Nature’s Genius – Elephant Feet

Check out my trunk!

I didn’t see an elephant for the first week and a half I was in the bush, which seems ludicrous given their immense size and the fact that I was out every single day, driving around game reserves looking for them. But elephants are surprisingly good at disappearing into the surrounding flora. And their dull gray colouring makes them often indistinguishable in a cluster of trees and bushes. If they don’t want you to see them, you won’t see them.

Despite their size, they can be remarkably light on their feet. The term ‘lumbering elephant’? Yeah, it’s a misnomer. In my experience, elephants move neither clumsily nor heavily. In fact, they move astonishingly quickly and lightly (almost bouncing as they go), even though they look like they are in slow motion much of the time. I guess it’s all relative – I mean, a single elephant stride is probably equal to about 15 of mine, so even though they look like they’re strolling, they’re crossing large swaths of ground quickly. And they are doing so without even trying. An elephant running will bear down on you a lot faster than your brain can process, precisely BECAUSE of that relativism. You may come across an elephant 300 meters away from you and think you’re far enough away to be in a safe zone, and then suddenly that same elephant is your face in barely enough time for you to blink. So I recommend you do not piss off an elephant.

Usually, the way you find elephants is by the sound of breaking branches. Sometimes by their low rumbling. Even occasionally by their bubbly farts, which really do sound like a kid blowing bubbles. But they can travel silently when they want to do so. And I do mean silently.

There have been many mornings when I’ve woken up and walked outside my tent to see fresh spoor from not one, but many elephants, just on the other side of my door. And I didn’t have the faintest notion they had travelled past in the night. I heard nothing. To give you some perspective, I am a light sleeper. As in if a mouse farted, I’d wake up. And yet elephants always manage to give me the slip, which is one of the many reasons I find them so fascinating – they are multi-tonne Houdinis.

Most people focus on an elephant’s trunk, which is a fantastic bit of evolutionary brilliance. It has no less than 40,000 muscles in it (and up to 150,000 portions of muscles). As a comparison, an entire human body has about 650 muscles. Total.

The trunk can be used as a snorkel when they swim; as a hose to wash them off; as a straw to drink; as a sort of hand to forage for food; and as an arm to throw things at whatever they don’t like. I know – I’ve had one throw grass at me when he got annoyed with the uninvited ‘guest’ (me) who arrived unbidden during dinner and just wouldn’t take the hint to leave. The grass-throwing was the final hint of his that alerted me to move off, as I (not always the fastest on the uptake) realized the elephant was truly getting annoyed at having his peace and quiet interrupted by a camera-happy human settled in and staring at him from a mere 3 meters away.

The trunk is dexterous and gentle enough to act as a finger to scratch an itch or rub gunk out of an eye. And it is even used when greeting other elephants, kind of like a handshake. But, rather than focus on that amazing appendage, I’m focused on the feet. Why the feet?  Well, to me, it’s incredible that an animal of such immense size can manage to navigate through forests and woodlands in almost total silence. And that’s all due to the foot structure. Nature, that genius of design, once again created a perfect combination of form and function to suit the needs of her children.

Because of the amazing engineering in the structure of an elephant’s foot, elephants can walk right past you without making a sound. This is made possible because of fatty connective tissue in their feet that acts like both a shock absorber for their weight and a sound smotherer of potential location giveaways such as cracking twigs. In fact, their foot structure is such that elephants walk around on the tips of their toes, meaning they pretty much tiptoe through life. Animals like horses, rhinos, and sheep also do this. But, and no offense to the other animals that travel digitigrade-style, I think it’s much more impressive that elephants do it. I mean, they ARE the size of a small house and all.

And what’s more amazing, they can HEAR through their feet.

If you ever spend time with elephants, you’ll likely notice the sounds they make. It’s hard not to notice them since elephants are rather chatty creatures. Sometimes they make a low rumbling sound that sounds a little like they’re humming a Gregorian chant. Sometimes they stomp their feet (which, in this particular case, DOES make a noise, though it’s still relatively muted when you think about all the weight behind each stomp). Sometimes they trumpet and scream. Yes, scream. Well, those sounds (and even lower seismic ones they produce that humans cannot hear) can travel great distances (as much as 20 kilometers!). And elephants can pick up the vibrations of those sounds (and what those sounds mean) through their feet. They ‘hear’ another elephant from miles away just by listening through their tootsies. I know I’m an animal nerd, but how can anyone NOT be impressed by the fact that an elephant can communicate with another elephant several kilometers away by listening through their feet?

If you want to learn more about this, check out:

Elephants “Hear” Warnings With Their Feet, Study Confirms – National Geographic

Elephants pick up good vibrations — through their feet – Science Daily

12 facts to change the way you see elephants – Mother Nature Network

And a few photos of those lovely feet, some trunk, and the whole package:

Elephant trunk and toes

I think I need a pedicure

Elephant trunk frontal view

Elephant coming through

 

Lemur Love – Madagascar’s Unique Monkey-types

Young diademed shifaka posing

Hanging out and saying hello

Getting a mouthful

Hey, gorgeous!

The quintessential shocked look of someone unwillingly forced out of a deep slumber

In honour of #WorldLemurDay, I decided to skip posts about anything in the area where I actually live and instead focus on a trip I took to Madagascar in January.

Madagascar is as cool as its name suggests. It is wild, it is rugged, it is magical, it is bizarre. A true land of extremes, it features a slew of inhabitants that seem to exist in a vacuum, and, in many ways, really do. Most of the wildlife on the island is endemic, meaning it occurs nowhere else in the world. And, as is the case in so many places worldwide, those species are disappearing. Quickly.

Aside from a short takeover stint from France, which decided to colonize the country in the 1900s, the Malagasy, their ways, traditions, and language have remained firmly footed and constant throughout the country and the centuries. And both the Western and the Malagasy cultures have often been at odds with the local wildlife.

Home to both the world’s largest and smallest chameleons, the looks-like-a-mongoose-on-steroids carnivorous fossa, and the ONLY place lemurs occur naturally, Madagascar is a stunning land of contrasts, rife with conflict and challenges. In fact, it feels like a Hollywood cliche – a kind of biological lost world torn between the technological advances foisted upon it by Westerners and the ancient traditions that bind the Malagasy people to their past.

Like so many African countries, Madagascar suffers from excruciating poverty, resource gouging by outside interests, and a complicated history stemming from colonial rule and subjugation. Cultural beliefs also often act as a hindrance to the conservation of the local wildlife. Fady is one such example. Fady are cultural taboos and prohibitions, and they wreak havoc on species like the island’s quirky aye-ayes.

Aye-ayes are a type of lemur that looks sort of like what you might get if you crossed Yoda’s hair with the face of a perpetually surprised and alopecia-addled mongoose with Mickey Mouse ears. So they are not only one of the less adorable creatures of the animal kingdom (unless you are a fan of the fugly, as I am), they are also believed to be an omen of death. Which doesn’t win you a lot of friends. The story goes that if one points its bony little finger in your direction, you are as good as gone. Not surprisingly, the aye-aye is not a fan favourite for the locals. In fact, one might say that these poor creatures are persecuted. Luckily, they are nocturnal, making their dalliances with humans less frequent. Had they been diurnal or crepuscular, they would’ve likely gone extinct long ago.

Though I wish I had, I did not get to see an aye-aye while I was visiting Madagascar, but I did see quite a few other lemur species, including a pair of rough-necked lemurs who lived in the trees above a lodge I stayed in on the tiny island of Ile aux Nattes. These particular lemurs made a low, almost demonic barking sound as they bounce about from tree to tree, feasting on mangos and dropped both their scraps and their poop on whatever is below them. One of them was very inquisitive and friendly, climbing down from the tree tops for a scratch behind the ears from a willing human now and again. This particular lemur also took a shine to my toothpaste, which I had to wrestle from her surprisingly tight grip more than once during my stay. Crest, just so you know, your ProHealth toothpaste has at least one lemur fan.

In contrast to the ruff-necked lemurs’ somewhat unnerving bark, the indri (also the world’s largest lemur) sing a hauntingly ethereal song as they cruise about the forests of Andasibe. With a musical symphony that begins at daybreak, their calls reverberate throughout the trees, pinging from one section of the forest to another as the primates get their day going and start their search for food. Their calls remind me a little of whalesong, with that almost whimsical sine curve of sliding arpeggios swinging high and dropping low. Indris also have impossibly long eyelashes, which I’m sure has nothing to do with their singing, but it’s just an observation. And while they are no less inquisitive than the ruff-necked lemurs I met, they don’t come right up to you looking for an ear scratch. Which is disappointing to someone like me, who would probably touch every animal I could if I didn’t think I might potentially lose a hand (or at least some fingers) in the process. I was that child in the store who could not help herself from picking up EVERYTHING. It’s shocking I still have all my limbs.

Anyway, in celebration of these beautiful animals, I thought I’d share a few pics of some of the locals I had the privilege of meeting on my whirlwind jaunt through this mystical island. Enjoy! And please, if you’re interested in visiting this amazing country, message me. I’m happy to offer suggestions and advice. It’s an epic adventure worth the challenges and the price tag. And you’d be doing some good for conservation AND humanity because the local communities (human and wildlife alike) could seriously use the tourist dollars.

Signing the Death Warrant for Rhinos Everywhere: Why Opening Trade in Rhino Horn is a BAD Idea

I’ve been against trade since day one for many reasons, most of which are elaborated in this post from an organisation I was fortunate enough to work with. In light of the South African government greenlighting the auction (read: sale) of rhino horn by the country’s largest rhino farmer (how WRONG does that phrase sound, btw???), Wildlife ACT issued this post responding to said farmer’s ‘reasons’ for allowing trade to be allowed. Wildlife ACT is on the ground doing honest conservation work. These guys are the real deal, and they are passionate about protecting wildlife. And this is their response to the approved rhino auction. If this doesn’t pointedly demonstrate why trade is a bad idea, I don’t know what is.

Here are some of the points made, as well as some of my own points:

1. If we open up trade, we create an even larger market. We can’t meet the illegal demand. How, exactly, are we to meet the much larger ‘legal’ demand when there aren’t enough rhinos to meet the demand now??? It doesn’t matter if the horn grows back – there aren’t enough rhino in the world to meet the illegal demand. There sure as hell aren’t enough to meet a legal demand!
2. Legal sales create loopholes for illegal sales. We haven’t tackled one of the biggest elephants in the room: corruption. We already can’t seem to keep tabs on what’s already coming in and out of the borders or what’s legally and illegally permitted in the involved countries. We need to clean up our corruption and put resources towards weeding out the corruption within law enforcement, judiciary, border control, politics, etc. Period.
3. Rhinos live in many countries in Africa AS WELL AS in Asia. And they live in countries outside of South Africa (where this rhino farmer lives). Who’s protecting the rhino that live outside of private reserves in South Africa? And whose protecting the rhinos living outside of South Africa? Because this farmer might become rich with the opening up of trade, but the rhino that live in National and Regional parks around the country and in the rest of the world aren’t getting any money from said farmer. And opening up a legal trade means those animals are just as much as target as the ‘safe’ ones in private reserves (or breeding camps), in not MORE of a target. In fact, given the propensity for markets to value the ‘real’ versus the ‘fake,’ wild rhinos will inevitably become targets because they are ‘the real deal,’ and in the race for status, the real deal is what people want, and they will pay MORE for it. Meaning the illegal trade and poaching will not abate in the slightest with the legalizing of trade. For example, look at salmon farming. Look at where the market has gone – people want WILD salmon now and are willing to pay more for it, precisely BECAUSE it is wild and not farmed (and people perceive wild to be better). It is inevitable that people will want WILD rhino. And how will they get wild rhino horn? Illegally. Through poaching. Period.
4. The people who will profit from farming rhino are the rhino farmers. No one else.
5. Look at the vicuna situation. Opening up legal trade in for what has been called ‘sustainable utilisation’ hat has proven distastrous for this species, as illegal poaching has not gone down, but UP.
6. We need to focus on demand reduction, not increase consumption. Because that genie is not going back in the bottle once you open it up. YOu give in to the demand and you are not only selling snake oil (since rhino horn doesn’t cure anything), but you are sentencing a species that has been around for millions of years to extinction by saying it has a price on its head. This is also why I am against trophy hunting of said animal, but that’s a whole other topic.
7. There’s a reason rhino evolved to have a horn in the first place. It is used for defense and for mating rights. It is a means to ensure the best genes get passed on. This is why you can’t go around the national and provincial parks and dehorn rhino. Not to mention how that will affect tourism. Again, this means these wild rhino will continue to be targeted.
8. Elephants are being born with smaller (and, in some cases, no) tusks because elephants with the largest tusks are being targeted for poaching (and hunting). Why wouldn’t the same happen to rhinos? If we continue to cut off the horn, what’s to say that future generations will simply to evolve to NOT HAVE A HORN AT ALL? Then what happens? Oh, but by the time that happens, said farmer will probably be dead and gone, so won’t be his problem, will it? But it will be everyone else’s. And, provided they aren’t already extinct, it will DEFINITELY be the rhino’s problem.

The list of cons go on and on, but I think these points and any additional ones pointed out in the article should be enough to convince anyone that truly cares about the protection and conservation of this (and so many other) species that trade is a bad idea.

At the end of the day, the ONLY beneficiaries from trade in rhino horn are this particular farmer, those whose grease the wheels, and those who profit from illegal trade. Rhinos have no chance if we allow any sort of trade to happen. End of story.

The reality is, you open up trade, you create demand. You make the problem WORSE, not better. Period. Please click on the link to read the entire article.

Dear John, Our Response to Your Rhino Horn Auction

South African Adventure #49 – Neuroses and Why They Need to Be Kept in Check in the Bush (Or, A Day in the Life)

Sorry for the delayed posting.  My laptop’s battery exploded.  For the third time since I got the computer.  With no power source, I can’t post.  Anyway, I’ve been asked from many people to describe my typical day.  Well, there aren’t any ‘typical’ days, per se, so keep that grain of salt handy.

Every day out here is different.  That’s one of the perks of living in the bush.  You never know what animal may make an appearance and cause havoc in camp, what piece of equipment will fall apart, what personal drama one of the staff, or any of the students will thrust upon you to fix (and we’ve had everything from quickly flourishing to even more quickly broken romances, thievery, drug possession, injury from seriously bizarre accidents, family deaths, a false alarm mamba ‘bite’ – the excitement never ends).   Even with strict rules, it seems humans can’t seem to help themselves when it comes to getting into trouble and doing exactly what they know they shouldn’t be doing.  My job is, as much as I hate to admit it, essentially the camp mom for a large group of people who often don’t think rules apply to them because they paid to be here.  Patience isn’t just a virtue out here; it’s a survival technique.

So as far as ‘normal’ goes, my normal day consists of an early wake-up (‘at sparrows’, as we say here) to what sounds like a chicken getting its head cut off.  That lovely noise can be attributed to our resident francolins and spurfowls, also known as heart-attack birds for their habit of rustling in the bush hidden from view, grabbing your attention through an invisible scuffle and a shudder of underbrush, and then bursting out at you, screaming at the top of their lungs.  You may remember I rescued a baby one of these a few posts back.  The little ones don’t scream, they whistle.  The big ones scream.  And they usually start screaming at 4am, which is well before my wake-up call.

After initially bolting upright from the shock and reminding myself what is making that awful sound, I usually fall back to sleep for another two hours before waking to the more palatable sound of every bird within a ten-kilometer radius singing blithely.  Funny, many birds make it a point to not be seen, but they ALL want to be heard.  Except for the woodland kingfisher.  When he’s around, he makes sure you know it on all fronts.

This brilliantly blue, white, and black bird has a bright orange beak and loves to sit on a tree branch just in front of my house, trilling away as loudly and as visibly as possible.  He’s only around for half the year, though, so while I welcome him when he arrives, after a few days I almost can’t wait for him to migrate his ass on out of here.

My 2nd morning alarm clock, Mr. Woody Kingfisher

The only sound louder than the birds stem from my insect nemesis, which rolls into camp in summer and never fails to provide me with at least one or two migraines.  When it’s summer, every other sound is drowned out by the cicadas, which are eardrum-destroying and always leave a horrible ringing noise in your ears for hours on end.  I have very sensitive ears; I do not like the cicadas.

Anyway, I drag myself out of bed (yes, drag – sadly, I have never been a morning person, no matter how hard I’ve tried), turn on the shower, rinse off, assess the weather outside and dress myself in a few layers (knowing I will probably peel most of them off in a hour or so, so better to be prepared).  I pack up my bag: keys, phone, eye drops for my ever-dry and dusty contacts, gum for my odd clean-tooth obsession, notebook, pen and camera – because you never know what you’ll see on the walk between my tent and camp.  Oh, and sunglasses.  Unless it’s actually raining, I never leave without the sunglasses.  They are my best friend out here.  The trifecta of my survival pack – sunglasses, suntan lotion and a mosquito net for the bed.

I always check the sand on the path outside my tent and on the way into camp for evidence of last night’s and this morning’s visitors, and spend most of the walk to camp with my head down, glued to signs on the ground.  Usually all I see are the frantic circles of manic francolins, spurfowls, and pigeons, and often there are mongoose and monitor tracks, but every once in a while I see porcupine, hyena, and on good days, leopard.  And of course snakes.  Thankfully those are usually closer to camp.  Except for the mamba, we actually don’t get snakes by our place very often, at least not that I know of, which is fine by me.

Once I get to camp, I set down the bag, hit the kitchen to say hello to the cook and cleaner, then go and tally up the previous day’s drinks.  This is always a challenge, as they never seem to add up to the number of drinks actually missing from the fridge.  Why and how people can’t count is beyond me.  After some mathematical gymnastics, I refill the drinks, go to my ‘office’ and start up the camp laptop.  Which usually won’t start because the generator isn’t on yet, and the computer battery doesn’t hold a charge.  If I’m lucky, it has enough life to last until staff and students get back from their morning walk/drive.  When that happens, I quickly say a prayer to the technology gods that the internet will ALSO actually work as I attempt to get online and pull up emails.  Usually I lose that battle, which then prompts me to utter any combination of four-letter words under my breath, turn the machine off, and go back to the kitchen to help with breakfast.

Twice I week I sit down with the cook, plan a menu and put together food orders.  Because of limited budgets, this often means getting creative, lest we eat the exact same thing every day, easy to do when you don’t have much money to work with and have to get permission to order things like yogurt because it’s ‘too expensive.’  I also help with cooking, always somewhat painful, since I really don’t enjoy cooking (probably due to my ‘need for approval’ complex and my desire to do things well, neither of which is ever satisfied when you stick me in a kitchen), nor am I any good at it, despite my best efforts.  Our cook is a bit heavy-handed with things like oil and butter, so to prolong my life, and the lives of the people at camp, I often intervene to try and keep the artery clogging to a minimum.  I usually get stuck with cutting up fruit, not so much of a challenge with apples and pears, but more of a mission when you add in mango and pineapple, particularly when the knives in camp are about as sharp as a baseball.

My normal cooking skills go towards satisfying the vegetarian/vegan/halal/kosher/gluten-free/every-other-allergen contingency, of which there are more than you would ever imagine.  I’m always surprised that people with strict food issues choose to go to a bush camp in the middle of Africa and expect to have their dietary needs/choices satisfied in a place where white bread, fake cheese, potatoes and meat are all about the only things affordable AND available.  Perhaps our marketing team sells them fairytales about what to expect?  The conditions here seem pretty difficult to miss if you look at the brochures and read the marketing material, but whatever.  All I know is I have to field the complaints about food all the time, even though there is almost nothing I can actually do about the situation.  I can only limit the oil/butter/mayo added to dishes.  With a fridge the size of a suitcase to house enough food to feed a few dozen people at any given time, two cabinets very easily accessible by rodents and insects, and the proclivity of our stocks to ‘grow feet’ anytime there is a staff changeover, I have to do what I can with what I have.  Gourmet meals are NOT an option, not that people, especially the Americans and the Brits, don’t still expect them.  The South Africans usually just want more meat, especially the South African guys.   Again, I do what I can.

Anyway, breakfast is prepared, everyone returns to camp, breakfast is eaten, dishes are cleared, washed and put away, and I go back to do battle with the computer again, this time with a more positive attitude, since at least the generator is now on.  If I still can’t get the internet to work, which is quite often, I will run errands, such as bringing the trash to the dump, washing laundry, reading up on some of the study materials, or sitting in on a lecture.  That lasts for about an hour, after which I’m back to the kitchen to make sure lunch is getting started, or to marinate something for dinner.  Three days a week our food orders arrive, so I recruit some students to come with me to the front gate, go through the food delivery and check it against our actual order, mark any errors, pack the food on the Land Rover and head back to camp, where we unload and put everything away.   I then have to send the head office a note documenting any errors in the food orders, and follow up with the suppliers to find out what went wrong and why certain things were missing when I was told they were available, etc.  Essentially all I do day in and day out is handle the problems in camp.  There is nothing glamorous about my job.  I’m the person everyone loves to hate.  It’s awesome, let me tell ya.  I’m the one responsible for making sure the wheels don’t fall off the bus, and I do it, despite the challenges, set-backs, and annoyances.  But people being people, they complain about it.  Some groups are worse than others.  Some groups you’d like to see walk off into the sunset and get eaten by the local wildlife.  Some groups are cool and make my job if not fun, at least tolerable.

My afternoon is spent sorting out lunch, any other myriad problems that come up (and the list for these is just endless), and getting dinner going.  Then I try and duck away for an hour or so, go back to my room, turn on my iPod and attempt to get in a little exercise.  My yoga mat is a sanity- and ass-saver out here.  Or, if there isn’t an afternoon activity for the students, and it isn’t raining or the river isn’t flowing, we play volleyball in the riverbed.   Actually, we do that sometimes when it’s raining too, depending on how heavily it’s coming down.  That is my break for the day.  Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I can sneak onto one of the afternoon game drives, my only opportunity to get out of camp.

If I don’t get to go out on a drive, at about 6pm, I shower and head back down to camp for dinner. Or I shower earlier and then head back to the kitchen to help COOK dinner (and yes, we DO have a cook we employ, but she feigns incompetence when students have strict dietary requirements and she has to make more of an effort).   Mind you, she used to cook at a 5-star resort in one of the most exclusive bush camps in South Africa.  I know better, and so does she, but to be honest, there isn’t much else to do, so I help.

After dinner, my fiancé and I sit at the table talking to some students, or we sit with them at the fire pit, but usually we just head back to the tent and go to sleep.  It’s often the norm to be in bed by 9pm.  When you have no electricity, you don’t have many other options.   I don’t usually fall asleep until later, as I love listening to all the sounds at night.  But eventually I drift off, and the next day starts the same way.  On occasion, we get the excitement of a storm blowing through, which entails us (well, my fiancé, because I’m allergic to the canvas) running outside, pulling the canvas down over the shadecloth to close the tent up, and then frantically making sure we get everything off the floor as to avoid the inevitable floods that customarily inundate our home in the rains.  Otherwise, everyone is snoring by 10pm.  Exciting, I know.   Welcome to the glamorous life of the bush.

My 2nd morning alarm clock, Mr. Woody Kingfisher

Dusk in Kruger

 

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