It was early December 2016 and the beginning of the hot, dry season in Kenya. I was driving with my friend, Patricia, cross-country through the Ol Pejeta Conservancy, a 36,000ha converted cattle ranch, home to the largest rhino population in East Africa.
- "A bull elephant appeared from the bush. Ambling over to the carcass, the immense creature used his tactile trunk to gently caress the bones of his fallen comrade"
- “We were literally running for our lives. If one of us had tripped, there’s nothing we would have been able to do.”
Back then, I was working on a project based at Ol Pejeta that aimed to halt the illegal trade of great apes. I had lodgings and a car, and enjoyed off-road privileges not accorded to visitors. Ol Pejeta hosts the Sweetwaters Chimpanzee Sanctuary, where some of our work was based.
Patricia was here to witness the arrival of Manno, a trafficked chimpanzee we had just rescued from a private zoo in Iraq. Afterwards, we visited Sudan, Najin and Fatu, the last northern white rhinos on Earth, then hit the road again. I wanted to show Patricia a wild dog den I’d recently found.
Bumping across the bush towards the site, we suddenly approached what appeared to be a shallow rain pool. I began slowly driving through it. I’ve clocked up countless miles driving off-road in the African bush, but the invisible, soggy bed of this particular pool caught me off guard, hiding a patch of treacherous black cotton soil. The vehicle bottomed out and ground decisively to a halt.
I decided I’d jack up the front end of the car and find something to put under the front wheels to get more traction and lift it a bit higher. Just as I was placing the jack under the front axle, Patricia yelled. “Dan, an elephant is coming this way!”
I swung around immediately. Sure enough, a curious young female was heading towards us, probably wondering what all the engine revving had been about. About 300 elephants roam Ol Pejeta at any one time, but they usually just ignore people and vehicles.
With no poaching, they are usually quite calm. But as this individual approached, I felt decidedly nervous. After all, she could easily crush our car like a tin can, as one particularly cantankerous bull nicknamed Gaddafi had done in the past.
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I sprinted round to the rear of the car and hopped in through the still-open door. I was terrified the elephant was going to ram us, perhaps as a way to tell us to clear off. She dipped her head, flapped her ears and trundled at us.
The elephant came right up to the car, her leathery trunk waving over the bonnet, her eyes inquisitive, her gigantic ears gently rippling. I gripped the top of the rear seat, while Patricia crouched in the front, terrified.
“What is the elephant doing?” she screamed. I was astonished at what came next.
After pausing for a moment as if to inspect the vehicle, the elephant hooked her tusks under the front bumper – clunk, clunk – and pressed her head against the front of the bonnet.
She gave a massive shove and the car jerked neatly backwards, out of the mud. We were free!
Patricia clapped her hands in delight, her face plastered with relief. I whipped out my phone and, leaning over the back seat, snapped a couple of photos of the elephant.
As she wandered off, I was left incredulous by what had just happened. She had not attacked us but rescued us.
Since that day, I have often wondered what motivated her to do such a thing, lending a helping hand to the strange humans that trundled into her territory.
