An Elephant Never Forgets

A human hand with bracelets reaches out to touch an elephant's trunk.

- written by Joyce

One afternoon, while observing a group of male elephants south of Observation Hill, I noticed a young bull break away from the others. His name was Vladimir, and he was eighteen years old at the time. Instead of continuing on with the group, he walked directly toward my car and stopped beside it, so close that the tip of one tusk rested only a few centimetres from my window.

On impulse, I slowly reached out and touched the end of his tusk, acutely aware of the risk. Vladimir could easily have done some damage had he chosen to do so. Instead, he responded with remarkable calm. He gently opened and closed his eyes, again and again, as if relaxing into the encounter. I remembers the smooth, cool surface of the ivory beneath her palm, the long lashes framing his eyes, and the warm amber colour of his gaze as I looked up at him.

We remained like that briefly, until Vladimir began to edge closer, moving so gradually it was almost imperceptible. Eventually, his tusk extended inside my car. At that point, he allowed me to press gently against him, guiding his immense body — more than 4,500 kilograms — back until I could no longer reach him. I let go.

Moments later, Vladimir moved forward again, slowly and deliberately, until his tusk touched the car’s side mirror. The sharp sound of ivory against glass startled him, and he stepped away.

From then on, whenever I encountered Vladimir, I would call to him. Each time, he altered his path to approach her, standing quietly as she touched his tusks and ran her hand along the deeply textured skin of his trunk.

On one occasion, while Vladimir and I were absorbed in one of these close exchanges, I became aware that we were being watched. Norah and Soila observed from their vehicle on one side, while a group of Vladimir’s elephant companions stood nearby on the other. I found myself wondering if both groups were thinking the same thing — how strange it must seem for one human and one elephant to be so focused on each other.

Eventually, the other elephants began to move toward the swamp. Vladimir lingered briefly, then followed. After walking a short distance, he stopped and produced a low rumble that, to me, sounded unmistakably like an invitation - as if he were saying, let’s go. I followed.

I drove past him, stopped ahead, and waited. Vladimir approached again, allowing me to touch his trunk and tusks before continuing on. Then he paused, rumbled softly, and appeared to call back. This sequence repeated itself again and again, all the way to the edge of the swamp — a distance of nearly a kilometer.

I felt certain he was asking me to come with him. Eventually, still rumbling, Vladimir disappeared into the papyrus, where I could follow no farther. I turned to Norah and Soila and asked if they had heard him. “Yes,” they replied. “It sounded like a ‘lets-go-rumble.’”

And I have often wondered since — if that was indeed what Vladimir meant, what he and his companions made of that moment, when one of them seemed to invite one of us into their world.

Due to a variety of circumstances, after 1991 I did not see Vladimir for 12 years. When I met him again with Petter in May, 2003 he was a 34-year-old-male and, with his grown-up appearance and new tears in his ears, I hardly recognized him. But there was something about the way he moved that told me that this was my old friend.

We drove nearby, stopped the car (a car that was new to him) and I called his name. Vladimir left his path and came deliberately over to the car and walked by, almost rubbing his side on the car. I circled again, parked and called his name. This time he walked up to my window and allowed me to touch his trunk and tusks just as I had done 12 years before.