Confronting Fears

            by Molly Bell

 

My eyes were wide open staring at the net tent covering my bed, sentenced to listen to the non-stop chirping of the crickets. Pitch black surrounded me.  Soon I would be out in the scorching heat driving in a Range Rover with no air conditioning. This was not the best first impression of Tanzania.

            I was there because my parents love to travel. Every year they plan a family trip out of the country. Lying in that net-covered bed my first night in Africa, I knew that Tanzania was going to be very different than our typical vacations to France or England.

            As the night became morning and the dim light shown into the room, I sighed, thankful that my restless night was over. I pushed the net aside and started to get dressed in puke green cargo pants that ended at my knee with too many pockets to count, a comfortable baggy t-shirt, tan clunky boots, lanyard attached to my glasses, and binoculars around my neck.

            After eating breakfast, we dragged our suitcases down the stone pathway to the front of the four star one hundred year old craftsman clubhouse. On this trip, we stayed in a different hotel every few nights. Waiting for us stood a six-foot-three, strong African with a wide smile on his face.

            “Are you the Culver-Bell family?” he said.

            “Yes, I’m Pamela,” replied my blonde-haired mother. “This is Anne,” she said gesturing to the medium height, grey-haired woman, and she turned to motion to me, “and this is Molly.”

            “Jambo [Hello], I’m Hilary,” boomed the man in a deep but friendly voice, “I will be your Safari guide.”

            Hilary? I’ve never heard of a man named Hilary.

            “Who is your mother?” Hilary asked me.

            “Pamela,” I replied, “Anne is my aunt.” This was a lie. I have two lesbian mothers, but many cultures around the world don’t accept gay and lesbian people. Throughout most of our family trips, this stress hangs over me. Hilary asked where my father was and we said back home, in Berkeley.

            Hilary helped us put our bags into a huge gray Range Rover with a pop-top roof. There were fourteen seats, but we had the entire vehicle to ourselves. I hopped in the Range Rover quickly, my hands shaking and sweating. Why did I agree to come on this trip? My biggest fear is bugs, I get car sick, and I hate camping. My mothers really wanted to come. I can stand bugs for two weeks…just two weeks.

            We drove up and up this enormous hill on tiny dirt roads. Hilary stopped the vehicle. “We have reached the top,” Hilary announced. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the Range Rover. Speechless, I overlooked the Ngorongoro Crater, a vast prehistoric crater filled with grassy hills and plush green trees. I felt like I was in a perfect painting. Blue and green overwhelmed me. They sky had no clouds; it was just an umbrella of blue. Although no animals could be seen, I could feel their presence.   

The Range Rover moved bumpily through the trees down the hill, into the crater. I felt like I was on a scavenger hunt. My eyes were keen and my face pressed against the window. Then I saw a four legged animal with tan fur through the forest green trees. “I just saw something!” The Rover came to a halt. We did not see it again, but Hilary said, according to my description, that it sounded like some species of deer. We did not see anything else until we got to the bottom of the crater.

            We emerged from the patch of trees and ahead of us was a lot of dry grass on small hills. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. “Look, look,” Hilary pointed to a small hill to our left. He stopped the Range Rover. I scanned the hill with my eyes, but only saw little moving spots on the hill. I glanced at my mothers. Their faces were frozen and seemed fascinated, their four eyes attached to their binoculars. I looked down at my neck, duh. I held the binoculars up to my face. And then I saw them: three lions and a carcass. I gasped. I don’t do so well with death and violence. I had to force myself to look through the binoculars because I did travel half way around the world to see just this. The father lion had a large mane and he was resting after his hunt and feast. The two other lions, almost fully grown cubs, were feasting on their prey, a wildebeest. They went to lie down with their father.

            Hyenas appeared. They bent low to the ground and crept up to the wildebeest. They began to eat what was not theirs. The cubs saw them and jumped up to fight, but before they could reach the hyenas, the hyenas dashed away. The cubs relaxed. The hyenas crept to the carcass again. The cubs ran towards them and again the hyenas were unsuccessful. The hyenas stealthily walked towards the carcass a third time, but before they got five feet away, the cubs sprang up to chase them away. This dance repeated a couple of dozen times until the hyenas gave up.

            The father slowly stood up and started down the hill. My palms began to sweat. He’s coming towards us! The father lion walked heavily as if he had the whole world on his shoulders. As the lion came closer to us, the more detail we could see. He was bigger than I imagined a lion could be. My heart beat harder and my mouth dried up. The lion’s mane was covered in blood. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Although I was in a gigantic steel car with my mothers and a guide, I felt like I was standing in the middle of the road, in front of this lion, with no protection. A lion was coming towards me. He was less than twenty feet away. I wanted him to either charge at me and swallow me in one gulp or change his direction. I couldn’t stand to wait to see what would happen while the lion was taking his time. He got closer and closer…and closer and closer. He was next to our car, less than two feet away. If I reached out of the car I could touch him. Then the lion kept on walking. He was ten feet away from us, then twenty, then thirty, then totally gone from our sight. My muscles loosened up and I looked at my watch. It had only been twenty minutes since we started down the crater.

*                                                                      *                                                                    *

            Later that day, in a different part of the Ngorongoro Crater, Hilary pointed to a hill near us. There, close enough for us to see, were about eight tiny cubs were playing around three large mother lions. The mothers seemed relaxed and content. Two of the smallest cubs walked to their mother and laid next to her. I couldn’t believe that these were real lions in Africa.

            “The father is probably somewhere nearby relaxing too,” Hilary explained, “The female hunts, and the male protects the family.”

            After watching the family of lions for a while, we drove on. Hilary drove around the hill away from where the lions were, so that we could not see them anymore. He parked the Rover under a huge green tree with a flat top that looked like it came right out of the movie The Lion King. With the Rover’s engine off, I suddenly was aware of a sound. Buuuuzzzzzzzzzz. “We’re stopping here for breakfast,” declared Hilary. Uh oh. I tugged on both of my mothers’ shirts like a little girl. Buuzz. The air was full of screaming insects.

“Do you hear that?” I said, alarm in my voice.

            “We’ll be fine. Try to ignore it,” Anne said, opening the door to get out.

            Right, I’ll be safe in the car. Hilary jumped out of the Range Rover and brought our box breakfasts with him.

            “I’m not going out there,” I announced firmly.

            “This is where we are eating. You can stay in the car if you want,” and they got out of the vehicle. I sat there, frozen. Buuuuuzzzzzzz.

            “Molly, hippos!” exclaimed Pamela.

            Hippopotamuses are my favorite animals, and I didn’t want to miss them. I reached for the door handle, my hands shaking, and opened the door. I stumbled out of the high Range Rover. Buuuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The sound was getting louder. I don’t know why, but I slowly looked up at the tree. Many beetles were flying around the tree above me. With their wings spread, they were bigger than my fist. I darted to my mothers. Anne handed me my box breakfast, but I barely noticed because something else caught my eye. The hill. The hill where the lions we just saw was about twenty feet away from us. I remember Hilary saying that the mothers are the hunters. We’re going to be their next prey! I took one step back. Pamela pointed to something behind me, and I turned around to see a lake ten feet away from us. How did I not notice this? Buuuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh, yeah. I focused more deeply at the dark blue lake. Hippos. They were so big, we didn’t need binoculars…or maybe they were just close. I became thrilled. My favorite animals, in the wild, were right in front of me, but then I remembered something I had read about hippopotamuses: they are one of the most dangerous animals because of their strong jaw. If someone or something gets in between the hippos and their home (the lake), they will attack. I’m right next to the lake. I began looking in every direction to make sure that I was not in between a hippo and the lake.

            I froze. I felt the blood draining from my face. Danger surrounded me. There were lions on the other side of that hill, hippos wanting to attack me in the lake, and beetles the size of tractors above my head. Holding my breakfast, I ran to the Range Rover, opened the door, jumped inside, and slammed the door.

            I felt the circulation come back to my face. I let out the air from my lungs, feeling like I hadn’t breathed for a million years. I set the breakfast aside. I had lost my appetite.

*                                                                   *                                                                 *

            After a few more hours viewing many animals, we arrived at our new fancy lodge perched on the ledge of the crater. We were greeted by several hotel staff saying “Jambo,” and offering papaya juice. Back in our room, exhausted, we flopped onto our net-covered beds and went to sleep. I had a better night’s sleep than the restless night before, but the chirping crickets outside of my window still troubled me.

            “Molly, it’s time to get up.” While still dark outside, I got dressed in similarly unfashionable clothes to the day before. We met Hilary, who waited out front next to the giant Range Rover. We all got into the car and drove off to start another day of the safari.

            “Do you want to see more animals, or view the Maasai Tribe?” Hilary asked. “You can go into the village and learn about the tribe’s culture. I can speak enough of their language so we can communicate. I must warn you, you may not take their pictures because they believe so when they are photographed, their souls are taken away from them. But, some tribe members who have been exposed to visitors allow photos if you pay them.” How does money make up for losing their souls? I should not judge.

            “We’d love to visit the Maasai tribe,” Pamela expressed enthusiastically.

            My mothers seemed very excited and interested in being immersed in a new culture. I, on the other hand, was not. I am pretty shy when it comes to meeting new people from my own country, who speak my language. I knew I would be extremely uncomfortable if I was thrown in with an unfamiliar tribe who had been living primitively off the earth with no technology and spoke a language I have never heard. However, I didn’t object to Hilary’s suggestion because I knew my parents really wanted to go.

            The drive to the Maasai tribe through the Ngorogoro Crater was long and stressful. I didn’t want to meet the Maasai. I would have preferred to get a peek from afar and then drive away. I tried to keep my mind off it by looking out the window and eating sour Starbursts candy. My favorite flavor is blueberry, even though they always turned my mouth blue. I offered one to Hilary.

            “Yes, thank you,” he said as I set a blueberry starburst in his hand, “What is it?”

            “It’s candy,” I replied. “Just try it.”

            He unwrapped the candy and gently set it in his mouth. He began to chew and his face scrunched up. I forgot to warn him that it was extremely sour. Hilary’s face softened and turned into a blue tooth grin. “That is very good.” I handed him another.

            When we finally arrived at the Maasai tribe, my whole body tensed. I don’t know if I can do this. My mothers jumped out of the car and waited for instructions from Hilary. None of us wanted to do anything that would offend.

            A tall skinny African man, who was about twenty five with long braided hair stringed with beads, appeared before us. He had red fabric wrapped around him, covering everything except his shoulder, and held a long wooden herding stick. “He is the chief of this Maasai tribe,” Hilary explained. Hilary then began to speak to the Maasai chief in the Maasai’s language. “Follow me,” Hilary said, and led us into the village.

            Hilary pointed to the small brown round houses set in a circle. “The houses are made of dung and straw. The smell was strong and unfamiliar. The small short houses had a opening for a door, no windows, and fires on the center for cooking and heating. The fire caused the huts to fill up with smoke.” The chief entered one of the huts. “Do you wish to go inside to see?” Hilary asked. We nodded and headed towards the small dung huts.

            I had to bend down to enter the house, as did my mothers and Hilary. The moment I was fully inside of the hut, I could feel the smoke flooding my lungs. The hut was dark, hot, and stuffy inside. I began to cough, turned around, and stumbled out of their home.

            Once I was outside, I felt all alone. I was surrounded by many Maasai people: men, women, and children all covered in similar red fabric. Buzzing flies were landing on us and then swiftly taking off, but the people surrounding me did not seem to notice. Suddenly a woman with less than an inch of hair on her head like all of the other women led me to a table covered with pieces of jewelry with bright colors of the rainbow. As I picked up a bracelet decorated with red and yellow beads, my mothers appeared by my side.

            “These are beautiful,” Pamela said aloud and I nodded. We tried to express our appreciation of the beauty by smiling to the woman who had led me to the table. Immediately, other women were around us displaying their artistic creations: jewelry, carved wooden bowls, and decorated sticks. We asked Hilary to inquire if the red and yellow bracelet was for sale. It was, and we bought it.

            As we finished our purchase, the chief assembled his tribe and began to speak to them. Hilary then briefly describe the Maasai culture to us, “The young men cannot grow their hair long until they have come of age and become warriors. When they are ready to become a man, they are circumcised, their bodies are painted and clothed in black and white, and are sent to survive on their own until the damage of the circumcision is healed. The men are allowed to marry more than one wife and have many childr--”

            Hilary was cut off by the men of the tribe jumping up and down. “They are performing a dance for you.” The men began to sing and jumped in time to their song, higher and higher. Their braided hair flung up and down.

The women, with almost completely shaved heads, then placed wide, round, colorful necklaces around their necks and began to sing. They heaved their chests in and out, causing the necklaces to bounce. The same woman who brought me to her table full of jewelry brought a necklace over to me and wordlessly invited me to join the dance. My heart stopped and I couldn’t feel my legs. My mothers gave me a harsh look that read “You cannot be rude. They let us visit their home, the least you can do is put on the necklace.”

I was comfortable watching from a distance, but being forced to dance with many strangers in their environment was terrifying to me. At home, where I am comfortable, I don’t even like to dance un-choreographed with my friends. I’m shy and I didn’t want to come here in the first place. Why do I have to dance with them? But before I knew it, I had a necklace around my neck and I was doing my best to join in the chest-heaving dance. I couldn’t see the people around me because tears blurred my vision. To this day, I have never felt so awkward, uncomfortable, and alone.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Our giant Range Rover carried us to the next stop on our Safari: the Serengeti. When we first arrived, driving on a flat dirt road, I looked around and knew this was not going to be my favorite portion of the safari. The land was vast, and we could see for miles in every direction. The grass that surrounded us seemed as if it was moving, moving. The cause of this was grasshoppers; millions of grasshoppers hopping around in the large Serengeti.

            The following day as we toured the Serengeti and its moving grass, we observed something amazing. Hilary was the first to see them: three cheetahs (one mother and two baby cubs). In unison, we all put the binoculars up to our eyes. The cheetahs were perched on the top of a huge dark grey rock in the middle of the flat, vast Serengeti. “Look, one of the cubs is hurt,” said Anne. She was right. The skin and fur on the shoulder of one of the cubs was hanging only by a small piece of flesh. The wound seemed cleaned, but it was still fresh and bloody.

In a blink of an eye, the mother cheetah leapt from the rock and sprinted for something in the distance. The eyes of the mother were keen, because she saw something we had not noticed. In the far distance in the tall grass to our right was a group of gazelles. She chased them, hoping that she would feed her children tonight. I had never seen anything as captivating as watching that cheetah hunt. Her legs were barely seen because she was running so fast. Although I normally would feel sympathy for the gazelles, I found myself cheering for the mother. I often become emotional about children and baby animals. Before we knew it, her paw tripped one of the gazelles and then she pounced on it. The others gazelles escaped, as the mother cheetah killed her catch. I sighed in relief that it was over. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen.

            After a few minutes of resting, she chirped to her cubs, nearly a mile away. Hilary explained the cubs would need to rejoin their mother, a dangerous feat, as many animals eat cubs. How will they reach her through the tall grass? The wounded cub and his brother crawled off of the rock and were eventually able to find their way to their mother. We drove closer to the feast, but I had to turn my head, because I wasn’t ready to see a dead gazelle.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            The next day, I went out for our normal safari, not knowing that I would soon face my biggest fear.

            It was about two o’clock and we stopped at a bathroom. We were always careful to close the doors quickly so the grasshoppers wouldn’t enter our car, but we left our windows open to make sure the Range Rover wouldn’t get stuffy. We returned to the truck, not thinking about the open windows.

            About thirty minutes after the bathroom stop, I had an itch on my leg. I looked down at my bare knee and saw two humongous hairy green legs. “AHHHHHHHHHH!!!” I shook my legs and curled up into a ball. I could barely breathe, my palms and feet were sweating, and my body tensed up. I kept on screaming “Get it off me! Get it off me!” while gasping between every sentence. The car stopped and the three adults could not understand what was happening to me. “What? What is it?” They kept asking. I was barely able to spit out the word “grasshopper.”

Hilary tried to calm me by saying, “It can’t hurt you.” That made it worse. “I know!” I yelled. I hate when people say that. I know grasshoppers are not poisonous and don’t bite, but I cannot choose what I’m afraid of. Fears are usually irrational. My mothers and Hilary looked for the grasshopper, but could not find it. They tried to assure me that I was safe and it was gone.

            My mothers held me and said over and over again, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” My hands shook for a while, and my body remained tense the rest of the day.

*                                                          *                                                                      *

            Now, looking back on Africa, I wish I could say I’m not afraid of bugs anymore, or I don’t cringe anymore when I see violence, or that I somehow became more courageous, but I can’t. But in Africa, there was always an adventure. I was able to see the circle of life. I was able to view different cultures. I was able to face my biggest fear everyday for two weeks and I survived. Now, when I plop a sour blueberry Starburst in my mouth, I close my eyes and long for Africa.