Death Sets With The Sun In Botswana's Chobe National Park

On the banks of the Chobe River, an elephant mourning ritual shows that the cycle of life and death has never been so raw.

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The bones are loose and barely holding together. The meat and sinew have all but disappeared. What little is left threatens to slip away at any moment, taking what remains of the little elephant and scattering it along the river bank,  letting it slip into the water, letting it melt away.

There's a sense the other elephant knows this. Though he uses his trunk to jostle and even toss what is left of the baby's remains, there's a gentle urgency to it. Wake up. Wake up now and you won't be left to fragment. Wake up and you won't be reduced to crumbs.

I am intruding. There is an intimacy here between the living and the dead that's palatable. This is a private moment. While our safari vehicle is a safe distance away - respectable, even - I feel awkward, embarrassed by our proximity, ashamed by how hungrily I suck back the scene. If asked, I would use my interest in nature as a shield. Exactly how often does one see an elephant mourning ritual? Perhaps if I cling to this I'll feel better about the moisture which goes everywhere save for my parched mouth.

​The sun is starting to set. In less than an hour the park will be black. I am haunted by this jumbled-up pile of bones and by this adult who won't mosey on. I want to scream at it to move lest it spend all night next to a corpse, easy pickings for predators and ghosts alike. But its grief is a glue.

A distant passage I once read awakens in my mind, like a lazy cat indulging in a luxurious stretch after a very long nap. "Her face was like stone." It takes me more than a year to place it. It's from Bruce Northam's Globetrotter Dogma: 100 Canons For Escaping The Rat Race and Exploring The World and it reads:

​"While visiting a hospital in Delhi, India, I observed a mother carrying her dead infant down a long dim hallway, out the front door of the hospital, and into her gruesomely impoverished neighborhood. Her face was like stone."

The beauty of Botswana's Chobe National Park contains an embarrassment of riches. It is a lifetime of journeys away from the grim hospital and tableau of death Northam observed decades earlier. But his words about grief won't leave me. I can hear them in the elephant's gentle grunting breath.

Her face was like stone. Her face was like stone. Her face was like stone.