Paris Franz

They all step forward, old hands and newbies alike, as the doors open and the ramp lowers. It’s an understandable impulse, but Lindsay has learnt that crowding around at this stage of the operation is not a good idea and she waves the others back. Much better to stand back and let the mahout, a wiry wizard of a man, work his magic.

She can hear his whispers of encouragement coming from the interior of the long dark truck, to which she adds her own.

“Come on,” she says. “Come on. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

Coaxing a traumatised elephant out of the truck can be a long and laborious business, but that’s all right. She has learnt the virtues of patience during her time at the sanctuary. She adjusts her feet and waits, oblivious to the beads of sweat running down her back. It’s the rainy season in the hills of northern Thailand. She’s supposed to be sweating.

After a moment or three, she spots movement inside the truck. The mahout appears, jumping nimbly down on to the dirt track, and behind him she spots the elephant’s trunk as it reaches out. She is reminded of a submarine’s telescope, scanning for evidence of the enemy.

The elephant is young, about four years old. They’ve decided to call him Tully, after the American businessman who put up the money for his purchase. For his rescue. Tully is thin and unsteady, and makes his way down the ramp with an exaggerated caution. His eyes have opened, she is relieved to see, and the cuts on his head have finally stopped bleeding. She wants to rush up to him, but she knows she mustn’t. Not yet. He’s not used to kindness.

It was one of the first things she learnt when she first arrived at the sanctuary as a volunteer six months before. Don’t approach the elephants without their mahout being present, and don’t crowd the newcomers. For, much like a human, an abused elephant will sometimes lash out, and she can’t help but feel they are perfectly entitled to do so.

If someone stuck me in a cage and tortured me for a week to curb my spirit, I’d be pissed too, she thinks.

A family group, three females and a baby, are standing near the river. She catches the moment when Tully spots them. His agitated swaying, thankfully less severe than when they had first seen him on the beach at Pattaya, performing tricks for tourists, slows and he starts to move towards them. His movements are jerky; he has rarely been without chains and he hasn’t got the hang of moving freely, but he’s stubborn. He stops a little short of the small group, suddenly hesitant, leaving it to the other elephants to make the first move. They do, rumbling a greeting and moving to include him.

The baby, a six-month old female, investigates the newcomer with all the fearlessness of the very young. Tully is clearly bemused, and Lindsay smiles. Unlike Tully, the baby has never been, and will never be, subject to the horror of the phajaan, the week-long ritual whereby young elephants are torn from the mothers and tortured into submission. She hasn’t learnt to fear.

With the adults shielding him, the youngsters playing with him, and the humans who want only to feed him bananas and wash him in the river, maybe Tully will forget.

But, of course, elephants never forget.