What the elephants don’t know

I have never forgotten. And never forgiven the elephant. Not that he has any idea. 

It was many years ago, at a lodge not unlike the one I’m sitting in now, gin in hand, pretending to be relaxed. We were in the middle of a theatrical bush dinner that lodges do so well, long table under the stars, candles flickering, starters arriving, when he suddenly appeared. Angry and aggressive. A large bull, almost certainly in musth, which is essentially elephant testosterone poisoning. 

What followed was not, as a family, our finest hour. Mothers grabbed toddlers, dignity was largely abandoned, and at least one grandfather made it to safety with a turn of speed that was, under the circumstances, impressive. 

My 13-year-old son, who to his eternal credit and my lasting pride had actually listened to the safety briefing, found the kitchen, found the radio, and called for help while the rest of us were busy catastrophising. 

When the rangers arrived, they encouraged the bull, with considerable patience, some vehicles, and a shotgun in case, to seek whatever he was looking for elsewhere. We were asked to remain indoors. Not that we needed to be asked twice. 

Since that evening, the elephant and I have had an understanding. He would continue to roam southern Africa, enormous and odorous and completely unbothered. I would continue to exist at a safe distance from anything weighing more than a small car. It worked for both of us. 

Where this might sound reasonable on paper, for a South African who enjoys the bush, the practical implications are somewhat consequential. 

Which is why I considered revisiting this particular neurosis this trip round. When our ranger asked if there were any animals we particularly loved or feared, I was quick to answer. I did so with little emotion, very much like one lists “don’t like tomatoes” on a food preference survey. 

Which is why it was unsurprising that last night, on a remote dirt road, with no signal, we found ourselves stuck behind a mother and her calf. And she was, if you will excuse me saying, a rather big cow, who refused either to be rushed or step aside. And so, in the dark, without Instagram to distract me, I sat with my discomfort and waited until she decided it was time to move on. 

Which she finally did. 

It took the rest of the drive home for me to realise that the elephant did not know I was afraid of it. It had no file on me, no memory of that evening, no particular feelings about my presence in its vicinity. And yet, I have spent decades carefully maintaining a fear that exists entirely on my side of the equation. The bull himself was in musth temporarily, chemically not himself. It passed. He moved on. He was, in all likelihood, much like other males, thinking about succulents within the hour. 

There is a very Jewish instinct to hold on. We remember because we have learned, across generations and continents, that memory is survival. We do not forget the bull at the dinner table. And mostly, far from it being neurosis, it is actually hard-won wisdom. 

But watching an animal of genuinely prehistoric indifference finally amble past without a glance in my direction, I found myself wondering: what else am I carrying that has long since forgotten me? What fears, what grudges, what carefully maintained anxieties are still taking up space, while their original cause is somewhere in the bush, eating leaves, thinking about mud baths? 

I haven’t fully resolved this. I am still, if I’m honest, keeping a watchful eye on the treeline. But last night I was happy to have dinner outside. Under the stars, long table, candles. And I stayed for dessert. 

No elephants appeared. 

I’d like to think they knew better. I’d like to think I did too.