At the doctor’s in Cape Town, David was insistent that he be alone during the examination, sending me off to buy presents for our family. Before I could protest, he was ushered into the surgery and the door was closed, but I was waiting when he emerged and was relieved to hear the doctor say: ‘I’ll see you in two years’ time for another check-up.’ David looked relaxed and told me there was nothing to worry about; he had been diagnosed with ‘just a touch of angina’ and this could be corrected through medication and diet. I was happy to believe this and vowed to myself to keep an eye on his diet.
On our return, the dreaded amalgamation of the National Parks with the Government Game Department was officially enacted by Parliament on 13 February 1976, bringing the National Parks under direct government control. A new organization, known as the Wildlife Conservation and Management Department, immediately took control of all wildlife throughout the country, under the direct jurisdiction of the Ministry of Tourism and Wildlife. Amalgamation will always remain a sinister word for those of us that remember the events of that time. It was the beginning of what turned out to be a tragic, shockingly dark period in the proud history of Kenya’s National Parks. For their wild inhabitants, especially rhinos and elephants, who became instant targets, it was the death knell. The ink had hardly dried on the new legislation before National Park funds were frozen, with cheques, outstanding invoices and purchase orders declared invalid. Within a few days the five entrance gates to Tsavo East had run out of tickets and the Park’s petrol pumps had run dry. Fortunately David had some fuel stored in metal drums out in the bush, so the Field Force rangers could still remain operational. I sought solace with my orphans, glad to be able to satisfy their needs and enjoy their company.
An inventory officer paid us a visit that would have been amusing had it not been so indicative of the new regime. He floundered around looking confused at the workshop lathe, power drill and other sophisticated equipment that he was unable to even name. When David told him that in order to catalogue the Park’s equipment he would have to make a 3,000-mile round trip, expressing the hope that he had brought his own petrol with him, the official took off, never to be seen again. He obviously had not missed the giant trophy tusks still held in the ivory store – especially one pair far larger than those of the legendary Ahamed at Marsabit. A signal arrived from Nairobi the following day with instructions that any big tusks still held in the Tsavo East stores be delivered immediately to a specific government office in Nairobi.
With these changes came a new position for David, a supervisory role over all the National Parks and Reserves as Head of the Planning Unit, focusing on the country’s numerous undeveloped National Reserves. He was allowed to take Tango Papa, the Supercub aircraft and our Toyota pickup, known as the ‘Poon wagon’ after the lady who had gifted it to us. He was allocated an office within the Ministry at Jogoo House in Nairobi and benefited from a substantial pay rise, the promise of a house within the Nairobi National Park, and he was able to take several rangers to work with him.
When he told me this news David held me tight and I could feel the strength of his arms around me, as if he recognized the need to keep me upright. All I could hear was ‘leaving Tsavo, leaving Tsavo, leaving Tsavo’ and I felt a part of me die. I cried for days, but as usual David was prepared to turn the page and kept a stiff upper lip, although I knew that the proposed move pained him as much as it did me. For him it meant abandoning thirty years of painstaking work and leaving the elephant and rhino population at the mercy of poachers and their corrupt masters. It also meant leaving our vibrant house and garden that we had nurtured so lovingly, and – most upsetting of all – abandoning our precious orphans to an uncertain future. Our world was collapsing around us, and I did not have David’s unflinching courage and strength. I marvelled at his ability to always move forward and focus on what needed to be done next rather than commiserate about the past.
I was deeply afraid for the safety of our precious orphans, knowing that one of the Game Department officers would be taking our place, most of whom were inveterate hunters. I feared for Bunty and her children, living wild just below the offices; for Jimmy and his wives, who were, thankfully, much more independent, and for dear Eleanor, Raru and Bukanezi; for our treasured, almost fully grown rhinos, Pushmi and Stroppie; for our buffalo orphans; for the Honk peacock family and the 100 or so vulturine guinea fowl that paraded around the garden on a daily basis. It would be easy to arrange a good home for the twenty or so peacocks, but not so the resident guinea fowl, which would most likely be seen as ‘perks for the pot’. We weren’t too worried about the buffalo orphans, as they were pretty much attached to a resident herd that watered at the Voi Safari Lodge and we were confident they would eventually be absorbed there with relative ease.
Our immediate concern focused on Pushmi and Stroppie, who although still young and dependent carried a small fortune on their noses. By now rhinos everywhere were in mortal danger, due to the demand and the market price their horns were fetching in the Far East, for their supposed mythical medicinal properties, and from the oil-rich elite emerging in the Middle East, who valued them as invincible dagger handles. Recognizing that the rhinos would be in dire jeopardy, David arranged to relocate Pushmi and Stroppie to the Solio Ranch, where Reudi was happily settled. It was another sad day when Stroppie and Pushmi boarded their travelling crates, enticed by sugarcane handouts. David and I accompanied them on the long journey to Solio, stopping twice en route to cool their bodies down with water and feed them freshly cut vegetation.
We returned home to the unenviable task of packing up our home and sorting out belongings accumulated over the past thirty years. I was recovering from a gynaecological operation, so I directed proceedings from the sidelines. Eventually it was time to say goodbye – the day I had been dreading with all my heart. To this day I am not sure how I managed to get through those goodbyes – hugging Bunty in the garden for the last time, wrapping my arms around Eleanor, Raru and Bukanezi as they browsed down by the Voi River, and surveying the garden, which I knew would now fall into neglect. The animals could sense my distress; as the cool tips of trunks caressed and investigated my tear-stained face and as I turned to look at them for the last time before leaving, I prayed fervently that they would remain both safe and free.
We hit the road, heading a convoy of five trucks carrying our worldly possessions to our new home. As we entered the Nairobi National Park our spirits lifted, for we passed zebra, wildebeest and other plains animals on the way to the house David had selected for us. It was a relatively new house, previously occupied by the last Warden, but upon arrival it was locked up and the keys were nowhere to be found, nor was anyone who seemed able to help us. Wearily, we set up our tent on the lawn, dined on a tin of sardines and fell asleep to the roaring of not-too-distant lions. It had crossed our minds that the absence of the keys was perhaps intentional, territorial tactics to remind us, as new arrivals, of our place within the pecking order.
The next day, as David went to Ministry Headquarters to tell them we were going to have to break into our house, the keys miraculously turned up after a phone call from the Permanent Secretary. Meanwhile I explored the premises of our new home and much to my disappointment discovered that apart from a glorious pale lilac bougainvillea below the house, the garden was non-existent. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I came across a cage behind the house in which sat a half-grown and very unfriendly leopard, crouching low and snarling at me ferociously, hatred in her startling green eyes. Later, we learned that Lulu had been a particular favourite of the Warden, providing an ongoing attraction for his guests and other curious passers-by, most of whom had never seen a big cat that close. It disturbed me to see her so confined, and when David returned, I implored him to do what he could to improve her situation. The first priority, he said, was to get her more used to our presence by feeding her, so when the Warden called, I offered to relieve him of that responsibility. Over the next weeks, while David
got to grips with his office in Jogoo House, I spent a lot of time with Lulu, talking to her gently whenever it was time for a meal. I settled into our new home and started work on the creation of a garden. Here, things grew easily and I found myself enjoying this task, planting some old favourites I had brought from our Voi garden as a nostalgic reminder of our Tsavo home.
David’s new job was challenging. He was in charge of twenty National Reserves, covering a staggering 5,237 square miles. Whereas National Parks were areas set aside exclusively for wildlife where humans, other than those working there, had no right to live, National Reserves were areas in which wildlife was protected but resident humans took priority. He set up files on each one, detailing the date of gazettement, Land Registration number, acreage, expected rainfall, topography and roughly the number of people who called it home, plus what he called ‘shoats’, i.e. cattle, sheep and goats counted during his aerial surveys. Since the office he had been allocated in Jogoo House was unsatisfactory, we converted one of our bedrooms so that he could work at home and I could be on hand to help out. From a series of meetings with the local chiefs during his air recces, he had a good idea of what needed to be done, and he seemed energized by his new role despite the ongoing cramping between his shoulder blades. Nevertheless, he was in good spirits. We both knew he had a Herculean task ahead in designing the infrastructure needed to make each Reserve viable for tourism, but David was never daunted by a challenge and embraced his new role with commitment and dedication.
After a few desk-bound weeks, David was ready for our first field assignment – the Lake Bogoria National Reserve – an area of 26,441 acres. Lake Bogoria itself was one of several soda lakes cradled within the Great Rift Valley, surrounded by high escarpments and hills. The geysers along its shoreline, which blew pungent steam and boiling water high into the air, were reputed to be rich in minerals and detoxifiers. Hot springs bubbled along the lake edges as well as in the middle of the lake itself, which was home to a multitude of greater and lesser flamingoes, turning it bright pink and contributing a graceful beauty to its stunning setting. To the local people, the lake was an eerie place where, by night, they believed the murmuring of the flamingoes was the ghostly voices of ancestral spirits. President Kenyatta was a regular visitor who came to the lake to benefit from the medicinal properties of its natural saunas.
We set off for Lake Bogoria in the Poon wagon, now equipped with long-range petrol tanks. I had suggested that we flew, but David quietly vetoed this. I was beginning to notice that he was reluctant to allow me to fly with him of late, finding any excuse as to why it was not possible. During his first months in Nairobi he had flown on many reconnaissance sorties and I had asked to come with him, but he had told me each time that he would probably be accompanied by an official. On his return, I would learn that in fact he had flown alone. I was disturbed by this and wondered about the possibility that perhaps he knew more about his cramping than he had confided in me, but there was no point in trying to argue with David once his mind was made up. Besides, I would enjoy the additional time we would be spending when travelling by road.
On the way to the lake we somehow found ourselves caught up in the presidential motorcade, escorted by police and motorcycle out-riders. We sped along in the midst of the convoy, all other traffic halted by the roadside and people standing beside their parked vehicles as a mark of respect. I began to panic. ‘Enjoy the moment,’ laughed David. ‘It’s not often we can enjoy being VIPs, so just wave and watch the amazement on the faces of those we happen to know.’ Sure enough, as we neared Naivasha town there were many people we knew standing by their cars, and as we swept by with a royal wave, the puzzled looks of sheer disbelief made us both laugh. Nevertheless I was uneasy, fearing the possible repercussions should we be found out, but it was a glorious day, with herds of zebra grazing along the highway and David was in a jovial mood. As we approached Nakuru town I saw my old primary school up on a hill, with its imposing clock tower and red tiled roof, and when we reached the tree-lined promenade leading to the State House, the President and his escorts turned right, while we merely drove straight on without anyone even noticing.
We arrived at the shores of Lake Bogoria in the late afternoon. The atmosphere of the brooding lake, combined with the whoosh and hiss of the steam jets, and the toss of the boiling water, made us feel like spectators at the creation of the world. Strolling along the lake edge we discussed names for the steam jets, standing in the spray of the largest geyser to inhale the supposedly medicinal vapour. The geyser gurgled and growled as it hurled boiling water aloft, and we examined the curious red-coloured algae clustered around its edge until the first stars began to appear in the dome of the sky and it was time to return to camp for an evening meal under the stars. Retiring for the night, David pulled my camp bed close to his, saying, ‘Since we are obviously going to spend so much of our time like this, I am going to have to design a double camp bed!’
Breakfast the next day was a culinary first – an egg boiled in the boiling waters of one of the smaller geysers, after which David embarked on a foot recce of the area he envisaged for the proposed new Headquarters. Then we went to meet the local councillors, who welcomed us warmly, treating us to a convivial lunch of nyama choma, charcoaled roasted meat, after which David showed them the site he had selected. They confirmed their willingness to relinquish the land and were so enthusiastic about the entire project that David was somewhat taken aback. Meanwhile, I busied myself gathering fallen flamingo feathers for Angela, as she loved piecing them together on plywood, creating colourful feather-flower pictures that she offered for sale to family and friends to earn herself some pocket money. Like my mother, she had been endowed with natural artistic talent and was also resourceful, just like her father.
David was extremely upbeat about the way things were going. We spent the next day exploring the lake, enjoying a leisurely picnic beneath a huge fig tree, where I shed my shoes to paddle in a stream but had to jump out swiftly as a hungry leech attached itself to my leg. David had to persuade it to release its grip by lighting a match and warming its rear end. Later, while lying together in the shade of the fig tree, David talked fondly of Tsavo and said that when we got back to Nairobi, he would take the plane down to have a look at how the Park was faring. ‘Can I come?’ I asked, almost knowing what the answer would be before it was even spoken. ‘No,’ came the now usual reply, ‘since I will be circling low over the Park in the heat of the day and it will be hot and bumpy.’ I didn’t press the point, at one level relieved not to have to confront our former home and its many treasured memories only to find it was no longer the same.
On the way back we called on Jonathan Leakey and his wife.
Jonathan was the eldest son of the famous palaeontologist Louis B. Leakey, who had been a Trustee of the National Parks. Jonathan was an expert on snakes, milking them for their venom, from which was made the serum that saved victims of snakebite. He and his wife showed us their venomous cobras, mambas and vipers, but just before he fed a living mouse to a huge hairy baboon spider, I found an excuse to leave the room, although I could hear the little mouse shriek with pain as the spider pierced it with poisonous fangs before feasting on its body juices. Later that evening, after an enjoyable supper with our hosts, David experienced the cramp he had been having of late, but apart from a brief interruption to down some aspirin, he slept well and woke rested the next morning.
During the next phase of our journey we began dreaming of what we would do during our eventual retirement, when, David said, we would be able to make many such excursions and spend as long as we liked in wild places. ‘We’ll just bring our double camp bed and our tent,’ he said, ‘and we’ll become true nomads, foot-loose and fancy-free, with no responsibilities other than our immediate family. It will be wonderful to spend such carefree days together.’ We stopped for lunch on the top of the escarpment, a breathtaking panoramic view below us, and while I prepared the food, David pottered about, retur
ning with a posy of sweet-smelling white and red Carissa edulis blossoms – the so-called ‘Daphne flower’ of my childhood days. He presented the bouquet to me with a deep bow, popping it into the buttonhole of my sweater. I thanked him with a long kiss, more deeply in love with this amazing man than ever before.
At Maralal, we stopped to examine plants and flowers before visiting the local game warden, and as we drove through the game scouts’ lines we were greeted with waves and the words ‘Saa Nane’, which could be heard spreading like wildfire as more and more heads appeared. I was surprised that David was known here, but he clearly was. Later, we set up camp in the forest high above the town, David building a crackling log fire to keep us from the bitter cold at this elevation. It began to rain, so we took ourselves to bed, David insisting that I share his camp bed with him. We fell asleep in a tight squeeze to the music of nocturnal forest animals, wrapped in each other’s arms. In the dead of night, David was seized by excruciating chest pains, writhing in agony, drained and pale. I knew at once, as I had secretly suspected all along, that the cramps were symptoms of something much more sinister than I had dared believe. Fumbling in the dim light of the torch, panicked and unsteady, I searched for the pills David had been given. He remained calm, instructing me to look in the medical box for a specially prescribed pill that was to be put beneath his tongue in the event of a severe cramp. Once this was done, the pain subsided and we held each other through the rest of that terrible night, a night that haunts me to this day. When I suggested that he could be suffering a heart attack, he turned away. ‘God knows, but whatever it was, it was very unpleasant.’ In the morning I suggested we return to Maralal town and contact the Flying Doctor service, Peter or Bill through the Game Department radio network, but David would have none of it, asserting that he felt better. He did tell me that the pills he had taken, the ones that I thought had been prescribed for cramps, had in fact been given to him in case of ‘mild angina’. I tried to argue, but I could see by the set of his jaw that it was useless to press him further. He turned to me and said quietly, ‘If I’m not going to be able to live the sort of life I want and do the things I like, then I would rather just meet my Maker and go.’ I knew that he meant it, but I still could not bring myself to even contemplate that what he said might be true.
Love, Life, and Elephants Page 29
