators
I recognize a familiar face on the bus to Mosselbaii this morning. It is Rastaman. I take a seat beside him. The only word I had ever heard him say is “crocodile” and that was during the rescue effort. Since then, he hasn’t uttered another word, until now.
“Do you know what Rasta means?” he asks in a scratchy, deep voice.
“No.”
He takes my journal from my hands and removes a pencil from deep within his dreadlocks. Turning to a clean sheet he writes the word Seharite.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sister. You are my sister. We are all sisters and brothers. We are all love. That is the meaning of Rasta. And there is only one love, one love for everybody and everything. People look at me like I’m just a longhaired ganja smoker; I am not. I love everyone. I am peaceful. I respect all people, animals, and things. I am full of love, peace, and harmony. If people looked past my hair and, instead, looked into my heart and soul, then they would see a good man, a man that loves all his brothers and sisters. They would only see love.” He is nearly pleading as he says the words without looking at me.
I feel his urgency, his strong desire to put an end to prejudice so it can no longer shadow his own personal truth. His passion about how the world convicts him without knowing him is torturing his spirit. My shark phobia seems insignificant compared to what torments Rastaman.