How to Raise an Elephant

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi, who seemed nonplussed by this disclosure. But after a few moments, Mma Makutsi said, “I am very sorry, Mma. I should not have called you a thief.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “This is a big mess,” she said.

  “A very big mess,” echoed Mma Makutsi.

  “Where is Tefo now?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Blessing sniffed, and Mma Ramotswe wondered whether her question would inadvertently trigger a further bout of sobbing.

  “He is in hospital. He is having the operation.”

  The silence was profound.

  Then Mma Makutsi said, “Operation, Mma? What operation?”

  Blessing turned to her. “For his hip. He is having a new hip put in.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe.

  “Where?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Blessing pointed to her own hip. “Here.”

  “No, I mean, which hospital, Mma?”

  “There is a missionary doctor,” said Blessing. “He comes from New York. He is a very good man, Mma—he was a very famous doctor over there and now he is spending a year here with us. He is doing free operations for people who cannot get them from the government. They pay the government hospital to use their theatre. He is doing it for Tefo.” Then she continued, “Both his hips hurt, Mma, but only one needs to be replaced at this point. The other one is not ready.”

  Mma Ramotswe exchanged a glance with Mma Makutsi, who dropped her eyes with guilt. That was the explanation for what they had seen as acting, and not very good acting at that.

  Mma Ramotswe reached out. She took Blessing’s hand. “I am so sorry, Mma. I was wrong. I was completely wrong.”

  Blessing clasped her hand. “I don’t mind, Mma. We can forget it.”

  “I would like to give you some money,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It cannot be much. But it might help for when he gets back.”

  Blessing hesitated. “I don’t need it, Mma. You are very kind—but I don’t need it.”

  Mma Ramotswe insisted. “We all need money, Mma. And it will help to buy him some good meat for when he comes home.”

  “Good Botswana beef,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is very good for men when they have had an operation and need to recover their strength.”

  Blessing agreed, although she was still clearly reluctant to take the money. And then, after an envelope had been slipped into her hand, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi left, just as the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. “At last,” said Mma Ramotswe. “At last, the rain.”

  They had negotiated their way back up the track before the storm made a sea of mud of it. Then, back on the tarmac road that led into town, with the rain drumming on the roof of the cab and the wipers swishing back and forwards, Mma Ramotswe said, “It is very easy to be wrong, Mma. That is what I am thinking at the moment: it is very easy to be entirely wrong.”

  And Mma Makutsi, gazing out through the sheets of falling rain, said, “You’re right, Mma. You’re right about being wrong.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IS IT HARD TO RAISE AN ELEPHANT?

  IT WAS MMA POTOKWANE who suggested that the three of them—herself, Mma Makutsi, and Mma Ramotswe—should travel north to Maun two weeks later. The rains had set in now; that first storm, through which Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had driven back to Gaborone, had been the herald of a good season, and throughout the country the reports were of good, soaking downpours. The dams had filled, as dams do, almost miraculously, from the voluminous run-off from the parched earth; the rivers, most of which had for months been no more than dry arteries of sand, were now broad ribbons of muddy water; and everywhere the grass had appeared, springing up through newly softened ground, covering the land with a mantle of green. It was a time of joy, as people saw their cattle become fatter and sleeker before their eyes, and as the air about them that had been so hot and dry became cooler and moister.

  Mma Potokwane’s suggestion had tickled Mma Makutsi. “It has never occurred to me, Mma,” she said to Mma Ramotswe, “to go off on a girls’ trip.”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at the thought of being considered one of the girls. Mma Makutsi was young enough, and slender enough, to be so described, but she thought it a bit unrealistic for herself and Mma Potokwane, both of traditional build and matronly status in other respects. But she knew that there were women who treated themselves to trips with their female friends, just as men went off together to fish or to watch soccer or do any of the other things that men liked to do. Why should men have all the fun and leave women behind at home, cooking for the children, and generally keeping the home going?

  “Her friends up north invited her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are the people who have taken Charlie’s little elephant. They say he is settling in well.”

  “And she’d like us to go with her?” asked Mma Makutsi.

  “She needs somebody to share the driving. With three of us it would be easier.”

  Mma Makutsi was tempted. “I’m not sure what Phuti would say. He’s not very good at looking after himself.”

  Mma Ramotswe wagged a finger in mock admonition. “He needs to learn, Mma. I’m all for looking after men, but they do need to be encouraged to cope by themselves from time to time. It’s good for them, I think.”

  “Perhaps…”

  “And there’s another thing,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “If men have a bit of experience looking after themselves, then they will appreciate us all the more when we come back. They will be very relieved that we have returned.”

  Mma Makutsi saw the wisdom of that, and she agreed to ask Phuti that evening.

  “Don’t ask him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think you should tell him, Mma. Say that we have decided to go off for a few days and you have accepted because you know that he will be able to look after himself. And you have the nanny for Itumelang, anyway. He will not be lonely.”

  This gave Mma Makutsi an idea. “That might be a good business,” she mused. “There could be an agency that provided husband-sitters for women who needed to go off on business—or on holiday with their friends. They could hire a lady who would come and cook and tidy up and make sure that the husband changed his socks and such things.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought that might be dangerous. “Would there not be a risk that these ladies might move in, so to speak, Mma? They might turn the husbands’ heads and then when the wives came back they would discover there is another lady who has taken her place.”

  “There might be a slight risk of that,” said Mma Makutsi. “But the agency would be very careful about the sort of lady they employed. She would have to be a church lady, perhaps, or a lady who is a retired school principal, or a lady police officer—something of that sort. Such ladies would not try anything with the husbands they were sitting.”

  But nothing of that sort proved to be necessary. Phuti readily agreed that it would be an enjoyable experience for Mma Makutsi, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was also encouraging. He could look after Puso and Motholeli, he said, and he would not mind cooking. He had one or two ideas about what he could make, Mma Ramotswe reported, and even if these were conventional rather than innovative, any expansion of his culinary skills was to be welcomed.

  Charlie was disappointed that he would not be included in the party going north; it was his elephant, he claimed, and if anybody deserved to visit it, then it should be him. But his air of grievance soon disappeared when Mma Ramotswe pointed out to him that during the four days when they would be away, he would be in sole charge of the agency. “You will be Acting Manager,” Mma Ramotswe told him. “You can use my desk, Charlie, and I shall leave some money in the petty cash for you to cover your expenses—your reasonable expenses—while Mma Makutsi and I are away.”

  There was some discussion as to which vehicle they would use. Mma Potokwane had initially suggested that it should be her car, as
the trip was her idea, but had then withdrawn the offer when her husband had pointed out that he might need it for work. That left a choice between Mma Makutsi’s car, which was reliable and comparatively new, and Mma Ramotswe’s van, which was far from new but could be trusted to do its best. Eventually the van was chosen, as Mma Makutsi had expressed reservations about taking her car on a trip that might involve using rough tracks. “The main road to Maun itself is fine,” she said, “but we don’t know about the road to this elephant place, do we? My car is heavier than your van, Mma, and it is very sandy up there. What if we get stuck in the sand? Your van can be pulled out easily enough, but my car…”

  Mma Ramotswe had not argued, and when they set off from Gaborone at six in the morning, the three of them were seated in the front of the van, with Mma Ramotswe at the wheel and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and the children, Phuti, and Mma Potokwane’s husband waving them on their way at the gate. As they headed up Zebra Drive the van gave a slight lurch, as if a fuel line were objecting to some blockage, but Mma Ramotswe was unfazed. “It often does that early in the morning,” she reassured her friends. “It is something to do with the cold. Once the sun comes up, it will go very smoothly.”

  And the sun rose not long after that—a great fiery ball floating up over the bushland to the east. By the time they reached the Mochudi turn-off, it was ten degrees up, bathing with gold the distant shape of Mochudi Hill and the sprawling village about its skirts; then Mosomane, Dibete, Mahalapye, Palapye—a roll call of the towns that punctuated the long, straight road north. Shortly after noon, they were in Francistown, and stopped for fuel and tea before setting off on the second leg of the journey. This they planned to break in Nata, a small town on the edge of the Makgadikgadi Pans, where Mma Potokwane had an old friend who had offered to put them up for the night. That there should be such a conveniently placed friend of Mma Potokwane’s did not surprise Mma Ramotswe at all, as Mma Potokwane was known for her contacts in every sphere of activity and in every corner of the country. This friend was the chairman of the local council, the owner of a fleet of bulldozers that were used for road maintenance and dam-building all across the northern part of the country. “He is a big man for digging things,” said Mma Potokwane. “He has dug many things up there—Francistown, Maun, everywhere. Dams, drainage, roads: that is all his department.”

  They were tired by the journey but while Mma Potokwane caught up with her friends, Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi went for a walk before dinner, to stretch their legs. It was different there: the sky, the light, the smell of the land—all of these were of a different nature, as if they belonged to another country altogether. As in the south, the horizons were flat, and far away, but here there was a shimmering line of heat haze just above them, a dancing in the air that came with the burning-off of water from the flooded salt pans. Until the rains had arrived, those had been dry, caked expanses of brittle white; now the salt had become grey-blue with water, reflecting the colour of the sky above.

  They enjoyed dinner together with their hosts, Mma Potokwane entertaining them all with her stories. They explained the nature of their trip, and the background of Charlie’s elephant. The contractor said, “It is very sad what is happening to elephants. They are being driven out of their other places—up there,” and he waved in the direction of the Zimbabwean border not far away. “Poachers, you see. They’ll take any risk to get the ivory—any risk at all. They’re desperate.”

  They were silent. It was not easy to see a solution to the problem of human need. It was easy to condemn those who stole, who poached wildlife, until you were asked what would you do if your only other option was starvation? That made it harder.

  “So the elephants are migrating,” said Mma Potokwane. “That is very sad. They come to Botswana because…”

  Their host smiled. “Because everyone wants to come here. Elephants. People. Everyone.”

  Mma Makutsi looked away. “But we can’t take everyone, Rra.”

  “I didn’t say we could, Mma. I was just pointing out that they want to come. All over the world, I think, it is much the same. People want to escape places where there is war and poverty, and not enough water even. Or too much water. And they look at places where there is peace and good government and they think: Why can’t I go there? They just want to work and have a roof over their heads and not wake up to the sound of bombs and gunfire. That’s all they want.”

  “But,” began Mma Makutsi, and stopped. They all knew the arguments. They all knew the hard facts, and yet each knew in their hearts that if they were in the shoes of the unfortunates, they would think exactly the same as they did. Of course we would, thought Mma Ramotswe.

  There were other things to talk about, and most of these things were not sad, and they were able to laugh at what was said. They heard about a man in Nata who had written a song that everybody was singing—a love song—but then had found himself in trouble with his girlfriend because the words seemed to refer to somebody else and not to her. They heard about a young woman who had recently had triplets and who was going round the village saying that each child had a different father. Mma Potokwane expressed doubt about that, but Mma Makutsi thought that it could be biologically possible—who knows? And as she said this, she and Mma Ramotswe exchanged glances, and they both knew that they were both thinking of Violet Sephotho and her multiple boyfriends during her less-than-distinguished career at the Botswana Secretarial College. Then they listened as their host told them about a dam he had built recently and about how a crocodile had appeared in it shortly after it had filled, and nobody knew where it had come from. “They can walk very long distances,” said Mma Potokwane. “They have very short legs, but they can walk a long way. And that proves, I think, what I have always said: be very careful around any river or dam because you never know.”

  They did not stay up too late, as they had an early start from Nata the following morning. By seven o’clock they were on the road, and five hours later they arrived at the Elephant Havens camp outside Maun, where they met Mma Potokwane’s friends and the small elephant that had briefly been in Charlie’s care and was now one of seven orphans being looked after at the camp.

  “Look at him,” said Mma Ramotswe, as they were introduced to the tiny waif. “You can tell that he is happy.”

  They took photographs to show Charlie, and then they drank tea with the staff under a sheltering tree. The two founders, Boago Poloko and Debra Stevens, were joined by their manager, Ipeleng Chabata. They told the story of the sanctuary and of other programmes to rescue the orphans left by poaching. “They shoot the mother,” said Boago. “And the herd runs off. But the baby stays by the mother because it doesn’t know what to do. It’s vulnerable then.”

  “To?” asked Mma Potokwane.

  “Hyenas,” said Boago. “Lions too. Any large meat-eater will like a very small elephant that can’t defend itself.”

  He pointed to a small elephant in an enclosure nearby. It was being fed from a giant suckling bottle, eagerly draining the mixture prepared for it. “That little one,” he said, “was very ill when we got her. She had an infection. She was dehydrated too, and that can be very serious. Debra and Ipeleng stayed up with her all night two days in a row.”

  “I shall never forget it,” said Debra. “We thought we’d lose her.”

  “And then,” said Ipeleng, “suddenly, just like that, they can get better. And you see it in their eyes. They tell you: I’m feeling better now. They can say so much to us.”

  After their tea, they went to see the pens where the elephants slept. Each one had its own place, with hay and leaves for bedding. In the corner, on a raised platform, was a bed for the elephant’s keeper.

  “Each of them has one person,” Boago explained. “That is the person who feeds them. They think that he or she is their mother. You know that, I think.” He paused, and pointed to one of the beds. “But you know what? The keepers us
ually end up sleeping on the ground, right next to the elephant. Come in here in the morning and you’ll see them together. The baby may have its trunk wound across the keeper’s shoulder—like a child in bed with its mother. It is a very moving sight, Mma Ramotswe.”

  Mma Ramotswe opened her mouth to say something, but she could not think of anything to say. Nor could Mma Makutsi. Only Mma Potokwane, who had seen the same things with human orphans, was able to say, “I can imagine how it is, Rra. I can just imagine it.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Boago. “Get up early enough and you will see it.”

  There was more talk of elephants and their ways over dinner that night. Boago explained how an elephant orphan project would try to create a new herd and then gradually release its members back into the wild. That was what they were doing there, he said. It had been done before, he told them, in other schemes. And when the elephants were released, they came back—frequently at first, but then less often as they created their own lives. “But there’s an amazing thing,” he continued. “They will bring their children back to introduce them to their old keepers. They bring them back to the camp shortly after they are born. Elephants are very proud of their children.”

  Dinner was served under the same tree whose branches were the umbrella for all social meetings in the camp. As they sat around the fire on which their dinner had been cooked, there was darkness all about them. Above them the night sky, there on the edge of the Okavango Delta, as pure and unsullied as any sky could be. The absence of a moon that night made the heavens white with stars, including, down towards the horizon, the angled constellation of the Southern Cross. Mma Ramotswe pointed it out and said, “When I was a little girl, I thought that was suspended in the sky by wires. I thought that.”