Love, Life, and Elephants

by Dame Daphne Sheldrick

  Meanwhile Eleanor was carefully investigating the carcass of the dead elephant, running her trunk up and down the gleaming surface of the tusks. With one foot on the skull, she gripped them firmly in her trunk and with a sickening crunch tore each one from its socket. Holding each tusk aloft, she waved them about for a few moments before flinging them deep into the bush. It was as if, despite leading a sheltered life, she realized that herein lay the cause of the persecution of her kind in their wilderness home. In so far as we knew, this was the first elephant carcass she had ever seen, other than that of her mother, which she was probably too young to remember clearly. I wondered how she knew that a tusk could be pulled from the socket and what she was thinking, but to us it seemed abundantly clear that her complex and convoluted elephant brain was endowed with inherent knowledge already programmed at birth with the power of reasoning – an instinctive aid to survival in an animal that lives three score years and ten.

  Ali declared that he would consider sparing his captives’ lives, as he trussed them up using his belt. By now the poachers, convinced that the forces of evil were afoot, marched swiftly, terrified of the elephants, two rhinos, about six young buffaloes, a zebra and three ostriches walking behind. Somewhere along the way, Punda managed to get his hoof wedged into a discarded milk-can that no amount of bucking and kicking could dislodge, making a metallic clank as he walked. From somewhere the Field Force sergeant appeared, wanting to take over the captives. However, Ali was determined to hand them to David personally, and this resulted in a loud shouting match between the two men as the column made its way up the hill towards our house. The sight of the sergeant in uniform triggered great excitement in the ostriches, who danced about with outspread wings, anxious to halt the column and line up on parade.

  It so happened that David and I were enjoying a rare moment of relaxation by the lily pond at the time the convoy came into view. Once Ali had recounted, in glorious detail, what had taken place, David thanked him profusely, handed over the prisoners to the sergeant and enlisted the help of the rangers to remove the milk-can from Punda’s hoof, which ironically proved the most problematic manoeuvre of the afternoon.

  As time went on, we despaired of Punda, for his obsession with rhinos extended beyond Stroppie to the wild rhinos. At least once a week, Ali would relate how Punda had pursued a wild rhino, nipping at its heels and even grabbing it by the tail. Inevitably, disaster struck, though it came not from a wild rhino, but instead from one of our own buffalo orphans, who, tired of Punda’s incessant teasing, swung his horn sideways and opened up his stomach. In great pain, Punda managed to stagger home, Ali, Raru and Stroppie by his side. David did what he could to clean and stitch the wound, but tragically Punda died during the night. Sadly, we laid him to rest in a deep grave just behind the stockades so that he would always be close to Stroppie and Raru. He had become a loved member of our orphaned family, living out his life in a kamikaze sort of way. Raru mourned his passing deeply and Stroppie certainly noticed his absence, but Eleanor seemed unashamedly relieved, since together, Punda and Raru had never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Bukanezi when Eleanor wasn’t looking. They would bait him with unbridled enthusiasm, causing disquiet in Eleanor’s normally peaceful unit.

  As David advised, we turned the page, and it wasn’t long before a new orphan replaced Punda, this time a little female elephant calf that we named Sobo, after the huge lone rocky outcrop that rose from the flat landscape bordering the south bank of the Galana River. David spotted her from the air, standing forlornly beside her dead mother, drawing water from her stomach to spray over her body. It took some time for the rangers to reach Sobo Rock by road, capture the orphan and get her to Voi. Eleanor immediately took charge, experienced now in coping with Bukanezi’s jealousy every time a newcomer threatened to divert her attention and affection from him. Sobo was a little older than Bukanezi, a forlorn and lonely little elephant, suffering the anguish of losing all her loved ones in her short life. But she startled us by stuffing lucerne into her mouth as though determined never to be hungry again, and before long her gaunt appearance softened into a healthier, more rounded shape and her skin took on the supple texture of wellbeing.

  This was an intensely busy period for me. Not long after the arrival of Sobo, another orphan came in, this time a tiny infant – one of those I dreaded, being a milk-only candidate. He shuffled around fearlessly on unsteady legs, having been unloaded from the rescue lorry, ravenously hungry. This time, rather than cope on my own, I decided to enlist the help of Eleanor, who could furnish the love and attention this baby needed in addition to the milk which I would provide. Ignoring Bukanezi’s frustrated bellows at the sight of the new calf being placed by her side, Eleanor gathered the tiny, hairy newborn to her, embracing him with her trunk and rumbling reassuring endearments. Then, she coaxed him beneath her to suckle her breast, the moment I had been hoping for. Armed with a bottle of diluted milk, I scrambled beneath Eleanor’s huge forelegs from the opposite side and substituted the bottle of milk for Eleanor’s teat every time the calf attempted to suckle.

  Being underneath an elephant is an awesome experience – dwarfed by an enormous body overhead, crouching between giant legs, I was very aware of tusks each as thick and as long as an arm, and the cool tip of an investigative trunk monitoring what was going on. From this position I was conscious of the elephant’s latent power, knowing that the trunk alone was capable of crushing the life from my body. However, I trusted Eleanor implicitly and never felt threatened in any way. Deep rumbles from her throat, close to my ears, vibrated through my body and I knew that she understood and that I could count on her total cooperation. Ours was a deep and abiding mutual trust cemented by a shared love. Ironically, much more cause for misgiving came from the infant for whose benefit this was being done. Instead of showing appreciation, he meted out hefty shoves, sending me hurtling backwards to land in disarray among the pile of vegetation in the far corner of the stockade. I let out a yelp and Eleanor came over to feel me tenderly and establish that I was all right; even Raru put his trunk through the crossbars, anxious to ascertain that I was in one piece. Rubbing a sore bottom, I reflected on the strength of even a tiny elephant and the need to cultivate its friendship, rather than risk its ire.

  Broadly, though, the first day’s attempt at feeding the new calf beneath Eleanor had gone well, so I decided that he should be fed on demand, as would be the case were he with his mother. To accomplish this, I had to enlist the help of Ali and his assistant, whom Eleanor trusted, so after they had done the next couple of feeds under supervision, we operated by shifts. Every time the calf disappeared under Eleanor in search of milk, one of us had to be there to substitute the bottle, which meant that all the paraphernalia necessary to mix and reheat the milk had to come along as well. We managed this pretty well between us – despite regular thwacks and shoves from the calf – but trouble came from the other members of Eleanor’s herd, who remembered being bottle-fed and wanted to be in on the act again. Bukanezi began to throw monumental tantrums, his frustrated bellows echoing for miles around, and after a few weeks of this, Ali, his assistant and I were all exhausted. Returning home, battered and weary, I offloaded my woes on my sympathetic husband, who suggested that I was taking on too much.

  We named that little calf Gulliver because he had the hairy, wizened look of a little old gnome, shuffling about on legs that lacked coordination. Eleanor adored him, as did Sobo, who took on the duties of a nanny, stepping in to care for Gulliver whenever Eleanor needed a break. I was happy that Sobo enjoyed this role, for it gave her something to focus on outside her grief, although there lurked the distinct possibility that the new arrival might not make it. I dreaded Sobo having to endure another loss all over again. As days turned into weeks, Eleanor began to rely more and more on Sobo, content to entrust Gulliver to her care whenever she felt like a wallow or went to investigate something unusual in the bush. The rapport between Eleanor and Sobo was enlightening, and it
enabled me to understand the depth of bonds that bind family members together, that these gentle giants were not so different from us. Gulliver was never left unattended for a moment and I became convinced that Eleanor and Sobo communicated telepathically, for each knew instinctively what the other intended to do. Whenever Eleanor decided to move off, Sobo was there to take over, and when Sobo wanted a drink or needed a wallow, Eleanor would be there for Gulliver.

  Sadly, however, the weak cow’s milk mixture that we were feeding Gulliver did not suit him and I could see that he wasn’t thriving, but instead becoming progressively weaker and sick. Changing his feed to ‘Trilk’ milk substitute made no difference, and I was distraught that all my attempts at finding a suitable diet for a milk-dependent newborn elephant had failed yet again. After struggling for three weeks, Gulliver died. He was by Eleanor’s side. We buried him in the tiny graveyard that nestled beneath the dappled shade of the large melia tree David had planted as a tiny seed thirty years earlier. Now it stood in its beauty, a living testimony to the passing of the years, along with the passing of all the newborn elephants we had tried to save. Gulliver was laid to rest just as the first raindrops began to fall to relieve the drought and mingle with tears of sadness and frustration that I would never manage to unravel the secret of how to save a newborn infant elephant.

  It was Sobo who felt the loss of Gulliver most keenly. She remained morose, her grief exacerbated by the recent loss of her mother and elephant family. During the funeral, she stood listlessly beside his lifeless form and came forward to touch him lovingly with her trunk as he was lowered into the grave. Even after the grave had been filled with the dampened red earth of Tsavo and decorated with pure white ipomoea blossoms, Sobo stood beside it for a long while before walking away, and each evening thereafter, as the orphans filed back up the hill, she left the column to pay her respects at Gulliver’s grave. As days passed into weeks we were saddened to witness her detached solitude as she lagged behind the herd and stood apart when the other orphans were playful during rainstorms.

  Sometimes after rain, as a family, we enjoyed a visit to what we called the red waterhole below the Headquarters, savouring the fresh vegetation and the heady scent of warm wet earth and new growth. A stroll with David was always a natural history lesson, filled with interest as he interpreted for us the signs and signals around us. Near the red waterhole, we would select a tree beneath which to wait and see what the day would unfold. It amused me that Angela always mapped out an escape route well in advance, for she loved nothing more than shinning up trees, particularly as she was better at it than anyone else, except perhaps her father. Jill, being a good deal older, was more sedate, while my ineptitude in this respect was well known and a source of great mirth to my family. My attempts at climbing trees were legendary, for inevitably I ended stuck halfway up, unable to go either up or down, much to the amusement of my family, who stood underneath offering ridiculous suggestions until David had to come to the rescue.

  A few weeks after Gulliver died, David and I took a walk to the waterhole where we were delighted to encounter our orphans enjoying the green feast spread before them. We watched Eleanor and the others until an excited trumpet made us look up. To our amazement, Sobo was rushing towards a wild herd as fast as her legs could carry her, emitting happy trumpets and rumbles as she went. Without hesitation she raced in among them as they reached the waterhole and was greeted with unrestrained joy. We knew at once that this particular group was part of her past, for she was obviously well known to them. At four years old, Sobo had found the remnants of her lost elephant family; those fortunate few who had managed to survive the drought. Trunks intertwined with hers, fondling, feeling and smelling her tenderly as the entire herd milled around, urinating with excitement and rumbling lovingly, sounds that echoed against nearby Mazinga Hill. The reunion had been spontaneous and ecstatic, and we knew that the pain in her heart would now heal. Among that family were probably her aunts, possibly even a grandmother, little cousins and even older brothers and sisters. And as the wild herd began to move off, without a moment’s hesitation Sobo went with them, passing in a heartbeat from our world back into hers. It was a joyous and very satisfying moment that brought tears to my eyes.

  Not all our time was spent at home with the animals, for we enjoyed an excellent rapport with our neighbours on the Galana Ranch. We enjoyed get-togethers with them reminiscent of the old Voi Hotel days. Following the collapse of the Galana Game Management Scheme run by ‘Chickweed’ Parker, a consortium of wealthy white ranchers from Laikipia, with financial backing from an American, had purchased almost a million acres of marginal land neighbouring Tsavo’s eastern boundary, where they combined eco-tourism with cattle ranching. Scrub cattle purchased from the northern pastoral tribes were fattened on the ranch before being walked the 100 miles to Mombasa for slaughter or export. This had fast become a highly successful enterprise, the blueprint of how to manage such marginal land. They established an attractive rustic lodge overlooking the lower reaches of the Galana River beyond the Park boundary, erected game viewing platforms over waterholes and ran mobile tented camps which, like the elephants, followed the rains and the resultant flush of green where animals concentrated, and provided photographic opportunities. Strictly controlled sport hunting by licensed professionals was also permitted on the ranch, and many of these employed Waliangulu ex-poachers as trackers – men who could follow an animal footprint rapidly and enable a paying client hunter to get within range for an accurate shot.

  The Galana Ranch was an ideal rehabilitation retreat for many of our orphaned buffaloes and inevitably the day came when it was the turn of my favourite, Lollipa, to leave the fold. From a very young age Lollipa had been one of our garden orphans and I was very attached to her, but she had recently taken to chasing the children and had to go. Whenever I was with her, she would lay her head lovingly against my shoulder in a touching show of affection unusual from an animal with such a fearsome reputation. On the ranch and in among the cattle, Lollipa formed a very strong attachment to one particular castrated male steer and this anchored her within the cow herds, although she would periodically leave to seek out a wild buffalo mate, returning to the cow herd pregnant. During her lifetime, she gave birth to five buffalo calves, all born among the domesticated cattle herd.

  One day we received news that she had given birth to a stillborn baby, the same day on which another buffalo orphan arrived. David decided that Lollipa’s loss provided us with the opportunity to offload the new orphan as a replacement for her stillborn calf. Over the radio network he suggested that her dead baby be skinned, so that when we arrived with the orphan, the skin of the dead baby could be wrapped around it in the hopes that Lollipa would accept and nurture it as her own, thereby saving us a great deal of trouble, not to mention the expense, of having to purchase tinned milk.

  We made haste to the Galana Ranch with the new orphan held by a ranger in the back of the pickup. By the time we arrived, the cattle herd that contained Lollipa had been brought close by, and although I had not seen her for several years, as I called her, after hesitating for a few moments, she walked straight up to me and laid her head against my shoulder just like old times. The Galana herdsmen were flabbergasted at seeing me cuddling a buffalo, for they were extremely wary of buffaloes generally, and were careful always to keep at a safe distance from Lollipa. At the ranch this incident earned me the reputation of being a magician. Sadly, however, our plan to offload our latest buffalo orphan on Lollipa failed. While she smelled it with some interest, she concluded that it was not her own and tossed it away, the end result being that we had to take our baby back and rear him as another buffalo addition to our growing orphaned herd.

  Lollipa’s attachment to her steer friend eventually proved her undoing. She remained loyal to him throughout her life, even after each of her calves had grown up and left to join the wild buffalo herds. On three occasions she walked the 100 miles with him and others to the slaughterhouse
in Mombasa, and when they tried to separate her friend from her she created such mayhem that they had to spare him and walk them both back again to the ranch. However, in the end, both ended up shot within the slaughterhouse compound, supposedly for endangering human lives. It was some months before the ranch owners came clean about Lollipa’s tragic end. I had difficulty in understanding why our Galana neighbours could not spare this one steer, since he was, after all, just one out of many hundreds of others and surely would not have been missed. Furthermore, David and I would happily have paid the butcher’s price for Lollipa’s sake, but it was not to be. During my time in Tsavo, I would rear twenty-three Cape buffalo calves, sixteen of which were transferred to Nairobi National Park, forming the foundation of the Park’s current buffalo population, now numbering over 100. However, for me Lollipa stood out from all the others, a buffalo calf I shall never forget.