Love, Life, and Elephants

by Dame Daphne Sheldrick

  Bill’s letters kept me going. While I enjoyed my work and the company of my colleagues, the restrictions of an office did not suit me. I yearned for the outdoors, to be among animals and trees again, so I lived for Bill’s letters. He described to me how he and David had to hack through the scrubland to carve out a road, and how they needed to walk the land to decide where to establish the Park’s headquarters. Their base camp was at Ndololo, on the Voi River, not far from Voi town at the foot of the towering Taita Hills, where fresh vegetables and even strawberries were grown. Voi town consisted of a few Asian-owned dukas that carried an eclectic assortment of dry goods. Also situated there was an historic First World War cemetery where an array of interesting people lay buried, including two First World War veteran Victoria Cross holders, the boots of a man devoured by a lion (all that was left to bury) and several people squashed by elephants. The newly built Voi Hotel, which had been designed on the back of a Clipper cigarette packet, was where he and David seemed to get up to all sorts of mischief. I absorbed all the details of Bill’s letters – after all, Tsavo East was to be my future home.

  In 1952 a state of emergency was declared in Kenya. Jomo Kenyatta – the man destined to become independent Kenya’s first President – was imprisoned, accused of masterminding the Mau Mau. Bands of Kikuyu tribesmen had taken to the Aberdare mountain range, armed and dangerous, and attacks against the establishment and the farmsteads of white settlers became almost daily events. There was one night when eleven murders took place, an entire family brutally butchered on the Kinangop, not far from where the Aggetts lived. Terror stalked the country. The loyalist faction of the Kikuyu tribe, of whom there were many, bore the brunt of the carnage, culminating in the Lari massacre, in which almost an entire village was wiped out – over 100 men, women and children decapitated and mutilated, left as a sinister warning to other Government supporters. The Government introduced a ‘villagization’ programme to protect those of the Kikuyu tribe who were loyal, ringing their villages with dry moats that bristled with sharpened panjies, or stakes, in an attempt at making an attack by the Mau Mau more difficult. Soon young white men of Bill’s age were being mobilized for active emergency service in the Kenya Regiment, and troops from the Lancashire Fusiliers were sent from England to bolster the local forces. The Mau Mau insurgents were proving difficult to counter, particularly as the forest gangs were being well provisioned with food by the women, who remained behind in their tribal area. Having been sent to Rhodesia for six months’ special training, Bill and Peter were selected for Officer Cadre. Now a new narrative emerged in Bill’s letters, for while he was not able to disclose operational details, I knew he was engaged in highly dangerous, clandestine sorties deep in the forest. Later, he was awarded the Military Cross for his bravery.

  The British troops shipped over to help quell the Mau Mau were viewed with deep scepticism by the settler community, including Grandpa Webb and Granny Chart, for once in unison. Unlike the Kenya Regiment, the ‘Poms’, as they were known, were not seen as a match for the Mau Mau in the dense, game-infested forests of the Aberdares and Mount Kenya. They were unfamiliar with the local people and terrain, not to mention the wildlife. There was resentment at the overtly sympathetic views of many of the British servicemen towards the Mau Mau cause and their condemnation of us settlers as a privileged elite who had no real right to be in Kenya in the first place. I was deeply affected by this. I knew that I was British through and through and loyal to the Crown, yet here I was being stigmatized by my so-called countrymen. Of course, our community was becoming something else without us even knowing it. Labelled the White Tribe of Africa, we were rapidly losing our stake in the country we viewed as home and could never be truly British again, due to long isolation in Africa. Nor could we be truly African either, because of colour and culture. The family embarked on lengthy discussions about this, my father in particular, and I felt troubled and unsettled, so sure in myself that I belonged here in Kenya. I had been born here and I wanted to live my life here. I was part of this land and this land was part of me.

  I wanted to be with Bill, for us to be married, living in Tsavo, working to create this new National Park, in the bush, among the natural world that meant so much to us both. It turned out I had to wait just a little while longer.

  4. Married Life

  ‘These wretched Colonies are a millstone round our neck, and will all be independent one day.’

  – Benjamin Disraeli, 1852

  My wedding dress of lace and tulle was the first shop-bought dress I ever owned. Bill and I had finally named the date, and because I was the first of my generation to get married, the reception was to be a grand affair, on the farm, in the garden, with a huge number of guests. Most of the planning fell to my mother and she set about it with her usual artistic flair, even making lilac bridesmaids’ dresses the exact colour of my favourite flowers, Cape chestnuts, which grew wild in the forest behind our farm. We went together to Nairobi to buy my wedding dress – until then I had worn only hand-made or handed-down clothes – and we spent an entire day choosing the dress of my dreams.

  The time leading up to the wedding should have been a very happy period, full of excitement and bustle. However, in the weeks before, two tragedies struck at the heart of my family. The first was a barbaric Mau Mau raid on my Great-Aunt Ethel’s farm in Nanyuki. Her house was set alight and, unable to escape, her foreman, his wife and their three children were burnt alive. Every single farmworker was brutally butchered outside – the farm a scene of carnage and devastation. Aunt Ethel was staying with Granny Chart at the time of the attack and the loss of her staff was almost too much for her to bear. I found it impossible to find any words of comfort, as she sat ashen-faced, trembling, quite literally stricken with grief.

  And then, a few days later, a telegram arrived from Malindi bearing the shattering news that Grandpa Webb had died in his sleep. He had been on the moonlit beach teaching football to the local children before returning home to enjoy a hearty meal with Granny Webb. He had woken once in the night complaining of indigestion, but after a dose of bicarbonate of soda had gone back to sleep.

  I loved my grandfather deeply and I was rooted to the spot on hearing of his death, my mind turning over as the impending impact of life without him hit me. I thought: he will not see me marry Bill; he will not dance in his funny way with me at my wedding and I will never again hear his infectious laugh. Grandpa Webb’s wicked sense of humour was irreplaceable, and I knew in those brief moments that I would miss him for the rest of my life. Even Granny Chart was upset – secretly I think she had thrived on the many years of matching him in banter.

  My mother and Sheila went down to Malindi to be with Granny Webb, who was her usual serene self, convinced that she would soon be reunited with her partner of some fifty years. Granny Webb had always been a deeply spiritual person with an unshakeable faith in the hereafter, not something shared by Grandpa. Later that night, as my mother sat on the verandah sofa, listening to the thunder of the surf, she is sure that her father, Grandpa Webb, appeared before her and said, ‘Peg, look after Mother. It won’t be for very long.’ My mother was adamant that she had not been dreaming and that he had really been in the room with her. Granny Webb was not at all surprised, as she had also had a chat with him that night. Nor did she linger long. She stayed just long enough to attend my wedding and six months later – quietly and with dignity – slipped away to join him, just as she had known she would. My grandfather was laid to rest in a tiny hallowed cemetery on the coral cliffs overlooking the ocean, sleeping to the sound of the sea, but since she died in Nakuru, Granny Webb rests in the cemetery there.

  It was difficult to imagine celebrating anything, but we knew that Grandpa Webb would not want us to postpone my wedding on his account. My mother and sister packed up Granny Webb’s possessions and brought her to live with us, and as the wedding date drew nearer, she took an active part in all the frenetic activity. Sheila and I made a hurried dash down t
o Voi to post the marriage banns in the District Commissioner’s office, spending one night in the notorious Voi Hotel. Returning home, I had a busy time attending ‘kitchen teas’ organized by my friends from the office and the YWCA, who showered me with all the essentials needed for a new kitchen. Then, just before I left my job to move back home, my friends and I decided we needed a real party to see me on my way. A real party meant one with plenty of alcohol, something that was new to me, since my parents never touched it.

  I pleaded with the supervisor for just one night of innocent revelry and she very sportingly conceded. When I think back at our naivety, how unworldly we were, it makes me both amused and alarmed. Each of us – and there were about twenty girls – purchased a bottle of liquor, and the impressive array of whisky, gin, brandy, wine and sherry would have daunted even the most hardy of drinkers. The night started well but rapidly deteriorated into an uncontrolled disorderly gaggle of giggling drunken females. Games such as ‘Cardinal Puff’, which involved sinking the contents of your drink without taking a breath, made us so drunk that pretty soon many of us couldn’t even stand. I have a vague recollection of Sheila doing a Florence Nightingale, ministering to the sick and then dragging them off by their heels to bed. I was incredulous that she was still in control when I was so totally undone.

  Even the passage of so many years has not dimmed the memory of the hangover. Most of us were laid low for three full days, feeling very sorry for ourselves, puzzled at how anyone could enjoy being drunk. I haven’t ever been that drunk again, nor would I want to be. When Bill appeared a couple of days later, he was concerned to find me moaning and groaning in a darkened room. He thought I must have been struck down with some dreadful disease, but having sworn him to secrecy – my parents would have been horrified at the real story – we set off for the farm to help with the final preparations.

  On 27 June 1953, three weeks after my nineteenth birthday, I woke up early, unsure whether I was ready for what lay ahead. Granny Webb helped me dress, sewing a piece of lace into my petticoat that had belonged to her mother for the traditional ‘something old’; she gave me one of her handkerchiefs, which I tucked into my bra, for the ‘something borrowed’, and a blue garter – ‘something blue’ – that she had made especially for my wedding day. ‘Something new’ was no problem and I felt good in my wedding dress, my hair and make-up for once done carefully. Arriving way too early at the church in Naivasha, I became increasingly nervous, eventually breaking out in a rather unattractive rash all over my neck and chest. My father suggested a stiff drink at the local pub and soon I was calmer, able to appreciate the beauty of the church. It was set among a cluster of pepper trees overlooking Naivasha town, the place where my father had lived in his youth and where Great-Granny Aggett had come by wagon to shop. This little rural centre in the heart of the highlands had long been a focal point for my family, and at that moment I would not have chosen to be married anywhere else. Below, Lake Naivasha lay like a shawl of blue on the green floor of the Rift, with the surrounding hills and volcano clearly mirrored in its surface. It was a perfect afternoon – the sun shone from a clear blue sky, making it warm even at this high altitude, wild flowers blossomed on the road verges and the air was humming with sound.

  I don’t remember too much about the service, only that the church was filled with the fragrance of flowers whose colours blended beautifully with the lilac of the bridesmaids’ dresses. At the altar, I remember thinking how immaculate Bill looked in his full Kenya Regiment dress uniform, with his Military Cross on its purple and white ribbon pinned to his chest. I was relieved that Bill managed to keep a straight face during the solemnity of the vows, for he was well known for bursting into fits of uncontrollable laughter in formal situations. Walking back down the aisle on his arm, I thought: I am now Mrs Frank William Woodley.

  Back at the farm, friends and family gathered to toast us, catch up with each other, exchange views on farming and political matters and exhibit growing children, especially those of marriageable age. My mother had pulled out all the stops when it came to the food, and the free flow of sparkling wine ensured that the guests were well fed and watered. Bill and my brother Peter made typically accomplished speeches and we cut the stunning cake, which was topped by an icing replica of Mount Kenya. There were over 375 guests in our garden, and Bill and I did the rounds, talking with as many as possible, but it was Granny Chart who socialized most. Primed with wine, she was having the time of her life, busy hoovering up all the family gossip.

  Before dark, I slipped away to prepare myself for leaving. Because of the Mau Mau attacks it wasn’t safe to travel at night, and we were heading for the Brown Trout, a country retreat on the Kinangop Plateau, before our honeymoon in England. As I changed into my going-away two-piece, the colour of crushed strawberries, I reflected on the many changes to my life that the thin gold ring on my finger was going to bring. I was about to leave this beautiful home that had always been my anchorage, and it began to dawn on me just how much I was going to miss the warmth, security and love of my close-knit and caring family, as well as the animals that had been so much a part of my life. To be honest, I was a bit scared about what lay ahead – both immediately that night and into the future as Bill’s wife. I had only just turned nineteen, and from the distance of today, I can see just how young and naive I was. When I think back to that night, when the anticipated passion fell a bit flat, I realize how inexperienced I was.

  Our honeymoon in England was hugely memorable. This was the first time I had travelled overseas and I was looking forward to seeing the country of my ancestors. We sailed on the SS Kenya, and during the voyage I bought a string of cultured pearls with the money that my father had so generously given me for the holiday. From the earliest times of sitting on Granny Webb’s bed encased in all her necklaces and bracelets, I have been passionate about jewellery, and I still treasure those pearls. Once in England we visited many of the famous sights of London and then travelled up through England to Scotland, meeting a vast number of Bill’s elderly aunts and their offspring. On the way, we made a detour to Lincolnshire to see Sleaford, Grandpa Webb’s family home, and in York we encountered a ghost – not one of Bill’s relatives, but a replica of Robin Hood seated on a stool in a library. He was clad in old-fashioned green leggings and a soft tall cap with a large feather protruding from one side, and he looked so authentic that we assumed he had been planted as a tourist gimmick. Only when we read in the paper the next day about the ghost that habitually haunts the library on that day each year, matching the description of Robin Hood, did we wonder what we had actually seen.

  Returning refreshed and animated, feeling as though we had seen a bit of the world, we moved into a small rented bungalow not far from the Kenya Regiment’s Field Headquarters at Maguga, just outside Nairobi. Kenya was still in the grips of the national state of emergency, the Mau Mau even more militant since the arrest and imprisonment of Jomo Kenyatta. Despite the British deploying forces to quell the uprising, the Mau Mau insurrection and the guerrilla tactics of its militants continued, armed members of the Kikuyu tribe emerging to carry out gruesome murders, hold oathing ceremonies and generate unrest. Bill and his colleagues continued their secretive and highly dangerous missions, penetrating deep into the forest and actually into Mau Mau hideouts. They were familiar with the terrain, the people, and how to move in the dense forest, and were very successful in penetrating the enemy ranks.

  Bill brought many of the captured insurgents back to the rented house we shared with another young officer, Francis Erskine. Bill’s role meant that we were at risk from the Mau Mau, so we had to get used to living with armed guards outside our front and back door. As darkness fell, Bill and Francis would dress in moth-eaten greatcoats or skins, pull balaclavas low over their heads, rub charcoal on their skin and daub themselves with a light coating of cow-dung to conceal the scent of soap. The smell of soap was a dead give-away, easily detected by the Mau Mau, whose senses and instincts had bee
n sharpened by their wild existence.

  Bill and Francis operated with a team of specially chosen men, some drawn from the Waliangulu elephant-poaching fraternity, whom Bill had recruited as trackers from areas bordering Tsavo. Bill had great respect for these expert bushmen, as proficient at tracking humans through the forest as they were at following a dikdik under desert conditions. Mau Mau converts who had turned informer were also a crucial part of Bill’s team. They knew the forest intimately – every path, every glade, every ravine, the location of the hideouts, the clandestine ceremonial meeting places, the hollow forest trees in which communications passed between the rebel commanders. Above all, they knew the secret signals and calls used by the Mau Mau: a stick tossed on a path at a certain angle; the leaf of a particular plant left on the ground; a twisted stem, a pebble or two – all conveyed a specific message, as did various sounds, which no outsider could decipher as anything other than the call of a bird or animal. It was these Mau Mau defectors who were best qualified to bring about the downfall of the hardcore within the forests.