that we do not
cue the lions and that the hippos are not animatronic. For this reason they are escorted
to and from their plush accommodations after dark, and they are told to keep an eye
out for an errant bushbuck that may bolt across the path. But I am pretty sure that
the last thing the Dutch businessman and his family expect to encounter on their way
back to their rooms after tea is a small, determined charging elephant calf.
Lesego stumbles when she first sees them, which gives me enough time to catch up to
her. The Dutch family is delighted, their little girl clapping her hands at the baby
elephant’s arrival. “Don’t move,” I warn. Lesego is too small to do much damage, but
she is nearly three hundred pounds and curious.
Lesego shakes her head in a weak display of intimidation. She tries to roar, but it
sounds more like the toot of a clown’s horn. She rushes forward, skidding to a stop,
a mock charge.
The family thinks it’s hilarious. “Picture?” the businessman asks in broken English,
holding up his camera.
I hesitate. The reason Neo and I have avoided bringing Lesego here is that the more
domesticated she becomes, the harder it will be to return her to the wild. It is already
unorthodox for her to be almost exclusively in the company of two humans.
Before I can tell him no, the wife and daughter scoot into place beside me and the
man takes a photograph. As I return to the researchers’ camp with Lesego in tow, I
mull how much trouble I will be in when Grant hears from the guests that she was the
star attraction today. If word gets out—if that
photo
gets out—our whole research operation could be compromised, and punished by the wildlife
department.
I am so deep in thought that I do not hear Neo calling my name until he is virtually
standing in front of me. Lesego, delighted to see him, trumpets and reaches for his
hat. “Karabo’s herd,” Neo says, breathless—only then do I realize he’s been running
to find me. “It’s being led by Mpho now.”
Karabo was the matriarch who was killed by poachers, along with four other females
in her herd—one of which was Lesego’s mother. But herds had ten or fifteen members;
presumably the other cows and juvenile bulls had run off at the gunshots. They had
not been seen for weeks, probably because they were avoiding the site of previousdanger. Now, according to Neo, they are nearby, and they have a new leader.
He stares at me, his chest still heaving, and I know what he’s saying:
It’s time
.
If Lesego were in the wild, she’d have a herd to protect her. Her mother would teach
her how to use her trunk to eat, how to threaten a predator. She’d learn from her
grandmother where to find water and food, and which places are dangerous because of
poachers. She’d have an aunt to show her how to practice her mothering skills, and
younger cousins and siblings to test them on. I may have helped Lesego survive, but
I am not equipped to teach her how to truly live. If Lesego has any chance of being
reintroduced to the wild, this is her best shot: to be among those who are biologically
related. Neo is right.
We head into the bush to the spot where he’s seen Mpho and her herd. Three weeks of
memories swell in my throat, making it hard to breathe: Lesego overturning the card
table where Neo and I are playing Spit; Lesego’s ear fluttering over me like a butterfly
wing as she leans close to my face; the urgent tug of her suckling on my elbow, my
foot, the tail of my shirt; the designs she traces with a stick in the dirt outside
the cottage, symbols in a secret code I haven’t yet deciphered.
I walk with Lesego, my hand riding lightly on her spine. Behind us Neo drives the
four-by-four, puttering along at a safe distance. It takes us an hour to cover the
two miles of terrain between the camp and Mpho’s herd, and it is Lesego who senses
them first.
Her trunk rises into the
cue the lions and that the hippos are not animatronic. For this reason they are escorted
to and from their plush accommodations after dark, and they are told to keep an eye
out for an errant bushbuck that may bolt across the path. But I am pretty sure that
the last thing the Dutch businessman and his family expect to encounter on their way
back to their rooms after tea is a small, determined charging elephant calf.
Lesego stumbles when she first sees them, which gives me enough time to catch up to
her. The Dutch family is delighted, their little girl clapping her hands at the baby
elephant’s arrival. “Don’t move,” I warn. Lesego is too small to do much damage, but
she is nearly three hundred pounds and curious.
Lesego shakes her head in a weak display of intimidation. She tries to roar, but it
sounds more like the toot of a clown’s horn. She rushes forward, skidding to a stop,
a mock charge.
The family thinks it’s hilarious. “Picture?” the businessman asks in broken English,
holding up his camera.
I hesitate. The reason Neo and I have avoided bringing Lesego here is that the more
domesticated she becomes, the harder it will be to return her to the wild. It is already
unorthodox for her to be almost exclusively in the company of two humans.
Before I can tell him no, the wife and daughter scoot into place beside me and the
man takes a photograph. As I return to the researchers’ camp with Lesego in tow, I
mull how much trouble I will be in when Grant hears from the guests that she was the
star attraction today. If word gets out—if that
photo
gets out—our whole research operation could be compromised, and punished by the wildlife
department.
I am so deep in thought that I do not hear Neo calling my name until he is virtually
standing in front of me. Lesego, delighted to see him, trumpets and reaches for his
hat. “Karabo’s herd,” Neo says, breathless—only then do I realize he’s been running
to find me. “It’s being led by Mpho now.”
Karabo was the matriarch who was killed by poachers, along with four other females
in her herd—one of which was Lesego’s mother. But herds had ten or fifteen members;
presumably the other cows and juvenile bulls had run off at the gunshots. They had
not been seen for weeks, probably because they were avoiding the site of previousdanger. Now, according to Neo, they are nearby, and they have a new leader.
He stares at me, his chest still heaving, and I know what he’s saying:
It’s time
.
If Lesego were in the wild, she’d have a herd to protect her. Her mother would teach
her how to use her trunk to eat, how to threaten a predator. She’d learn from her
grandmother where to find water and food, and which places are dangerous because of
poachers. She’d have an aunt to show her how to practice her mothering skills, and
younger cousins and siblings to test them on. I may have helped Lesego survive, but
I am not equipped to teach her how to truly live. If Lesego has any chance of being
reintroduced to the wild, this is her best shot: to be among those who are biologically
related. Neo is right.
We head into the bush to the spot where he’s seen Mpho and her herd. Three weeks of
memories swell in my throat, making it hard to breathe: Lesego overturning the card
table where Neo and I are playing Spit; Lesego’s ear fluttering over me like a butterfly
wing as she leans close to my face; the urgent tug of her suckling on my elbow, my
foot, the tail of my shirt; the designs she traces with a stick in the dirt outside
the cottage, symbols in a secret code I haven’t yet deciphered.
I walk with Lesego, my hand riding lightly on her spine. Behind us Neo drives the
four-by-four, puttering along at a safe distance. It takes us an hour to cover the
two miles of terrain between the camp and Mpho’s herd, and it is Lesego who senses
them first.
Her trunk rises into the
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