Travels by Michael Crichton
* * *
Ten years after my trip to Pahang, I wrote these notes in Los Angeles. Then I changed clothes and went to an exercise class.
In class I noticed I had put on the same blue tee shirt that I had worn in the jungle a decade before, when the bees had covered me. I had always been fond of this tee shirt, now much faded. It was one of the oldest articles of clothing I owned.
When I got home, I threw it out.
Enough is enough. One way I control myself is to hang on to things too long. My past is too present in my life. So I threw the tee shirt out. It seemed a step in the right direction.
An Elephant Attacks
In 1975, Loren and I were staying at the Craig Farm, a sixty-square-mile preserve in northern Kenya. She and I had met the year before, and we were now in the middle of a passionate romance. A trip to Africa seemed a fine idea. We had gone to the Craig Farm because I wanted to walk among the animals, which is illegal in the government game preserves.
I’d studied anthropology in college, and, after so many years of academic work, I hoped to have firsthand experience, however brief, of what it must have been like to be a primitive hunter on the African savanna. I imagined myself stalking wild beasts, getting dangerously close to them, until I could see the muscles quiver beneath the skin, and could observe their behavior intimately. Then, at some unknown signal—perhaps my own error, the snap of a dry twig—skittish heads would jerk up in alarm, they would look around in fright, and they would thunder away.
Well, it wasn’t like that at all.
The animals saw me from a quarter of a mile away, and calmly moved off. If I stalked them, they moved a little farther. I was never able to get within a quarter mile from them. I was never able to see them worried, let alone alarmed. Their heads never jerked up. Instead, they would glance over from time to time in a bored way, notice my pathetic stalking, and move off.
William Craig, who walked with me, explained that each animal maintained a characteristic distance from man. It was a kind of invisible perimeter; if you came within it, the animal simply moved until the distance was re-established. For most animals it was a fraction of a mile.
We spent the day hiking on open plains, among zebras and giraffes and antelopes, with the snowy peak of Mount Kenya rising in the background. It was quite exciting, but frustrating, too.
Clearly, to sneak up on a giraffe (as I had seen pygmies do, in movies) was far more difficult than I had imagined. Giraffes were not as dumb as they looked; they had excellent eyesight, and they tended to cluster with zebras, animals that had an excellent sense of smell.
I began to realize that stalking animals was a skill rather like pole vaulting—it looked easy when others did it, but if you tried it yourself you were in for a surprise.
Nothing turned out the way I expected it to be that day. I found that zebras gallop like horses, but bark like dogs: that bark is their characteristic sound. And we didn’t see a great variety of game. No elephants or lions or really exciting animals.
And all the animals seemed maddeningly indifferent to my presence. I didn’t frighten them; I bored them. Actually, it was a little insulting. I took everything that happened that day personally, and the animals in their natural setting seemed so impersonal—so fundamentally uninterested in me.
It was in this frame of mind that I returned to Lamu Downs Camp in the evening, to spend my first night under the African stars. I had never camped before, except one night at the age of eleven in the Nassau County Boy Scout Camp on Long Island. That was a far cry from Africa.
The Craigs showed Loren and me how everything was set up, the camp beds, the hissing gas lanterns, the open-air shower attached to the back of the tent, and so forth. It was all quite luxurious. I felt very comfortable.
Then we had dinner in the mess tent, and the Craigs talked about their ranch and the animals found there. They were concerned, because, although this was the dry season, the drought had gone on for a long time, and the elephants had disappeared. They usually had quite a few elephants on the ranch, they said, but the elephants hadn’t been seen for weeks now. We talked and ate as darkness fell.
When dinner was finished, Loren and I headed back toward our tent. It was now very dark. I found that a few more questions had occurred to me. One was about wild animals. The same wild animals I had been unable to approach during the day might, I suspected, come and visit me in the night.
The Craigs laughed. No, no, they said, animals never entered the campground at night. Of course, there was the time they woke up in the morning and found a big rhino asleep in the embers of the fire from the night before, but that was unusual.
How unusual? I wanted to know.
I hadn’t yet noticed the easy way these people simultaneously gave reassurance and took it away.
Very unusual, they said. You were almost never bothered by animals. Of course, you had the occasional monkey screeching in the trees, keeping you awake, that sort of thing. But not animals on the ground, no.
By now my concerns had shifted. The fabric of my tent looked flimsy as I imagined a sleeping rhino just outside. Would an animal ever enter the tent?
Oh no, they said. Of course, there was the time that leopard clawed right through the tent fabric, scaring the hell out of the lady inside. She woke up shrieking, frightened the cat off. But there had been something peculiar about that incident. They couldn’t remember what, exactly. People had food in the tent, or the woman was having her period—anyway, something peculiar. It wasn’t as if a leopard would just come up and claw your tent for no reason.
Really? I asked.
Really, the Craigs said, wearying of their own game. Really, there aren’t animals around the camp at night. Animals don’t like to be around people and they won’t come near. Anyway, see these lanterns?
They pointed to three hurricane lanterns spaced around the tents. The lanterns were lit all night, they explained, and the light kept the animals away. Count on it. Never any animals around the tents. Now, you see the stream over there? Sometimes you find the odd animal on the far side of the stream. But never over on this side, where the tents and the lanterns and the people were.
Have a good sleep, they said cheerfully, and said good night.
Loren and I zipped up our tent and went to bed.
Loren had camped a lot in her childhood and was relaxed about sleeping in the woods in a tent. I, on the other hand, was far too nervous to sleep. I read for a while, hoping to become sleepy.
I remained wide awake, listening for sounds outside.
There weren’t any sounds outside. It was completely quiet. A cicada, a gust of wind blowing lightly through the acacia trees. Otherwise silence.
On the cot across the tent, Loren rolled away from the light. I watched her shoulder rise and fall rhythmically. I thought, She can’t really be going to sleep, just like that.
“Hey!” I whispered. “Are you going to sleep?”
“It’s night, isn’t it?”
“Are you tired?”
“Just go to sleep, Michael.”
“I’m not tired!” I whispered.
“Just close your eyes and pretend you are.”
I heard something outside, a sound of some kind.
“Hey! Did you hear that?”
“It’s nothing. I’m going to sleep, Michael.”
Pretty soon Loren was snoring. I envied her effortless drift to unconsciousness.
I, on the other hand, had to urinate.
I ignored the urge. There was no way I was going outside the tent at night. Anyway, the latrine tent was all the way across the camp.
As time went on, I found I couldn’t ignore the urge. I was going to have to do something. I looked under the bed to see if there was a chamber pot. These people were British, you never knew. No chamber pot. I inspected the zippered flaps to see if there was any way I could do it without leaving the tent. There wasn’t any way.
By now I had a voice saying, Oh, for God’s sake, M
And another voice was saying, Look, you don’t have to go far. Just about three feet outside, and you can do it right there. And think how much better you’ll feel afterward!
Because by now the urge was intense. So I pulled on my sneakers, unzipped the tent, held my breath, and stuck my head out.
The night was pitch black. The lanterns they had promised to keep on all night had gone out. And it wasn’t even midnight!
I felt like a cartoon character, with my head sticking out of the tent, neck muscles straining with tension, waiting, listening, looking.…
At nothing. There was nothing out there. No sounds, no animals, no nothing. My eyes became accustomed to the darkness and I still saw nothing at all. I realized I had been holding my breath. I leapt out, moved just beyond the tent ropes, relieved myself, dashed back inside, and zipped up the flap behind me.
Safe!
I looked around the tent. Loren was sleeping, breathing softly. It amazed me that she could do this. She was sleeping as easily as if she were in a nice secure hotel room somewhere.
I envied her, but, on the other hand, it was important for somebody to stay alert, out here in the bush. I turned out the light and lay on my back, wide awake, listening to the sounds. There still were none.
It was absolutely quiet. And it was almost midnight.
Despite myself, I was beginning to feel drowsy when suddenly I heard a distinct dry crack. It was the sound of a branch breaking underfoot. Then I heard a crashing sound. Something large moving through dry brush.
It sounded to me like an elephant.
Very near.
Loren still slept peacefully.
I listened some more. There was silence for a while, and then I heard the crashing again. The crashing sound had a lazy rhythm, exactly like an elephant moving. Anyway, whatever it was, it was damned big, and damned close.
I listened a while longer, and when I couldn’t stand it any more, I whispered, “Hey! Are you asleep?”
“Uhhhh,” she said sleepily, rolling onto her back.
“Hey,” I said, “listen! There’s something out there!”
She was instantly awake, sitting up on one elbow in alarm. “Where?”
“Out there! Outside! Something big! It sounds like an elephant.”
She collapsed back on the bed. “Oh, Michael. You heard what they said. They haven’t seen any elephants for weeks.”
“Well, listen!”
We listened together, for a long time.
“I don’t hear anything.” She sounded annoyed. “Why are we whispering?” she said, now speaking in a normal voice.
“I swear to you,” I said in a normal voice. “I heard something.”
Just then the crashing sound came again. Very distinct and loud.
Loren sat bolt upright, whispered, “What do you think it is?”
I whispered, “An elephant!”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.” Actually, trying to see the source of the sounds had not occurred to me before. “I don’t think we can. The lanterns have all blown out. It’s pitch black out there.”
“Use the flashlight.” We had a powerful flashlight in the tent.
“Okay. Where is it?”
“Right by the bed.”
“Okay.”
More crashing sounds. Unless my ears were playing tricks on me, the source of those sounds was now very close, only a few feet away.
I crept up to the zipper with the flashlight. I opened a little air ventilation flap that was covered with mesh mosquito netting and shone the light out. But the light reflected off the netting. I could see nothing.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“You have to open the zipper!”
“Not a chance.”
“What are you, afraid?”
“Yes!”
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll do it.”
She got out of bed, took the flashlight, and crawled to the front flap. She unzipped the tent from the bottom about six inches.
More crashing outside.
“Sounds close,” she whispered, hesitating.
I waited.
She unzipped it six more inches, and shone the light outside for a few seconds, then zipped the tent shut and clicked the light off.
“Well?” I asked.
“I didn’t see anything. I don’t think there’s anything out there.”
“Then what’s making the noise?”
The crashing noise, the branches cracking, still continued. Still close.
“I don’t think it’s anything,” Loren said. “It’s the wind.”
“It’s not the wind,” I said.
“Okay, then, you look.”
I took the flashlight. I approached the zipper. I listened again to the intermittent crashing sounds.
“What do you think it is?” she said, listening.
“I think it’s an elephant,” I said.
“But you heard what they said, it can’t be an elephant. It must be something else, a big bird in the trees or something.”
I unzipped the tent a full three feet, and shone the light out. The round beam shot into blackness. I swung it around. I saw the branches of trees. Then I saw some kind of round brown shape in the beam, with furry things hanging down in front of the round thing. I couldn’t make it out at first.
Then I realized: I was looking at an enormous eye. The furry things were eyelashes. The elephant was so close his eye filled the flashlight beam. He was just ten feet away from me. He was huge. He was eating brush and grasses.
“It’s a goddamn elephant,” I whispered, snapping off the beam. I felt strangely calm.
“You’re kidding!” she whispered. “An elephant? You saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you turn off the light?”
“I don’t want to upset him.”
I was thinking the elephant might not like having a light shone in his eye. I didn’t want him angry, or confused, and trampling the tent. I didn’t know anything about elephant emotions, but this one seemed calm right now, and there was no point in changing that.
Loren jumped out of bed and took the flashlight. “Let me see. Where is he?”
“Don’t worry, you can’t miss him.”
She shone the light out the tent. Her body went rigid. “He’s right here.”
“I told you.” I couldn’t help it; I had been right all along; there had been an elephant.
“But what about how they never cross the river and all that?”
“I don’t know, but I know there’s a huge elephant right outside our tent.”
“What’re we going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think he’ll hurt us? I don’t think he’ll hurt us.” Loren had a habit of raising a question and resolving it for herself without waiting for assistance or disagreement.
“I have no idea what he’ll do.”
“Should we try to get away?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t think we should leave the tent.”
“Maybe out the back, where the shower is?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We could shout for help—the other tents are just across the way.”
“Shouting might upset him,” I said. “Anyway, what would we say?”
“We’d say, There’s an elephant outside our tent!”
“And what would they do?”
“I don’t know, but they must know what to do when there’s an elephant outside the tourists’ tent.”
“I think shouting could make him nervous.”
“Maybe we can scare him away.”
“He’s a lot bigger than we are.”
“Then what can we d
All the time we were discussing plans, the elephant was peacefully crashing around in the underbrush outside the tent, eating and moving around in his slow, ponderous way. The elephant didn’t seem upset. And all our options for action seemed unworkable.
I got into bed.
“What’re you doing?” she said.
“Going to bed.” I was calm.
“Just like that? With a dangerous elephant right outside?”
“There’s nothing we can do about him,” I said, “so we might as well go to sleep.”
And I did. I fell asleep almost immediately, listening to the elephant crashing around in the brush outside.
The next morning, after breakfast, I said, “By the way, I noticed an elephant outside my tent last night.”
Oh no, they told me. That couldn’t be. Elephants haven’t been seen for some time because of the drought, and, anyway, animals never cross to this side of the river.
“Well, he was right outside my tent.”
There was an awkward silence. The tenderfoot explorer, however misinformed, is still paying the bills, and politeness must be maintained. Someone coughed, asked if I might have been mistaken.
“No,” I said. “It was an elephant all right. A big one.”
“Well,” my courier, Mark Warwick, a brilliant twenty-three-year-old naturalist, said, “let’s have a look, shall we?”
We all went over and inspected the ground outside my tent. There were plenty of elephant droppings, which are hard to miss, and there were circular footprints in the soft earth. Each print was the size of a large serving platter.
“What do you know,” they said. “There was an elephant here last night!”
“Damned big one, too,” someone else said.
“Came right up to the tent, too. Didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”
Oh no, I said. No trouble.
“Sleep all right and so forth?”
Oh yes, slept fine, I said. Didn’t bother me at all.
* * *
And the truth was, I had slept well, when I finally stopped worrying. I was impressed with the instantaneous flip in my own emotional state, from a barely controlled hysteria to a detached calm once I saw the giant eye. How had that happened?