Travels (23 page)

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, Michael, pull yourself together. What are you afraid of? The dark? What do you think is out there? You’re being ridiculous. It’s a good thing Loren is asleep or she would really lose respect for you, a grown man afraid to go out of his tent at night to pee!

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 do?” she asked.

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?

For a long time I felt it was because I am a practical person who, faced with an elephant outside his tent, examines all the possibilities—to run away, to call for help, to scare the elephant off—and, having rejected them all, sensibly decides to go to sleep.

But later I realized that we are all like that. We all can work ourselves into a hysterical panic over possibilities that we won’t look at. What if I have cancer? What if my job is at risk? What if my kids are on drugs? What if I’m getting bald? What if an elephant is outside my tent?

What if I am faced with some terrible thing that I don’t know how to deal with?

And that hysteria always goes away the instant we are willing to hear the answer. Even if the answer is what we feared all along. Yes, you have cancer. Yes, your kids are on drugs. Yes, there is an elephant outside your tent.

Now the question becomes, What are you going to do about it? Subsequent emotions may not be pleasant, but the hysteria stops. Hysteria accompanies an unwillingness to look at what is really going on; it promotes an unwillingness to look. We feel we are afraid to look, when actually it is not-looking that makes us afraid. The minute we look, we cease being afraid.

Knowing in advance what you are going to do about something is not so easy. I remember in 1968 I was getting ready to dive off a boat in the Virgin Islands, and some man was putting on all this equipment. I was interested, because the man was a diving instructor, and instructors don’t usually carry a lot of equipment. Finally he strapped a knife on his calf. All my life I had been seeing divers strapping on knives, and I never understood why.

I said, “Excuse me, but why do you carry a knife?”

“Oh,” he said, “you know. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“You know. In case something happens.”

“Like what?”

“Like you get your lines fouled, and have to cut yourself free.”

“How would that happen?”

“Oh, like in a wreck. Diving in a wreck, you get your lines fouled.”

“But there aren’t any wrecks here.”

“I know, but a knife is still good to have. You see something nice, a piece of coral or whatever, you cut it free and bring it back.”

“This is a protected undersea park; you can’t take anything.”

“I know, but there’re other reasons, too.”

“Like what?”

“Defense.”

“Defense against what?”

“Whatever’s down there. Say, sharks.”

This was a little knife with a nine-inch blade. I tried to imagine the undersea battle. “This knife would help you fight off a shark?”

“Damn right.”

“You think it would cut the skin? Sharks have pretty tough skin.”

“Oh yeah, sure. It would cut the skin.”