Story: The Earless Eland

It was about three in the afternoon when we reached the house, the jumble of buildings characteristic of any working ranch operating on a tight budget. Carrie stopped the car in front of a white one story house with an open porch wrapping around the front. A handheld radio crackled on the seat beside her. It was Mick. He was out in the park dealing with a sick animal. I heard Carrie’s response, my name at the front of the sentence, “Chrys would like that.” I was told to grab some water, camera and a jumper of some sort. We were going out to help and would be gone for awhile.

In few minutes I met Richard, the Dutchman who’d been on Mkhaya for almost a week. He did seem genuinely glad to see me. He had been a bit lonely and told me so straight away. He was a computer programmer for his federal government. Tall and strapping, fair haired and blue eyed. He wore expensive camping clothes, brands I recognized from high end outfitting stores back home, labels I usually didn’t purchases because I have always been extremely hard on clothes.

Quickly we jumped into the back of a pick-up, Carrie at the wheel, Josie now with her. Her youngest child sported a page boy haircut, golden brown with light blonde streaks throughout. Like any good two year old she spoke a dialect only she understood. Her speech was lively and from what I could decipher she knew we were going to see her Daddy.

It took another half hour or so to reach the far corner of the park. Richard and I chatted briefly, providing each with the Reader’s Digest version on how we chose to vacation in this unique place. I found out the Netherlands had a deep connection with Mkhaya, the support reaching all the way to the country’s royal family. Richard was an avid viewer of Animal Planet, an American cable channel available in Holland with Dutch subtitles. I confess I haven’t watched it much. Like almost everyone I knew their break-out star: Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. Didn’t know much more. Richard filled me in on other programs filmed in Africa like Meerkat Manor.

We came upon a scene right out of my Wild Kingdom archive. A group of six rangers clustered around a large animal, an eland who was being doctored by Mick. A handsome man in khaki shorts, shirt and a sage green felt hat that had seen better days, focused on his unusual patient. All was quiet as Mick used a knife to scrape away infected tissue from the animal’s head. A tick born disease had eaten away the female eland’s ears. After the first aid she would be taken back to a corral near the house until a wild animal vet could have a look.

Along the fence a smaller eland paced and cantered, never coming too close but anxious about what was happening. It was the eland’s calf, about four months old. After her mother was attended to the young one would also be darted and kept with her Mom until both were set free again.

The eland is considered the most sacred of the antelope to native tribes in southern Africa. It is an impressive beast with long, twisting horns weighing in at a hefty fifteen hundred pounds. On its legs are dark stripes running at a 90 degree angle helping it blend in with the tall grasses of it’s habitat. I could hear Mick’s knife hitting bone. There was little blood, but the microscopic parasite had done significant damage. Carrie and Josie sat on the back of the pickup. This sort of afternoon adventure common for them. Trying not to be intrusive I snapped pictures and shot a short video. Antibiotic liquid fizzed and cracked, sterilizing the exposed flesh. A yellowish green paste was packed in, a bandage wrapped around its head and she was ready for transport. Mick spoke only siSwati to the rangers. The heavy animal was positioned on a heavy mat, lifted into the back of the truck, head facing outward, moved once more into a wooden crate and driven away.

Now attention shifted to her baby. The young eland provided a bit of a chase, still Mick darted the animal with no flourish or fanfare. Dusk approached rapidly. Once the sun slipped behind the distant hills darkness would come quickly.

The calf was placed in the back of the pickup. Two rangers held its head upright, Richard and I steadied the rear of the animal as Mick drove Daytona 500 fast over the dirt roads heading home.As we became partially airborn at times, we struggled to keep our balance while steading the precious cargo.I stroked the course fur on the calf’s left hip. It was pitch black by the time we pulled up next to the corral where the older eland waited; her young daughter wasn’t breathing. In an agitated voice Mick grabbed his veterinary bag, giving the calf a shot of what I imagined to be adrenaline. She did not respond. He questioned the rangers. When it became obvious the young eland would not wake there was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated with by a single English expletive from Mick

Well past eight by the time we got back to the house, my mind reeled from the day’s experiences. Richard and myself would stay at the family home until our guide returned from his days off. From then on we’d be in tents at ecocamp, responsible for our own meals, washing and other daily chores. For now the side veranda with open windows would serve as home. There were four single beds with mosquito netting arranged perpendicular to each other against the white walls. A pale green gecko scampered out of sight when I placed my belongings on the bed closest to the window. The setting was serene, beautiful, next to the garden on the opposite side of the family quarters.

The domestic help had supper warming in the kitchen. Considering the day’s drama not much was said as we dished up our plates. The Reilly’s ate in their private family quarters, Richard and I at a round table near our bunks. Kerosine provided soft light for the meal. I rapidly devoured a curried chicken stew, beetroot salad and rice. Hunger winning over my conflicted emotions. Still I couldn’t help speculate on what had caused the eland calf’s death: a combination of stressors most likely:seeing her mother hauled away, unfamiliar chemicals in her system, Mr. Toad’s Wild ride back to the corral. It was a melancholy start. I’d been in Swaziland a mere six hours.

Informed we would be starting our day at six AM, I looked forward to my first horizontal sleeping position in three days. Once tucked in my sleeping bag under the mosquito net, sleep was immediate. Morning arrived just as fast.