The Eye of the Elephant

by Mark James Owens

  I put salve in the male's eyes, while Mark injected him with antibiotic. We collared and measured both him and the female, keeping an eye out for the two undarted lionesses, who had disappeared into the bush.

  After checking the breathing and pulse of the darted lions, we moved off a hundred yards and sat for an hour until they were yawning and stretching, fully recovered. Then as Mark began driving back to the plane, I saw a small lump that looked like a rag on the cold sand.

  "Mark! It's the cub!" We jumped from the truck and walked to the infant.

  I watched for the adults as Mark squatted beside the cub, slipping his fingers between its front leg and chest and feeling for a pulse. The cub's body was already cool. Several seconds went by, then Mark felt a little blurb of pressure beneath his fingertips. Pushing his fingers deeper into the fur, he detected a single subtle pulse.

  While I rushed to the truck to get the drug boxes, Mark massaged the cub, trying to stimulate his heart. He gave the little lion an intravenous injection of Doprim, a respiratory stimulant, and a massive intramuscular injection of antibiotic. Within minutes the cub's pulse was stronger but he was still hypothermic. We gently laid a canvas tarp over him, covering everything but his face, and heaped a pyramid of sand over his body for extra insulation. I stroked his muzzle once more, then carried the drug boxes back to the Cruiser.

  Mark was making a fifteen-second count of the cub's pulse when we heard a loud splintering crash and a growl. Mark whirled and saw a lioness crashing through an acacia bush forty yards away. As he sprinted for the truck, I grabbed the spotlight and flicked it on, trying to dazzle the lioness. But the light shone directly into Mark's eyes, blinding him instead. Holding his arm over his face, he staggered forward. I dipped the light so he could see. The lioness stopped at the cub, sniffing it briefly. Then she bounded over it and ran toward Mark, her big feet drumming on the sand.

  With one hand I swept the darting equipment from the front seat onto the floor and slid into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine. Once more I held the light on the charging lioness.

  Blinded again, Mark slammed into the side of the front fender of the truck and stumbled back. He reached up for a handhold, tried vaulting onto the Toyota's hood, but missed and fell to the ground.

  Swinging the light back and forth over the lioness' eyes, I opened the door, screaming "Get in! Get in!" Jumping to his feet, Mark fumbled frantically for the door. Finally he found it and dived in, crawling over me to the other side of the front seat.

  The lioness broke off her charge only eight yards away. Her tail flicking, she walked back to her cub, sniffed its head and the sand over its body, then strolled back to the gemsbok carcass. The other lions were feeding again and had ignored the commotion. Both of us slumped against the back of the seat and breathed deeply. We would name that lioness Stormy.

  We drove the truck to a lonchicarpus tree several hundred yards from the newly collared lions. I dug out some baked beans and we ate them cold out of the can. It was after midnight; we had been working almost continuously for twenty-two hours. My eyes felt as though they had sand in them, and Mark's shins and knees throbbed from hitting the truck.

  We reeked of lions, the way a cowboy smells of his horse—a dank, earthy, not altogether unpleasant odor. But because carnivores sometimes carry echinococci, parasites that can infect the human brain, we splashed some cold water and disinfectant into a basin and washed thoroughly. Too tired to drive to the plane, we laid our foam mats and sleeping bags in the back of the Land Cruiser and crawled inside. Toolboxes at our feet, jerry cans at our heads, and the back door standing ajar, we slept.

  We opened our eyes to a crisp Kalahari dawn, sunlight streaming over the dunes. After a quick breakfast we drove back to the dune crest to check on the lions. As soon as Mark switched off the truck, the collared female yawned deeply and began licking her front paw. We named her Sage and the male Sunrise. Stormy watched us carefully for a few minutes. Then even she began to nod and snooze in the morning sun, apparently at ease with us. Saucy, who along with Stormy had avoided being collared last night, slept with her head on Stormy's flank. Sitting among the heap of lions, we were pleased to have a new pride, though disappointed that we had not found the old one.

  We drove to the spot where we had left the darted infant. The small pyramid of sand was flat; the cub and tarp were gone. I was hopeful that he had recovered, but Mark pointed out that he wouldn't have taken the tarp. "A hyena or a jackal may have got him," he said.

  I drove Mark back to the plane and he took off from the clay depression, the plane bouncing over the rough ground. He flew over, checking the radio collars from the air, then headed on to camp.

  Returning to the lions, I circled them in the truck, searching for the darted cub but finding no sign of him. I parked under a shade tree and began copying the notes I'd made the previous night. Dozing in the hot truck, I lifted my head from time to time to check on the lions. Now and then they shifted their position for better shade, and so did I.

  Just before sunset one of the cubs bounded from the thicket, chased by another. Then three ran full speed across the clearing and behind a bush. Two dashed into the open, tearing and pulling on the dead gemsbok's tail. Were they the first pair, or two new cubs? Now four tumbled through the grass in a mock hunt, and one of them dashed out of view as two others pulled a piece of canvas. They were playing with the tarp! Two more cubs bounded into the scene. Seven! There were seven cubs! The one we darted was okay; in fact, I could see no difference between his behavior and that of the others. I counted again, just to be sure. Seven. I smiled.

  The adults also moved into the clearing and lay in the last rays of sunshine, while the cubs attacked their ears, muzzles, and tails. As Stormy began walking south, Sage stood, stretched, and followed. The cubs trotted to catch up, and finally Saucy and Sunrise trundled after the others in a long, rambling line. As the sun set, I watched their golden bodies glide through the blond grass until they disappeared. Then I headed for camp to tell Mark the good news.

  ***

  CRASH! A tin trunk full of canned food hit the ground in the kitchen boma. I looked at my watch; it was 5:30 A.M. We jumped from bed and pulled on our jeans. We had been in the Kalahari for almost six weeks and had darted eight lions in three prides. But still we had not found the Blue Pride.

  Pushing back the flap of our tent, we peered out and saw the female lions romping around the campfire. Sage was dragging the ax handle in her mouth, while Stormy pawed at its head. Saucy was standing inside the grass boma, sniffing the pots on top of the table. We tiptoed down the path through camp to get a better look. Two of the still unpacked boxes of food supplies lay on their sides with tins of oatmeal and powdered milk scattered around the campfire. Saucy chomped into a pot with her teeth and, holding it over her nose, pranced from the boma. The others chased her.

  Their bellies were high and tight to their spines, a sign that they had not fed for several days. We had been following them for the previous five nights and they had not made a kill. Their cubs were nowhere to be seen. Seven cubs were too many for inexperienced mothers in these dry times; under such conditions the young are often abandoned.

  Then my eyes met those of a fourth lioness, standing just beyond the trees of camp. We stared at each other for long seconds. She was old; her back sagged, and her belly hung low. For some reason she did not join in the play. Was she too old for it? Or had she played this game too many times before? We looked for ear tags or scars; there were none.

  "Hey! Come on, that's enough," Mark called as Stormy stuck her head into the supply tent. He clapped his hands loudly and the lioness backed up, looked us over, then ambled back to the kitchen, where she grabbed a dish towel and ran out of camp. The other two followed and they chased one another around the plane. After a while the three young lionesses calmed down and, with the old one, walked north along the track. We grabbed some peanut butter and crackers for breakfast, got into the truck, and followed. T
hey paused on the other side of Acacia Point, then broke into a trot to greet Sunrise, the newly collared male, who was swaggering from the bushes of East Dune onto the dry riverbed. After rubbing sinuously along his mane and body, the pride continued north toward the water hole on Mid Pan.

  At the water's edge they lay flank to flank and drank for several minutes, their lapping tongues reflected in the water. Sunrise lifted his tail and scent-marked a thicket—the same thicket the Blue Pride lions had always sprayed when they passed the water hole. As the pride settled down under a shade tree at the base of East Dune, we returned to camp to prepare the darting equipment. Tonight we must collar Stormy, Saucy, and the old lioness.

  When we returned in the late afternoon, Sunrise was feeding on a twenty-five-pound steenbok in the tall grass of East Dune. He had probably taken it from the lionesses moments earlier. Fifty yards away Saucy and the old lioness were feeding on a freshly killed gemsbok. But Stormy, Sage, and their cubs—the ones who most needed the meat—were nowhere in sight.

  Mark darted Saucy and the old lioness with the sagging back, and they wandered away from the carcass into the bush, where we could treat them without disturbing Sunrise. Working quickly, we collared Saucy first. Then Mark nudged the old lioness gently with his foot to be sure she was properly sedated. Crouching beside her, he pushed back the hair on her left ear, uncovering a black plastic pin and a tiny piece of yellow plastic—the remains of an old ear tag.

  I thumbed quickly through the identification cards of all the lions we had known. Blue—blue tag in right ear; Sassy—red tag in right ear; Happy—yellow tag in left ear...

  "Mark, it's Happy!" We sat down next to the old lioness and stroked her. As a young female of the Springbok Pan Pride, she had invaded the Blue Pride's territory, won acceptance from its resident females, raided our camp with them, sat with us in the moonlight, slept near us, and—finally—had beguiled us, as she had the males Muffin and Moffet. We had spent hundreds of hours with her as we tried to understand the ways of desert lions. She had often swapped prides and males and had wandered away from Deception Valley many times, but she had always come back. Now she was a matron who had made it through one of the worst droughts the area had known.

  We gave Happy a new yellow tag and radio collar, measured her body, and took pictures of her worn teeth. During all of this we touched her more than was necessary. By the time we finished, I had memorized her face.

  Happy lifted her head slightly and looked around. Reluctantly, we backed away to the safety of the truck to watch her recover. When we were satisfied that both darted lionesses were recovering well, we drove the truck around some bushes to the gemsbok carcass. Sunrise was sleeping a short distance away, his belly round and heavy with meat. Feeding on the carcass were Sage, Stormy, and the seven cubs.

  The cubs were already very full, their small bellies bulging like melons. They pulled at the fresh meat for a few more minutes, and then three of them plopped down and fell asleep. The other four tumbled around the grassy clearing, spending most of their time bouncing on Sunrise's expansive stomach. We were almost too elated to leave, but the deep yawns of the lions were contagious. We headed toward camp.

  The drying grasses of the dunes glowed in the light of the full moon, which was so bright in the cloudless sky that we drove without headlights across the valley floor. But as we stepped from the truck at camp, the light began to dim, giving the desert a shimmering blue-gray cast. We looked up to see that the earth's shadow was stalking the moon; a full lunar eclipse was under way.

  Pulling the foam mattress and sleeping bags out of our tent, we laid them on the ancient riverbed, next to several Acaia tortillas trees at the edge of camp. Their twisted, thorny branches had somehow spited the drought by producing flowers, then corkscrew pods full of seeds. From our spot we could see five miles along the valley and watch this secret desert drama before drifting off to sleep. Slowly the earth drew its shadow across the face of the moon, and the Kalahari grew dark and silent.

  Moments later the stillness was broken by the clopping of heavy hooves. Three stately giraffes glided into view above us, silhouettes against the darkening sky. Apparently they had not noticed the two lumps on the ground, and it was too late for us to move without frightening them. We lay still, swaddled in our sleeping bags, literally at their feet. They spread out a few yards away, browsing the pods from the acacias. Lying almost under the giraffes' bellies, in this silky light we felt as if we were being absorbed into the desert.

  The next morning, May 13, the entire eastern horizon was lined with patchwork clouds, blushing deep pink at first, then transforming into a quilt of gold when the sun found the dunes east of Deception Valley. As we ate pancakes around the campfire, I looked out over the valley; all seemed well with the Kalahari. We had heard reports—perhaps only rumors—that the government was planning to turn the lower two-thirds of the reserve into cattle ranches. Even though thousands of wildebeest had already died along the fences, there might still be time to resolve the conflict between cattle and wild animals. Knowing that Happy had lived through the drought gave us renewed hope that the reserve itself would survive.

  Mark walked to the office tent for the radio schedule with Sue Carver, our contact in Maun, more than a hundred miles to the north. Meanwhile, I cleared away our dishes and fed the Marico flycatchers.

  "Hello, Mark. I have an important message for you," I heard Sue say, her voice crackling.

  "Hi, Sue. I'm ready to copy. Go ahead."

  "It's from the Immigration Department. They say that your research permit has been denied and that you are to report to the Immigration Department in Gaborone immediately. Repeat, you must report to the Immigration Department immediately."

  3. Against the Wind

  MARK

  Some things just don't go on. some circles come undone, some sparrows

  fall, sometimes sorrow, in spite of resolution,

  enters in.

  — PAULA GUNN ALLEN

  "ARE WE BEING JAILED?" I asked. His face set in stone, the immigration officer said nothing and continued rolling my fingers over an ink pad, then pressing them on white cards, one each for the military, police, and immigration authorities. The day before, we had flown to Gaborone, the capital of Botswana, and this morning had been detained at immigration headquarters.

  "Please, I would like to telephone the U.S. embassy," I said.

  "No."

  He finished taking my fingerprints, and I watched as he began with Delia. Another man took my elbow firmly and started to lead me away.

  "Wait, please, don't separate us...," Delia pleaded in a small voice. Pulling my arm free, I walked back to her side and said to the second man, "Just wait till he's through, okay?" He released my arm. When they had finished taking Delia's prints, another officer pushed two forms across the desk toward us. "You must sign these."

  "Declaration of Status as Prohibited Immigrants (PI)" leaped off the page. They were throwing us out of the country! Before I could read any further, he snatched the forms away.

  I swallowed hard and asked politely, "What does it mean if we sign these forms? I would like to see an attorney first."

  The officer stood up abruptly and strode across the room. When he returned, he was followed by a giant of a man six and a half feet tall, weighing about two hundred fifty pounds. The big man glared down at me. "What is your problem?" he rumbled. "Sign, and then you can go about your business."

  "I'm sorry, but we can't sign this without reading it first." I tried to explain. "When we were intercepted and brought here, we were on our way to the permanent secretary to the president with this letter appealing the denial of our research permits." I held up the envelope.

  "After you sign, you can go to the president's office or wherever you want. And you can appeal the PI ruling. But you must sign these forms now!" He slapped the sheets onto the desk in front of us. I started to protest again, but he leaned over until his face was inches from mine.

&n
bsp; "Sign, or the law will take its course. Do you understand what that means?"

  I looked at Delia and put my signature on the PI notice. She did the same. The instant I lifted my pen from the form, he jabbed his finger at a paragraph near the end of the page.

  "You will note in this subsection," he said, "that when the declaration is by presidential decree, as in this case, there is no right of appeal."

  "But you just told us..."

  "If you read the form, you will see that what I say is true and that I have no choice in the matter," he cut me off.

  For the first time we were allowed to read the document we had signed. It stated that the president himself had ordered our deportation, that we could not appeal his decision, and that no reason need be given for it.

  The big man led us to a small room where he stood facing us, his back to the wall, arms folded across his barrel chest. A uniformed policeman was seated behind a desk.

  "As of this moment you are in Botswana illegally," the policeman said.

  "But why?" Delia spoke up. "We've done nothing wrong. What are we charged with?"

  "I'm just a cog in the machine. And even if I knew, I couldn't tell you. You must be out of the country by five o'clock. Do you know what the law expects of you now?"

  It was already two-thirty. They were giving us only two and a half hours to get to the hotel, pack, go to the airport, plan our flight, check through customs and immigration, preflight the airplane, and take off.

  "Look, please, we have thousands of dollars worth of equipment at our camp," I pointed out. "We need time to go back there and dispose of it. And what about the weather? We're in a small plane. Clouds are building up. It may not be safe for us to take off."

  He leaned toward us, scowling. "I say again, if you are not out of this country by 5:00 P.M. the law will take its course! Do you understand?"