Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Travel

Toenail Sun

Morula Sucking Trunk

An Excerpt from my Book:

Morula drowses, lying on her side, falling asleep in the sun.  She catches the tip of her trunk in her mouth, as Doug rubs the bottom of her front foot.  Her eyes droop and her mouth slackens with pleasure.

As Doug continues to rub, the tip of her trunk slips from her mouth.  Her eyes nearly close.  She drools a bit.

I kneel down next to her.

Morula’s legs are folded together, bent at the ankle and knee, the same way I fold my wrists and elbows together in sleep.  She’s strangely voluptuous, even Rubenesque, with her rounded belly and nipple peaking out from underneath her right leg.  Her ear drapes like a leather cloak over her shoulder.  From this angle it’s easy to see how her right tusk pierces her upper lip.

People often mistake an elephant’s ankle joint for a knee, since it seems far away from the foot, but the locations of her ankle, knee and shoulder are clear from the way her legs are bent.

Except for their gray color, Morula’s toenails look pretty much the same as mine do, only bigger and thicker.  Human and elephant nails are made of tough, insoluble keratin, a semi-transparent protein that is the major component of hair, hooves, horns and quills.

Morula’s toenails grow at a rate that might be expected from an animal that walks twenty or thirty miles a day.  They are also highly polished from walking through sand.  In captivity, an elephant’s nails must be constantly trimmed, often on a daily basis; otherwise they become infected and ingrown.  And without the opportunity to walk long distances, the pads on the feet of incarcerated elephants thicken and grow hard, and must be frequently pared down.  If they’re not, the displacement of their gait will cause joint problems later on.

I take a photograph of the sun mirrored on Morula’s highly polished nail.

 

Morula's toenail b&w

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Photography, Travel, Writing

Windows of the Soul

Jabu's eyeLike us, like all mammals, an elephant’s eye has one large lens, its aperture always open, except for a blink, or in sleep.  Like us, like all mammals, Jabu’s round iris controls the amount of light that enters his pupil.  Like us, the lens of his eye focuses light images on his retinas, where they are converted into chemical and electrical impulses, and conveyed along the optic nerve directly into his brain.

The iris is the only muscle of our bodies not colored a shade of red.  It contains pigment instead.  The density of that pigment colors our eyes from brown to blue, mostly shades of brown for elephants, although a blue-eyed calf was photographed this year in South Africa.

Iris is the Greek word for rainbow.  When light refracts through countless prisms of rain, it produces that arched scatter of reds, greens, blues and violets that we call rainbows.  But what we see is only half the story.  Rainbows are perfect circles cut in two by the horizon.  It’s only possible to see a complete circular rainbow if you are in an aircraft and the sun is high enough behind you.  A round rainbow is named a “glory.”  A halo for the earth.

How did the Greeks know rainbows are round?

Hurtling towards earth at 186,282 miles per second, light from the sun is carried by subatomic particles called photons, which vibrate up and down in perpendicular motion to the direction of the advancing light waves, passing along their energy to the retinas of our eyes.  Photons are both the medium and the message, carrying waves like water carries waves, invisible surf lapping against the islands of my eyes.  The cells in my eyes, in Jabu’s eyes, are precisely one photon wide.

I blink, he blinks, photon by photon we gaze into each other’s souls.

Posted in Nature, Nonfiction, Photography

The Light from Saxophones

Tsessebes afternoon sunThree tsessebees saunter up to their bellies in strong vertical spikes of custard-colored grass.  Their shoulder humps, sea-horse faces and gleaming russet coats rise and fall, rise and fall, from left to right, like a musical score on parchment.

The light in this photograph belongs to lingering saxophones.  Long, rich, golden notes catch and roll on the backs of impalas, snag in the teeth of lions and smolder in the burnt umber eyes of eagles.  The grasses, the trees, the tsessebees, all are coated in honey as the sun bends at the waist and pours out the last light of day in a long slow moan, a sweet trickle down the throat of night.

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Travel, Writing

Deja Vu

Jabu & the tree b&w

 

It’s an ancient feeling, this memory of a moment I’ve never had before, this exact smell of scuffed dust, this slant of light, the slightly spicy taste of sand, the warm brush of sunrays across my cheeks, the squint my eyes adopt as if they’ve always looked into the African sun.  It’s the way my bones melt, the acceptance in my mind and nerves that tells me not to run when a monster materializes from a clump of brush and moves to an arm’s length, breathing so quietly I wonder if it’s sleepwalking, I wonder if I’m sleepwalking, because everything that is happening, this monster, this place, my fog of serenity, must be made from dreams.

The monster moves closer.

A familiar monster.  One with a shape.  One with a name.

His eye, a huge topaz oval, stares down at me.  He’s motionless, concentrating.  I can’t even hear him breathing.

Like us, like all mammals, an elephant’s eye has one large lens, its aperture always open, except for a blink, or in sleep.  Like us, like all mammals, Jabu’s round iris controls the amount of light that enters his pupil.  And like us, the lens of his eye focuses light images on his retinas, where they convert into chemical and electrical impulses and whisk along the optic nerve directly to his brain.

What would it be like to think without words and recognize shapes without names?

Both of us, human and elephant, witness only a small portion of what is out there to be seen.  Francolins, mambas, tsessebees, zebras and lions – everything that crawls, swims or walks – witness the world in ways I cannot even imagine.

Even in the womb the eye of a fetus moves through its amniotic dreams.  Does it dream about the glories of a life to come?

“Hello,” I whisper.

 

The light from his eye just now reaches mine.

 

 

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Travel

Pilgrimage

The Face

(After a trip to Africa in 1999):

I’m nearly asleep, lying across several seats at Heathrow, dreaming of elephants, my body suspended at its origin eight time zones away.  It’s neither night nor day in my dreams.  I see fluorescent lights through the lids of my eyes, hear polite announcements for flights, smell the faint barnyard dust of Africa, sense a great presence looming towards me.

Step by step she comes closer.  She is confident, unafraid.  She looks me directly in the eye.  Her eyelashes are long and straight, her deep brown eyes are dark, dark pools.

She stops less than five feet away, just beyond the reach of an outstretched arm, should I be foolish enough to do so.  She is wild, in charge.  I am on her terms and she knows it.  She knows that people sit motionless on smelly, noisy, moveable rocks.  She knows the small sneezing sounds of the devices they carry in their hands and point at her.

She stares into my eyes, then shakes her head sideways in a movement that would say “no” in my language.  Her ears flap once, twice, and great clouds of dust rise from them.  She raises her head, looks down the top of her long trunk.  It’s an imperious, don’t-mess-with-me look, but that again is my language, not hers.  A rumble like a promise for distant rain fills my ears.  Then she sidesteps, turns and vanishes without another sound into a thicket of brush, her great presence subtracted, a void of air where she stood.

I am on a pilgrimage to that place.  I am waiting for my flight, asleep at Heathrow.  I am nearly, virtually there, in my dreams.  

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Travel, Writing

Mud Wrestling

Image

It’s a mucky, slimy, gloppy mud.  A young elephant snorkels on his side, the tip of his trunk swiveling above the surface, as he slides towards the other elephant, a brother or cousin.  His days are filled with heat and dust.  It’s winter in Botswana, the sun is relentless, and mud will soothe his scorched skin.  He lifts his head from the muck, curls his trunk and closes his eyes.  This feels good, his body language says, this feels really good.    

If we could imagine ourselves weighing four tons and think of gravity’s effect on those four tons, then maybe we could imagine wallowing in such mud, pushing and shoving like giant sumo wrestlers, reveling and rolling in the sheer pleasure of warm gunk.  We would inhale a slimy trunk-full of ooze, squirt it like a water gun in any direction, even at each other.  We would rub our eyes clear with a curled fist at the end of our trunks.  We would arise glistening and bright as a metallic statue.  We would be cooled, refreshed, gigantic, gentle beings. . . . if we could imagine such a thing.

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Travel, Writing

How Much of the World Are We Missing?

Listening, really listening.
Listening, really listening.

 

Just at the edge of darkness, where the light of our fire does not penetrate, an elephant thunders by, trumpeting the whole way, like a locomotive off track in a dry forest, a classic illustration of the Doppler Effect, sound that condenses, rises in pitch, crescendos, blows by, drops pitch, recedes. 

We lift our heads in surprise.  Waves of sound undulate away from us, kin to ripples on a pond.  We use pulsed sound waves, Doppler Radar, to see rain, to know when we should run for cover.  There is no such radar for an incoming elephant.

Eventually his outrage is extinguished in our ears, but elephants a mile away are just beginning to hear it.  Resonance fills the night air around us, yet we are deaf to it, to the sounds just below our range of hearing.

How much of the world are we missing, circle upon circle?  Perhaps instead of placing ourselves at the center we should move to the edges where our skills are low and our learning curve high.  We should extinguish our fire and sit in the darkness listening, really listening.

Posted in Africa, Lions, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography, Writing

Bring on the Lions

Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana
Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana

Most impalas die of old age.  And most people die of old age, too.

But that’s not a very exciting story, is it?

What makes us want to bring on the lions?

Posted in Africa, Elephants, Morula, Nonfiction, Photography, Pleistocene

Footprints

Footprints

Our feet anchor us to the ground.  Just as my Pleistocene ancestors could read the tracks of mastodons, so I now gaze down at an elephant’s prints in the dust.  Her back feet are oval and her front feet round.  City slicker that I am, even I can tell the direction she is going.

 The sand beneath our feet  is the color of a lion’s coat, studded with brittle leaf litter.  Morula walks through it without making a sound.  Shock-absorbing pads on the soles of her feet cushion each footstep, smother crushed leaves.

I step on a dry leaf and it crackles into powder.

The brand name of my boots imprints within the outline of my soles; a clever advertisement made with each step.  All of my weight concentrates in two small points of contact with the earth, so I make deeper impressions than Morula’s footprints.  Each one of my steps applies more pressure per square inch; Morula’s weight spreads over four large footpads the size of a medium pizza pan.

She can step on a snake and not kill it.

Morula lifts her foot and grains of sand roll down slope into the crater of her footprint.

Following two paths, the one beneath her feet and the one in her mind, Morula strolls on.  Dust rises, a half shadow that marks her passage, before it collapses again to the ground.

There is a before and an after to each moment of our lives, paths we follow and paths we do not.

Posted in Nature, Photography

Let There be Light

 

Sunset, Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana
Sunset, Moremi Game Reserve, Botswana

From 93 million miles away, pitched straight at me, vibrating, ululating like an African cry of greeting, light from the sun hurtles towards the earth at 186,282 miles per second and eight minutes later slams into me like a jabbering, long-lost relative trying to make up for lost time.  It babbles everything, all at once, into my eyes.

Our eyesight is an electro-chemical reaction to a vibrating particle-wave gushing optical information splash into my brain.  I could shut my eyes to the wonder around me and be diminished.  I could shut my eyes to the atrocities around me and become hardened.

By opening my eyes, I give shape to my perceptions.  By opening my eyes I take responsibility for my vision, for what my eyes teach me.  By opening my eyes I learn that I belong to the world, not that the world belongs to me.

Our eyes are openings into and out of our bodies.  Are my eyes, as some would say, a window to my soul?

There is a cold way of seeing that clips wings and stifles our words into faint echoes.  But there is also a way of seeing where the eye can be like a mouth, swallowing color, taking in the entire world with just one gulp.  Just the sheer fact alone that we see color should provide enough wonder to fill our lives, should stop us in our tracks, should keep our eyes wide open, devouring everything as fast as we can choke it down, leave us slack-jawed, gasping for air.

 

Somewhere behind my eyes, a world exists that I yearn to inhabit, dreams that might become real if only I could imagine them with my eyes wide open.