World Wild Vet Page 4

  By day I spent my time studying hippo behavior, which is surprisingly deceptive. At first glance, these animals look like big ol’ lumps in the water—fat, lazy, and vaguely friendly. Fact check: Fat? Yes. Lazy? Sometimes. Friendly? Hell no.

  Hippos are unpredictable, can be highly aggressive, and are the deadliest mammals in Africa. Not only are they a threat to other wildlife; they’re a huge threat to humans, killing on average more than five hundred each year. In fact, other than venomous snakes and mosquitoes, they kill more people than any other creature in Africa. In a single incident in Niger, an unprovoked hippo attacked a boat and killed thirteen people. His motivation probably had to do with real estate. Hippos are deeply possessive of their watering holes, and when they perceive a threat to that territory (all too often from a fisherman), they can go berserk—flipping boats and tearing people to pieces. They’ve even been known to eat their conquests, which is especially terrifying because hippos are herbivores. Surprise: Mother Nature doesn’t always go by the book.

  In summary: Hippos are scary and should be regarded with caution and respect, from a distance. Even a guy like me, who was too busy taking pictures to be alarmed at being charged by an elephant, knew better than to mess with these guys.

  Our time observing them had reinforced my desire to keep a healthy distance. The hippos were constantly, aggressively claiming territory. They yawn—not like “I’m tired”; like “Look at my teeth.” They grunt. They lunge. They stake out their space by fanning, which means they take a massive dump and then use their tail to spread the feces and odor—thus informing all other hippos to stay away in a ridiculous display of a “This is mine” mentality.

  We were wrapping up our fieldwork one day when I walked to a small creek to relieve myself before packing up the truck. The creek bed was at the base of a ravine, with high rock-and-dirt walls along the sides. Though water sometimes raged to its top, on this day it was just a stream, barely a foot deep. Seeing a perfect environment to spot snakes and small crocodiles, I walked along the bed for what I figured was a great herping opportunity.

  I rounded a bend and stopped dead. Not thirty feet in front of me was an adult male hippo staring back at me, the stranger on his turf.

  I was shocked to see him, but he’d obviously been expecting me. Whether he’d heard me or smelled me (or both), he was squared up in my direction—waiting.

  A robust male hippo can weigh five thousand pounds, with a bulky body as long as fourteen feet perched on short, stumpy legs. He has wicked teeth—his lower canines (tusks) can be as long as a foot and a half—so you know at first sight that he’s deadly. Still, if you’re looking him over and mentally calculating the weight, the girth, the long days spent half-submerged in rivers and ponds, you’ll probably conclude that this is a slow beast. You might figure you could outrun him; no problem.

  Thank God I knew a little about hippos. An average, healthy human runner moves along at between ten and fifteen miles per hour, maybe twenty in top shape and full panic. But a charging hippo can easily hit twenty-five miles per hour, and probably thirty. If I ran and he chased, I’d likely wind up a dead man.

  I stood frozen, cursing the high, rocky walls around me and regretting every choice I’d made that day that had brought me to this moment. I should have been on the antelope team. I should have stayed out of the ravine. I should have peed and headed straight back to the truck.

  The hippo made a huffing, grunting noise. You know the sound your dad makes when he’s about to blow a gasket? Like that times a hundred.

  Suddenly, the sky that had been comfortably overcast started looking darkly ominous. My heart was slamming in my chest as I weighed my options. Run? No. Climb? Too steep. Get in the face of the deadliest herbivore on the planet and see if I can scare him away? No way. I felt a rush of warmth to my extremities—adrenaline kicking in and prepping me for fight or flight. I may not have been sure just what the best action for me was in that moment, but I was damn certain this was a “flight” situation, not a “fight” opportunity.

  The hippo seemed pretty clear on how he was going to handle the situation. He tucked his head, lifted his front right foot, and began to scrape the creek bed with it, kicking back dirt. It was like a bull in a cartoon that’s getting ready to charge, only so not funny.

  I had to get away from the water. His water. Keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact but with my peripherals focused on the hippo, I inched back to the ravine wall. I tried to look casual, neutral, like part of the scenery. Just a harmless critter getting out of the way. When I was flush with the edge, I started slowly creeping backward in the direction of the bend I’d come around. The hippo watched, but he didn’t move.

  It took me about a heart-pounding minute to get around the corner, out of his sight line—probably the longest minute of my life. I listened for half a second, and when the hippo didn’t immediately come thundering my way, I ran, far and fast, not stopping to look back until I was clear of the ravine, the creek, and any other water.

  I’ve intentionally put myself in harm’s way plenty of times, especially when I was a young, overeager student and newbie traveler. But my hippo encounter wasn’t trouble I went looking for. I was minding my own business, walking around the African bush, enjoying the scenery. The incident was a powerful reminder that when you’re out in the wild, anything can happen.

  Maasai Welcome

  In the second half of my semester in Tanzania, I had a not-in-Kansas-anymore experience unlike any other. I spent a week in the home of a Maasai family in a portion of the Great Rift Valley, which runs along northern Tanzania and southern Kenya. The meager creature comforts of my homestay in Bangata seemed opulent when I arrived in the valley, where there was no electricity or running water. Water had to be fetched from a nearby river and carried in buckets, a task delegated to the tribeswomen. The homes were made of mud, sticks, and grass and looked like large domed tepees with flattish roofs. Cot-like beds were laid out around the periphery inside the structure. Mine was the size of a coffee table, about four and a half feet long and two feet wide. I’m six foot two, so in order to stay on it every night, I had to curl up in a fetal position.

  I tried to take the hardship in stride. After all, I was staying with people who are defined the world over by their strength and resilience. Over the last century and a half, the Maasai have endured ruinous droughts, epidemic diseases that wiped out half their population and half their livestock, and endless appropriations by the British and the Kenyan governments of the land that was once theirs to roam. Through all of it they have stood tall and proud, draped in bright red, respected, charismatic, and independent.

  I had the honor of being placed with the chief and his family. He had a wife and a son who was about my age. Upon arrival, I was given the traditional Maasai daily wardrobe, which consisted of a checked cloth for my outer garment, a chest piece, several handmade bracelets, and a herding staff. This was a moment of mixed emotions. Part of me was thrilled, even proud, to have the privilege of dressing like one of these great, iconic tribesmen. But the rest of me felt unworthy of the honor. I was a kid who’d grown up with a roof over my head, dinner on the table each night, cable TV, good schools, and clean water every time I turned on the tap. By comparison, the Maasai people are among the world’s most notorious warriors. Everything about their environment challenges them—harsh land, harsh sun, even the harshly alkaline water of Lake Natron. Despite it all, they seem indomitable.

  The chief’s wife was strikingly beautiful, with wide, dark eyes and pronounced cheekbones. She had a quintessentially Maasai beauty, and she dressed in traditional Maasai colors, deep reds and royal blues, and wore large hoop earrings and strands of colorful, intricately woven beads.

  I’ll never forget her name, because for the life of her, she couldn’t pronounce mine. She couldn’t enunciate the v. It became like a comedy routine. She would mispronounce my name, calling me “Effen.” I would slowly correct her: “Ev-an.” Then she would s
mile and say, “Ebben.”

  Since she couldn’t quite pronounce my name, I made a special effort to get hers right, something that became an inside joke between us. It was, spelled phonetically to the best of my ability, Nor-deh-kee-teh-wee-pee. I’m sure that spelling is plus or minus a few letters.

  The Maasai are a nomadic, self-sufficient people, so livestock is a key part of their livelihood. There were animals everywhere. Most of them, including chickens and goats, were part of the food supply for eggs, milk, or meat. The house was basically surrounded by a goat farm. All night long, I’d hear them grunting and farting just inches away from me. Occasionally, they’d even nudge me. I got used to the smell of them after a couple days, but not to the constant, booming sounds of their flatulence.

  Although the chickens and goats are utilitarian, Maasai life revolves around their cattle. The Maasai believe that when the earth and sky split, centuries ago, their rain god left the cattle for their use. The young men are taught to protect the family’s cattle at all costs.

  My days with the tribe were long and full. I woke before sunrise to the sounds of crowing roosters and the family gathered around the fire, talking and preparing the morning meal. I’d unfold myself from my balled-up sleeping position, put on my tribal costume, and be off and running to herd the goats and work alongside the tribesmen.

  In my free time, I roamed the nearby desert, looking for snakes and lizards. Like my hosts in Bangata, the Maasai tribe believed every reptile was venomous. Most are not, but I could understand the cultural trend toward steering clear of all of them, since the few truly venomous native snakes in the area include black mambas, puff adders, boomslangs, and massive spitting cobras. All creatures most people are wise to avoid confrontation with.

  I wasn’t about to try to convert my hosts’ feelings about snakes when they were rooted in reasonable caution, but there were no venomous lizards in that environment. It seemed pretty unfair to paint the lowly gecko with the same brush as the black mamba.

  I decided to teach my Maasai brother and his friends that most of these reptiles can’t hurt you. I caught a small gecko, and with a crowd looking on, I let it bite my top lip. It clamped on pretty hard, and there was an audible gasp from the dozen or so kids (and the adults) watching. The bite was a little uncomfortable but not at all dangerous, so I let the gecko hang there by its jaws. Nobody screamed or ran away, which I thought was progress after the chameleon debacle with Clara.

  In my mind, that bite was a small price to pay in order to show my new friends that the lizards they saw every day and had been taught to fear were harmless. Unfortunately, judging by the stares I got and the wide berth I was given after my demonstration, I don’t think I changed many minds about the geckos. Instead, I may have set myself further apart as an outsider.

  On the second day of my stay, the chief hosted a party in my honor and that of another student staying with a tribe family. There was a significant language barrier between me and the tribe—they spoke neither English nor Swahili—but I somehow got the idea that they were going to barbecue a goat. I was grateful. I was also completely naïve about the variety of ways a goat might be prepared and served at a party in one’s honor. I was about to face the single biggest trial of my manners, and of my gag reflex, in my entire life.

  * * *

  Turns out that for this ceremony the goat isn’t prepared ahead of time. The killing is part of the event. For our party, two tribesmen suffocated the goat. The poor creature grunted and flailed, trying fruitlessly to escape while we all watched. I sat silently, focused on being respectful of my hosts and their culture, trying to keep my expression neutral.

  Once the goat was dead, the tribesmen laid it on its back and cut the abdomen open. As soon as an animal dies from asphyxiation, large blood clots begin forming in the major vessels and the heart. I would not have noticed what was happening to the dead goat’s blood, but one of the men reached his bare hand inside the carcass and pulled out several clots. He then turned to present them to me. The guest of honor.

  To eat.

  This was a gift, and it would have been insulting for me to reject it. This was not my choice. Not my goat. It was also not my moment to distance myself from my hosts and offend them. I slurped a blood clot from the tribesman’s hand and swallowed, concentrating on nothing but getting the warm blob down. One of my classmates was next, and he, too, accepted a clot with a pained, focused expression and nodded his thanks.

  Okay, I thought, initiation over. We had passed.

  Not so fast. A moment later one of the tribesmen reached into the carcass, fished around the back of the abdomen with his knife, and extricated a single kidney. He held the dull pink organ aloft, then smoothly cut a slice from it and extended it to me.

  As the guest of the chief, it turned out, I would be the only one receiving this gift from the slaughter. And so I accepted it, thinking of how my mom always told me to mind my manners at the table, and began chewing the still warm, flavorless tribute.

  I nodded to the tribesmen, then to the chief. Now I had passed.

  After that the goat was butchered, barbecued over an open fire, and shared with the entire tribe. Parts unsuitable for barbecuing were taken to a community kitchen and stewed. The hide would be tanned and used for clothing, bags, and drum skins; and the bones would be used in traditional medicine or boiled to make stock. Nothing would be wasted.

  For the Maasai, offering up that goat was a significant gesture that said, “Thank you for staying with us; we welcome you as our guest.” It was their way of showing gratitude to me for experiencing their culture. To an American kid, it was a dark ritual, but it was also a sincere one, and when I look back on that experience I remember it with gratitude to the people who welcomed me, dressed me in their traditional clothes, fed me their most choice food, and allowed me to feel like a part of an entirely different world for a few humbling, thought-provoking, unforgettable days.

  The Elephant Hour

  For the last weeks of our semester in Tanzania, each student got to pursue an independent project. I wanted to wander instead of staying in one place, so I plotted out bus routes, arranged rides with other students, and set out to add to my growing repertoire of animal education videos.

  I spent those weeks on the road filming lizards, crocodiles, snakes, and the big and small mammals and birds of the savannah, but there is one animal that lives large in my memories. I came to think of an elephant named Ncarsis as a friend.

  I was camping at Ndarakwai, a private ranch and wildlife sanctuary in Kilimanjaro, hoping for some snake sightings. The eleven-thousand-acre reserve is home to three different ecosystems—savannah, grasslands, and woodlands—as well as to puff adders, spitting cobras, and the extremely venomous black mambas. As highly toxic as black mambas are, they’re even more dangerous than most venomous snakes because in some cases they can be extremely aggressive without any prompting.

  Besides the snakes I was looking for, elephants, impalas, antelopes, and troops of baboons roamed around the sprawling preserve. The camping area was a flat piece of barren land surrounded by a wooden slat fence. The fence was something of a formality to deter large animals, but smaller ones could easily slip through the gaps in search of food. We slept in tents, and there were fire pits nearby for cooking our nightly meal of rice and beans.

  * * *

  I’d been told that an eight-year-old female elephant lived on the grounds and that we might see her around. She’d been orphaned as a baby and rescued by the reserve, so she was wild but habituated to people. Her name was Ncarsis. Late one afternoon, I was hanging out with a classmate near the fence when a juvenile elephant walked up and began scoping us out. It had to be her. Though not fully developed, she stood about six feet tall and weighed at least six thousand pounds.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never interacted with an elephant (unless you count being chased by one on safari). This one, though, didn’t seem to be looking for a fight. She stopped a few
feet from the fence, raised her trunk, and sniffed around. I stood stock-still, eyes averted and head down, hoping I wouldn’t scare her away.

  She inched forward. Then she pointed her trunk directly at me. She was so close I could clearly see the two nostrils at the end of her trunk. She seemed to be reaching for me, so I took one cautious step closer, then another.

  The first time I encounter any animal, I want to connect (or not) on their terms. I waited before taking one more step and putting myself close enough that she could touch me. The trunk came closer, and she smelled my hand, then my arm. She rubbed her trunk against the back of my neck and pushed it through my hair.

  I was in a weird kind of elephant-induced ecstasy, thinking, She LIKES me! and trying not to mess it up. After a few minutes, she dropped her trunk, inched all the way up to the fence, and stood waiting. I took her posture to mean it was my turn, and I gently reached out to pet her trunk. I knew that any sudden moves or noises would freak her out, so I kept my voice low and my movements slow and easy. Her skin was rough and leathery, covered in coarse, whisker-like hairs that stood straight out, like pins along her skin.

  I talked to her for a while, and she casually flapped her enormous ears, occasionally reaching out to poke me with her trunk. The whole encounter lasted about a half hour, and then my new friend turned and wandered back into the bush.

  I doubted I’d ever see Ncarsis again. The reserve is massive, and she had the run of the place. The next evening, though, she came back and pointed at me again. I made my way to the fence and let her sniff me and check my pockets. I didn’t have anything for her, but she didn’t seem to care.

  On day three, I walked right up and called her “Sweetheart.” We were pals. There was no question. For a week and a half I camped at Ndarakwai, and every single day after that first encounter, Ncarsis stopped by to hang out with me.