Love, Life, and Elephants

by Dame Daphne Sheldrick

  Each morning, we could hear the gate of the stockade being opened when Samson led his assorted herd down past the orchard – sometimes having to drag the ostriches by their necks – heading for the more lush vegetation of the Voi River valley. Although the river itself only flowed strongly during periods of heavy rain, rocky hollows in its bed formed stagnant pools in which to play and splash water over hot bodies, while brick-red mud wallows left by receding floodwaters or rain soon turned them all that distinctive shade of red that characterized Tsavo’s elephants. It was just as well that the ostriches didn’t fly, as their mud-caked feathers ended up plastered tightly to their bodies, giving them a decidedly bedraggled appearance.

  Wallowing time was for playing, splashing, rolling and romping about. You had to be diligent to ensure that the ostriches were not handled too roughly or even ended up drowned, for sometimes Samson’s idea of involving them in a game meant whirling them round and round by the neck. Many animals gathered at the pools during the heat of the day, so it was usually there that the orphaned elephants were able to mingle with their wild peers. Samson in particular found sparring with other young bulls of his age much more fun than taking on Rufus, who anyway was now more interested in challenging Reudi, a newly arrived young rhino, a casualty of a translocation exercise to remove rhinos from an area opened up for human settlement. Reudi was not as mild-natured as Rufus, and although the two became friends, they often had their differences, ending in tremendous battles. At such times Samson clearly felt obliged to intervene to restore order, and the combination of the rhino’s huffing and puffing and Samson’s trumpeting sent the ostriches and buffaloes in the opposite direction and the helpers up the nearest trees.

  After the routine mud bath during the heat of the day, the orphans would gather around their helper as he sat down in the shade of a nearby tree to have his lunch. Afterwards he would stretch himself out in the grass, place his hat over his eyes and take a nap while the elephants stood guard nearby and the ostriches squatted, their necks protruding from the grass like three thin periscopes. The buffaloes lay in the shade, chewing the cud, a picture of bovine bliss, and Rufus and Reudi slept soundly nearby, breathing contented sighs through rubbery nostrils. The heat of noon, when the sun was at its peak, was a peaceful, sleepy time of the day, punctuated by the humming of insects, muted birdsong and the gentle slap of wet elephant ears as they fanned a cooling breeze across their red-mud-plastered bodies. We loved being a party to this scene and enjoyed a great view from the caravan of Philip and Mavis Hucks, who lived in the Park’s public campsite during a five-year stint collecting and pressing for posterity specimens of Tsavo’s plants and flowers, and had become close friends of ours.

  It was about this time that Eleanor entered our lives. She had been discovered by Bill as a two-year-old orphan four years earlier in 1961, on the north bank of the Uaso Nyiro River in the Samburu National Reserve during a safari escorting the then Governor of Kenya, Sir Patrick Renison, and his wife Lady Eleanor. Eleanor was found standing alone on a sodden plain after a night of extensive rain, no other elephants in sight other than the carcass – minus the tusks – of what must have been her mother lying some distance away. Bill returned to a nearby lodge to recruit help in capturing the elephant and getting her to safety, which he managed to do with the help of some guests, the Governor and Lady Eleanor. Elephant ‘Eleanor’, who was named after Lady Renison, was housed for the night in an improvised stable on the verandah of one of the lodge chalets.

  Fed patiently on hand-picked greens and treated gently and lovingly, Eleanor soon lost her initial terror of humans; once back at Bill and Ruth’s Mweiga home, she got used to walking up a ramp on to a lorry every day, which transported her and her helpers into the lush Aberdare forest to feed. Her new home in the mountain National Parks was, of course, very different to the arid lowlands of her birth, so she suffered bouts of ill health until she became acclimatized. In the highlands the nights were damp and cold, and for much of the year mists masked the sun, the air damp with a frequent drizzle that laced the tips of the grass stems and leaves with an early morning frost. Eleanor soon became quite a legend among the local Africans, most of whom had never seen an elephant before, or even a picture of one, despite living so close to the Aberdare and Mount Kenya forests that were home to many wild animals, including elephants. Well-maintained deep ditches surrounding the Park boundaries confined the elephants to their forest strongholds, protecting them from the people and the people’s crops from the elephants.

  David and I had first seen Eleanor at the Nairobi Agricultural Show back in 1962, an annual event that drew large crowds from far and wide. There had been pressure on Bill to bring her to the show so that people could observe an elephant first hand, and from the moment we arrived, we could hear an excited buzz from the people pushing and jostling to get near to her. Whenever she reached her trunk through the bars of her stockade, they squealed and recoiled in terror. Even doing the most ordinary of elephant things, such as spraying water over herself with her trunk or scratching an ear, made the crowds roar with laughter and shout out in astonishment. Eleanor soon learned that noisy spectators could be easily dispersed by a shower of muddy water sucked up from her mud wallow and sprayed directly at them through her trunk. She was, though, rewarded for her tolerance when Lady Eleanor Renison heard that her namesake was at the showground and requested that the elephant be taken to Government House. Eleanor’s journey from the showground caused quite a stir – heads swivelled and brakes screeched as motorists passed the unusual convoy. Upon arrival she was greeted by the Governor himself, and Lady Eleanor, and allowed to wander freely over their emerald lawns, helping herself to anything she fancied from the tempting array of exotic flowers.

  Because she had been such a hit at the Nairobi Agricultural Show, the National Park authorities insisted that Eleanor should continue to be an ambassador for her kind by being on display at the Nairobi National Park Orphanage, just beyond the city limits. While this had been created with noble intentions to provide care and a home for orphaned animals until they could be returned to the wild, in reality it had proved so popular with local people that it had evolved into a zoo. It was hoped that Eleanor’s presence would tempt more people through the doors and generate an increase in income, and indeed it did, as long queues of excited people waited to see her every day. But deprived of the exercise so vital to an animal that needs space and covers great distances, lacking the variety of food necessary for a balanced diet and the loving individual attention she so needed, the sparkle faded from her eyes and she became morose, obese and lethargic – just another one of many unfortunate innocents subjected to imprisonment through no fault of her own.

  Eleanor would undoubtedly have died had it not been for Bill and David exerting unrelenting pressure on the National Parks authorities to allow her her freedom. In the end they managed to convince them that in order to save Eleanor’s life she needed to make one last journey, this time to Tsavo, where she could join others like her. And so one bright afternoon on 19 March 1965, Eleanor arrived in Voi. To make her feel welcome, we had lined her stockade with an assortment of Tsavo’s most tempting shrubbery. Upon arrival she walked slowly down the ramp and my heart lurched as I noticed that her stomach was severely distended from her sedentary life in Nairobi. Hesitantly, she extended her trunk in greeting to each of us in turn, rumbling pleasure deep in her throat, and then paused at the entrance to her stockade, startled by the strange sounds emanating from the two stout stables next door that housed the rhinos. Samson was already in his stockade and in his excitement at seeing another elephant was trying to scale the bars, and at the sight of Samson, who was larger than her, Eleanor needed a good deal of coaxing before she finally went in.

  It took a little while for her to regain her physical health and psychological wellbeing and to adjust to her new surroundings. She was such a peace-loving and gentle individual that she strongly disapproved of the rhinos’ rowdy squabbles, and
was bent on separating them at the first hint of trouble by forcing her way between the two of them and flailing them both with her trunk before chasing them off in opposite directions. She adored Samson, who was thrilled to be the subject of such adulation and treated Eleanor with tolerance and genuine affection. With an older and wiser companion to lean on, she felt content, and she loved mothering the two smaller elephants, Raru and Bukanezi. At the daily mud bath she treated the ostriches more gently than Samson, taking hold of their bunchy tail feathers in her trunk and propelling them along by pushing from behind.

  Samson was at the age when he began to feel, as young bulls should, that something was lacking in his life. Often he would scent a wild herd and become visibly restless, anxious to join them. At first it was not unusual for him to spend nights out, then weeks away and eventually months. Just as we were beginning to think that Samson had indeed made the transition back to being a wild elephant, he would reappear, usually accompanied by several wild friends who caused chaos and confusion around the Headquarters as soon as they found themselves among humans, scattering the workforce in all directions as they made a rapid getaway. It was touching to see Samson carrying on with whatever he was doing, puzzled as to why he couldn’t keep his friends for very long. In the end David decided to resort to firmer measures in order to dissuade him from returning to base with wild friends, using thunderflashes as a deterrent. The time had now come when it was in Samson’s best interests to sever his ties with humans completely and return to where he belonged. He came back unexpectedly one Sunday afternoon after a very long absence and my heart froze as he advanced towards Angela, who was toddling around, playing with her toys. I was terrified that having been made so unwelcome he might harm my daughter, but he stretched out his enormous trunk and tenderly touched the top of her head, rumbling a loving greeting at her delighted smile. As soon as he spotted me, he turned and hurried off, ears outstretched in anticipation of a reprimand, and that, sadly, was the last time I saw Samson, though David came across him occasionally during the course of his travels, sometimes on his own and at other times in among a wild herd. Samson adored David, and this made his transition from us to the wild much more emotionally difficult. With Samson gone, Eleanor slotted into her role as matriarch, accepting this responsibility with maturity, valiantly trying constantly to keep the peace between Rufus and Reudi.

  Our orphans arrived unexpectedly, a variety of species, sizes and temperaments. We now had a dedicated, growing staff, trained to look after them. The smaller ones were cared for in small nursery stables and an enclosure adjoining the house, and once they could be trusted not to run away, they were allowed free run of the garden. These came to be known as the ‘garden orphans’ and included several antelopes, one of whom I fell in love with the moment she was presented to me, curled up in a shoebox, a perfect miniature Bambi. She made my heart melt with her big soulful black eyes and dainty features. I stroked her brown fur, tracing the reddish-brown crest on her forehead. And as she gazed into my eyes it was love at first sight.

  We named this dikdik Wiffle because of her elongated nose, which was furred right to the tip of each nostril and ‘whiffled’ constantly this way and that, testing, examining, savouring and interpreting every faint scent that wafted in on the wind. She settled in happily and loved nothing more than a good bounce around the garden, turning with lightning agility, darting under foliage, leaping over walls, dodging Honk, our peacock, and ending up at my feet, panting with exertion. Her energy was infectious. She played endless games of hide-and-seek with Jill and Angela, sometimes waiting in ambush in a kneeling position, before bursting from cover to race off to another hiding place. When they tired of this, she moved swiftly on to a game of dodge, merely bouncing aside at an unexpected angle to avoid capture. Finally, when the children lay exhausted and laughing, she would tuck herself underneath a plant and keep a close watch on my movements.

  Wiffle was a ‘one-woman’ animal and quite simply I was the most important thing in her life, the only person she allowed to pick her up and hold her; the only one from whom she accepted a bottle of milk; the only voice worthy of response and the only one on whom she lavished her affection. Her devotion to me was absolute, my reward for taking the place of her mother. She was like my shadow – whenever I was in the garden Wiffle would be just a few paces behind me. Since she experienced difficulty climbing the polished front steps of the verandah, I had to carry her on to the lounge carpet every evening, where she enjoyed her favourite food laid out as a banquet on a piece of newspaper – wild hand-picked delicacies with the odd rose or hibiscus flower. Gregory Peck seemed like an independent adolescent in comparison to Wiffle. Early one evening, as I was taking a bath, I momentarily disappeared from her view and within a second she had leapt over the side of the bath and landed right on top of me. The chaos that followed was spectacular, with Wiffle thrashing around wildly and me struggling to get hold of her before she succeeded in drowning herself. It was several seconds before I managed to lift her out, and a very bedraggled and subdued little dikdik lay shivering and sulking for hours after.

  After her night-time milk feed – before which she rather puzzlingly had to nuzzle my watchstrap – we carried Wiffle to our bedroom, and for the first few weeks she was content to sleep on a blanket beside our bed. However, she decided very quickly that this was just not near enough to me, and that she should be entitled to a place on top of the bed, right next to me, just like David. For a few nights she hurled herself against the mosquito net until we capitulated and allowed her in. But then, restricted and frightened by the net, she thrashed about until we had to tuck the net halfway up my side of the bed and let her sleep outside it at the bottom by my feet. Just as soon as we got used to this arrangement, Wiffle began to cast a covetous eye on David and in a Goldilocks sort of way – the floor too hard, my bed too soft but David’s just right – decided that she wanted his side of the bed all to herself. One night, following several trial runs, usually undertaken during the day when the bed was unoccupied, Wiffle made her stand, rolling on top of David in an attempt to dislodge him. But David was not going to give up his place in our bed to a dikdik, however sweet she was – ‘It should be you that goes, Daph,’ he laughed – and stood his ground, tossing and turning throughout the night. We were convinced that Wiffle would have difficulty remaining on board but she was grimly determined to stay put at all costs and stuck it out, even hopping back on when David kicked her off the end of the bed. This she didn’t like one bit, the tuft between her ears erect to indicate her disapproval.

  Actually we had recently discovered that Wiffle could scream, and while quite prepared to amuse herself in the garden during most of the day, after tea and until bed she expected to be entertained or at least kept company. Almost on the stroke of 4 p.m. she would appear at the front or back steps, calling with a soft, high ‘Where are you?’ twitter. If I didn’t hear, which was usually the case, she would repeat it a lot louder and then, when I did not appear, she would emit a piercing scream that did not stop until I came to take her for an afternoon walk. Only demanding with me, Wiffle was otherwise a timid little thing and the larger orphans were a great source of concern to her. Lollipa, my favourite orphaned buffalo, was particularly partial to terrorizing her, even though Eleanor’s gang only came into the garden to snatch a few forbidden titbits when in daredevil mode. One morning when they appeared unexpectedly around the hedge, Wiffle was engrossed in a game with Honk, the peacock, and was caught completely unaware. Stopping dead in her tracks, her doe eyes filled with alarm and she let out a terrified nose whistle, leaping off in a series of enormous bounds; when we located her, some hours later, under a thornbush right at the very back of the garden, she was still trembling. Nocturnal visitors around the house were another source of terror, for while we humans could sleep oblivious to any happenings outside, even when supposedly asleep Wiffle was always alert, for her eyes never closed completely, and she was conscious of movements and sounds out
side some distance away. Every now and then she would stand up on the bed, eyes wide open, muscles tensed as she stared out of the window. For a good night’s sleep, the best we could hope for was a visit to the garden pergola by an old giraffe who squeezed his large frame through, lifting it in the process. This scared Wiffle so much that she would retreat under the bed and remain there until sunrise.

  When Wiffle was mature, in a motherly, controlling sort of way I took it upon myself to find a mate by visiting the Nairobi National Park Orphanage to look over any likely suitors. But in the end I didn’t have to do terribly much, as I soon noticed that our afternoon walks took on a greater significance. By now the two small glands situated below Wiffle’s eyes were active, and she would rub the tarlike substance they produced on to the ends of any small twig protruding from a shrub or on to the tips of coarse grasses. Many such twigs and grasses selected for this purpose were already tipped with small balls of this glandular secretion, and each ‘signpost’ was eagerly scrutinized and carefully smelled before Wiffle added her own contribution. David noticed that when the glands were moist a certain small species of fly was attracted by the secretion, clustering around each gland and causing Wiffle a good deal of irritation. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before David had some labelled and stored in the shallow drawers of the insect cupboard in his museum.

  I had been under the impression that Wiffle was far too attached to me to ever feel the desire to seek the company of other dikdiks, but it seemed that Nature’s dictates proved compelling. When she was grown, she took to disappearing for the odd hour or two during the day, and one afternoon I was surprised and unsettled by the deafening silence from the garden at four o’clock. This marked the beginning of Wiffle’s separation from me, for she began to spend whole days away and then whole nights and days away. Like any anxious mother, I was keen to know where she was going, so one morning I followed her and was astonished to find her walking bold as brass into Dr Glover’s garden, straight up to a male dikdik with whom she seemed remarkably well acquainted. It became clear that this was not as ideal as it at first looked, for this mate already had a wife, a somewhat disconcerting discovery since dikdiks mate for life. Nevertheless Wiffle obviously presented the eternal triangle, for over the coming weeks she was repeatedly seen together with this mate and his wife and, what is more, provided tangible evidence of the male’s infidelity, as she steadily grew more portly. Wiffle was expecting.