T H I S+W E E K

> Sleeping with elephants
By Don Meredith
Earth-shaking encounters in Kenya

Sleepless in Siena
By Don George, Editor
The strangest place I've ever slept

Man is an island
By Jan Morris
The Isle of Man is the last contented jewel in Britain's imperial crown

D E P A R T M E N T S

The Surreal Gourmet
By Bob Blumer
Corn off the cob

Passages
"Desiring Italy"
Mary Taylor Simeti's Sicilian journal

Readers' Tips and Tales
My private wanderlust

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Your virtual travel agency

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LA S T+W E E K

Tuesday, August 12, 1997

S t .+E l v i s
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Who took the grace out of Graceland?
By Cintra Wilson
Our columnist goes to Memphis

The King and us
By Christina Boufis
The world's most maniacal Elvis fans

Way dead Elvis
By Greil Marcus
A tribute to the King proves that his posthumous legend has become equal parts sincerity and trash

A full list of all
Wanderlust articles

among elephants

P A G E +T W O

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scarves of dust spread above herds of zebra and impala gathered at the lake near Aruba lodge. We turned south toward camp. The high African sky was crystalline, shot here and there with white puffs of cloud. Elegant Maasai giraffe paused in their cropping to watch us pass. By 4 we'd made camp, my fragile tent pitched to Godi's satisfaction, and we were off again, Limo at the wheel.

North of camp the laterite soil of Africa turned a vibrant terra cotta and dust boiled behind us as we sped toward Manyani. The bush was thicker here, the thorn trees taller, leafier, though branches had been snapped off by feeding elephants and in places whole trees had been uprooted. Rounding a curve beyond a deep cut, Limo hit the breaks and the Land Rover slid sideways. As he slammed into reverse, I saw her -- an aged tusker bearing down on us, ears flared, trunk hoisted threateningly. An expert will tell you this is only a bluff charge, but who cares. We shot backwards. Beyond the elephant were others, mothers and young, but the old matriarch blotted out the sky with her menace. Swaying from side to side, she barricaded the road as the others hurried across and lost themselves in the bush. The matriarch trumpeted once, loud and long, then swung behind the stragglers and was gone.

The sun was setting when we got back to camp. Our three tents and the palm-thatch banda looked terribly vulnerable as darkness approached. It seemed more vulnerable yet when I saw large gray shapes moving about the bore hole and discovered five elephant cows with three generations of young -- a pair only weeks old -- at their evening ablutions. They snorted and blew, sucking up water to shower themselves and drink. The ceremony continued until the last was washed and replenished. Then, one by one, they melted into the bush.

It was dark when Godi dished up dinner -- pan-fried talapia fish and boiled potatoes. A full moon the color of country butter rose over the nyika as we ate. By now a new family of elephants was at the bore hole, just 40 yards from our campfire. When I'd forked in the last of the fish and cleaned my dishes, I decided to take a stroll near the animals.

I'd walked only a few steps before the old cow at the edge of the group turned to face me. She fanned her ears and tested the wind. I backed rapidly away, then moved through the campfire's glow to the far side of the banda. Here, though I was nearer the elephants -- barely 20 yards separated us -- I was downwind and in deep shadow. The shaky palm-thatch gave me confidence -- though had it occurred to her, the old cow could have flattened it, and me, in an instant.

Soon the group broke up. Their path led past a corner of the banda. First a cow, her half-grown youngster and month-old calf swayed toward me, passing between the banda and the thorn tree. Had I been foolish enough I could have tossed a stone and struck them, or touched them with the end of a stick. As it was, I wasn't making perfect sense. No one in his right mind would get this close to six tons of wild African elephant. I was moonstruck in the moonwashed nyika, transfixed by the nearness, the size and beauty of these creatures.

They passed one by one, the old cow last, pausing at the corner and looking my way as if to say she'd known I was there all along. I counted as they vanished into the moonlit bush: 22.

A half-hour passed before the next group came, this one accompanied by a pair of young bulls. At a pace of five miles per hour, elephants cover 20 to 30 miles a day in their journeys to and from water. The Tsavo animals were on a tight schedule: a half-hour to assemble, bathe and drink; a half-hour to disperse while another group moved cautiously into the aura of moonlit water.

I stood in the shadows until the tropical moon was directly overhead. It was not flat like some moons but visibly globular, a pale sphere rolling in space, its light falling like yellow dust over the nyika. Once, far across the bush, I saw lights, a string of them moving swiftly, and heard a distant whistle: the night train to Nairobi.

Meanwhile, the elephants came and went beneath the pallid stars. It was late when I crawled into my tent. I slept little. As one group of elephants left, another arrived. All night the sounds of their drinking and bathing reached me. Occasionally there was trumpeting with their steps.

I woke up before first light. Godi had the fire going, a pot of coffee brewing. We drank it scalding from tin mugs and, while Godi started bacon, I went back to my post at the banda. Elephants were moving into the bush, a young female leading, a matriarch, one tusk broken, bringing up the rear. The moon had set; the sun's crimson rim shone at the farthest edge of the world. The bore hole was silky as a lagoon. The last elephant had watered and bathed. It was morning on the nyika. Sunup at Tsavo.
Aug. 19, 1997

Don Meredith is a freelance writer who lives in Lamu, Kenya.

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