The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (21 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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Early next morning Marion Garai of the Elephant Managers and Owners Association phoned. As usual, she had unusual news.
‘Can you take another elephant? I’ve got a fourteen-year-old female that desperately needs a home.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s a real shocker. To give the short version, her entire family have been shot or sold and she’s completely alone on a big five reserve.’
Big five reserves are so named due to their quarry’s reputation as the most dangerous animals to hunt – elephant, black rhino, buffalo, leopard, and of course lion. An elephant may be a big fiver – in fact number one on the list – but a juvenile could not survive for long without the protection of its herd if lions are about. No lion would dare attack an adult tusker, but an adolescent would be relatively easy prey for a pride.
Then Marion added fuel to the fire. ‘Even worse, she’s been sold to a trophy hunter.’
She delivered that snippet almost as an aside, but she knew it would get me going like nothing else. It was something I simply couldn’t fathom … what type of person would shoot a terrified teenage elephant, and a female at that? For a tawdry fireside trophy? For the pleasure of the
kill? And what kind of reserve owner would hawk a vulnerable young animal for such a reason?
I have never had a problem with hunting for the pot. Every living thing on this planet hunts for sustenance one way or the other, from the mighty microbe upwards. Survival of the fittest is, like it or not, the way of this world. But hunting for pleasure, killing only for the thrill of it, is to me an anathema. I have met plenty of trophy hunters. They are, of course, all naturalists; they all know and love the bush; and they all justify their action in conservation speak, peppered with all the right buzz words.
The truth is, though, that they harbour a hidden impulse to kill, which can only be satisfied by the violent death of another life form by their hand. And they will go to inordinate lengths to satisfy, and above all justify, this apparently irresistible urge.
Besides, adding to the absurdity of their claims, there is not an animal alive that is even vaguely a match for today’s weaponry. The modern high-powered hunting rifle with telescopic sights puts paid to any argument about sportsmanship.
I had to consider the implications of introducing a new elephant into the herd. On the credit side, Nana and her clan were settled and I was pretty confident she would accept another young female into her family. Only stable herds will do that; a maladjusted group of elephants will chase any newcomer off – or worse.
No matter the risks, the thought of a solitary elephant – still a teenager – terrified out of her wits, surrounded by lions and soon to be hunted grated deeply.
‘I’ll take her.’
‘Great. I have a donor who’ll pay capture and translocation costs.’
Predictably the hunter refused to relinquish his trophy. However, in a stroke of genius, Brendan decided to check
the man’s big game permit. You can say it was serendipity; you can say it was an act of God – whatever – but unbelievably the permit was due to expire that exact day. Even more wondrously, one of Brendan’s ex-university friends worked in the permit office and we managed to block the reissue. At the eleventh hour, we saved the life of this orphan elephant.
The hunter was upset as he technically still owned the animal. He wanted his cash back. Thankfully Marion’s donor again came to the rescue and paid him his blood money. A week later the juvenile was on her way to Thula Thula.
We hurriedly repaired the
boma
and David, Brendan and I prepared for another stint in the bush while our new arrival acclimatized. We even parked the Land Rover in the same position as when the original herd was in quarantine, wondering if Wilma our industrious bark spider was still around to weave her silky web on the aerial.
Max did a perfunctory check of the area and settled himself down. He knew we would be here for a while.
The transport truck arrived in mid-afternoon and backed into the loading trench. This time we had the levels right and the loading bay opened smoothly. We all craned forward for a good look. It was a good thing I didn’t blink, for as the door opened the youngster sprinted straight into the thickest part of the
boma
’s bush. And there she hid for the next few days, coming out only in the dead of night to eat the food we were tossing over the fence. Whenever we crept around trying to get closer, she bolted to the far side as soon as she sensed us. I have never witnessed such terror in an animal. There was no doubt she thought we were going to kill her, just as humans had killed the rest of her family.
Using the techniques I had developed with the herd, I started to talk to her gently, walking around singing and whistling, trying to get her used to me as a benevolent
presence. But no matter what I did she remained petrified, rooted to the spot in the densest part of the thicket.
For almost a week there was no change in her emotional tone or attitude so eventually I decided I needed to interrupt the process. Instead of trying to communicate with her, albeit in a roundabout way, I came up to the fence, picked a spot and just stayed there, saying nothing, doing nothing, just studiously ignoring her. Just being there.
Each morning and each afternoon I chose a different spot; always shifting fractionally closer to her hiding place and repeating the procedure.
The third day I did this prompted a reaction – but not quite what I wished. Instead of being soothed, which was the whole idea, she came out of the bush furiously, charging like a whirlwind at me.
I watched her come, amazed. I had thought such a lost soul would respond to warmth. The
boma
’s electric fence was between us and as there was no real danger I had three choices: I could stand firm and show her who was boss; I could ignore her; or I could back off.
Her charge, as ferocious as it seemed, didn’t gel. I could sense that this poor creature, a couple of tons of tusk and flesh that could kill me with a single swipe, had the self-confidence of a mouse. She needed to believe in herself; to know she deserved respect and was a master of the wilderness. She needed to believe she had won the encounter. So I decided to back off with some major theatrics. I decided, counter-intuitively in an environment where the strongest survive, to let her know that in this instance she was the boss. It wasn’t that hard to fake; if there hadn’t been a fence I would’ve been running for real.
She pulled up at the fence in a cloud of dust and stared, dumbfounded – she had probably never seen humans run before. Any charge had probably been followed by the thunderclap of a rifle.
She watched, or rather smelt my retreat and then swivelled and ran back into the thicket with her trunk held high in victory – the first time I had seen her do that. She had seen off an enemy. More importantly, she had turned fear into action which, for the moment at least, was a huge improvement.
It worked well, almost too well. She now started charging whenever I came close. Each time I played the game, feigning fright and backing right off. I wanted to show her how powerful she was … that she was queen of the bush. Elephants are majestic; they are not bullies or cowards. I had to let her rediscover herself.
She slowly starting getting her nerve back and even began coming out into the open during the day, wandering around the
boma
.
Whenever she emerged from the thicket, I tried to ensure I was around and she watched with beady eyes as I once more started talking to her and singing at random, alternating that with just being there quietly. During these encounters she never uttered a sound, whether she was intrigued, angry or frightened. To me this was uniquely sad. A trumpeting elephant is bush music. Yet this distraught creature was as silent as the air, even when coming at us full tilt.
Then one day she charged while we were pushing food over the fence. For the first time her hunger overrode her fear and she wanted to shoo us away. And for the first time she was trumpeting for all her worth. But instead of a clear, clean call she was honking like a strangled goose.
David and I looked at each other. Now we knew why she had been silent. The poor creature had destroyed her vocal cords, screaming herself hoarse for help, calling for her mother and aunts, lost and pitifully alone in the wilderness while lions circled. She really was a special case.
To try and lighten the mood we affectionately named her ET, short for
enfant terrible
– terrible child.
Even though she started tolerating me marginally more, she was still profoundly unhappy. Her fear and loneliness gloomed the entire
boma.
Sitting around the campfire at night, usually a time for talk, we too could feel it. Often we just crept into our sleeping bags and lay on our backs, staring at the stars.
Just as we thought we were winning, she had slid hopelessly back into an abyss of abject despair that not even shouting or the banging of cans could penetrate. Then she slipped further away and began walking endlessly in large figures of eight, oblivious to her surroundings. This sadness bordered on a grief too embedded to penetrate. She was so depressed I feared she might die of a broken heart, so I changed tactics.
I went looking for the herd. They were the only solution.
‘Coooome, Nana, coooome,
babbas
!’ I called out once I saw them. Three hundred yards away Nana looked up, trunk reaching into the air. A few calls later she sourced the direction of my voice and they all started ambling through the bush towards me, pushing easily through wicked thornveld that would rip human skin to shreds. As they advanced I marvelled at this magnificent herd, these beautiful creatures, fat, grey and glowing, and how content they were with new youngsters.
Now I needed their help. But first I was going to try something in the wilderness I had never done before: get them to follow me.
As they approached I gently footed the accelerator and eased ahead for about fifty yards and Nana stopped, perplexed at why I was moving off. Then I called them and, after milling about for a bit, she came on. As she got near I drove off again; again she stopped, confused.
Again I called ‘Coooome, Nana!’ willing her forward, calling out, telling her it was important, that I needed her. The words meant nothing, but would she get the emotion, the urgency?
Amazingly she started following, and eventually just kept on coming without me even calling, her family following fractionally behind. I looked in my rear-view mirror. There were nine elephants following me; I was for a fleeting instant the pachyderm Pied Piper. Nana loomed in the rectangular reflection, the others behind her, obliterating all else. Deep in the African bush I had a herd of wild elephant actually following me because I wanted and needed them to. It was all so implausible – and yet it was happening. God I loved them.
Three miles later we were at the
boma
. Unbelievably, the herd had stayed the course.
I stopped thirty yards from the fence and Nana came towards me, paused for a moment, and then saw the youngster. She looked back at me, as if, perhaps, to acknowledge why I had called her, then went to the fence and emitted a long set of stomach rumbles.
ET was as still as a tree, peering at the herd through the dense foliage, lifting her trunk to get their scent. For some moments this continued. Then suddenly, excited as a teenager at a funfair, she came out and ran to where Nana was standing at the fence. These were the first of her own kind she had seen in a year.
Nana lifted her python-thick trunk over the electric fence, reaching out to ET who responded by raising her own trunk. I watched entranced as Nana touched the troubled youngster who demurely acknowledged the matriarch’s authority. By now the rest of the inquisitive herd had come forward and Frankie, who was also tall enough to get her trunk over the electric strand, did so as well. There they all stood, their stomachs rumbling and grumbling in elephant talk.
This went on for an animated twenty minutes as scents and smells were exchanged and introductions made. What happened next though left me in no doubt that ET’s predicament was over. A solution found.
Nana turned and moved off, deliberately walking past the gate where she had originally pushed over the poles to get out. I had no doubt she was showing ET the exit and simultaneously letting me know to open the gate. I had asked for her help and she had taken her decision: ‘Let her out!’
But with all the elephants around we could not get anywhere near the gate and could do no more than watch as ET moved along with them on the inside of the
boma
fence until she reached the far end and could go no further. She backtracked up and down the fence, desperately trying to find a way to join them and ‘honking’ in despair. It was heartbreaking to watch.
But would she allow us? No chance. Every time we approached the gate she thundered across, enraged at our presence, as if we were preventing her from joining the others.
Eventually she stopped, exhausted by her continuous stampedes, and we were able to move in and quickly remove the horizontal gate poles and electric strands.
Nana, who had been waiting nearby in thick cover watching all this, then came back out of the bush around the other side of the
boma
with her family following in single file. Deliberately and slowly, she once more walked past the now-open gate. ET rushed out of the thicket but again missed the exit and followed them on the inside of the fence until she could go no further. Her despair was wrenching but there was nothing we could do until she learnt that the gate was her sole exit point.

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