Whatever You Do, Don't Run
Page 20
He stepped backward, his hind feet tangling, and as he tottered he whirled, his trunk whipping over his shoulder and hitting him on the opposite cheek. He panicked and made an un-elephantine squeak as he ran to his mother.
As one, the herd responded to his distress, stopping their feeding, dropping the branches or grass they held, raising their trunks, flaring their ears, and standing tall. His mother got to me first. The branch that I had delicately pulled back to cover me was thrust aside once more, and the world’s largest forehead pushed to within a yard of my face. The circus smell of hay was overwhelming as I noted the sparse but tough bristles that sprouted from her wrinkly skin.
I should have believed I was going to die, but I didn’t. I just smiled and sat still. Salvador’s daughter turned her head slightly and looked at me, her eye expressing a wisdom I have found in few humans. Then she withdrew her head, the branch fell back, and I heard Salvador say, “Let’s go.” I didn’t see them again for another six months.
It was vultures that led me to Salvador’s herd the last time we met. I had seen them circling—not an uncommon sight, but in a rush they began dropping from the sky. I pointed the vehicle in the direction they were headed. Lions, hyenas, leopards and safari guides all follow plunging vultures, knowing that if they land during the day it is only for meat. They had dispersed through a number of trees, and I couldn’t tell exactly where they were aiming.
“This is good!” I explained to my guests. “If they are landing in the trees, it means there is still a predator on the ground that won’t let them get close! It’s a fresh kill!” An elephant trumpeted nearby, and I wondered if it hadn’t stumbled across the kill and hoped I wasn’t missing out on seeing some interspecies action. Elephants sometimes chased lions, just because they could, and it was always fun to watch. I steered the Land Rover around a group of trees and found a whole herd of elephants, clearly distressed. Their ears were flared, their tusks held straight out, and they were kicking up dust and shaking branches.
The lions at Mombo were far from being brave enough to go after an elephant (in fact, with such an abundance of antelope to eat they rarely went after anything more risky than a zebra), so I explained to my guests that I didn’t think it was a kill anymore.
Then my explanation was cut short, because an elephant charged us.
She emerged from the group—ears pinned flat, trunk down to protect it from impact—at a speed that is terrifying to behold. The ground rumbled, the vibrations even greater than those of the thankfully running engine. I slammed the car into reverse. This was not a mock charge.
The elephant was instantly recognisable by her outward curling tusks. Unlike Salvador, these were yet to form a full cursive W. This was Salvador’s daughter, an elephant normally so calm that she had forgiven me for frightening her baby. Now she was coming fast, and as I reversed, the turbo whining, the guests bouncing on and off their seats, I thought of the only reason I could as to why she would be so upset.
“Oh no. Not Salvador.” I didn’t think that Salvador had been old enough to die naturally (elephants in the wild live to about sixty). A snake may have bitten her, but I couldn’t believe that such a wise woman would fall to something as lowly as that. But the herd had formed a protective cluster, just as they do around a downed family member, and Salvador was nowhere to be seen.
I’d seen this in the short space of time before we ignobly fled, but the daughter gave up the chase and wheeled back to the group. The vultures squabbled and cackled in the trees. I tried to explain to my guests that there was not a kill here, just a tragedy, when the elephants parted for a moment and I saw a red stain on the ground.
And I grinned.
“Okay, that was the second time I was wrong.” I said to the guests. “Get out your binoculars, we’re about to see something that I’ve never seen before.”
Every now and then the herd would shift slightly, showing Salvador standing, legs splayed, straining with her labour. After about twenty minutes there was another gush of blood, the vultures gabbled at the sight, and a baby plopped with little ceremony to the ground. It was immediately cleaned by one of its expert aunties, who had acted as midwife throughout the process.
A great trumpet came from the elephants, as if in celebration, echoed by us on the vehicle, many of whom were in tears (and that unashamedly includes me). The baby sat looking bewildered at its ejection after twenty-two months in a comfortable womb, then started comical attempts to get up. Its ears were still plastered to the sides of its head, making it look like a squat sea lion, and it moved in the same humping legless manner.
After half an hour the baby stood, to more cheering from our vehicle. And it seemed to spawn a celebration from the elephants as well, as they started picking up dust and spraying themselves with it. This coats their skin and helps protect them from parasites, but each blast knocked the little baby down, and she (by now I had seen that it was a girl) struggled valiantly back to her feet and watched the enormous battleship-grey cruisers that were in a paroxysm of excitement around her.
Salvador moved over the baby to shelter her, and the little one lifted her mouth to a nipple and took her first drink, her eye rolling the whole time, taking in the colours and movement of her new world. Eventually she stopped drinking and took her first wobbling steps. I felt like a proud parent and made encouraging noises as she tottered and fell. Her big sister, who had returned to her usual placid ways, helped her up, only to see her knocked down by an excited youngster who had run over to see what was going on. The culprit was spanked away, and the baby was led to water. And to my astonishment, only an hour after labour, Salvador swam across.
I thought of the blood in the water, and that it could attract nothing of good intentions. The lagoon they were crossing was home to some very large crocodiles that I couldn’t see, meaning they were most likely lurking under the water. A baby elephant is unable to use its trunk, so I knew that the baby couldn’t snorkel. It plunged in after its mother, flanked by curious teens, and went straight under. Then it bobbed up and sank again. Every time the baby rose for oxygen, its triangular lower lip puckering and gurgling at the air, I thought, I’ll give it thirty seconds, and if it doesn’t come up, crocs or not, I’m going in after it. I had one foot out the car and was ready to perform the most suicidal act of a foolish life when the baby emerged from the depths, turned, and dog-paddled in a circle. It was having fun! Now I wanted to admonish it, but Salvador took over, reaching her trunk in and gently drawing the baby out of the water.
The herd crossed, and I knew we couldn’t follow. I felt more privileged than after any wildlife experience. I was proud of Salvador, proud of her older daughter, and proud of the baby. Elephants don’t have royalty, but I was sure that at some point, many years from that day, she would grow up and lead the herd, and I hoped that some future guide would know just how special she was, even if she did have funny teeth.
Big Mistake
I should never have quit guiding and accepted the promotion that made me a camp manager. I wasn’t good at it. It also was apparent to me that people only speak to managers when they are unhappy, unlike guides, who are told quite often how great they are. But my main problem as a camp manager was with animals—or the lack of them. While I still lived in the bush, I wasn’t out and about in it every day, and I craved the experiences with wildlife that I had become used to in the preceding years.
So when Chedu, a trainee manager, came and said there was an elephant between the guest tents and the main area and some people wanted to get past it, I jumped at the opportunity for some interaction.
The camp was built to the same formula as many others. It had a dining area and dinky little curio shop, bundled together with a deck, and an office for the managers. On either side of this main building, trailing off like outspread arms, were the paths that led to the guest tents. The path had handrails made from eucalyptus trees, chosen because they grow straight and hard.
This camp had the benefit o
f being set over a beautiful and busy lagoon that was a popular drinking spot for baboons, kudu, zebras and the region’s abundant elephants. The main area and the tents faced this never-ending and spectacular show, but the animals sometimes stepped off stage and came straight to the audience, with potentially disastrous consequences if not given quick directions elsewhere.
I set out to prompt this elephant away from the area used by the tourists. He was between the first tent and the office, so I didn’t have far to go. Straight away I could see it was a young male, either in his teens or early twenties, who may have only recently left his birth herd to make it as an adult. He was decimating a fever-berry tree that shaded our plunge pool, tearing off branches and feeding them into one side of his processor-like mouth, so they emerged stripped of leaves and the valuable cambium layer of bark on the other side. A whittler could never be as neat, or quick. Watching him from the pool deck was a delighted Dutch tourist, pale and hirsute in his swimwear, looking for all the world like hairy tofu. He held a camera in his pudgy fist, and every time he snapped I saw the elephant wince. I realised that the elephant was nervous, but like a young human male was trying not to show it.
I intended to direct him toward the bush, through a wide gap in the path. This gap was specifically for elephants and hippos, so they wouldn’t knock over the eucalyptus rails when they took a shortcut to or from the lagoon.
“Hey!” I said to the elephant, which had been surreptitiously watching me since I stepped out of the office. At the same time, the tourists in Tent 1 stepped out of their front door to watch, keeping it open in case they needed to dash back in. I had hurried out to face the elephant, and, perhaps rusty from my lack of guiding, hadn’t looked at the situation from the elephant’s perspective. I did now, and knew that I had made a big mistake.
The elephant’s way to the path break on his left was now blocked (in his line of sight anyway) by the people standing outside of Tent 1 and its imposing structure. Behind him was the lagoon. And while elephants can swim, they don’t view it as a means of escape. On his right was the solid structure of the main area that even an elephant would have difficulty bringing down. In front of him was the easiest path, and the only thing blocking his way was me. I suddenly felt isolated and very teeny.
In two quick strides he came and loomed over me. I had stepped back one pace at the realisation of my error, but my hips had banged against the rail behind me. The elephant now had his knees against the opposite rail, only a yard and a half away. His breath smelled of hay and crushed leaves. His eyes rolled, and I knew that he was as scared as I was.
We held our standoff for a while, the only sound was the ominous creaking of the pole as he shifted his weight. If it gave way he would topple on me. If he just pushed it, he would go through as easily as I would push over a limbo pole, and I was not athletic enough to flip over the railing behind me in time should I need to.
“Oh well done genius, what are you going to do now?” It was my co-manager. Like most males, I hate being caught in a mistake, but now was not the time to give a snappy reply. I didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her, but could see in my peripheral vision that a small crowd of staff and guests had gathered outside the office to watch the show.
The young bull stepped back a bit, and I let my breath out. He stood tall, and I knew what was coming. Just after an elephant stands tall, they give you a display to see if you will flinch. He shook his head, his ears slapping on each side of his face, showering me with dust. Then he did something I hadn’t seen before. One of the reasons I love elephants so much is that they always show you something new, but this was a trick I didn’t appreciate. He added to his standard ear flap by swinging his head to the side, whipping his trunk hard and fast on a horizontal plane. It was at the level of my neck.
By now the hairy Dutchman had thought to start filming my little adventure, in case something happened that he could sell to a network, he later told me frankly. What he showed me was that I was more flexible than I would have thought. As the trunk whipped, my instincts took over and I threw myself backward. But with my hips pinned by the rail, I didn’t fall. Instead I bent in the middle. My feet stayed on the ground, my upper body doing all the flexing and draping me backward over the rail. The muscular trunk would have broken my neck if it connected, and the short tough bristles on it would have gashed my skin.
It missed, though, and the elephant took another step back, then ran forward, stepped sideways and took off through the gap in the rails.
I unfolded myself, gasping as my vertebrae tried to put themselves back into the places they were meant to be. Then I walked away from the cynical applause that had started outside the office.
I was angry with myself for making such an amateurish error. I knew too much about animals to get caught out like that.
The anger dissipated as the adrenalin left my system, and I felt my ears pushed back by a huge grin. Despite the fear, despite the embarrassment at my mistake, I had enjoyed myself during the encounter.
I went back into the office and wrote a note to the Maun office saying that I quit.
I then asked if they had any jobs going for a guide.
Epilogue
After seven years living in tent, I was promoted. I’d been a guide for most of those years, had briefly (and unsuccessfully) tried being a camp manager, and finally inherited my friend Cliffy’s grandly titled position of Guide Training Manager and Head Guide Co-Ordinator when he moved on. I spent a year of teaching and knew that my next step up would be an office job, probably in Maun. I would still be involved with the bush, but not living in it every day. Instead I would go to an office every morning, deal with harassed camp managers over the radio, and hear second hand about what the wildlife was up to. It didn’t appeal to me at all, and I was too tired of failing to make Germans laugh to go back to full time guiding.
So I left the company I was working for, left my many friends (both human and four legged), and left the bush. If I was going to be in a town, I wanted it to be a real one. Since leaving I have been dissatisfied with most jobs I have taken up, but have been lucky enough to return to my base in Sydney, but also Los Angeles and San Francisco. As much as I have liked those places, I felt like I was withering without wildlife.
In 2003 I came out of guiding retirement and spent three months leading safaris in the deserts of Namibia, which included getting lost with Cliffy in the sand dunes of the Skeleton Coast, and decided to lead a few safaris every year from that point on. Now, through the Africa Adventure Company in Florida and the Classic Safari Company in Sydney I get to go back every year and see what the animals are up to, and hopefully run into some old friends.
About the Author
Peter Allison is a safari guide who has spent much of the last twelve years leading wildlife-viewing and ecotourism trips in Africa, mostly Botswana. His love of animals led him to train as a safari guide in the early 1990s and soon thereafter he was hired by southern Africa’s largest operator to train all of their safari experts. Safaris he has led have been featured in magazines such as Vogue and Conde Nast Traveler. He has assisted National Geographic photographers and appeared on television shows such as Jack Hanna’s Animal Adventures.
Peter is also active with the Athena Foundation, a nonprofit conservation group. He is on the board of the Athena Foundation’s youth program, whose mission is to inspire young people to develop their interest in conservation.
Originally born and raised in Sydney, Australia, he currently divides his time between Australia, California and Botswana.
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