by Clay Wilson
Chapter 16
Coming home
We flew to Johannesburg and then changed planes for the flight to Atlanta, Georgia, in the USA. En route I was chugging back Amarula Cream liqueur on ice and the cop and the immigration guy and I were becoming big-time drinking buddies.
“We often take people overseas who have been deported,” the policeman said. “I have been to England, Ghana and India.”
When we landed in Atlanta we had to go to a us immigration office where my deportation orders could be processed. When we arrived there were about 15 other people sitting around waiting, and I guessed these were suspected illegal immigrants who had been picked up at the airport. They seemed to be mostly Latin American and Asian. We were met by a tall, muscled African-American policeman in a uniform, with a pistol on his belt.
“Are you okay, man?” he asked in a deep voice.
I actually found him, just then, more intimidating than any of the law enforcement people or other officials I had dealt with in Botswana. I had become so accustomed to duplicity by now that I wondered what he meant by his question.
“Are you okay, man?” he asked again.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine”
“Listen,” he gestured to my escorts with a flick of his head, “you don’t have to fucking talk to these guys any more, man. You’re back home now.”
It was yet another surreal moment. I felt a lump in my throat. Rather than seeking to cow me or bully me or lock me up, this guy was actually concerned for me, and welcoming me back to the country where I had lived my previous life.
“You sure you’re okay, man?”
I told him again that I was fine. After the drinks and the meal on the flight – I vowed to never again complain about airline food – I was starting to feel like I was really going to be okay.
I booked and paid for a connecting flight to Tampa, which was the closest airport to my home. The policeman and immigration guy, who thought they were now my best buddies, said they wanted to come with me, but I didn’t throw out the welcome mat. The last I saw of them they were heading for Miami Beach for some R-and-R, probably at the Botswana government’s expense. As they left they kept on saying how difficult this job had been for them, but I didn’t care what they thought or what they did.
My phone wasn’t charged so I couldn’t call anyone I knew, to find someone to help me settle in. I flew to Tampa, where I rented a car and from there drove to my house. It was locked and I didn’t have the keys with me so I went to my neighbour and asked to use their phone so I could call my friend Dave, who had a spare set of keys.
I’d mothballed the house so I had to turn the power and the geyser on and make the bed with musty sheets. There was no food so I got into the rental car and went to the supermarket to buy frozen pizzas. As I walked down the aisle I was agog at the size of the store and the wide variety of choice.
Back home I filled a bath with scalding hot water and scrubbed my skin until it was red-raw. Afterwards I ate my pizza and sat in front of the TV for a while, my mind numb. The jetlag and the exhaustion and the stress of the preceding weeks hit me, and I passed out.
That was my routine for the next three weeks. It was like I was in a coma, rousing myself only to wash – I took five baths a day to try to scrub away the now-imaginary lice and filth. I sat in front of the TV for a few hours and ate junk food. And I slept and slept and slept.
I was alone with my thoughts, except for occasional emails and calls to Laura, who was packing up all our stuff and organising a fire sale of what we couldn’t ship home. People were asking after me on Facebook and on my blog, and I wanted to vent my rage via the Internet at the people who had banished me from Botswana, but I forced myself to say nothing online in case it backfired on Laura. There was nothing stopping those bastards locking her up in jail and forcibly deporting her from the country.
Laura would ask me questions about the shipment of our stuff and while they were important to her, I couldn’t deal with them. I became snappy, telling her to make her own decisions and that I wasn’t interested. We could not take all of the animals that we had cared for in Botswana back to America, and it was painful making the decision of which to keep. In the end, Laura organised for Gabriel and Angel, the German shepherds, to make the journey, along with my dear, poor, silly little Tacaroo, who had miraculously survived the distemper outbreak.
In Kasane buyers hovered around my house like vultures on a kill, and, in fact, they made a killing. Vehicles I had bought for $45 000 went for $7 000 and most of what we made on those went on paying for Laura’s ticket home and the shipment of our remaining possessions. About $80 000 worth of veterinary equipment – endoscopes, laparoscopes, my x-ray machine and blood-analysis stuff – sold for a tenth of its value and even then the guy who bought it took three months to pay me.
Predictably, our ordeal in Botswana shook Laura up too. She had left her family and friends behind to join me in Africa and then had her dream snatched away from her. It was incredibly stressful for her, having to negotiate with buyers and get our affairs in order before she could fly back.
When I should have been supporting her, I was lost in a dark cloud of depression, sleeping all day, eating junk food and watching television. As I replayed the events of the previous weeks, months and years, trying to work out where it had all gone so terribly wrong, she was having to organise garage sales and pack.
When Laura emerged from the arrival gate at Tampa Airport she looked exhausted and terribly thin. The whole ordeal had clearly taken a physical as well as emotional toll on her. We hugged and kissed and she broke down in my arms, her tears soaking my neck and shirt as she sobbed.
I hoped that our relationship would still be in good shape and that we might make a new life for ourselves. However, at the same time I didn’t know what direction my own life might take. As I oscillated between disillusionment and anger, I vowed that I would not be deterred from my dream, and that I would return to Africa and again take up my calling to work with the continent’s wildlife.
Laura, understandably, was not so sure about moving back to Africa. She had seen our life dismantled and auctioned off, and the experience had no doubt left her doubting the wisdom or security of life in a land that was still so foreign to her. She was as passionate about wildlife as I was, but her roots were in America. I still considered myself African, even if one country had banned me from ever returning. I would not let them do this to me.
Like me, Laura was, I believe, in a state of shock when she returned home. She was reluctant to look for work and, of course, we had both been forced back to the States at a time when the once great country was at its lowest economic ebb since the Great Depression. Jobs were not easy to find.
I was still in a state of deep depression, trying to fathom and deal with what had happened. Laura, fortunately, had her extended family to fall back on and consequently spent a good deal of time visiting with them and drawing some comfort from them. I, on the other hand, was emotionally drained and felt I could barely take care of myself, let alone give Laura the attention she needed. Laura deserved and needed to be reassured and coddled through this difficult time, and I’m afraid to admit that I just felt incapable of doing that.
I tried to lift myself out of the depths and to change, for the better, for her sake, but the wounds I had suffered had cut too deep. As the next few months dragged on inexorably, we both came to the realisation that our relationship was over.
We parted amiably and, as it happened, Laura was engaged to be married within six weeks of us breaking up. She had fallen for an old high-school friend, Mike, a very nice man. Laura and I were able to remain friends and we still stay in touch. She was a rock for me in Africa, treating animals by my side and supporting me through all the crap I went through, and I wonder if we would still be together if I had not been kicked out of the country. On one hand, I like to think we would, but on the other, if I le
t myself believe that the bureaucracy of Botswana also caused the end of our relationship, that just makes me feel bitter all over again.
As the dark funk slowly lifted, I resolved that I would not be beaten and that I would return to Africa and offer my services elsewhere.
Through my friend Patrick Webb I learnt about the Milgis Trust, a not-for-profit conservation organisation operating in northern Kenya. The trust works with the local Samburu, Turkana and Rendille people in an 8 000-square-kilometre conservancy to protect wildlife and ensure that the traditional pastoral ways of the human inhabitants continue to be sustainable.
I thought I would travel to Kenya to meet Helen Douglas-Dufresne, who runs the trust. While I was in the country I also planned a visit to the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Nairobi.
In April 2012, I passed through Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport and transferred to a domestic flight that took me to Nanyuki in the north of the country. From there I took a light aircraft into the heart of the Milgis Trust’s conservancy, a wild land of mountains and deserts further north. When the plane touched down Helen was there to meet me. I found her to be an amiable person who emitted an aura of confidence. At the same time I sensed a steely strength that deterred anyone from crossing her. With her was an entourage of Samburu warriors. These hard-faced men looked like they could easily live up to their reputation for toughness. I had read that Samburu men are circumcised at the age of 15 and are not allowed to flinch, let alone cry out, when the operation is conducted without anaesthetic.
As part of trying to get my life back together, while in the us I had decided to quit smoking. To help me, I had started using an electric cigarette. These nicotine dispensers look like real cigarettes, with a red tip that glows when one inhales and imitation smoke in the form of steam coming from the end. I went up to one of the Samburu men and took a long drag on the cigarette. As the steam curled between us I placed the orange tip against the bare flesh of my arm and gritted my teeth.
His eyes widened ever so slightly. I put the cigarette back in my mouth, inhaled again then moved the tip to his chest, visible through his open shirt. The warrior stared silently into my eyes as his friends looked on. As I touched the tip to his skin he started to smile, then said something to his companions and they all broke up laughing.
As I travelled around the concession with Helen and the warriors, I learnt more about their work. The trust was named after the Milgis Lugga – lugga is a Somali word for a seasonal watercourse. The threat to the cattle tended by the Samburu in the area, and to the wild game on the reserve, came from Somali shifta, or bandits, from across Kenya’s northern border. The trust’s anti-poaching initiatives involved intensive surveillance from mountain-top viewpoints and the guts and determination of the local Samburu, who were not averse to getting into fights with the shifta. I got the feeling that these warriors were prepared to die to protect their cattle and their wildlife. I had rarely seen such determination from the National Parks rangers I had served alongside in Botswana.
The trust’s activities extended beyond armed anti-poaching patrols. They were also involved with programmes designed to uplift the local people, through improved education and healthcare and improved breeding and management of local cattle.
There wasn’t a lot for me to do in the Milgis conservancy, but I left there feeling invigorated about what could happen when a community and good-minded people worked together. I saw that farmers and conservationists and cattle and wildlife could all live together, free of the kinds of conflicts that had plagued the town of Kasane, and that strong-willed warriors could hold back the tide of poaching.
My next stop in Kenya was a visit to the David Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Nairobi. Run by the late David Sheldrick’s widow, Dame Daphne, and her family, the trust is devoted to the protection and conservation of African wildlife, particularly elephants and black rhinos.
The trust is located on the edge of Nairobi National Park, which in itself is a pretty unique game reserve. The park, which at 117 square kilometres is not big, is located just 7 kilometres from Kenya’s sprawling, teeming capital city. It’s amazing to view Africa’s big five and other iconic wildlife with a distant backdrop of skyscrapers and the whine of passenger aircraft flying overhead. It’s surreal, but nice to know that lions, elephants, rhinos and nearly 400 other species can survive in relative safety so close to more than three million people.
The trust is a temporary home to a number of baby and juvenile elephants who have been orphaned due to poaching and natural causes. Dedicated handlers feed the elephants milk and care for them with the devotion and kindness of doting parents. Visitors to the centre can see twice-daily public feedings and “adopt” an elephant to assist with the cost of its care. Once they reach an age where they can feed for themselves, the elephants are taken to Tsavo East National Park, where they are progressively released back into the wild. The trust also raises orphan rhino calves, and when I visited there was a blind rhino living in their boma, or enclosure, who was free to come and go from the neighbouring Nairobi National Park at will; sometimes he would wander into the bush and when he’d had enough of the wild he would come home to his enclosure.
This was exactly the sort of thing I’d had in mind for Chobe National Park. The trust and its work are fitting legacies for David Sheldrick, who was the original warden of Tsavo National Park. Sadly, this pillar of wildlife conservation suffered a heart attack in 1977 and passed away at the age of 57.
When I arrived at the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust, out of the blue, I was met by Daphne’s daughter, Angela, a wonderful woman who gave up her time to show me around. Of particular interest to Angela was a baby elephant that was not doing well. It had been suffering from persistent diarrhoea and appeared to have very little energy.
I examined the elephant, whose name was Kihtika. I could hardly believe it when the little guy’s keeper told me the animal was three months old – he was so stunted he looked more like three weeks old. “I think I know what’s wrong with this little fellow.”
I told Angela that I had come across an elephant with these symptoms in Zimbabwe. A man by the name of Gavin Best had invited me to his tourism operation in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, where he had a group of tame elephants. Gavin was a very experienced bush hand who had previously served as a warden in Hwange National Park. He had a baby elephant that was very sick and when I ran a series of blood tests on it I found the little one was suffering from a lack of pancreatic enzymes – the things that break down food so that it can be digested. The milk was passing straight through the youngster and it was gaining no nourishment from it.
I arranged to have some pancreatic enzymes flown to Botswana from the United States and then took them across the border into Zimbabwe and began treating Gavin’s elephant by adding the enzymes to bottled milk and feeding it by hand. The baby recovered, but much to my sadness and a great many other people’s, Gavin was killed not long after by one of his elephants, which gored him with its tusk.
That baby elephant had been fed by its mother and it got me wondering why its milk was enzyme deficient. I wondered if it was because the mother was stressed, or perhaps it was because she was in captivity that her milk was not carrying the enzymes. I wondered if there was some plant or other substance that wild elephants ate to ensure they produced the enzymes their offspring needed.
I took a sample of tiny Kihtika’s blood and, as the Sheldricks had no testing machine, took it into Nairobi to a human pathology lab and had them run a series of tests on it. As I had suspected, it was the same problem I had encountered in Zimbabwe. But where would I find pancreatic enzymes in Nairobi?
Asking around, I finally got directions to a health-food store, perhaps the only one in the bustling city. It was a long shot, but when I finally found the store I walked in and strode up to the salesman behind the counter. Just as I was about to ask him for my unusual request, my eye was drawn to four bottles on a shelf behind where he stood.
“I can’t believe it.”
The man gave me a puzzled look. “Sir?”
The bottles were full of pancreatic enzyme pills. “I’ll take all of those,” I said. As it happened they were the last in the store, and possibly, according to the shop assistant, the last in the country. It was one of those eerie moments, as though fate had intervened right there and then to help this sick, orphaned animal. I rushed back to the Sheldrick Trust and told Kihtika’s keeper to put 10 tablets into the baby’s milk bottle.
As part of their daily routine the young elephants were taken for a walk into the bush in Nairobi National Park. This exercised them and progressively got them used to wide, open spaces away from their bomas. They were fed on the walks, and lately this poor little patient had been showing no desire to eat at all, nor to walk. However, when the keeper raised the dosed bottle of milk formula to Kihtika’s mouth, he began to suckle. He must have known immediately that there was something in there he needed, because in a flash he gulped down the entire contents.
Within minutes Kihtika started to change. It was time for the elephants to start heading back to their night homes, and instead of lagging behind as he had been doing for the past few weeks, Kihtika bounded ahead of the herd, leading the way home at a brisk trot, his little trunk waving merrily from side to side.
“I cannot believe it,” said his keeper.
We were all grinning like crazy and giving each other high-fives. When he made it back to his stable, Kihtika sucked down another full bottle and then promptly fell into a deep sleep; this was also a great sign, as his sleep had been disturbed due to his condition. It was a tremendous result and the keepers regarded Kihtika as something of a miracle, as he made a full recovery.
It turned out that they had never added pancreatic enzymes to the elephants’ milk and the condition Kihtika was suffering from had manifested itself in other animals. As a result, the trust began adding enzymes to the formula for all elephants of this age, and was able to secure a sponsorship deal with a company in the us that manufactures the life-saving pills. It was a great result.
