Pilgrim

ELEPHANT SHOWDOWN “They’re coming!” my partner Adelle Horler warned, her tone adding a desperate urgency to her words. I’d been nonchalantly fiddling with my camera, changing the speed and aperture settings, and looked up to see the start of our worst imaginable nightmare as eight elephants began a deadly charge led by the enraged matriarch. I instinctively knew that this was not to be a mock charge intended to assert the herd’s authority and establish dominance over two puny and ill-advised humans who’d ventured too close on foot. Circumstances couldn’t have been more life-threatening, the herd including a vulnerable baby and swaggering teenagers intent on flexing their muscles and making an impression. And unbeknown to us at the time, this family group were already notorious in the area adjoining Zambia’s South Luangwa National Park, having twice killed local villagers who’d overstepped some unseen boundary or transgressed some unspoken law of the wilds. I sprinted, knowing full well that my life depended on absolute speed and a measure of luck, catching up with Dell and pulling her behind a huge tree where I covered her body with mine, while whispering the emphatic warning: “Don’t move!” Shouldn’t we run, she insisted, breathlessly? “Keep still,” I urged, knowing we could never match the speed of elephants in full charge, the mood of the normally gentle giants transformed into an explosion of aggression as they trumpeted their fury, tusking the ground and raising a dust-storm, heads swaying and ears flapping just metres away from us on the other side of the tree. Also audible were deep stomach rumblings that are part of their system of communications. In those agonising moments our lives hung in the balance, our ragged breathing and hammering hearts threatening to betray us to the matriarch who would tusk and trample with a power and ferocity no human could possibly survive. Mercifully elephants have notoriously poor eyesight and the position of that tree couldn’t have been more fortuitous, affording just enough cover to keep us from open view. I’ve never known such intense or prolonged terror before, the incident seeming to stretch second-by-agonising-second into many minutes although it was nowhere near as long as that. A trio of irate adolescents moved to the right of the tree and we shuffled left, hugging the bark and certain that they’d see us. They were less than 10 metres away and must surely spot us! All the while a kaleidoscope of options flashed through my brain, starting with the idea of trying to hoist Dell into the lower branches, but that escape route was discarded almost immediately. Slung with cameras, we’d probably make too much noise and be seen before I could attempt to join her in the lower branches. I was intent on chivalry but also desperately wanted to survive. Besides how high can a full-grown elephant’s trunk reach into a tree? I didn’t know. Best be still and keep praying feverishly. I was also trying to communicate telepathically that I meant them no harm and regretted encroaching on their space, promising that if I survived I’d dedicate myself to the well-being of the Earth and all creatures threatened by humanity’s arrogance, greed and ill-advised actions. My only thoughts were of survival and my gross stupidity in putting us in this precarious position. Meanwhile Dell had been imagining tusks rupturing her body; giant feet crushing and breaking bones. “I thought it is going to hurt so much,” she admitted afterwards. Were our prayers answered by some divine intervention; did my attempt at telepathic communication succeed; did the animals take pity on us; or were we just incredibly lucky? Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the storm abated and the elephants settled down and began to wander off and begin feeding again. Eventually, with our breathing and pulse rate almost under control, we were able to head back towards our vehicle and nearby campsite at Flatdogs, where we recounted our experience to the camp manager. “Describe the matriarch,” he urged, nodding his head knowingly and identifying her as ‘Skeeftand,’ meaning skew-tusk in a reference to the fact that one tusk pointed down and the other skywards. “She’s killed twice before,” he confirmed, and since our terrifying ordeal has apparently done so again. That night we were still badly shaken and constantly replaying our ordeal in our minds as we tried to understand exactly what had happened and why. “Do you want to sleep in the rooftop tent tonight or on the ground in the dome tent,” I inquired, knowing what the answer would be. We’d been alternating between a ground-based tent and the one on the roof of our 4x4 as part of our hands-on research into the pros and cons of different types of camping, which would be published in Drive Out, the 4x4 destinations guide of which we were the founding editors. After dinner we were relaxing in the rooftop tent, two metres above ground, when we saw the same elephant family headed straight towards us, Skeeftand with her trunk raised questioningly like a periscope as she sniffed the air. “An elephant never forgets,” I quipped, but my humour rang hollow as she moved slowly towards us at eye-level while we peered nervously through a flimsy gauze mosquito-screen window. Surely she must be aware of our nearby presence? Finally she seemed satisfied, lowering her trunk and continuing to browse nonchalantly on tasty branches until no more than three metres separated us, our eyes wide with concern and pupils dilated in the ghostly moonlight. All eight animals filed past our vehicle and through our kitchen area on those great padded feet that enable them to communicate using infrasound over distances of many kilometres. Despite their towering bulk and the nearness of a camp table and chairs, they picked their way effortlessly through the obstacle course without brushing up against anything. I’ve always marvelled at how a giant pachyderm can move so quietly and nimbly. They are such beautiful and amazing creatures!