A Second Chance at the Wild - Mariam Craig

The weight of my eyelids cascaded down my body. The sun had barely set, but I knew I needed to get to bed. I had slept three hours in the last thirty-six. My body begged for rest, but my mind still buzzed, part nerves, part awe. I was finally here, far from the noise and neon of the city, in the middle of the wild. A place I had imagined for years. A place that held the lives of animals fighting to survive in a world that often forgets them.

I said goodnight to my new family for the next two months and headed towards my quarters. The bright stars shone through the dark night as I strolled my way back. I lethargically followed the imprints of the previous footsteps on the hard earth trail, images of cracked New York City sidewalks flashing in my imagination. Even as I walked through a place teeming with life, acacia trees rustling, an owl cooing, cicadas humming, adult hippos grunting down in their quarters, I felt the weight of the silence, a reminder of how far I’d come and how far I still had to go in learning how to listen to the world around me. I ascended the creaky wooden stairs to my cabin that resembled a Lincoln Log house. I opened the door, immediately slid off my airplane clothes, and dove into my suitcase to grab the thickest sweatpants and sweatshirt I could find. I was told the temperature would drop drastically overnight, and I didn’t want to compromise my first night’s rest. I jumped into bed as if a ghost was chasing me and pulled an itchy blue felt blanket over my body. I rolled onto my side and shut my eyes – finally, sleep! 

After what felt like an eternity of tossing and turning, I couldn’t fall asleep. I lay there, listening to the silence of the wild, my ears aching with confusion. How was it so quiet? How could I feel the echoes of my heart, breath, and thoughts so clearly? Where were the lullabies of the ambulance, fire trucks, and police cars? Where were the angry men screaming after getting tossed out of the bar, the saxophone player on the corner of 7th avenue, the symphony of the cars honking? I turned over to my phone, using my single and only bar of service, searched “New York City nighttime sounds” on YouTube and pressed play. 

Before I knew it, my 6am alarm was blaring in my ears. I had made it through my first night in the bush! 

~

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” The question my beloved kindergarten teacher asked the class at the end of the school year. Most came out with direct answers, something along the lines of, “A doctor, just like my mom!” or “A rockstar, like that cool dude on TV!”. However, young Mariam, her forehead framed by sharp, choppy bangs and a short bob that made her look like a real-life Dora the Explorer, was unlike the others. My dream job was no other than a Zookeeper, documented on the class of 2022 school yearbook page in 2009. I fell in love with the penguins on my first visit to the Central Park Zoo. I can still smell the sharp, salty reek of herring fish as they flopped around in the keeper’s bucket, the sound of her oversized rain boots squeaking with every stomp, and the oohs and aahs coming from the crowd as the penguins jump up to snatch the fish torpedoing through the air. If someone had snapped a photo of me that day, my jaw would have been wide open, just as open as the penguin flying up to grasp his next meal, and my big brown eyes glazed over, in awe of the mouth-eye coordination of the fish. My babysitter tapped me on the shoulder. It was time to pick up my brother from hockey. As we walked away, I kept glancing back at Zoe the keeper, still crouched near the penguin pool, laughing as one nipped at her dark green rubber boot. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to trade places with her.

Growing up, my favorite TV show was consistently some amalgamation of National Geographic. When my brothers and I would sit on the couch after Granny made us her infamous sunny-side-up eggs with runny yolks, griddle-fresh pancakes, and canned sausage links no bigger than bite-size hot dogs, I would always demand for the Nature Channel to be on. Watching a cheetah hunt down a pack of gazelles in the vast Serengeti, the hippos demo their extremely powerful jaw strength, and my favorite, the solo rhinoceros chomping on the grass in the distance as the sun rolls down the hills behind it. I always felt eternally at peace.  

Even though I had my not-so-wild outlets to rely on, I often found myself daydreaming about the untamed ecosystems I’d only seen in documentaries: lush jungles, open savannas, and the complex rhythms of wildlife living freely. I imagined what it would be like to care for animals not in theory, but up close, in the places they truly belonged. The chance that I might ever actually see these creatures outside of the Central Park Zoo seemed nearly impossible, but then I recalled an Urdu phrase my grandfather used to tell my brothers and me when he talked about his unlikely journey to America from a rural village in Pakistan, jahan chaah wahan rah. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ So, taking that to heart, I decided to see if I could find an outlet for my dream of addressing animal conservation. At the age of 16, I reached out to a rhino orphanage, Care For Wild, in South Africa that I learned about through working for a non-profit supporting endangered wildlife in Sub-Saharan Africa the summer before. They needed volunteers, and I was ready. During the summer of 2021, I fed and nurtured orphaned baby rhinos who had lost their mothers due to poaching. Through my experience with Care for Wild, an organization dedicated to rehabilitating and protecting orphaned white and black rhinos, as well as hippos and cheetahs, I deepened my understanding not just of these animals, but of the complex network of threats they face. They operate at the intersection of conservation and community, offering medical care, sanctuary, and long-term support to vulnerable species, while also engaging in education and anti-poaching advocacy. 

As I drove onto the orphanage for the first time, nestled within a larger game reserve in the Mpumalanga region, surrounded by high electric fencing and patrolled by anti-poaching units which consisted of thoroughly trained officers and K-9s, I was greeted by the rolling hills of the camp, tall pale grass, industrial fences, thick air filled with scents of hay, and the earthy aroma of the bush. There was a sense of stillness here, broken by the low grunts and snorts of the rhinos and hippos. Along the unpaved hidden dirt road, we drove past many different sized enclosed encampments, some filled with mud wallows, shaded areas, and hills of soft soil where the calves were rolling and playing. 

Blake, the full-time volunteer and my guide for the day, mentioned, “the rhino encampments go up in size as the rhino ages. On your left, are the five square foot noise-controlled cages that serve as ICUs for freshly orphaned babies, and the larger fenced area to the right is where my favorite cohort of rhino resides – the Magnificent 7 – who range from 2-3 years old. Up top, on the ten square acre fenced in and heavily monitored reserve, is where the Wise 5 reside, who range from 4-5 years old. They are in their last stage of rewilding, forced to find their own food and water.”

We reached the center of the camp, and I stepped out of the truck. Little did I know, it would be the last vehicle with doors, windows, and a roof I would see for two months. I walked into the makeshift ‘office’. The starch smell of hay emanated from each corner of the room and specks of dust floated amidst rays of sun shining through the doorway. The protector farm cat, Jelly, approached my hiking boots and warmed my ankles as I sat listening to the director, Petronel, discuss what I would expect of the next two months. Petronel was small but mighty, with a fierce dedication to endangered animals that often came before her own needs. Raised on a nearby farm, she became acutely aware of the conservation challenges facing her community. In 2011, she channeled that passion into founding Care for Wild, where she and a small team of staff and volunteers began building bomas, enclosures to shelter the growing number of orphaned rhinos. Through tireless work and unshakable determination, Care for Wild has since grown into one of the world’s leading rhino rehabilitation facilities. I can still hear her voice as she described the mission of the orphanage: 

“Every calf that arrives has lost everything, but here, they are given a second chance. It’s an act of love, every single day.”

She went on to lay out my average day: breakfast at 6am, morning feed, cleaning of the night pens and bomas, hay distribution, lunch at 12pm, temperature and biometric tests, afternoon mud baths, a trip to the reserve to monitor the oldest cohort of rhino, and dinner at 6pm, followed by free time. “No two days look the same,” she told me. “Each rhino has different needs, and with poaching threats changing all the time, we have to stay flexible and ready to adapt at a moment’s notice.”

As we began orientation, she insisted I turn off my location services, sign a nondisclosure agreement, and say goodbye to communication with the outside world for the time being. Poaching, specifically the Mpumalanga area, had worsened recently, and they were especially worried that the priceless tracking data, specific rhino statistics, and rewilding information would get leaked to a poacher and their organization would be destroyed. The poaching issue is targeted towards the southern white rhino as they are the most common and have the longest horns which can be sold for up to $60,000 a kilogram. Their horns are made of keratin, the same material that makes up our hair and fingernails and is considered priceless within the illegal wildlife trade. 

At first, I was scared and heartbroken by the depth of the poaching issue, but I was honored they trusted me with high profile information that they have spent years building. The survival of the rhino species depends on the integrity and stability of these organizations that help to rehabilitate orphaned rhinos, dehorn wild rhinos so they no longer are poaching targets, impose security on the borders, and spread awareness about the issues to relevant communities. Petronel mentioned that one rhino is poached every 15 hours, and countless rangers lose their lives trying to fight for this precious species. I knew then that it was my duty to stay committed to protecting this keystone species that plays such an important role in promoting biodiversity and maintaining the health of surrounding ecosystems.

~ 

My alarm is blaring straight into my left ear. I roll over to check the time. 2:57am. Immediately I hop out of bed, slide into my trousers, and lace up my hiking boots, still coated with dust from yesterday’s work on the camp. It’s time to feed Frank.

Frank is the newest orphaned rhino calf in the ICU and requires around-the-clock care and monitoring. He is a southern white rhino, one of around 17,000 left in the world. As we were informed by the anti-poaching unit, Frank was found near the border of the Kruger National Park, curled in the crevice of his dead mother’s stomach and hind legs, covered in her blood, attempting to find warmth and shelter. His mother was shot twice; the first bullet ripped through the left side of her abdomen and the second through her right shoulder. She bled to death and her face was unrecognizable, sinuses exposed and horn macheted off to be sold on the black market.

Rhino calves, like human infants, depend on their mothers for fresh milk. They nurse until they are almost 17 months old and live with mothers for up to four years. Without maternal protection, calves are completely defenseless and will die from starvation, dehydration, or attacks from predators such as lions and hyenas. 

At the next group meeting, Petronel mentioned they needed another volunteer to help care for Frank. When I first arrived at the orphanage in South Africa, I had no idea what to expect. I knew nothing about taking care of another being, let alone the complex, 6-ton species commonly known as the rhinoceros. I was ignorant on so many levels, and the youngest volunteer the orphanage had ever had – a 17-year-old from New York City with barely any wild experience. I held onto the fact that I was here to learn, and I had one passion: to explore and expand my interest and care for wildlife. Working alongside me were seasoned vets, quite literally, veterinarians, that have spent their entire life fighting against the gruesome reality of the poaching and endangerment of this precious species. In times where I felt the common imposter syndrome – am I doing enough? Do I have the qualifications for this? Will I just mess things up and make things worse? – I grounded myself in my reason for choosing to embark on this magical journey: to connect with the wild I had spent years dreaming about. 

So, I took a leap of faith and stepped forward to help feed Frank so I could learn first-hand how the orphan recovery process works and experience hands-on intensive training. While in the ICU, the new calves wear earplugs and blindfolds, as they are filled with anxiety and nerves. After his first week at the orphanage, Frank became accustomed to Blake, Julia, and my voices, footsteps, scents, and hand sizes. Rhinos detect scents up to half a mile and sound up to five kilometers away, so Frank soon adapted to our mannerisms. The first time I touched Frank, I could feel his heartbeat pounding through his thick skin like a drum. His five square foot boma smelled of dung and hay. On entering the boma, I’d been bothered by the smell, but at this moment, listening to the slight cries of Frank, it was the only constant sensation and slightly comforting. My job was to prepare his warm formula-made milk and feed it to him while Blake and Julia took his temperature, weight, and pulled his blood to test other biometric markers. I would start by putting the bottle in front of his mouth and gently touching his face with it. He was at first confused because he could not see, but once the nipple entered his mouth, his lips immediately suctioned onto the bottle and grasped it for dear life. On finishing his first gallon of milk, which he did within milliseconds on those morning feeds, the young rhino would let out a cry that sounded uncannily like that of a human baby. Frank’s skin was rough and scaly, like the bark of an oak tree and 25 times as thick as my own, composed of countless lattice layers of collagen to add further protection against predator attacks, sunburns, and to regulate his body temperature – it was Frank’s shield of armor protecting him from the outside, intimidating world. 

The people at the orphanage consisted of volunteers and full-timers. During my time there, I was the only volunteer who stayed longer than a week, which gave me the chance to form meaningful relationships with the full-time staff. One of the people I grew closest to was Blake, a charismatic 25-year-old with a warm South African accent and an easy confidence, always finding a way to bring humor and energy into even the toughest days. After a long day out on the camp, he always insisted that we make a fire for s’mores, often turning into story telling of what he did on his latest vacation week as the full-timers had one week off every 8 weeks. 

Though we made fun of him, Blake was a silent leader and led with his unwavering dedication to the endangered species and threatened ecosystems. In addition to his unrealistic and unrelatable party stories, he often told stories of spending countless hours attempting to understand the marvelous rhino species, as understanding their behavior is vital to properly assess their unique needs. This knowledge was essential for him to provide a suitable diet for Lomshiyo, a rhino calf that was unable to swallow whole food and was in danger of dying of starvation. He created a special formula for her food consisting of milk powder, ground rhino pellets (basically dog food), and water, which he fed to her by hand. Through his ability to pinpoint Lomshiyo’s trauma, he was able to increase her weight to above average for her age and alleviate burdens, ensuring the rhino’s emotional well-being alongside her physical recovery.  

The volunteers that came each week ranged from Evan, an animal lover from England who had heard about this organization through the marathon he ran benefitting endangered species, to Ashley and Tina, middle-aged twins who resembled the Kardashians before their boatloads of plastic surgery. They made it known that they abandoned their husbands on a glorious safari to volunteer at the orphanage, after hearing about it from a charming ranger on a game drive. On the third night, we waited anxiously at the firepit for them to finish with their 10-minute at home Pilates routine to hear their glamorous couples vacation stories: ranging from tea ceremonies in Tokyo to the Northern Lights in Iceland. By the end of their week, I recognized the critical role they played in keeping this orphanage alive, donating and encouraging others to do the same. The week after they left, Ashley and Tina donated enough money for all the guards to receive stipends for their families, and we got an extra shipment of the previously scarce watermelon for Daisy and Doodle to chomp on with their extremely powerful bite force – almost 1,800 pounds per square inch. 

By the end of my two months, the space I felt most comfortable was inside Frank’s boma, watching him graze on the fresh lucerne I had patted down, after his mid-day cooling mud bath. The once jarring smell of rhino dung, hay, and formula was as comforting as fresh pancakes on the griddle on a Sunday morning; most importantly, I was no longer a stranger to Frank – he recognized my smell, voice, and habits. He always chose to come say hi to me first, made the most loving snorts while I fed him, and cried when I wasn’t present for his daily checkup. It was like the feeling of making a baby laugh for the first time, their eyes interlocked with yours, unable to communicate real words, yet a common heartwarming feeling shared. 

~

“Final call for flight 1879 to New York-Kennedy. Door’s closing.” I glanced down at my boarding pass just fast enough to see some combination of 1, 8, 7 and 9. My heart tightens. I sprint to my gate, panting by the time I arrive. I make it to my seat - 56G - and settle in. The captain announces, “Flight time 17 hours and 11 minutes.” Oh boy. This will be a long one. It is my first time seeing a screen in a month and sitting for more than a 30-minute-long meal. 

I am entranced by the production happening around me. A father helping his daughter lift her luggage into the overhead compartment, a 4-year-old mesmerized by his iPad and headphones, and a group of women yapping about their latest safari adventure and how displeased they were that they did not see a rhino on their trip. I begin to take note of all the technology, machinery, and lack of wild around me. I reach into my bag for my book – a hopeful distraction from this juxtaposition of lives I have lived today. As I reach my arm under the seat into my backpack, I pull out my trusty book. I open to my bookmarked page, and immediately, my heart drops. A hunk of lucerne falls onto my lap. A tear rolls down my left cheek – slower than Frank on a hot mid-summer day. I pull the hunk up to my nose, inhaling the fond memories of laughing until my stomach hurts while cleaning Frank’s boma, weekly greetings from Herb with our shipments of hay, and the feeling of taking off my dust-filled socks after a long day on the camp. Frank taught me more about resilience than I ever expected. I hope one day he’ll roam free, strong and safe, in the wild he was born into.