Love, Life, and Elephants

by Dame Daphne Sheldrick

  Escape from Father Ram was not easy, for he was constantly on guard against wayward wives, particularly since a group of handsome young bachelors, aspiring to the dominant position that entitled him to a harem, were always lurking around the periphery of his territory, waiting for a chance to oust him and take over. Some days you could see it had been a struggle for Bunty to get away, as she would appear on the lawn with puncture wounds in her rump, evidence of Father Ram’s retribution. But Bunty was clever and she soon perfected a special technique to outwit him. She would wait until the workmen began filtering to work in the morning and seize the opportunity to escape, running as fast as her legs would carry her back towards the house with Father Ram in hot pursuit. Whenever he looked as if he was catching her up, she would jink sideways and head for the nearest person, and since he was fearful of any humans, Father Ram had to accept defeat and allow Bunty to amble away. He couldn’t anyway afford to spend too much time away from his other wives in case they got ideas and allowed access to one of the bachelors.

  And so, every morning, so long as we were home, Bunty would be there to greet us and we would hear Father Ram making what Angela called his ‘showing-off noise’ as he rounded up his other wives and warned the bachelors-in-waiting that he was still in charge, despite the loss of one member of his harem. If we happened to be elsewhere, Bunty wouldn’t attempt to escape, yet as soon as we returned, she would arrive the instant we started to unpack our cases. At first it was a mystery how Bunty could gauge our return so accurately, but there was no doubt that she could because it happened with convincing regularity, leaving us in no doubt that Nature had endowed her with powers of telepathy. The bond between Bunty and me was that of mother and child – we were incredibly close – and on any return journey I would think of her and the other garden orphans as we neared home, hoping they were safe and sound. Later, I would come to see the same pattern of behaviour repeated between Bunty and her offspring, and this proved to me that the antelopes – and indeed many animals – are able to pick up thought processes and that telepathy is a real means of communication, especially among family members with strong emotional bonds. I had no difficulties reaching this conclusion; for me, the natural world was – and still is – so full of mysterious wonders that we humans have yet fully to understand.

  Bunty was very much a one-woman buck. She was fond of David but in a second-best sort of way, and loved Jill and Angela when they were around, but I basked in a love that was given without reservation, my role as her mother rewarded by a devotion and loyalty so complete that it spanned the years and eclipsed even the call of her own kind. She also came to understand that whenever David appeared in casual trousers and the suitcases came out, we were about to leave home, so she would butt him repeatedly, angered that he would be taking me away. As our car pulled out of the yard, she would make her way back to Father Ram, no different for a time than any of the other wives, and over the years she came to produce seven children with him. It was an unwritten understanding in the family that all Bunty’s children had to have names beginning with the letter B, so over the years there was Bouncer, Bonnie (the only daughter), Bullitt, Bravo, Biscuit, Bimbo and Bandit, each born after a gestation period of six months, all born just below the garden and just before midday, the heat of the day, when predators were most lethargic and inactive. Vulnerable during labour, Bunty was always careful to select a spot where her russet colouring blended with the red Tsavo soil, so as to be camouflaged and not conspicuous against the green grass of the lawn. I would know when her time had come because she made it quite plain that she and I needed to be elsewhere. So, taking a camp chair to sit on and a book to read, I would accompany her to the place of her choice and sit quietly beside her during the birthing process. As long as I was there, she was relaxed, for she knew that both she and her baby would come to no harm.

  It was both an amazing learning curve and a real privilege to be a part of the birth of her wild babies. During labour Bunty would alternate between lying down, standing up and walking around a little and even feeding, until two tiny black hooves appeared, then another contraction produced the front legs, another the head and shoulders and the final one expelled a very wet baby that plopped out in the lying position. Even before the umbilical cord was severed, Bunty licked her fawn clean, and before half an hour had lapsed, the newborn was up on unsteady legs searching for her udder. With every passing moment the fawn became stronger, and in no time at all found what it wanted and began suckling strongly. After an hour or so Bunty expelled the afterbirth, which she devoured immediately, and she made such heavy weather of it that I couldn’t believe it was such a delicacy. However, always the farmer’s daughter, I knew this was an essential task, vital in disposing of evidence that would jeopardize the survival of her newborn in addition to being a rich source of nutrients for the mother. Natural instinct dictated that no trace of an afterbirth be left to attract a host of terrestrial and airborne predators.

  Bouncer weighed in at twelve and a half pounds. I had taken the kitchen scales to record his weight but after that I never touched Bouncer again – nor any of Bunty’s other children subsequently – for fear of contaminating them with human scent. By late afternoon Bouncer was sufficiently strong for Bunty to usher him to a patch of long grass below the big orphans’ stockades, where he quietly sank down; whereupon Bunty turned and walked away without so much as a backward glance. I ran to tell David, worried that she was abandoning him, but he warned me not to retrieve Bouncer: ‘Don’t interfere, Daph. She knows what she’s doing, so just observe and learn from her. Bouncer won’t be strong enough for at least ten days to run with the herd and for now, being devoid of scent, his best chance of survival throughout the night is without her. Remember, too, that his survival is dependent upon hers, so she is far better protected with the many eyes and ears of Father Ram’s nocturnal herd.’

  Nevertheless, I spent a fraught night worrying, hardly able to sleep, and at the first sign of light I was up and out, just in time to see Bunty returning, slowly, pausing every few yards to scan her surroundings, her instincts fully alert. As she approached the spot where she had left her baby the day before, she stopped, and with a very soft sound barely audible to human ears, called him several times. To my immense relief, he popped up and ran to her for his first meal of the day and then accompanied her to the lawn, where he was greeted with great curiosity by Baby, the eland, and Jimmy, the kudu. Bunty wouldn’t let Baby go too near, head-butting her away, but was quite happy for Jimmy to investigate her baby, which he did very gently. This nocturnal hiding period lasted ten days, after which Bouncer began licking the earth, triggering his natural scent, and from then on – his ‘passport’ to his species secured – he accompanied his mother constantly.

  It surprised both David and me that each one of Bunty’s six sons kept in touch with their mother throughout her lifetime, returning periodically to the garden. We came to know when one of her children was on its way, as Bunty would stand at the edge of the garden, concentrating deeply, sometimes for many hours, and later one of her sons would appear. Of course, this merely reinforced our belief that telepathy was at play. On the day that Bunty’s fifth son was born, Bimbo, son number three, just happened to turn up afterwards. Having greeted his mother fondly and shown interest in his newborn brother, he walked away, and half an hour later returned accompanied by Bouncer, whom we had not seen for six months. I had been surprised when Bimbo had gone off so quickly, but when he returned with his brother it just reinforced my firm belief that just like us and the elephants, antelopes have enduring family ties and the ability to communicate meaningful messages to one another.

  At night the young bachelor males, including Bunty’s offspring, were permitted to mingle with Father Ram and his harem in the interest of security. When dawn broke, however, they became competitors to Father Ram and were rowdily expelled to the bachelor-herd-in-waiting. Only Bonnie, Bunty’s daughter, became a permanent member of Father Ram’s hare
m of wives and, unlike her mother, never risked his displeasure by escaping back to the lawn. Jimmy the kudu was fond of all Bunty’s sons, although Bimbo became his firm favourite. Sometimes the sons brought back with them wild bachelor friends, most of whom never repeated the experience, fleeing back to the herd once they caught sight of us humans.

  Jimmy was a gentle kudu who lovingly embraced all the garden orphans, irrespective of species. However, as Bouncer grew up and his horns developed, he took to threatening Jimmy by prodding him whenever he was in range and this was an injustice that Jimmy never forgot nor forgave. Jimmy’s horns grew more slowly, but once he was suitably equipped and felt sufficiently confident, he was bent on settling the score and one day challenged Bouncer to a full-blown duel in the garden. I was beside myself with worry, since both were going hammer and tongs at each other and it looked as though it could only end in serious danger for one or the other. David told me not to interfere, saying that it was far too dangerous to do so, hence I could only hold my breath until, to my immense relief, Bouncer broke free and found himself chased out of the garden by the victorious Jimmy. Nor was he ever allowed back again, relegated to being a permanent outcast, although all five other sons were welcomed whenever they chose to return, and treated with affection by Jimmy. Like elephants – and some of us humans – antelopes have long memories.

  Baby, the eland, was Angela’s firm favourite and the two of them were often seen playing a game of ‘dinks’ with her Matchbox toy cars or racing each other around the Headquarters, Angela on her bike and Baby leaping over any obstacle by the wayside. Elands, the largest members of the antelope family, grow to the size of a cow and are incredible jumpers, effortlessly clearing obstacles six to eight feet high. On our regular afternoon walks, the entire garden entourage would accompany us, Angela on her bike, racing in among the exuberant members of the herd, with Bunty and any visiting sons following at a leisurely pace alongside David and me. These walks were the day’s treat for us all. At the appointed hour we would all stop what we were doing as the animals either lined up at the front steps of the house, or came with the children to join us at the office. It was a very special feeling to be accepted and loved by so many different members of the animal kingdom and for our children it was a most magical experience.

  By the early seventies, the Park had come a long way. In 1949, with just one lorry and six labourers, David had been given the task of developing 5,000 square miles of the pristine wilderness that comprised Tsavo East into a tourist attraction that could accommodate overseas visitors and bring revenue to the country. Now, there was a beautiful 200-bed lodge situated on the slopes of Worsessa Hill, just behind the Headquarters. This site commanded stunning views over Tsavo’s expansive wilderness, a vast uninterrupted vista of the plains, with the deep blue massifs of Ndara and Sagalla to the right and the thin ridge of the long Yatta Plateau on the northern horizon. From your window in the lodge you might see tall delonix or acacia trees fringing distant waterholes; the stark contorted beauty of the twisted commiphora; terracotta anthills; herds of wild elephants, zebra or buffalo, small groups of antelopes, and smoky blues and mauves where the sky merged with distant horizons. Sometimes dark clouds drifting over the saffron yellow plains held the promise of rain, and the drama of lions targeting solitary animals at the lodge waterhole was an exciting and ever present possibility for tourists staying at the Voi Safari Lodge.

  Within the Park, there were now almost 200 miles of all-weather roads, twelve airstrips, additional research and staff housing, five entrance gates serving Tsavo’s distant boundaries, new staff quarters; camping grounds with washing facilities; rustic rock elephant-proof road signs at all intersections; boreholes, dams, bridges, and of course the causeway to the north, built by hand with much sweat and toil. We had a sophisticated radio network embracing all entrance gates and outposts, able to keep in touch with all the mobile anti-poaching patrols, each section of which was fully equipped with a workshop trailer, a mechanic to undertake field repairs and a water bowser to enable the patrols to cover waterless country and remain in the field for weeks at a time. The Park’s transport fleet included more than twelve heavy earth-moving machines, twenty-two trucks and Land Rovers, twenty-five stationary engines, generators, pumps, trailers and all sorts of implements, including a lathe and the huge hydraulic press which, in addition to its usual tasks, was useful for squeezing the juice from the fiery red chillies that David so enjoyed at mealtimes.

  Now there was an urgent need to modernize the entire Headquarters complex and particularly to improve the workshop facilities to cater for the increased workload. We needed a new office block, since the original offices and stores were now bulging at the seams. The ivory store was filled to capacity with tusks and rhino horns, since a recent presidential decree precluded ivory being sent for auction in Mombasa as it had been before. This had come as a bombshell, since it impacted heavily on the working budget, reducing it considerably. David pleaded for the funds he needed, but all the accounts department at Headquarters in Nairobi could release was the paltry sum of £700, insufficient for one modest office, let alone what David had in mind.

  There had been a tendency for some of the established Parks to expand in disjointed ways as additional units were added piecemeal, mushrooming into untidy villages in the heart of pristine wilderness. David was determined that this would not happen in Tsavo East and despite the absence of funding resolutely refused to compromise his vision. Unexpectedly, fortune favoured him from a surprising quarter – the railway – which up to this time had been something of a thorn in our flesh, responsible more often than not for the destructive fires that plagued the new grasslands created by the elephants. Every dry season, sparks from the boilers of the steam engines ignited wild fires, fanned by the prevailing strong south-easterly winds, destroying huge swathes of the Park. Perhaps it was to make amends for this that the railway offered David the old dak bungalow, on condition he undertook to demolish the entire building and remove it completely from the station yard.

  The dak bungalow was the rest-house at the station, dating back to the turn of the century and the early days of the railway when no dining cars were attached to the passenger trains. Many such bungalows existed along the line but once the daily passenger train had a dining car attached, they had become obsolete. David was jubilant, for the dak bungalow was a substantial building with about ten good-sized rooms and massive steel girders supporting an iron roof. The doors were made of rosewood and teak, imported from India, though sadly since plastered in glossy white paint. The dak bungalows had always been important meeting places for the early settlers, my old pioneering relatives included – and I had heard many a tale about the excellent bacon and eggs and a variety of alcoholic drinks, served by Goan waiters clad in starched white uniforms.

  Rubble from the demolished walls of the dak bungalow became concrete blocks for the walls of the new Headquarters complex, faced with Tsavo’s beautiful flat quartz stones; those same steel girders supported the roof, and the painted rosewood and teak doors separated the various rooms. David was able to incorporate spacious offices for himself and his assistant; a large conference cum operations room; and offices for the accountant and the radio operator as well as a secure armoury, flush toilets and a guardroom with a built-in siren. David planted a baobab sapling nearby to mark this important milestone in the Park’s development, and when all the building had been completed, he hoisted the green National Parks flag with its rhino logo alongside the flag of Independent Kenya. It seemed fitting to me that the dak bungalow, so steeped in history, including that of my own family, should become the working Headquarters of Tsavo East.

  And so the dak bungalow was not lost but simply recycled. In designing his own office, David had pandered to a particular whim of mine and built an aquarium into the wall behind his desk. Its tranquil presence had a soothing influence, since we were all anxious about the impending amalgamation of the National Parks with the Game Department i
nto the Wildlife Conservation and Management Department, which was to be responsible for all wildlife throughout the country, both within and beyond the established Park boundaries. We all feared for the future of wildlife, as there were such fundamental differences in the way the two organizations operated. The National Parks had evolved in a way that allowed its wardens the autonomy needed to deal with contingencies rapidly and efficiently and provide services to the public quite outside the scope of government, where the procurement of much-needed goods was subjected to a rigid and cumbersome tendering procedure bedevilled by corruption. It was no secret that many contracts were allocated to unscrupulous businessmen in exchange for what was becoming known as ‘kickbacks’.

  We were fearful, too, of a return to poaching within the Park by the Wakamba and opportunists from the coastal tribes. A sudden rise in the price of ivory on the world market meant that a poacher could now expect to receive 140 Kenyan shillings per kilo for a tusk as opposed to the four Kenyan shillings of previous years. It wasn’t long before just about every able-bodied Mkamba tribesman re-armed himself with a bow, arrow and their lethal acokanthera-poisoned arrows and set out in pursuit of any elephant they could find. Since a presidential decree had banned legal hunting in the country, the remote hunting blocks were now wide open to nefarious activities, some of the worst offenders now being corrupt game scouts and highly placed officials within the Government who were heavily embroiled in the lucrative ivory racket. As elephant numbers rapidly dwindled beyond the Park boundaries and survivors fled for their lives to the safety of the Park itself, so the bows, arrows and poison followed them.