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Authors: Lawrence Anthony,Graham Spence

The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (5 page)

BOOK: The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild
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Eventually after a long, hot, thirsty and frustratingly empty day, the sun dipped below the horizon, and we stopped. Nobody looks for elephant stumbling around a thorn jungle at night. Tracking the animals in the thick stuff during daylight is bad enough; in the dark it’s suicide.
Reluctantly I called off the search and Peter agreed to fly again the next day.
We arrived home bedraggled and despondent and flopped onto the lawn in front of the house. Françoise came out and took over, issuing instructions for food and handing out ice-cold beers.
We were exhausted. But a hearty meal followed by a soaking hot bath does wonders for morale, and an hour
later I wandered out onto the open verandah, sitting beneath the stars, trying to make sense of it all.
My Staffordshire bull terrier Max followed me. He was a magnificent specimen of the breed, forty pounds of brawn and muscle. I had got him as a just-weaned puppy and from that first moment he had tottered after me with unconditional devotion. His pedigree name was Boehringer of Alfa Laval, but Max suited him just fine. He would have been a trophy winner at shows except for one physical flaw: he had only one testicle. Which I thought was ironic – Max had more cojones than any creature I knew, man or beast. He was absolutely fearless.
And yet, he was an absolute pushover with children, who could pull his ears and poke his eyes and get nothing but a sloppy lick in return.
Max flopped at my feet, tail thumping on the floor. He seemed to sense my dismay, nudging me with his wet nose.
Stroking his broad head, I mulled over the day. What had possessed the herd to smash through two electrified fences? Why had the Ovambos made such a careless mistake with their tracking? Why had they then abandoned the search?
There was something that didn’t gel; some piece missing from the jigsaw.
Max’s low growl jerked me out of my thoughts. I looked down. He was fully alert, head up, ears half-cocked, staring into the dark.
Then a soft voice called out: ‘Mkhulu.’
Mkhulu
was my Zulu name. It literally means ‘grandfather’, but not in the limited Western sense. Zulus venerate maturity and to refer to someone as an
Mkhulu
was a compliment.
I glanced up and recognized the shadowy figure squatting on his haunches a few yards away. It was Bheki.
‘
Sawubona
,’ I said, giving the traditional greeting. I see you.
‘
Yehbo
.’ Yes, he nodded and paused for a while, as if pondering what to say next.
‘Mkhulu, there is a mystery here. People are making trouble,’ he said, his tone conspiratorial. ‘They are making big trouble.’
‘
Kanjane?
’ How so?
‘A gun spoke next to the
boma
last night,’ he continued, aware that he now had my full attention, ‘and the elephants were shouting and calling.’
He stood up briefly and raised his arms, mimicking an elephant’s trunk. ‘They were crazy, maybe one was even shot.’
‘
Hau!
’ I used the Zulu exclamation for surprise. ‘But how do you know such important things?’
‘I was there,’ he replied. ‘I know the elephants are valuable, so I stayed near to the
boma
last night, watching. I don’t trust the
amagweragwer.
’ The word meant ‘foreigners’, but I knew he was referring to the Ovambo guards.
‘Then the big females came together and pushed a tree onto the fence. There was much force and it fell hard and broke the fence and they went out, they were running. I was afraid because they came close past me.’
‘
Ngempela?
’ Really?
‘
Ngempela
.’ It is true.
‘Thank you very much,’ I replied. ‘You have done well.’
Satisfied that his message had been delivered, he stood up and stepped back into the darkness.
I exhaled loudly. Now that would explain a lot, I thought, my mind racing. A poacher shooting next to the
boma
unaware of the elephants’ presence would certainly have put the jitters into the herd, particularly as their previous matriarch and baby had been shot barely forty-eight hours ago.
But much as I liked Bheki, I had to treat his suspicions about the Ovambo guards with caution. Tribal animosity in Africa often runs deep and I knew there was little love lost
between the Zulus and the Namibians. There was a possibility that the indigenous staff may use the confusion surrounding the escape to implicate the Ovambos so locals could get their jobs.
However, Bheki had certainly provided food for thought.
 
As dawn glimmered we drove to where we had left off yesterday and saw Peter’s helicopter coming in low, circling like a hawk to select the best landing spot on the ribbon of potholed road. Seeing the chopper landing in billowing dust a group of Zulu children came running up from the nearby village, gathering around the thudding machine and chattering excitedly.
The tracking team plunged back into the thorny bush to pick up the spoor on the ground, while I assisted Peter in tracking from the air. As we took off, I gazed out over the endless panorama of this charismatic stretch of Africa, so steeped in history. Originally home to all of Africa’s onceabundant wildlife – now mostly exterminated – it was where conservationists like us were making a stand. The key was to involve local communities in all of the benefits and profits of conservation and eco-tourism. It was a hard, frustrating struggle but it had to be fought and won. Tribal cooperation was the key to Africa’s conservation health and we neglected that at our peril. It was vital that those rural kids who had been clamouring around the helicopter – kids who lived in the bush but had never seen an elephant – became future eco-warriors on our side.
We flew north along the Nseleni River, scanning the spear-leafed reed beds for jumbo tracks and barely skimming the towering sycamore figs whose twisted roots clasped the steep banks like pythons. It was difficult to see much as the rains had been good and the lush growth could have hidden a tank.
Then at last some news. KZN Wildlife radioed in saying
they had a report of a sighting: the herd had chased a group of herd boys and their cows off a waterhole the previous afternoon. Fortunately there had been no casualties.
This underscored the urgency of the situation, but at least we now had a confirmed position. Peter dropped me near the team, lifted off and dipped the chopper as he altered course while I jumped into the waiting Land Rover.
Then we got another call from KZN Wildlife. The elephants had changed direction and were heading towards the Umfolozi game reserve, KZN Wildlife’s flagship sanctuary about twenty miles from Thula Thula. They gave us an estimated bearing, which we radioed to the chopper.
Peter found them in the early afternoon, just a few miles from the Umfolozi reserve’s fence and some distance from our position on the ground. They were moving along steadily and Peter knew it was now or never; he had to force them around before they broke into Umfolozi as he would be unable to get them back once they were within the reserve’s fences.
There is only one way to herd elephants from the air, and it’s not pretty. You have to fly straight at the animals until they turn and move in the opposite direction – in this case back towards Thula Thula.
Peter banked and then whirred down, blades clattering and coming straight at Nana, skimming just above her head and executing a tight U-turn, then coming back from the same angle again, hovering in front of the animals to block them going forward.
This is stomach-churning stuff, requiring top-level flying skills, rock-steady hands and even steadier nerves. If you fly too high, the elephants will slip through underneath and be gone; too low and you risk hitting trees.
At this stage the elephants had been on the run for more than twenty-four hours and were exhausted. They should have turned wearily away from the giant bird furiously
buzzing them from above. That is what 99 per cent of animals – even a creature as mighty as an elephant – would have done.
The herd stood firm.
Again and again the chopper came at them, the rotor clapping with rhythmic thunder as it virtually kissed the treetops. Yet still Nana and her family refused to retreat, trunks curled in defiance whenever Peter came in low, judging his distance by inches. But they didn’t budge. He radioed to us what was happening, and I realized that my herd was something else. Maybe I was biased, but they were special …
Eventually, through superb flying, Peter inexorably wore them down. Inch by inch he edged them around until they were finally facing Thula Thula. Then he got them moving, herding them from above, deftly manoeuvring his machine like a flying sheepdog.
I started to breathe easier, daring to believe everything was going to be all right. Back at Thula Thula workers had spent the day mending the ruined fences, both at the
boma
and the border, and they radioed me to say everything was ready. We would still have to cut open a section of fence to drive them through, but we wouldn’t know where to cut until they arrived.
Finally after hours of tense aerial herding, we saw the helicopter hovering low on the far horizon. They were going to make it. I gave instructions to the fence team to drop a wide section of the fence to provide instant access into the reserve and prayed the frazzled matriarch would go straight in.
Then I caught sight of her for the first time, pushing slowly through the bush just below the thundering helicopter. All I could make out was just the tips of her ears and the hump on her back, but it was the most welcome thing I have ever seen.
Soon they all came into view, plodding on until they were
at the road. Just a tantalizing fifteen yards from the lowered fence, Nana tested the air with her trunk and halted.
The mood suddenly changed. From fatigued acceptance, the herd now was charged with defiance. Nana trumpeted her belligerence and drew her family up in the classical defensive position, bottoms together facing outwards like the spokes of a wheel and they held their ground with grim determination. Peter continuously buzzed them … goading them to make that last little sprint into the reserve. But to no avail.
Seeing he was getting nowhere Peter peeled off and put the helicopter down. Leaving the motor running he sprinted over to me.
‘I don’t like to do this,’ he said, ‘but the only thing left is to go up and fire shots behind them. Force them to move forward. Can I borrow your gun?’
‘No, I don’t like it …’
‘Lawrence,’ Peter interrupted, ‘we have spent a lot of time on this and I can’t come back tomorrow. It’s now or never. You decide.’
Gunfire was last thing I wanted. It meant more shooting around the already traumatized creatures, causing more distress.
But Peter was right; I had run out of alternatives. I unholstered my 9-mm CZ pistol, checked that the 13-shot magazine was full, and handed it to him.
He took it without a word, lifted off and hovering just behind the animals he started firing rapid shots into the ground.
Crack, crack, crack
… the shots rang out, again and again and again.
He might as well have used spitballs. Nothing would move them. This was where they were going to make their stand. They were saying no more. It was something I understood with absolute clarity; a line in the sand.
Dusk fell, and in the glow of the strengthening stars I could see the murky shapes of the elephants still holding firm with iron defiance.
I felt sick with despair. We had been so close to pulling it off. Peter banked and flew off radioing that it was too dark for him to land without lights and he would drop my gun off at Thula Thula.
Realizing their ‘persecutor’ had left, Nana turned her bone-tired family around and they melted into the thick bush.
I groaned. Now we would have to do it all again the next day.
Once again I was up before my 4 a.m. alarm rang, gulping down coffee strong enough to float a bullet, desperate to get going. It hadn’t been a good night.
David and the trackers were standing by and as the first shards of pink dawn pierced the darkness we picked up the spoor from where Nana and her family had made their determined stand against the helicopter last night. The tracks again pointed north towards the Umfolozi game reserve and we followed their new path through the thorny thickets, going as fast as we dared.
By now it was obvious we had some very agitated, unpredictable wild elephants on our hands, and I couldn’t rid myself of the vision of them trampling through a village. The words ‘conservation’s Chernobyl’ were etched on my mind as we picked our way through the dense bush.
Peter was unable to fly that day so the chase was pared down to the bones – an elemental race on foot between the herd and us. But with their ten-hour lead, the odds were definitely uneven.
Meanwhile Françoise, tired of pacing around the house in anticipation, decided to do some sleuthing of her own. As the elephants had been in the area last night, she jumped into her car with Penny our almost pure-white bull terrier, who was a couple of years younger than Max, and scoured
the dirt tracks surrounding the reserve asking anyone in sight, ‘Haf you zeen my elefans?’
Few rural Zulus can understand English, let alone navigate the intricacies of a rich Gallic accent. Even fewer have clapped eyes on an elephant in their lives. Yet here, way out in the sticks was a beautiful blonde stranger with an almost albino-white dog asking if there happened to be any strolling around. No doubt they thought the sun was frying foreign heads.
However, Françoise’s search became quite famous as a local news agency picked it up and by the time the report reached the boulevards of Paris, it had been rehashed so extensively that Françoise was portrayed as single-handedly pursuing elephants down a multi-lane highway.
In fact the story of the elephants’ escape and our chase was now being carried in local papers. People were following our progress and fortunately for us the media coverage focused on the plight of the elephants and the fact that there was a baby with the herd.
Later that morning with some relief I heard from KZN Wildlife that the elephants had broken into the Umfolozi reserve during the night at two different points several miles apart, crashing through the electric fence with ease as it was only live-wired from the inside. There in the reserve they would be safe, at least from the macho hunting brigade.
The herd had split into two groups during the night, with Nana, her two calves and Mnumzane in the one and Frankie and her son and daughter in the other. Only once they were deep in the sanctuary did they meet up again. How they did that defies human comprehension. It seems impossible to navigate in the dark so precisely without compasses or radios – yet the two groups had travelled up to seven miles apart and then came together in dense bush at a given point. When you consider that, there is no doubt that elephants possess incredible communication abilities. It’s known they
emit stomach rumblings at frequencies far below human hearing that can be detected even when they’re many miles apart. The animals either pick up these sensory impulses through their vast ears, or – as a newer theory postulates – they feel the vibrations through their feet. But whatever it is, these amazing creatures have some senses far superior to ours.
Close to where the two groups had rendezvoused was a thatched rondavel, a circular Zulu hut used by KZN Wildlife anti-poaching units. The rangers inside were fast asleep when they felt the flimsy structure of the building shaking as if caught in an earthquake. Then the top half of the stable door burst open and in the moonlight they saw a trunk snake through. The elephants had smelt the rangers’ stock of rations, sacks of maize meal, the Zulu staple, and were going to take their share, which of course meant all of it. The men scurried under their beds for protection as the trunk weaved like a super-sized vacuum cleaner around the hut and yanked the maize sacks out.
Several other twisting trunks shattered the windows and the elephants jerked the furniture around, smashing it as they searched for more food. One man’s bush jacket was wrenched from his hands and peeking through the splintered door he saw shadowy figures of the young calves stomping on it and flipping it into the air in a game between them.
Not once did the men on the floor reach for their weapons. Their lives were devoted to saving animals; they would only kill as a last resort. Shaken as they were and watching their possessions being strewn around a hut about to cave in was not considered a last resort.
As soon as the rampaging behemoths left, the rangers radioed through to the game reserve’s headquarters.
At dawn Umfolozi’s vastly experienced conservation manager, Peter Hartley, decided to assess the situation first-hand. While driving off-road he spotted the animals in the
distance and got out to approach on foot without disturbing them. He knew from the number and descriptions that this was the Thula Thula herd. Cautiously advancing, he was still some distance away when suddenly Frankie swivelled. She had nosed his scent.
Elephants seldom charge humans unless they get too close, but with a bellow of rage, Frankie came thundering at him. Hartley, caught by surprise, turned and ran for his life through the thornveld, cutting himself as he scrambled through the barbed foliage. He leapt into his 4x4 and fortunately the vehicle started instantly as he dropped the clutch and sped off with five tons of storming juggernaut just yards behind, verifying the old rangers’ maxim that there is no dignity in the bush.
Charging the conservation manager – of all people – seriously blotted the herd’s already spotty reputation. Grim-faced, Hartley arrived back at reserve’s headquarters and told of his close escape. The senior rangers were now extremely worried. This was getting out of hand and Hartley suggested they contacted the former owners in Mpumalanga to get a more comprehensive background report. And what they heard they didn’t like at all.
I was still in the bush when I got the radio call to come to Umfolozi to ‘chat’ about the situation. Urgently.
It sounded ominous and I drove despondently along the rutted dirt tracks through tribal areas to the sanctuary’s headquarters. While I was relieved that the elephants were safe, I was fearful about what was going to happen next. I had a terrible foreboding that I was about to hear their death sentences.
There was a funereal mood as I walked into the office. I knew most of these honest men of the bush and despite warm greetings they didn’t look happy.
After a few pleasantries they got to the point. They spoke the words I was dreading. If they had known about the
elephants’ troubled background, they said they would never have granted the Thula Thula permit. The fact the animals had broken through two electric fences, chased cattle, raided a guard’s hut, refused to be cowed by a buzzing helicopter and had charged the conservation manager clearly indicated that this was a dangerous, unsettled herd. A rogue herd. The risk of letting them remain in an area with rural settlements was too high.
In conservation ‘speak’, that meant only one thing. The rangers were going to destroy the herd.
I interrupted, determined to deflect the ominous direction the discussion was going before it became irrevocable. ‘Guys, you have to remember that there’s been a ton of publicity surrounding this breakout. The news is everywhere and public sympathy is pretty much with the elephants. The matriarch’s baby especially has attracted a lot of attention and people all over the country are following the chase and rooting for them. If you shoot them now that they’re safe and haven’t done any harm, all hell will break loose in the media.’
I then stressed that it was just bad luck the herd had escaped. We had done everything by the book. Even KZN Wildlife’s resident expert had pronounced the
boma
safe. Even he had not believed the herd would have been able to muscle down that single tree in the
boma
that initiated the breakout.
Once free, it was only natural that they would attempt to return to their original home. That’s wired into their psyche. But as soon as I could acclimatize them at Thula Thula, they would be OK. I also pointed out that they hadn’t hurt any humans, despite being on the run for three days.
I paused, acutely aware that I was arguing for the animals’ lives. ‘Please, gentlemen; can you give them one more chance? This won’t happen again.’
A sombre silence enveloped the room. There wasn’t much more I could say.
The rangers were ethical men who did not want to kill any animal unless it was absolutely unavoidable. However, in this case they said they didn’t think Nana and her family had much going for them. They said hard experience had shown any herd that refused to respect an electric fence had crossed the shadow line and that there was little hope of rehabilitation.
I knew what they were saying was true.
‘Look, Lawrence,’ said one, ‘we understand how you feel, but you know as well as we do that this is going to end badly. This herd is beyond help. They have been badly interfered with too many times and now see humans purely as enemies. They nearly killed Peter Hartley, for God’s sake. He’s never even heard of an elephant charging from that distance before. We’re going to have to put the adults down.’
‘Well, I don’t know how you’re going to do it,’ I said, grasping at straws. ‘The media are going to be all over you and it will be a real PR mess.’
‘We’ve thought about that. What we propose is we dart and capture the herd for return to Thula, but while doing so we quietly overdose the adult females and suckling baby, and send only the youngsters back to you.’
I was dumbfounded. ‘The press will smell a rat,’ I responded, trying to stonewall any talk of death. ‘Or blame you for incompetence. Either way you lose. You guys are in the limelight right now so let’s just let things settle down. I’ll get them back to the
boma
at Thula and keep them locked up there. Let’s watch them carefully and then make a decision. If they’re still out of control in a couple of months then we’ll have no choice. I’ll take full responsibility.’
There was a long pause and I sensed that I had touched a nerve. After what seemed like an eternity, they said they would think about it.
I returned to Thula Thula, exhausted and forlorn, where I explained to David what had happened.
The next day out of nowhere I got a call from a stranger introducing himself as a wildlife dealer.
‘Listen, man,’ his voice boomed from the receiver, ‘I’ve heard about your elephant problem.’
I grimaced. Who hadn’t?
‘Well, I may just have the perfect solution for you.’
My curiosity was instantly piqued. ‘Like what?’
‘I’ll buy the herd off you. Lock, stock and barrel. Not only that, I’ll give you another one as a replacement. A good herd. Normal animals that won’t give you any hassles.’
‘You mean circus elephants?’ I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.
‘No, no, man. Nothing like that. These are wild animals; just not as aggressive as yours. And I’ll give you $20,000.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘If your animals stay here, one way or another they will be shot. If I take them, they will be relocated to a sanctuary in Angola where there are no humans to worry them. At least they will be allowed to live.’
That certainly shook me. Here was a man offering to solve my problems in one single stroke. I would recover my initial costs of trucking the elephants and building the
boma
– and I would get another herd for free. Considering that I also was about to be hit with more capture and transport costs to get my herd back from the Umfolozi reserve, it was quite an attractive proposition. If I didn’t accept this offer I was going to have to fork out a lot of cash.
‘Give me your number and I’ll get back to you,’ I said.
However, something niggled. Perhaps this was just too good to be true; just too pat. I have always followed my gut instinct and something didn’t smell right.
In fact, the more I thought about the dealer, the more irritated I became. I should have been grateful for the lifeline
being offered; that would have been the sane reaction. But instead of profound relief that a solution was in sight, I felt strangely annoyed.
It then dawned on me that something fundamental – something innate but indefinable had happened. That phone call triggered the startling revelation that I had unwittingly forged a bond with this delinquent herd, even though I barely knew them. The strength of this connection shocked me.
The experiences of the past days had illustrated for me that despite fashionable eco-tourism, elephants didn’t really count for much in the real world. This was a group of desperate and bewildered animals who had been on the run. But to the brandy and bullets brigade they were target practice with a yield of ivory; to the local tribesmen they were a threat. No one gave a fig that these were sentient creatures whose ancestors had roamed this planet for eons.
It hasn’t always been like that. Indeed, just a few decades ago Zulus revered elephants. They still roar ‘
Wena we Ndlovu
’ – You are the Elephant – as praise to their king at public gatherings. The crescendo of thousands of martial voices is haunting, evoking memories of a time when these iconic creatures were hugely esteemed.
BOOK: The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild
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