"It's our problem-free philosophy; Hakuna Matata"

Son of a …

My eyes blink open. Darkness and the silence of night greet me.

Nah, I’m fine.

Photo of Ngongoro Conservation Area (Tanzania) at night. Photo by Timo Luege

I close my eyes and instantaneously retreat to a world in which my childhood bully is taking center stage.

Crap.

Ugh.

The options are few and stressful. One: I can close my eyes, ignore the issue at hand, and hope for a better dream. Two: I can face my fears and get it over with, or three: I can wet myself. I lean toward the third option until I realize I’d have new challenges come morning.

Tucked snuggly into a cold-weather sleeping bag, donning thermal jammie pants and a purple fleece, I don’t want to get up. I physically fight it, crossing my legs and turning onto my side. It’s not working. Despite days of intentional and careful planning, the practice of dehydration has failed me.

I sit up. My options are narrowing. A selection will soon be made regardless of my preference. I unzip my sleeping bag and simultaneously search for the headlamp I carelessly tossed to the side near my backpack. The seconds tick down. I grab my hiking boots and jam my feet into them, surprisingly selecting the correct foot for the corresponding shoe.

Cautiously, I unzip the heavy material that makes up my bedroom. With a quick scan into the darkness, I search for eyes that may be watching me. Admittedly, I know my efforts are futile and I’m in either a race against time or death. The lesser of the two dilemmas takes hold of me.

I stumble as I stand up, recognizing neither my feet are stable nor are my laces tied. The uneven ground dictates my clumsy steps. I fumble with the headlight that has slipped from my forehead and follow the LED light guiding my path. The night sky remains as magnificent as when I first took notice of it. Galaxies and constellations not seen in the northern hemisphere make their positions known and I am taken in by it, almost forgetting the sense of urgency.

The brisk air is neither comforting nor abrasive. No longer intimidated by the ground below me, I mosey to the concrete building brimming with fluorescent lights that houses toilets, showers, and sinks with undrinkable water. I enjoy the quiet of the campsite. Behind me are at least forty, two-person tents accommodating other tourists to this foreign land. We are situated near the rim of the world’s largest inactive volcanic caldera.

With steps between me and the ceramic hardware which my bladder may consider heaven, I hear a crunch within the dry grass that surrounds the area. The wind picks up and I think nothing of it. Roughly two feet are between me and the white tiled floor. A sudden clomp turns my attention to the left.

I gasp.

We jump.

I run toward the building that seems miles away. The sound of hooves trails off in another direction.

An array of questions scramble my mind and my eyes dart around the locked stall.

Surely that wasn’t …

I finish, wash my hands, and exit the structure checking both directions as if I’m about to cross a busy street. The coast is clear.

Exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I had held, I walk with some purpose looking for the right tent. With mere feet between me and it, I relax my strut.

A second gasp escapes my lungs.

I run.

They run.

Holy crap.

Zebras! Three zebras. Wild zebras.