by Meave Leakey
Despite pleas from the whole family, Richard was adamant about wanting to stay. Not only was he worried about the cost of travelling, but he also wanted to continue working. He insisted that all the things he had been building at KWS would crumble if he left. He started to refuse pain medicine so he could keep a clear head, and the hospital room became jumbled with office equipment as he valiantly tried to run KWS from his bed. For a man like Richard who was used to being in complete control, his total dependency on the hospital staff not only rankled, it was also unbearable. Continuing to work was his way of fighting back and a key to his very survival just as it had been more than two decades previously. Nevertheless, he was truly sick, and I worried about his insistence on staying put. I despaired at my own lack of control in the situation. How would I be able to make important decisions when I lacked the medical knowledge about the true extent of his injuries? I worried that, in his state of great pain and dulled by drugs, Richard might stubbornly keep trying to put the country’s interests before his own, which would not be in anybody’s interest if it ended up killing him.
At the hangar containing the wreckage of the plane, Sacha was shocked and puzzled. The engineers were still trying to identify what had gone wrong. Sacha had thought that he would be the next person to fly the plane when he was scheduled to fetch me from Turkana later that week. The plane had just passed its service with flying colours, and Sacha had checked out the plane two days earlier with a veteran pilot who worked for the flying doctors at the African Medical and Research Foundation. The two of them had put the engine through all its paces, doing spins, turns, stalls, and all the other things pilots do to check an engine thoroughly. Everyone remarked that this fantastic little engine was working perfectly. So how could it abruptly die only seven minutes out of Nairobi?
Richard’s antipoaching drive and strong stance against corruption had earned him any number of enemies, and we were both aware of the death threats that had been made against him. The spectre of sabotage loomed large in our minds, and we were desperate to find a simple mechanical fault to set our fears to rest. Although the result might be equivalent, somehow a nasty accident was far easier to stomach than a failed sabotage attempt. Many man hours were spent trying to figure out what went wrong, and parts of the engine were sent to specialist engineers in the United States. But because we were unable to rule out sabotage, we moved Richard to a more secure wing at the hospital, and bodyguards were deployed outside his room.
We never did find out what caused the engine to fail over the forest. Phil later told me that the AMREF pilot who had first located the crash site had told him that the plane was so badly damaged that there was no hope of anyone coming out alive. The first onlookers at the scene had apparently concurred—everyone’s possessions, including Richard’s gold Rolex watch, were stolen and their unconscious, broken bodies left unattended until a good Samaritan took most of the passengers to the nearest hospital in his pickup. Richard was evacuated in a helicopter, and I shudder to think about the pain he endured on that trip to hospital. But before his evacuation, Richard also rose to the occasion through his shock with his usual grit and determination, calmly directing people to get his staff to the hospital and arranging everything as though he were fine. Looking at the photos of the wreck later, I had to marvel that everyone had survived. The photos showed a twisted, gruesome tangle of metal, with one mangled wing still suspended from the gnarled old mango tree that had slowed their fall. This was all that remained of the faithful little workhorse that had clocked most of its miles running supplies and scientists to Turkana.
Things came to a head on June 8. Richard was now out of intensive care, and I was sleeping in a cot beside his bed. He had a terrible night after reacting to some sleeping pills he’d been given. He’d been hallucinating and trying to clamber out of the bed by throwing everything out of his way and disconnecting the cannula in his wrist. “Where am I, why am I here?” he kept mumbling. My efforts to soothe him seemed to make him even more agitated. “Why are my legs so heavy, and why can’t we cut them off?” he presciently demanded, and he wanted to know why he was tied to the bed and whether or not he was a prisoner even though all that restrained him were bandages and IV tubes. It was simply dreadful to listen to him and be unable to help. The nurses eventually got hold of a doctor who prescribed a tranquilizer. This stopped him from trying to break free of the bed although his deep distress and endless questions continued. It was one of the longest nights of my life, equaled in length only by one some thirteen years earlier when Richard clung precariously to life as his body fought to reject the newly transplanted kidney given to him by Philip.
The president of Kenya had planned to come by to see Richard and discuss some pressing matters about KWS early the very next morning. But I knew that in his current state, Richard would not be able to have a coherent conversation, so I asked Charles Njonjo, one of our closest and oldest family friends and Richard’s greatest confidante, to arrange for the appointment to be postponed. But perversely, when Richard woke up later, it was with a clear head. He remembered nothing at all of the night or his earlier state. He was absolutely furious with me! Never in the course of our whole marriage, he said, had I done anything so inimical—he needed that meeting for reasons I could not possibly begin to understand. Then, to make a thoroughly horrid day far worse, he started to have temperature spikes. After his kidney transplant, we had been warned by his doctors in England that we should watch for such signs as they were possible indications of serious problems with his kidney. Both of us worried that a severe infection might cause complications and irreparable damage.
When the president later came to visit, he personally assured Richard that he would not allow people to take advantage of his absence to push through untoward dealings or undo the progress he had been making at KWS. I was forgiven, and Moi’s public support, together with our fears about his kidney, finally persuaded Richard to accept the generous help we were being offered from friends. Without further ado, he telephoned Prince Claus of the Netherlands, a dear friend. The prince arranged for an English surgeon, Chris Colton, known for his successful treatment of a polo injury sustained by Britain’s Prince Charles some years earlier, to come to Nairobi to assess the situation. Colton flew to Kenya on Friday, June 11, and after a short surgery that he oversaw with the local surgeon, he insisted that Richard be flown to Nottingham without delay. Monday found us bound for England after Richard’s stretcher had been forklifted into the plane and bolted down over six economy seats at the very back. All through the long journey, he kept sliding toward the rear because of the flight angle, bumping and jarring his broken legs. I felt dreadfully sorry for him, but I was thankful beyond measure that he had at last agreed to seek the best care. My fieldwork was far from my mind, but Louise, on summer break from her undergraduate studies at the University of Bristol, had gone to Lothagam in my place. With Alan and Kamoya’s help, she would ensure that the season was not wasted.
The days at Nottingham melded together into endless consultations with specialists and operations every three or four days. The Coltons kindly lent me a room in their house where I could change and bathe, and their garden offered some respite during the long string of operations that Colton performed on Richard’s legs. On more than one occasion, I fell asleep in their bathtub, awaking with a start in stone-cold water and stared at the soapy rim that had congealed along the waterline until my dazed and scattered thoughts returned me to the present. Although my communications with Louise and the field crew were few and far between, Richard remained obsessed with the necessity to communicate frequently with his office, and once again, fax machines and other office paraphernalia competed with nursing equipment in a cluttered hospital room. He also insisted on a decent supply of good wine. This problem was also solved by the ever-generous Prince Claus. By royal command, the Netherlands ambassador in London was dispatched to personally procure a number of fine wines—a most unusual mission for him, I’m sure. The n
urses insisted that Richard not drink alcohol, and I brazenly assured them that the empty bottles they encountered daily at our doorway were entirely due to my own overconsumption. But they didn’t buy it. Against this backdrop, the fax machine spat out reams of paper and the phone rang off the hook in a tiny hospital room packed with office equipment and papers. The hospital began to complain that there were too many phone calls and that we were blocking up the phones since they had only two lines!
Richard came back from the first surgery with metal struts and bolts all over his legs and pins through his bones. Colton pegged the odds of keeping each foot at fifty-fifty. Because of the septicemia that had set in and nearly killed Richard in Kenya, bone grafts and transplants were not an option. The infections also led the doctors to quarantine Richard. There was a big sign on the door that announced BARRIER NURSING. Anyone who entered had to don gloves and aprons, and whatever came in couldn’t be taken out again. The whole affair was surreal and made me feel as though we had landed in a nightmare from outer space.
It eventually became clear that the left leg could not be saved. Mary took the news badly. I also called Samira. She had been travelling in Asia at the time of the accident, and after tracking her down, I had encouraged her not to come home, minimizing how bad things actually were. She appeared at the door soon after. Our eyes met over the metal bolts and struts of Richard’s bandaged and scaffolded legs, hers as wide as saucers and silently accusing me of keeping the seriousness of the situation from her. I was too weary and had not the words to explain that admitting the severity—and asking for support—would have made it all too hard to bear. Samira threw herself into the task of nursing me while I nursed Richard. She took over all the shopping and laundry, and brought enticing home-cooked meals to the hospital every day, always extracting me for a few hours of relief. Joyce Poole flew to Nottingham with her baby girl for a few days, and George Bronfman, another of Richard’s closest friends, came frequently, always bringing a delicious picnic to tempt Richard to eat. I left Richard in their care with some peace of mind when I snatched a few hours of respite. Anna, Richard’s eldest daughter from his marriage to Margaret, was also a constant and welcome visitor at weekends. Messages and gifts from friends and well-wishers poured in, and many close friends took time out of their busy schedules to travel to Nottingham to drop in. Once again, we were overwhelmed and grateful for the outpouring of support and generosity.
The kindness of one friend in particular was very bittersweet. Renata Williams, who attended the University of Bangor with me and was known in our university days as a leading light in the debating society, rang me out of the blue one day. Renata was living in a village close to Nottingham. While she and her family went on holiday, she opened her home to Samira and trusted her with her car. A kitchen, laundry, and wheels made looking after Richard a great deal easier. But Renata was living her own tragedy. She had battled cancer for years, and she would lose this fight the following year.
On my birthday, July 28, Richard’s left leg was amputated. Soon afterwards, it became apparent that his other leg would probably have to go too. Richard was very down and was finding it harder and harder to recuperate from the repeated surgeries and anaesthetics he had already undergone. We decided that he should go back home for a fortnight to recuperate before they did anything to the right leg. The idea of being in Kenya again did much to boost our damp spirits. Richard was fitted with a wheelchair and a temporary prosthesis, and by August 12, we were on our way to Kenya. We took the trip in grand style, thanks to more generosity from an old school friend of Richard’s, Geoffrey Kent, and his wife, Jorie. The Kents arranged for us to fly home first class after a night in Claridge’s, one of London’s finest establishments.
* * *
THE FIRST DAY BACK was difficult and emotional for us all. We were painfully aware of Richard’s disabilities and his despondency. But we soon adjusted to a new rhythm. We put a comfortable old armchair into the back of a KWS van, and Richard wheeled his chair up the ramp and travelled in relative comfort to his office where he received a hero’s rapturous welcome.
Louise had been supervising the fieldwork at Turkana, and we all felt it was important that I go to Turkana and see what they had found. I taught Joyce how to dress Richard’s wounds, and with his encouragement, I left him in her care and took off to Turkana. I was accompanied by Louise, Kamoya, and Bob Campbell. Bob was a longtime friend who had worked with us at Turkana on and off as a photographer since the very early days. Bob’s interests were wide-ranging and included a vast knowledge of mechanics from his days running the Jaguar maintenance shop in Nairobi. He was also well seasoned in the bush, having spent most of his career as a wildlife photographer far off the beaten track. Since we had no direct means of communication except on Louise’s occasional trips to Nairobi for news and supplies, I thirstily absorbed a backlog of all the camp news. They had much to show me, and for the first time in two months, I relaxed a little.
Bob and Kamoya were anxious to show me a hominin mandible Nzube had found on a foray they had made to the Nakoret exposures across the Kerio River in a bleak range of lava called the Loriu hills, which was roughly thirty miles away from our camp at Lothagam. I had planned this trip before Richard’s accident, and they had gone ahead in my absence. There was, however, one considerable obstacle: the Kerio River, which can contain a substantial flow of water whenever rain falls some 150 miles away in the Elgeyo-Marakwet escarpment, the main source of the river. If it were to rain in the hills while they were across the river, the team could be stuck for many days. Richard’s daughter Anna and her fiancé, Ambrose Langley-Poole, had found a clever solution to this problem in the form of some large heavy-duty plastic drums known as bog cogs. These bolt onto the outside of the Land Rover’s wheels and provide increased traction, thereby greatly improving the chances of achieving a safe transit.
Even though I couldn’t be there myself, I had asked Bob to join the expedition and lend his expertise to Louise for the crossing. Fording any river of size by vehicle requires a measure of knowledge and assessment of risk, especially when the base consists mainly of sand and soft mud. Bob, Louise, and Kamoya had tried once and failed. They made their second and successful attempt on July 27. While we were preparing for the amputation in Nottingham, they had set off with basic camping gear, water, food, and the bog cogs and a full complement of the fossil hunting team. A hot wind was blasting from the southeast that lifted skeins of fine sand above the scrub of the arid countryside and completely obliterated their tracks as they made for the distant line of green that marked the river. With some judicious cutting, they managed to clear a way through the dense thickets along a cattle and goat trail and break out at a low bank only to find the river still flowing strongly. But a hundred yards away, the far bank looked reasonably suitable for an unobstructed exit.
Bob waded out with some of the others to test the bed, finding mainly sand but also many patches of soft mud. The water at the bank was two or more feet deep; farther out lay some partially exposed banks with channels of unknown depth on either side. There was little chance that their laden four-wheel-drive Land Rovers could cross unaided. The bog cogs were put to test. They worked superbly, their width giving plenty of traction over the soft spots and making short work of the exit at the far bank. The team excitedly headed southeast towards the dark Loriu hills.
Searches of the slopes confirmed that there were very few fossils in the pale sediments on the hillsides, but out in the low-lying ground to the west, there were large quantities of fragmented fossil bone. Assembling for lunch the following afternoon and seeking refuge from the blistering sun under the thin shade of an acacia tree, the team waited a long time for Nzube to appear. Just as worries that he had either lost track of time or run into difficulties were surfacing, he appeared. Exhausted and stone-faced, he headed straight for the water bag and drank long and deeply. He listened as Kamoya, Louise, and Bob berated him for causing much worry. Mildly chastened but cle
arly unperturbed, he suddenly grinned broadly. He had found a mandible—a hominin mandible!
It was to the site of this mandible that we eagerly retraced the team’s steps eighteen days later, with Louise remaining in camp at Lothagam with a radio as a backup should anything go wrong. But the river was a whisper of its earlier flow, and we forded it with ease without a thought about bog cogs. A blazing sun accompanied us across the many sections of soft sand; the wind blew strongly out of the east and thermals created frequent dust devils. We picked up the helpful survey line and made good time, reaching the site of Nzube’s rare find before dark. We camped that night in a sand river, listening to the high whine of the sand flies and mosquitoes. After so many nights of hearing hospital cries, groans of distress, and beeping machines, this annoying din had never sounded so welcome.
* * *
MY VISIT PASSED far too fast, but I left feeling refreshed and reassured that the expedition was running smoothly. Under Louise and Kamoya’s guidance, our work at Lothagam would be completed by season’s end. We were back in Nottingham by the end of August, and Richard soon decided that a second amputation was preferable to a painful and gammy leg. I found this second one much harder than I had expected. It was completely galling to think of the many reconstructive surgeries he had already undergone to save the foot—but it was futile to dwell on this wasted time, pain, money, and emotion. My more immediate concern was how Richard would cope. He had always been so active—how would he adjust to the loss of both his legs and the resulting disability? We did not speak of this.