by Sara James
Through the crackle on my headset, I heard Nad’s familiar voice. “This is India Sierra Echo, taking off to the east on a low-level flight in the Namutoni area. Any traffic? India Sierra Echo.” Nad went through the last-minute checks, throttled back, and quickly we were airborne. Setting out to find Knob Nose, we first flew toward camp.
“I still can’t believe it’s ours.” We’d been living at camp for over a year, but each time I saw it from the air, it gave me a thrill. From fifty feet up, it looked chocolate-box beautiful. Two tents in a grove of trees, the tin roofs covering the long-drop and shower reflecting the midday sun. A huge pile of firewood rested against the side of the smaller tent. Against the large tent there was a sandbox, yellow dump trucks and red shovels sticking out at odd angles. A swing made from an old tire hung from the thick branch of an acacia tree. Now camp looked like home, and we were the proud owners. As Nad banked the plane, dipping its wings over camp, Selinda stepped out into the sun, holding Kimber in her strong arms, both of them waving as we flew past.
“He’s fine,” Nad reassured me, knowing that I sometimes struggled to find the right balance between working mother and mother working.
“I’m sure he is.” I smiled. “I’m fine, too, thanks. Let’s go find Knob Nose.”
I plugged my headphones into the radiotelemetry tracking device and flipped a small switch back and forth, right and left, listening as the beeps grew stronger.
“Turn left.” As Nad banked the plane, the sound of beeps intensified.
“There they are, right below us.”
In a dense grove of terminalia trees I spotted Knob Nose, the matriarch, surrounded by her herd. Even without her radio collar, the big wart on her nose made her impossible to miss.
“Looks like they are moving toward the water hole at Cameldoorin. If we head back now, you can get them coming in.” The Land Rover, packed with fresh film and camera gear, was parked at the airstrip. From there it would take me about an hour to drive to Cameldooring. I would be there long before sunset.
“That’s great, but I’ll be back late.”
“No problem. I’ll get dinner going.”
“Please be careful with Kimber around the fire.”
Nad shook his head and laughed. “Gin, we are always careful. Give your boy some credit, he’s a bush baby.”
I looked out the plane’s window at the game paths streaked like veins in the earth, wondering which path the elephants would choose to enter the water hole and where I would set up my cameras, thinking of our shooting script and mentally composing the shots I wanted to capture that evening. That was when I heard a big clunk.
“What was that?” The sound seemed to echo in the pit of my stomach.
“I don’t know, but I’m climbing.” When you’re flying just twenty feet above the bush, a huge clunk, followed by “I don’t know,” is not good news. Climbing was the only option Nad had—the only way to put enough space between us and the ground so we could have a few extra moments to find a decent place to land. Nad pulled back on the yoke and we soared several hundred feet in just seconds.
I pictured Kimber down below playing in his sandbox, waiting for dinner and his parents to return. Eighteen months old and his closest relatives, Nad’s parents, lived two thousand miles away. Nad said nothing. He didn’t have to. I watched him rub his sweaty palms across his flight suit. I ran my hands through my hair and concentrated on breathing.
And then, finally, we were high enough, and I saw a stretch of wide, open dirt: the runway. “Don’t worry. We can glide in from here.”
When we touched down, I made a silent vow to Kimber to keep my feet on the ground. With rabid jackals, scorpions, and prowling lions, there were plenty of dangers in the bush; having one parent in the air was enough for any child.
After cutting the engine, Nad squeezed my shoulder. “You okay? You can still make it to Cameldooring before the elephants.”
An image flashed through my mind: elephants drifting through a cloud of dust, moving in shadows toward camera, becoming clearer in stunning light until Knob Nose and her herd emerged. It was quickly replaced by a much more powerful image: a little boy’s arms wrapped around my neck, his soft cheek resting against mine. “No, I think I’ll just stay home tonight.”
As I held Kimber in my arms, watching as his eyelids became heavy, his breathing deepened. I finally carried my sleeping boy to bed. It was a priceless evening, worth more than any footage I might have shot. And it was followed by special moments with the elephants that were captured on film.
In the past two years we had learned a great deal about the details of the elephants’ lives: their bonds, their wisdom, and their connection to their environment. And while we’d celebrated moments of great joy while filming them, we hadn’t expected to discover how much death was a part of the elephant’s journey.
The dry season of 2000 proved particularly brutal for Etosha’s young elephants, and Knob Nose’s family suffered more than most. Lurking in the soil, anthrax, a natural part of Etosha’s ecosystem and an ancient bacterial disease that can be ingested by unsuspecting animals, claimed the life of Knob Nose’s older son. Several weeks later we found her standing over the body of her last child. In less than two months, Knob Nose had lost both of her offspring to anthrax.
Knob Nose stayed with the body of her second child, gently touching the bones, lifting her sensitive foot and running it across the length of her little one’s body. In time other elephants joined her, caressing the bones in an ancient, eerily familiar expression of grief. As the camera rolled, I could almost feel the breath from her trunk released onto the bones, and in the silence, I could almost hear them mourning. While I captured these moments on film, Nad recorded sound. I was conscious of the sound of the tape rolling, quietly round and round, capturing the stillness.
As a mother, I felt haunted by the double loss of those intelligent, wonderful creatures. Later that month back at camp, when Knob Nose and her herd had moved to the far eastern corner of the park, I told Nad, “I’m worried about Knob Nose.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“What if she isn’t?”
Kimber, who had been adding wood to the fire, perked up, ever alert to changes in our moods. “Mommy, what’s wrong?”
“Darlin’, Knob Nose’s babies were sick and they both died. It’s very sad.”
“Kimber,” Nad chimed in, “it is sad, but it’s a natural part of life in Etosha. Disease helps to control the numbers of animals in the park; that way there is enough food for the other animals.”
“Oh yeah, like the smoke?”
“That’s right, that jackal who was prowling around here had rabies. It was very sick.” A rabid jackal had stumbled into camp. Nad had shot it, and Kimber had witnessed everything. Six months later, what he remembered most clearly was the smoke coming from the end of the gun.
“But Daddy saved me.” Kimber smiled and hugged his daddy’s leg, his head not quite reaching Nad’s knee.
Growing up in the bush, in a world without television, video games, and PlayStations, Kimber already realized that there was nothing artificial about life and death.
KIMBER WAS ALMOST two years old when Nad and I closed the zips on our tent, loaded the last of our film in a box, and for the first time all three of us flew to the U.S. to edit our elephant film. Kimber stayed with my family in Richmond, getting to know his cousin Maggie, the dogs Alice and Lucky, and Millie, our big beautiful cat. I gave Millie an extra scratch behind the ears, as she was the very cat my mom and my sisters Marsha and Dona had given me years before, when Kevin had broken off our relationship. What a long time ago that seemed, and how much I loved that cat.
Creeping out before our son woke up on Monday mornings to take the early train two hours north to Washington, D.C., we would return on Thursday evenings in time to put Kimber to bed. In between, we spent our first days in Washington on the fifth floor of National Geographic in the edit suite. Gliding down the hall, wishing everyo
ne a good morning, was Keenan Smart, head of National Geographic’s Natural History Unit. I introduced him to Nad.
“I remember you from the baboon film,” a simple sentence flowing lyrically in his Scottish brogue. A look passed between the three of us—of a prior screening, a past disappointment—but a look that ended in laughter.
“Glad these people finally came to their senses,” Keenan continued. “We are all looking forward to working on your film. Come on and say hi to Kathy and Anny. Great girls. You’ll be in good hands.”
And we were. Kathy Pasternak, our supervising producer, kept us on schedule, while Anny Lowery Meza, our editor, stayed late, never complaining, always quick with a smile and a late-night toast with Cognac. She worked her magic with the raw footage, crafting beautiful scenes infused with her warmth and intelligence. One scene in particular evolved with a poignancy we could never have expected when filming in Etosha.
When we’d arrived in the U.S., we’d sent Kurt Fristrup, a specialist in bioacoustics and animal communication at Cornell University, the sound tape we’d rolled when Knob Nose had been caressing the bones of her dead baby. Other than a whispering wind and a few birdcalls, we hadn’t heard a thing. But since elephants communicate below the threshold of human hearing, we’d asked Kurt to run the tape through one of Cornell’s machines capable of capturing infrasonic sounds just in case. Kindly, he’d agreed.
When the tape arrived at National Geographic, Anny blew it a kiss before putting it in the editing machine. At first the room was quiet, then there was a single voice, a bellow, deep and mournful, rising and falling. Soon it was joined by other voices, a symphony of sound, subterranean and rich with emotion. Knob Nose and her herd had lingered not at an elephant graveyard of myth, but at a very specific grave site, the place where her own baby had perished. The sounds continued, rising, falling, a single voice, then others, echoing with pain, moving Anny and me to tears. It was the first time anyone had heard these sounds for exactly what they were: the mourning of a very special elephant by a very special herd. The elephants’ silent language of grief.
Just as we had been with the baboon and Bushmen films, Nad and I were blessed to have an editor who treated our footage and the elephants’ story as a gift, one that she protected, nurtured, and wove with clarity and care. As we worked our way through the collaborative process of filmmaking, one I’d become more comfortable with through the years, Anny continued to work her magic.
During the fine-cut screening before a host of producers, Anny turned to me and whispered, “I love this part.”
The dark edit suite came alive with images of Etosha that made me glad I’d gotten out of bed on those dark, frosty mornings: green plains full of purple and white lilies, tall lilac cosmos, and pools of deep blue water. An elephant moved into frame, leading the herd: it was Knob Nose. Behind her walked a baby, flat ears and stubby black hair on her head. After losing two babies to anthrax, Knob Nose had had another, a little girl who might prove to be the herd’s next matriarch.
I smiled at Anny. Our film had a real-life happy ending.
NAD HAD ADDED such a refreshing and intelligent perspective to the edit, but eventually he had to return to Namibia to his veterinarian duties in Etosha, so while I finished the film Kimber stayed with my parents. On my last day in Washington, when we’d just completed layering in sound effects for the final “mix” of the film, Sara came down from New York to celebrate. “How’s it going at the Geographic? Weren’t you going to pitch them a new idea?” she asked.
“Yes, on the natural history of anthrax. Nad and I think it’s a fascinating story, but they said, ‘No. Who wants to hear about a disease?’”
“I think it sounds interesting, too, but maybe they do have a point. It’s not anything that ever happens here. Plus it only kills animals.”
“It’s more complicated than that, but that’s the challenge. When we figure out how to tell the story in a more captivating way, so it’s not just some rotten old disease, we’ll be able to make the film. Anyway, what time is your interview tomorrow?”
“I have to be at Senator McCain’s office at ten A.M. I’ve done most of the prep work, so there’s no rush tonight.”
“Great.” We moved around each other in the luxurious bathroom at the Ritz-Carlton, sharing lipstick, blow-dryers, and memories.
“Nothing like my bathroom in Okaukuejo.”
“Speaking of Okaukuejo, I have a little something for Kimber.”
She went back into the bedroom, rummaged down to the bottom of her suitcase, and returned with a beautiful Babar print, a delightful scene of a little elephant blowing on a campfire.
“Not that I’m quite sure where you’ll hang it, given that you still live in a tent! I can’t believe I haven’t met him yet, but when I saw this in Paris I thought of him.”
My dear friend who had gone to Paris to forget, at least for a weekend, about her miscarriage, had remembered my son. As I hugged her, I knew without a doubt that my feelings of being out of sync, disconnected, had passed. I no longer feared that our friendship was fraying. It was stronger than ever, and so were we.
“Thank you, Sara, it’s beautiful and so is he, but you’ll see him this weekend. Come on, I’m starved.”
In a restaurant known for its delicious food, Sara pushed her dinner around the plate.
“Sara…” with a raise of my eyebrows, was all I had to say.
“I think I might be. But I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
The next morning Sara crept into the bathroom while I pretended to be asleep. Not for long. She ran out and jumped on the bed.
“It’s positive, it’s positive!”
“Let me see.”
“It’s in the trash can!”
“Are you crazy, get it out!”
She ran into the bathroom and ran out waving the tiny stick with its two pink lines clearly visible.
I grabbed her and hugged her and wouldn’t let go. “Sara! What wonderful news! You’re gonna have a baby!”
Like my little boy, I trusted my instincts. And this time I was just sure there would be another real-life happy ending, and this one would be Sara’s.
26
SARA (2000–2001)
HAVE A SEAT, Sara. What’s up?” asked Dick Ebersol, president of NBC Sports, gesturing to one of the comfortable sofas in an immense office that smelled not so faintly of cigar smoke.
It had been just a couple of weeks since I’d seen Ginger in Washington. The story I’d shot there would air during NBC’s coverage of the 2000 Summer Olympics and I was due to leave for Sydney in a couple of months.
“I think you know how excited I am about this assignment,” I began, “especially covering the Games in my husband’s country, but there’s a complication.”
Dick raised an eyebrow, waited for me to continue.
Much as I liked Dick, I’d agonized about this encounter. I hated letting people down, not doing what I’d promised, putting anyone in a bind. But most of all, the guiding principle which had gotten me to the network had been Put Work First. And I always had. Until that minute.
His twinkling blue eyes said, I think I can guess, but all he said was, “Yes?”
In the end I just blurted out, “I’m pregnant.” My present and future in two and a half words.
His grin widened. “Congratulations. That’s great news!” The proud father of four, Dick proceeded to tell me how his wife, former Kate & Allie star Susan St. James, had been a pioneer when it came to bringing babies to the set as she’d juggled being a mom with her acting career. As I left, he gave me a smile and said, “You’re doing the right thing to stay home.”
He’d understood. I was off the hook. As I stumbled out of Dick’s office, I was knocked off-balance by a wave of relief so enormous I was stunned to discover that it was followed by a hidden riptide of loss. I’d just volunteered to watch the Games on television instead of being on television to report them. I’d miss the sweaty drama of front-row access to
gymnastics, swimming, track and field, not to mention the diverting sideshows and controversy that invariably erupted. And of course there was the prospect of real news. I’d covered the Atlanta Games in 1996, raced to Olympic Park just minutes after a bomb had exploded, covered the chaos as terror supplanted celebration. Homegrown or imported, kooks and crazies with a cause would always be lurking, hoping to hijack the Games.
To turn down a significant assignment felt not just odd, it felt wrong. I hardly knew how to say no, and doing so felt like trying to flex an unfamiliar set of muscles. My baby wasn’t even born yet and I found myself confronting the dilemmas of motherhood, the need to “juggle” and “prioritize.” I couldn’t help but think about male colleagues for whom having a baby had no impact on career trajectory. Most had wives who stayed home with the children, and even those who had working partners generally delegated child care arrangements to the mom. In my current situation I realized I had no choice, as my wise and caring obstetrician, Dr. Kessler, had unequivocally nixed this trip. While I dutifully put the needs of this new, growing person ahead of my own, I still experienced occasional selfish twinges. Imagining Baby as a smiling, cooing, and distinctly separate being felt entirely theoretical.
I was thirty-nine years old, this was my third pregnancy, and it was still early in the first trimester. I knew better than to stroke my belly this time, knew better than to indulge in show or even tell. Our families knew, and Ginger of course, having been there when that sliver of plastic glowed with twin pink lines. Somehow, having her there to confirm the news made me feel as if perhaps this third time would charm up a baby. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time I felt queasy. I craved shakes made with tofu, strawberries, and bananas. I couldn’t stand the smell of meat or vegetables cooking, so every night Andrew ordered delivery while I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I craved ginger I baked Christmas cookies in July, glaring when my husband complained that while the air might smell good, it was now 97 degrees inside. Then a Proustian longing for crepes prompted me to scour the city for the perfect pan. Andrew watched with by-now-silent amusement, having learned that virtually anything he ventured to say was wrong. For starters, how dare he feel so confident that everything would be fine, after all we’d been through? I’d felt no flutterings, no hint of the “quickening” I’d read about, and I wasn’t ready to believe.