I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  The condition of a few blades of slightly bruised grass held tremendous import for him, for he knew by the angle at which a single spear was bent just how long a time had passed since the heavy foot of an elephant had trod it down. By studying the little fellow’s methods, we caught on a bit. It seems that a blade of grass trodden flat requires something like three hours to pull itself erect again, and the different angles in between have an almost precise hourly, half-hourly, and even quarter-hourly significance.

  A bent branch told this uncanny old man of the passage of a herd to within five minutes; it also told him the kind of herd and the probable direction it had taken. A mere glance at the trees, and he knew from the way the tender buds had been cleanly nipped that giraffe were so-and-so near or far away.

  If this astonishing old black failed for a time to find traces of elephants or whatever other animal we were most interested in photographing at the moment, he would shrug philosophically and say one of three things: “Shauri ako” (“Business caused by white man”), “Shauri mungu” (“Business caused by God”), or “Shauri mvua” (“Business caused by rain”).

  And whenever Boculy made up his mind for any or all of these reasons that we would be wise to quit for the day—we quit for the day.

  * * *

  —

  Our many encounters with elephants during the four years we spent at Lake Paradise endeared the splendid creatures to us and helped us, I think, to understand Boculy’s reverence for them. Dignified, conservative, intelligent, with an apparent awareness of his place in life, this fine animal attends strictly to his own business and lets other creatures severely alone. Elephants fight little among themselves, are intelligent parents, and have an instinct for tribal loyalty. They have their own leaders and follow and wait upon their decisions.

  There were times when Martin and I were so interested in the animals themselves that we almost forgot our job of getting pictures of them. At the end of one very hot day spent in a blind (I remember we both had splitting headaches and were on the point of gathering up our things and going back to camp), we saw a herd of some twenty elephants ambling toward our water hole. We were to leeward, but the big fellow who obviously was the leader sensed, if not our presence exactly, something warning him that all was not as usual. Perhaps at some time or other on one of his migrations he had heard the explosions of guns, had seen a companion fall, had caught the scent of man. At any rate, he stopped abruptly, his troupe halting instantly in their tracks. His ears stood out, his trunk lifted and waved exploringly, and he advanced alone to the water hole, a slow step at a time. Here, fully conscious of his responsiblity as a leader, he did not so much as look at the water; instead, he drew away and went back to his herd and apparently held a conference. As I have said, it was a frightfully hot day and the big animals probably had come a long distance to quench an almost overpowering thirst. Taking this into consideration, it would seem, the leader returned once more to the water hole to investigate. A little fellow, probably his son, started to follow, whereupon the father paused long enough to smack him sharply with his trunk and send him back into the herd. This second investigation proved no more satisfactory than the first—I could have sworn the big fellow sighed and shook his head—and, returning to his family and companions, he led them quietly but firmly away.

  Martin and I loved baby animals of every kind, but baby elephants were simply irresistible. There was one little fellow—he couldn’t have been over a few weeks old—who was being led for perhaps the first time down to a water hole. It was another of those very hot days, and the baby lagged behind the herd and whined and complained bitterly. As a matter of fact, I felt certain that if we could have been close enough we would have seen big tears rolling down his face. His mother lost patience finally, seized him by the ear with her trunk, held him firmly with her huge foot, and then proceeded to squirt water over him. The infant squawked and struggled in vain and wasn’t released until his mother was satisfied he had had enough both to cool and discipline him.

  My husband and I almost laughed aloud when the baby got to his feet still squawking—his pink mouth wide open—only to find that he felt refreshed and almost happy. He took hold of his mother’s tail with his trunk, quite as one of our own babies would take his mother’s hand, and stood complacently while she had her drink. Then he followed her quietly into the tall grass, still holding her tail.

  I suppose it would sound very silly for anyone to say that elephants conduct schools for their young ones, and yet if it was not a school, or class, that we came upon in the forest about eight miles from our Lake Paradise home, I’m sure I don’t know what it was. Four mothers with as many youngsters apparently had chosen this quiet retreat—a discreet distance, I assume, from the male members of the family—to go into the intricacies and art of trumpeting. Fortunately they were so busy and earnest about it all that we were able to watch them for quite a long time without being observed. The procedure seemed to be for each mother in turn to lift her trunk and let forth a mighty blast and then for her young one to set himself also for a mighty blast, only to emit a thin squeak somewhat resembling a tin whistle. This disappointment and despair of the mothers and the abashment of the babies over all this had us laughing out loud, finally, and school was dismissed promptly and in some alarm.

  Thanks to Boculy, we were able to secure many fine pictures of elephants in herds, but I think we were equally interested in coming on single animals at close range. In these circumstances, the big animal was without the guidance of leader or herd, and his reactions, if anything, were sharper. His great ears would push straight out from his head, his long trunk wave exploringly, and he would squint his small eyes in our direction in an effort at identifying us. After a long look then and a great sniff, he would usually decide that while we were nothing to fear, neither were we familiar to him, and, backing off a few paces, he would turn around and stroll dignifiedly away.

  There was one mammoth old lady whom I should have liked to spank for her habit of breaking into my garden and systematically eating ten square feet of my sweet potatoes. We set up our cameras, one night, with wires and flashlights, and just as we were getting into bed we heard the boom of flashlight powder.

  “Good,” I said, as I heard her crashing into our stockade paling. “Perhaps this will teach her a lesson.”

  The photographs turned out sharp and clear, and Martin was delighted. He liked sweet potatoes, but he liked photography even better and hoped she would come back. She did, repeatedly, in spite of booming flashlights, and one night, to prove how completely unafraid she was, she proceeded to strip the thatching from one of our huts. A little tardily, I decided that the best way to please the old lady, as well as to stop the destructions, would be to plant a bed of sweet potatoes for her outside our stockade.

  Martin and I have heard “big-game hunters” boast of killing elephants, and there’s no doubt but that to bring the animals down requires fine marksmanship or luck—or both. The need for either skill or luck is that the only vulnerable places in the creature’s noble head—other than the tiny eyes, of course—are a spot no larger than a dollar in the center of the forehead, a similar spot at the temple, and another behind the ear.

  Our only boast with regard to killing elephants is that in all our years of association with them we have taken the life of only one. We were having lunch in camp on that occasion, and Boculy, much excited, came running.

  “Big elephants,” he cried, “all together very quiet.”

  Within a half an hour our gun-bearers and porters had carried our cameras to the place indicated by Boculy, and there they were, a small but complete herd of six or seven big females, several young ones, and four big bulls. They were in the open, grouped closely together, with the babies playing tag around the legs of the older ones, and the lighting, atmosphere—everything—was right for a perfect picture.

  It was I who usually “stirred up” t
he game to get action, but this time Martin insisted that inasmuch as there was little or no cover to run to in case of a charge, he would take over my job and I would take his place behind the camera.

  My husband moved slowly toward the herd. They were unaware of us. I cranked steadily, admiring the magnificent creatures and wishing it were possible to photograph in color the rich shades of their big gray bodies against the tawny yellows of the veld. With too great suddenness, perhaps, the largest bull saw Martin. Startled, he spread his ears, raised his trunk, shifted uneasily, snorted—and charged!

  Martin ran. In similar circumstances, my husband and I had often stopped a charge by simply yelling and waving our arms, but this animal, apparently angered at being taken by surprise, refused to be either swerved or halted.

  Martin dodged, doubled, and swung about, but the beast took every turn with him and was gaining fast. True to our pact, I kept on grinding; I kept screaming too, and my gun-bearer stood ready at my side with my rifle. Terror then was added to terror as the rest of the herd tore after their leader. One part of my brain told me that this would be a magnificent picture; the other told me that unless I brought the lead elephant down, Martin would be trampled. I snatched my gun and fired. I have no recollection whatever of even stopping to take aim—and the big animal faltered and fell not fifteen feet away from where we stood. The rest of the herd, startled at seeing their leader pitch to the ground, swerved and lumbered off.

  Released from the tension and excitement, I started involuntarily to run and fell into a pig-hole. Martin came and fished me out—covered with mud!

  Chapter 23

  “Martin! Martin!” I shouted one bright morning, and ran across the garden to the laboratory building. The darkroom door was closed and the red warning light was on, but completely heedless of consequences I dashed in, even leaving the door open.

  “Hey, what’s the idea?” my husband yelled. “Do you want to spoil all this negative? You know better than that!”

  I hurried back and closed the door. “We’ve got to go to Isiolo right away,” I said, “and we’ve got to dress, too!” I was already on my way again. “And you be sure to put on your best shirt.”

  Martin caught up with me halfway across the garden.

  “What is all this, anyhow?” he demanded.

  “The Duke and Duchess of York!” I said.

  “What?”

  “They want to meet us! They sent a runner! Come on, hurry!”

  My husband grinned. “Well, gosh,” he said.

  This was somewhere along in 1925. At any rate, Blayney had gone on a long-deferred visit to England, and I regretted so much that he wasn’t with us.

  In the midst of a sketchy but much-needed manicure—in which I did more damage than good—it occurred to me that even a duke and duchess on safari might grow tired of tinned vegetables, so on the spot I went to the window and called to some of our men to go into the garden at once and pick a few of the choicest of everything there. There were tomatoes, lettuce, celery, cucumbers, radishes, green onions and beans, watermelon, cantaloupes, Country Gentleman corn, and even potatoes—and all washed carefully and laid in a box with sweet, clean ferns from the woods, they looked very nice indeed.

  I did my hair as best I could in all the excitement, dressed in my nicest white silk shirt and tie and English riding breeches and boots, and set off in my fresh-polished, country-club car, determined to make as respectable a showing as possible in spite of our long absence from civilization. Of course, I took three of my best men with me, together with my boxes of lovely, fresh vegetables. When I left, Martin was supervising the loading of his camera truck, for, naturally, we never stirred without our photographic equipment.

  I made splendid time. The road down from Paradise and across the desert was a very decent one by now in all except the rainy season, and in something like five hours I had reached the Guaso Nyiro.

  We had forded this river so often that I thought nothing of it. Then I saw a group of people on the opposite shore: a dozen or so native men and, presumably, two white men. Hunters, I concluded, and plunged my car into the river. The river was higher than usual, and halfway across I found the water rising about me. Perhaps I had driven into a hole. At any rate, I sat there in a helpless rage, with the water rising rapidly to my chin.

  After what seemed to be a consultation on shore, a native swam out to us with a long, stout rope. This he tied to the axle of my car, and then the people on shore all pulled like mad and hauled us in.

  I’m sure I said my thanks with all the earnestness I felt, but I was concerned about my vegetables and was busy making sure they were all right when the tall white gentleman of the group asked if I wasn’t Mrs. Martin Johnson. I said I was, and asked him if he thought my car would start, that I had to hurry on to Isiolo.

  Then the second white person—a lady, in khaki breeches like myself—said, smiling, “You’ve had a rather wet crossing, haven’t you?”

  I said yes and thought what a mess my nice white blouse was and my hair and everything, and told my men to hurry up and do something about starting the car.

  “May I present my wife,” the tall gentleman began and then, because he smiled, I recognized him. We laughed and shook hands all around, but I felt very silly that the Duke and Duchess of York should have had to haul me, dripping like a half-drowned puppy, out of the river. Both were still panting a little from the unwonted exertion, and I told myself that I ought to feel terribly embarrassed, but there was something about them that simply made embarrassment impossible.

  I still was puzzled, however. “I had expected to find you in Isiolo,” I said, “not out here in the wilderness.”

  The duchess, dear and little and young, with the loveliest blue eyes I ever saw, nodded and said that since they had rather expected us down they had decided to come as far as the lovely Guaso Nyiro to meet me.

  “And then, Albert thought,” she added, “that he might pick up a bird or two for our dinner.”

  Suddenly I remembered my box of beautiful vegetables and had my men lift it out of the car. The wetting hadn’t hurt the vegetables in the least (I caught myself wishing I looked half as charming and fresh), and proudly I presented them to Africa’s distinguished visitors. They seemed delighted and very grateful. Each selected a large, luscious tomato and sat down, their backs propped comfortably against a tree, to enjoy what I personally know to be a feast in the African wilderness.

  “The very best tomato I ever tasted,” the duke said, which, of course, made me very happy. The duchess thought so too, wanted to know what variety it was, and suggested to her husband that they plant some in their garden the moment they got home.

  I sat with my back to a tree opposite them—I think I munched on a stick of celery—and with practically no prompting at all told them about Lake Paradise, our gardens, Martin’s work, everything, and their genuine interest made me forget how funny I must have looked with river water still running out of my clothes and boots and making little puddles all around me.

  They both had seen several of our pictures in England and felt that Martin was doing a very important work, which made me very proud indeed.

  At just about this time, my husband, driving the camera truck, appeared on the opposite bank. I was so afraid he would plunge into the very hole I had got into that I tried by screeching and waving my arms to convey some sort of warning, but either he couldn’t hear me or thought what I wanted to say wasn’t especially important, for he drove right down my tire tracks into the river and crossed in apparently the exact same place where I had attempted so disastrously to cross. He kept right on coming, however. Either the hole had filled up or I had a special genius for sinking where there were no holes. He looked me over with the most astonished expression and said—pretty exasperatingly, I thought—“Well, gosh, what happened to you?”

  I ignored that part, of course, and introduce
d him to the duke and duchess.

  We all had a lot of fun together. Pat Ayer, their professional hunter and also an old friend of ours whom we had known in Nairobi, joined us, and we went to the Isiolo River and had a feast under the trees on our combined lunches and our vegetables. We went fishing, too. My luck held up pretty well and the little duchess caught more than any of us, but neither Martin nor the duke did very well, although the duke did catch a crab. He was pleased no end, put it in a box, covered it with moss, and took it back to camp saying he was going to keep it as a mascot. I was reminded of my small brother—though I didn’t say so—who was always bringing home crawdads, turtles, frogs, and the like for his “menagerie.”

  The duke found Martin’s cameras of special interest, and in the short time we had together my husband explained as much as was possible of motion-picture technique. He also wrote out a list of recommendations with regard to equipment for various uses. More than a year later we received a longhand note from His Royal Highness, telling us that he had purchased several cameras and was struggling to master the Eyemo, and that he was endeavoring to remember all of Martin’s cautionings and instructions.