Lion Lust

Perhaps it was because I was so excited I'd finally succeeded in being allowed into one of the South African Defence Force's most secret bases that I did not notice the knowing smiles and surreptitious winking of the inmates.
If I had, I'd have recognised it for what it was - a conspiracy against the new boy. Hell, at that stage I was too hyped to see anything except the honour and glory sure to come my way as my articles and photographs of the South African Reconnaissance Commandos were circulated to some 50 countries. This was going to be a good, old-fashioned scoop!
Some background is in order. I'd spent months trying to set up the story. I sent faxes, made countless phone calls and wined and dined countless generals and senior defence force officers.
"Nee, Boet (no ,Son)," I was initially told. "You've seen too many movies. There are no recces. That's just something the media created...or was it something we made up to scare the shit out of the Cubans and SWAPO. Actually I can't remember, but I can assure you categorically they don't exist."
Eventually, however, after buying enough beer to float a frigate, not to mention some serious brown-nosing, even the most stoic of military officials were forced to admit the recces did exist - a fact the rest of the world was aware of from the time of the unit's founding in the mid 1970s.

Fort Doppies

"But there is no way you can get up there to see them," I was told. I'm not too proud to be above begging and bribery, and so, a couple of months later I found myself at Fort Doppies, what was then the Reconnaissance Commando's base in Namibia's Caprivi Strip.
Fort Doppies was a beautiful place. A lush tract of ground through which a river flowed that was home to large herds of elephant and hippo. It could have been a nature reserve. I'd marveled at the vast numbers of buffalo and antelope that stared at us as we drove along the dusty road from Mpacha to Doppies.
Yep, it was beautiful, but I suppose the trainees who ran, lugging heavy kit with instructors screaming abuse might have thought otherwise. I arrived at Fort Doppies just before lunch.
"Find a basha," the liaison officer, a captain, told me. "Then stow your kit and come through to the dining tent."
In those days everyone slept in a basha, a small shelter made of timber cut from local trees and with a grass or reed roof. If there was no spare shelter, you were expected to construct your own - these were, after all, recces. The entire structure stood about chest high and contained two beds also fabricated from available materials. In a basha you could sit or kneel but not stand.
Much to my relief, I found an empty basha, stowed my kit and after lunch spent the rest of the afternoon acquainting myself with the lie of the land, the workings of the unit, and generally looking like a big-time war correspondent. I wandered around the camp with an air of superiority, complete with Ray Bans and compulsory foreign correspondent's flack jacket - though mine was made for trout fishing. Hell, I looked good!
That evening I bought drinks for everyone in the bar (I was on an expense account) and made sure I was the centre of attraction. At around 10.30, the party began to die.

Sniggers

"I'm going to turn in," said the Liaison Officer.
"Yeah, don't let the bugs bite," said another soldier. I was too drunk to hear the sniggers.
I staggered back to my basha, kicked off my boots, flung my clothes into the corner and collapsed on top of my sleeping bag wearing just a pair of underpants. It was too hot to sleep under any sort of covers. After smearing my body with mosquito repellant, I lay back and listened to the sounds of the Namibian night.
In the distance I could hear hyenas; nearer a par of jackals called to each other. Through the open door of the basha the sky and stars were clear as crystal. The moon was full and so bright you could almost read by it.
This is as good as it gets, I thought as I drifted off into a peaceful, alcohol-induced sleep.
That is until I was woken by a male lion attempting to have conjugal relations with me.
I woke with a start as the creature jumped onto the bed on top of me. Waking up and smelling a lion's breath is not good for one's health, but when said lion attempts to have sex with you, its far worse than waking up with an ugly woman you can't remember meeting in the bar last night.
I did the only thing I imagined to be appropriate at that moment - I faked an orgasm and then began to scream. The more I screamed the more amorous the lion seemed to become. Hell, I was turning the bastard on! Finally with a grunt and a look of satisfaction on his face, he left, wandering out of the basha.
Gingerly I felt to see if I still possessed all of my limbs. Then the shock of what had just happened hit me and I wanted to vomit and release my bowels at the same time.
And then I heard those recce bastards, laughing worse than the hyenas I'd heard earlier and the bloody lion was standing there amongst them, being petted.
"I see you've met Terry," said the RSM.
"Ja, he really seems to like you," said someone else said and they all collapsed and fell about on the ground screeching.
It seems that Terry, the amorous lion, was found as a cub. I'm not sure of the circumstances, but he was brought to Fort Doppies where he was raised as though he was a house pet. He was fed from the kitchen, given beer from the bar and generally became one of the manne. He was never caged and was free to wander as he pleased. As he grew older he developed the habit of roaming during the day and returning to the base at night where he would search for a basha whose occupant had forgotten to set up a barricade, Then he would proceed to show his affection in that special kitty kinda way.
Sometimes Terry would disappear for a week or two at a time as he lived a schizophrenic existence of tame and wild lion.
"Ag, no man, I'm sorry we forgot to tell you to put your kit across the entrance of the basha," said the RSM and everyone collapsed again.
Though we'd shared a special moment, I still hated that lion. I was scared as hell of him. The power of that beast was phenomenal and sometimes as I watched him rough and tumble with some of the troops, I wondered when he'd cross the line and it would no longer be a game.

Cabinet Minister

But Terry eventually got his come-uppance though I was not there to see it. Apparently a year or two later a terribly prominent South African cabinet minister visited Fort Doppies on a sort of fact-finding-funded-by-the-tax-payers mission.
I am told that in all the excitement, no one remembered to tell him about Terry. At that point the base had seen considerable development and the bashas were replaced with bungalows equipped with doors that could now be closed.
However, the latrines remained pit toilets consisting of a series of "go-carts" set out in rows and surrounded by hessian walls. The long drops could accommodate around eight people, all of whom could sit next to each other in a row. Daily bowel movements became quite a sociable event, as it was the one time the troops could sit, relax and chat.
The cabinet minister arrived with a small entourage in tow. He was wined and dined and by all accounts had a jolly time. Things were going swimmingly until nature called the great man to rev up the go-carts. In the spirit of diplomacy and decorum, no one else needed to go and the politician retired to put the cherry on top of a fine meal.
As he sat, with his trousers around his ankles, Terry made his grand entrance. I am told it's hard to reassert your authority once you've been seen running around bare-arsed and screaming.
Two days later a signal came from Pretoria. "Get rid of the lion!"
Terry disappeared shortly afterwards. I'm still bitter about it and I'm angry with him. Though it's years later I'm still trying to work through my animosity and resentment - but it's difficult. I mean, he doesn't write, he doesn't phone, he doesn't send flowers or anything!



Note: The official story is Terry was darted and relocated to a game park somewhere in Namibia. Whether that is true or not, I don't know.

This story was published in the now defunct Southside Online Magazine in 2001