The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (16 page)

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Authors: Lawrence Anthony,Graham Spence

BOOK: The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild
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‘No. That means borrowing money at these extortionate rates,’ said the accountant. ‘That means even more risk.’
He scratched his head, punched a whole lot of figures into his calculator and then looked up at us.
‘You know, Françoise may be onto something. Building a
small “boutique” guest lodge may sound crazy in the current financial climate, but it actually makes sense. You need to start creating more revenue. And getting guests is one way to do it.’
I stared at the figures gloomily. ‘Well, I think the elephants are now settled enough for us to bring back visitors. But we don’t have lions yet, and tourists will want to see big cats.’
Françoise looked at me, eyes shimmering with enthusiasm. ‘You know what? I will cook to replace the lions. God knows Zululand needs a place with quality food.’
She came from a family of superb cooks and had been studying on and off under top French chefs in Paris. Suddenly it all clicked into place.
‘You’re right,’ I said, feeling as though a weight had been yanked off my shoulders. ‘A small luxury lodge with a gourmet restaurant would give us an edge. It may just work.’
I gave her a hug. ‘Let’s do it.’
The thrill of it seized the moment and I went off and came back with a bottle of champagne that we had kept for a special occasion.
‘I am afraid I can’t stay,’ said the accountant nervously looking at his watch. ‘I must get home.’
Without a word I followed him out to his car, shot a hole in his tyre with my 9-mm pistol, and said to him, ‘We will make up a bed for you. We don’t have a lot of visitors and unfortunately you have an unexpected puncture. Tonight we are celebrating.’
The poor man sat down and resigned to his fate and took the beer I offered him.
‘The champagne’s for Françoise.’
She deserved it. Françoise took over the project and before we knew it a beautiful lodge about two miles from our house started to materialize, rustic yet opulent and set in a grove of mature tambotie, maula and acacia trees on
the banks of the Nseleni River. The new Thula Thula was being born. By the end of the year, two years after moving there, our boutique lodge was up and running.
There are two types of game reserve lodges in Africa: those owned by big corporations; and those owned by conservationists who need the lodge so they can earn income to continue their conservation work. We were certainly amongst the latter. But in any event, Françoise proved to be spectacularly right and our lodge, staffed entirely with local Zulus, was soon getting regular bookings. With plenty of hard work and a bit of luck we could be all right.
David looked worried. ‘Notice how quiet everything is?’
We were sitting on the lawn watching the tree-studded hills of Thula Thula shimmering like a mirage in the early morning thermals. I took a swig of coffee. ‘No. Why?’
‘It’s the elephants,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone to ground … we can’t find them anywhere. If we hadn’t checked the fences, I would’ve sworn they’ve broken out.’
‘Nah. They’re happy here. Those breakout days are gone.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. But where are they? We’re not even seeing signs of them on game drives.’
I pondered this for a while. The herd was now so calm that we had been able to take reserve guests up reasonably close, providing excited nature lovers with excellent photo opportunities.
Then an image of Nana suddenly flashed through my mind, mirroring the last time I had seen her when she had stretched out her trunk into the Landy. Her belly was as swollen as a barrel … of course, she must have gone deep into the bush to give birth. As we didn’t know the date of conception, we weren’t sure exactly when she was due.
I loaded up the Land Rover with a day’s supplies and set off, searching as far into the most impenetrable parts of Thula Thula’s wilderness as I could get. But there were no fresh signs of them whatsoever. I looked in all the lush feeding areas and their favourite hidey holes, but again not
a trace of them. The largest land mammals had seemingly vanished into thin air.
Well, not quite. Finally, in the early afternoon I noticed some fresh tracks in an area we call Zulu Graves, a 200-year-old burial ground dating back to the days of King Shaka, founder of the Zulu nation.
‘Coooome, Nana!’ I called out, singing the words in the timbre they were now used to. ‘Coooome, my
babbas
…’ They always seemed to respond to the Zulu word for ‘babies’. In this case, I didn’t realize how prophetic my call was.
Suddenly the bush started moving, alive with the unmistakable sound of elephants, and the mixture of thrill, fear and affinity I experienced every time I was in their presence coursed through my veins. I called out again, high on anticipation.
‘Coooome,
babbas?
’
Then I saw her. She was standing well off the rough dirt road, watching me but reluctant to advance further. ‘That’s strange,’ I thought, ‘she normally comes.’
She dithered for some time, neither coming forward nor retreating into the bush, almost as if she was uncertain of what to do next. Then I saw why. Standing next to her was a perfectly formed miniature elephant, about two-and-a-half feet high – perhaps a few days old. As I had suspected, she had just given birth. I was looking at the first elephant to be born in our area for over a hundred years.
Not wanting to intrude I stood there with my heart pounding, wishing I had brought a camera. Then she took a few steps forward, then a few more, and finally started walking slowly towards me with the baby tottering alongside on tiny unsteady feet, its little trunk bobbing like a piece of elastic.
She was still about thirty yards away when suddenly Frankie appeared, ears flared. It was a stark signal for me to
back off. I jumped into the Land Rover, reversed to create a safe zone, then switched off and watched.
Gradually the rest of the herd emerged from the bush, eyeing me warily while milling around Nana and the baby.
I watched enthralled as the tactile creatures continually touched and caressed the little one. Even Mnumzane was partially involved, standing at the periphery as close as he was allowed, watching the goings on.
Then Nana, who had been facing me, started walking up the road. I quickly got in, slammed the vehicle into reverse and edged further back, acutely aware of the granite bush maxim that you don’t go anywhere near an elephant and her baby. But she kept coming and I figured they wanted to use the road, so I reversed off at right angles into the long grass to allow them to pass well in front of me.
To my absolute surprise Nana left the road and followed me, with Frankie and the others just a few yards behind. I was no longer in her way so there was no need for this. They could have just strolled past – this was a conscious decision to come after me and my heart started thumping overtime. I quickly shoved Max off the front seat onto the floor and threw my jacket over him. ‘Stay, boy,’ I said as he settled down. ‘We have visitors.’
Squinting hard into the sun, I tried to detect any hint of hostility … any edginess that I was intruding in matters maternal. There was none, not even from fierce-tempered and still-very pregnant Frankie. All around, the bush breathed peace. It was as if a group decision had been made to come to me.
Nana ambled up to my window and stood towering above the Land Rover, dominating the skyline. Below her was her baby. Incredibly she had brought her newborn to me.
I held my breath as her trunk reached into the Land Rover and touched me on the chest; the sandpapery hide
somehow as sensitive as silk, then it swivelled back, dropped and touched the little one, a pachyderm introduction. I sat still, stunned by the privilege she was bestowing on me.
‘You clever girl,’ I said, my voice scratchy. ‘What a magnificent baby.’
Her massive skull, just a few yards from mine, seemed to swell even larger with pride.
‘I don’t know what you call him. But he was born during the first spring showers, so I will call him Mvula.’
Mvula
is the Zulu word for rain, synonymous with life for those who live with the land. She seemed to agree and the name stuck.
Then she slowly moved off, leading the herd back the way they had come. Within minutes they’d evaporated into the bush.
Two weeks later they disappeared again and I made another trek to Zulu Graves. They were there, at exactly the same place and time as before. This time it was Frankie with a perfect new baby. I went through the same backing-off procedure to ensure I didn’t invade their space and eventually she too came to me, herd in tow. However, she didn’t stop like Nana had, just doing a cursory walk past to show off her infant.
‘Well done, my beautiful girl,’ I said as she slowly came level with the window, maternal pride in full bloom. ‘We will call him Ilanga – the sun.’
I shook my head in wonderment. A little over a year ago she had almost killed Françoise and me on the quad bike. Now she was proudly parading her baby. It blew my mind just thinking about it. We had travelled a long road together.
That evening they all came up to the house. Frankie’s little one had walked nearly four miles through thick bush and she was only a week old. This time Frankie stood in front of the others right at the wire facing me.
‘Hello, girl. Your baby is so beautiful! She really is!’
Frankie stood caressing her calf, visibly glowing with pride. All the while she was looking directly at me. This was the closest we had come to linking directly with each other. We both knew something precious had passed between us.
These almost inconceivable experiences had a sequel several years later when my first grandson was born and the herd came up to the house. I took baby Ethan in my arms and went as near to the patiently waiting elephants as his worried mother would allow. They were only a few yards away. Their trunks went straight up and they all edged closer, intensely focused on the little bundle in my arms, smelling the air to get the scent and rumbling their stomachs excitedly.
I was repaying the compliment to them, introducing them, trusting them with my baby as they had with theirs.
A few days after Ilanga’s birth a message arrived from the principal chief in the area saying he wanted to see me and I drove out to his kraal – homestead – in the country. As was customary, I called out my name and waited at the rustic gate next to the cattle enclosure to be invited in.
Nkosi
Nkanyiso Biyela was the essential cog in the Royal Zulu project to involve tribes in conservation, and he and I had become good friends. Descended from Zulu royalty, he conducted himself as an aristocrat and with his beard, handsome wide features and regal pose, looked remarkably like King Goodwill Zwelethini, the reigning monarch of the 10-million-strong Zulu people, to whom he was related.
I was then shown to the
isishayamteto
, the large thatched hut reserved for important matters. Some freshly brewed Zulu beer was placed on the floor and after tasting it himself, his aide brought the beer to me for a sip straight from the traditional calabash. This drinking bowl was then passed to the other two aides who did likewise. Zulu beer is a wholesome, low-alcohol drink brewed from maize meal and sorghum. While the yeasty ripeness smells like cheesy
feet and is guaranteed to turn up a tourist’s nose, it’s a taste I acquired years ago and this was a particularly good brew. I asked the
Nkosi
to pass my compliments to his wife, the brewmaster.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he smiled, accentuating the wrinkles on his good-humoured face. ‘I want you to attend the tribal court and speak about our game-reserve project. My people must hear directly from you on the matter.’
We left the hut and walked across to the courtroom where the
Nkosi
held council and tried cases once a week.
There were perhaps a hundred people squashed inside the hall, many in traditional clothes with others standing outside. I was shown to a chair in the front row while the chief went to the podium.
He introduced me and I stood to speak.
The project was sensitive, principally because it involved both actual and potential cattle land. I had already spent the better part of two years holding meetings and workshops throughout the area, explaining the workings of conservation and outlining the benefits that eco-tourism would bring to communities in this desperately deprived area.
It was a tough task. Over the last month I had been taking tribal leaders into the Umfolozi reserve and was shocked to discover that most of them had never seen a zebra or giraffe – or much of the other indigenous wildlife so iconic of the continent. This was Africa, their birthright. They lived on the borders of an internationally acclaimed game reserve, yet as a direct result of apartheid they had never been inside. Historically they considered game reserves to be ‘white concepts, mere excuses to seize their land’, and as they had never been included by the previous government, even with the abolishment of apartheid this was not going to change overnight. They had absolutely no idea what conservation was about, or even why the reserve was there. Worst of all, a large chunk of it was traditional tribal
territory that had been unilaterally annexed and this resentment had festered over the generations. It was historically their land and it had been wrested from them with no consultation whatsoever. No wonder that they were at best ambivalent about what they perceived to be the ‘white man’s’ concept of conservation.
Looking at the sea of faces before me in the room, hardy sons and daughters of the soil, I talked about the huge potential the Royal Zulu promised in improving their lives. I spoke of job opportunities, skills training, wealth creation, and education – all which would spring from the project. I appealed to them to all support the project, not only for themselves, but for the sake of their children – and, most importantly, for the sake of the earth, the mother of us all.
But old habits die hard; old resentments burn long. As soon as I finished speaking, cattle owners who coveted the land for their herds sprang to their feet, giving impassioned speeches about the Zulu heritage of keeping cattle. However, there was plenty of land for all. It was all about tradition, and the conservative cattle owners did not like the idea of change. In rural Zululand cattle are a primary form of currency and they didn’t want the status quo to alter, whatever the reasons or benefits.
‘How will you pay your
lobola
, your dowry, if there are no cattle? We will have no wives!’ one thundered to sustained applause.
‘And what about sacrificing cows to the ancestors? Are we now going to use bush pigs?’ shouted another to derisive laughter.
The discussion went on in the same vein for the next couple of hours until the
Nkosi
finally put up his hand to end it. Despite obvious opposition, I was not displeased with the outcome of the meeting. I had achieved an important goal. Everybody now knew I had been invited by the
Nkosi
and that he would not have brought me if he was against the project.
But if I was aware of that, so were the cattle owners. The significance of the
Nkosi
’s summons would not be lost on them and I sensed bitter clashes ahead.
I then decided to stay and watch the
Nkosi
, renowned for his biblical Solomon-style wisdom, preside over a trial of one of his subjects who had stabbed another during an argument.
Both parties gave their version of events and when they were finished the
Nkosi
delivered his verdict. The stabber was sentenced to a substantial fine, albeit in keeping with his modest income, as well as eight lashes. Judging by the murmurs of the crowd, this was considered a fair outcome.
Then everything went into overdrive. Chairs were scattered, as the court orderlies stepped forward, grabbed the poor man, stripped off his shirt and forced him onto his stomach in the middle of the room. They sat, one on each arm to ensure he couldn’t move, as out of a side door emerged a huge man carrying a sjambok, a wicked six-foot-long whip made of twined hippo hide. Without any ceremony he ran up to the prostrate criminal and brought the whip whistling down on his bare back with as much force as he could muster. The violence of the strike shocked me and I waited for the man to scream. He stayed silent.

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