But beneath this outward appearance of dormancy and difficulty, an entire ecosystem is flourishing. This month, I would like to explore our land of polarities.

– Angela Sheldrick

Kenya is a land of polarities. Time is divided by two: the rainy season and the dry season, abundance and scarcity, greens and beiges, ease and struggle, beginnings and endings.

Nature willing, this transformation unfolds twice a year. The dry seasons typically run from January to March and July to October, while the rains — again, nature willing — fall in between.

And thus, twice a year, Kenya experiences a seismic transformation. No corner of nature is unaffected: Habitats change and habits change. The victors of one season struggle through the next. The country’s entire colour palette is repainted. Even the soundtrack switches, from a cacophony of chirping birds, buzzing insects, and croaking frogs to the still sound of survival.

As I write this, we are nearing the end of the long dry season. Mercifully, this has not been a drought year, nor even a particularly harsh dry spell, but we always feel the absence of rain keenly. In terms of field emergencies, April, May, and June were not exactly dormant, but they certainly brought a lull. No orphans were rescued, human-wildlife conflict was minimal, and veterinary treatments were no more than business-as-usual.

But come late August, the proverbial switch flipped. As habitats across Kenya steadily dried out, their largest residents started to struggle. Elephants may be Africa’s greatest creatures, but they are also among the most susceptible to times of want. Nature has made them fragile — no doubt to compensate for the lack of threats they would face in an ideal world, unaltered by human activities. They require huge quantities of food to sustain themselves and must drink water at least every 2-3 days.

Their quest for food and water is what usually leads elephants into trouble. This is through no fault of their own; they are only following a deeply rooted drive for survival. But during the dry season, elephants are more likely to venture outside of protected areas in search of an easy feast, or to take a risk in order to access water. Some of our most recent field operations, including the translocation of a bull who had travelled onto community land and the truly harrowing rescue of a mum and baby who had fallen into a well, bear testament to this fact.

And again, this year is a dry season — not a drought. In other words, everything is business as usual. Kenya’s wildlife are perfectly honed to navigate the changing seasons, weathering periods of want and taking advantage of times of bounty.

For all their vulnerabilities, elephants have the intelligence to navigate the dry season. Their brains are their strength. Matriarchs and elder bulls have the routes to reliable water sources etched deep within their minds, even if it is only the distant memory of a waterhole they visited as a calf.

When in doubt, they rely on their remarkable sense of smell. Studies show that African elephants have the best sense of smell of any animal. They have the largest number of olfactory receptor genes — five times as many as humans and more than twice that of dogs.

Elephants use their olfactory assets to their advantage. Their trunks are able to locate water from many miles away or even below the surface of the earth. When fresh water is scarce, they use their feet, tusks, and trunks to unearth subterranean springs. This, in turn, creates pools for smaller animals that would be unable to access water on their own.

Of course, elephants are but one among a myriad of species who also must navigate the changing seasons. Buffalos, zebras, and antelope congregate in the hundreds around watering points. Giraffes, who are more solitary during the rains, gather in greater numbers.

While herbivores struggle during the dry season, predators thrive. With a proliferation of game concentrated around water sources, lions have a veritable buffet of localised prey. During the rains, animals disperse, and it is much more difficult to catch a good meal. The majority of predator emergencies we respond to — starvation cases or human-wildlife conflict — occur during the rains.

I am most fascinated by the unlikely stars of the dry season — creatures who are perfectly adapted to weather periods of want. Take the gerenuk, an elegant antelope recognisable for its very long, slender neck. (Fittingly, its name means “giraffe-necked” in Somali.) They can go their entire lives without drinking water, instead getting the hydration they need from the plants they eat. While other antelopes struggle mightily during the dry season, gerenuks flourish.

Another favourite star of the dry season is the sandgrouse. Unlike the gerenuk, they are heavily reliant on water — but have adapted magnificently to their circumstances. While the female watches over the nest, the male sandgrouse is responsible for collecting water for his wife and chicks. Thanks to ingeniously curled belly feathers that absorb and retain liquid, he can ferry water amounting to about 15 percent of his body weight back to his thirsty family. A sandgrouse may fly upwards of 20 miles in a single day on this special mission.

It might be tempting to paint the dry season in a negative light, but there is great beauty in its severity. Look closer and you will see a finely-tuned ecosystem at work. The parched red earth is not an endless expanse, but a remarkable map. Thin pathways chart the surest course to water, etched through time by generations of elephants. All manner of creatures traverse these arteries, driven by the same quest for survival. Lazy rivers are still alive with romping hippos, opportunistic crocodiles, and a constant stream of wildlife sipping from their shores.

There is even beauty in the naked baobab. Its barren branches are not a sign of struggle, but a symbol of resilience. As a succulent, the baobab absorbs and stores water within its mighty trunk. Its moisture-rich bark and nutrient-dense fruit provide a vital source of food and water for countless creatures during the dry season, from the smallest lizards to the largest elephants.

It is only fitting, then, that the ‘tree of life’ — as the baobab is called — portends the changing of the seasons. In Kenya, our elders say that a flowering baobab indicates that rain is on the way. Soon, we will look to its omnipotent branches, hoping for the promise of rain. But until then, we marvel at Kenya’s dry season in all its glorious severity.