The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (25 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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I counted the herd as I always do. There was one missing, but which one? It had to be Mnumzane? No, there he was too, so I counted again.
Then I saw a movement on the other side of the fence that was attracting the herd’s attention. There stood little Mandla, Nana’s firstborn son. He was alone, and from his forlorn demeanour it seemed he had gone from panic into apathy and given up trying to get back to his agitated mother. The fence would hold, for the time being at least, but how were we going to get Mandla back in? The nearest
gate was miles away, but a gate would be of little use because it was just as likely that Nana would go out as Mandla come in.
I drove closer and called out to Nana to let her know I was there. She looked over at me, staring hard. My mind sped, trying to find solutions. If we didn’t get Mandla inside soon, the herd would break through the fence. There was no question about that; an elephant mother will do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of her babies.
Perhaps we could cut the fence, but then we would have the same problem as with a gate. I got out of the Landy, lit a cigarette and pondered the problem. How could we get Mandla in without letting the herd out? I looked at the electric wires and an idea started to form. If we cut the fence itself and then also the middle and bottom electric wires, Mandla could get in, leaving the top live wire intact to prevent the adults from going out. The question was, would the top electric wire alone be enough to keep Nana and Frankie at bay?
Nana shook the fence violently again. Suddenly I heard the sound of dogs barking … hunting dogs. Zulus traditionally hunt with indigenous hounds and there was a hunting party somewhere out beyond Mandla. Nana heard them too and she stopped rattling the fence, spreading her ears to absorb every sound.
The hunters were on their own land and in themselves not a problem. What concerned me was that if the dogs got the scent of Mandla and started harassing him, Nana would tear through the fence like a bulldozer.
We took the wire cutters out of the toolbox. The question now was how do we open the fence and cut the electric wires in front of Mandla with a herd of agitated elephants breathing down our necks?
I answered my own question: we cut the hole fifty yards
away. I then call Nana, she comes, Mandla follows on the other side of the fence, finds the hole, realizes he can get through and the drama is over.
Easy … right?
We moved away, cut the hole, folded back the fence and dropped the bottom two electric wires. The first part of the plan worked fine. Not so the second part: Nana refused to move away from Mandla and I spent a fruitless ten minutes trying to call her. It was a stalemate.
With the yapping of the dogs in the background getting louder I turned to Musa and asked him to go through the hole, backtrack behind Mandla and then make a noise to frighten him forwards toward the hole.
‘He’s just a youngster,’ I said. ‘Stay a good distance away and clap your hands to make him run to the hole. There is no danger.’
‘
Yebo
, Mkhulu,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Good. We will speak on the radio and I will tell you exactly what to do.’
Musa was a good man but could be a bit of a show-off and often regaled other staff with fantastical stories of his courageous encounters with wild animals – including the elephants. ‘I am not scared of them,’ he would say, imitating Frankie’s gait, using his arm as a trunk. ‘They are scared of me.’
Well, now we would see.
He climbed through the fence and after giving him five minutes to get into position I called: ‘Where are you?’
‘I am here,’ he replied, and I wanted to pull my hair out. Musa thought I could ‘see’ him through the radio. One can laugh at this, but it is just as easy for rural Zulus to laugh at how ignorant many technologically competent Westerners are in the wild.
‘Okaaay. Where is here?’
‘It is here,’ he replied confidently. ‘Here where I am.’
I promised myself I would strangle him later.
‘Good, can you see the young elephant?’ I asked.
‘
Yebo
, Mkhulu. I can.’
‘How far are you?’
‘Close.’
‘Good. Now clap your hands and I will call the mother at the same time.’
Silence.
‘Musa why are you waiting? Clap your hands.’
Nothing.
‘Musa! Clap your flipping hands!’
Then I heard clapping … well, barely. Painfully slow and methodical and so gentle it would not startle a flea. Worst of all it was happening right next to me, just on the other side of the fence. I looked around and there he was sitting on the ground in the middle of some shrubs slowly clapping his hands. He had gone through the hole in the fence and then hidden in the bush a few yards away rather than approach baby Mandla. So much for him not being afraid of the elephants.
‘Musa?’
‘
Yebo
?’
‘I see you, come out from where you are.’
This made him doubly certain that I could see through the radio and he slowly emerged staring at me, then at the transmitter.
There was nothing left to do but continue trying to call Nana to come to where we had cut the hole and get Mandla to follow her. After forty minutes or so with me going hoarse calling, asking, begging and pleading, she ambled over. Mandla followed dutifully, found the hole, scampered into the reserve and it was over.
As he got back, every one of the elephants crowded around him, touching him with their trunks, fussing over him and rumbling their stomachs. It was humbling to watch
the care and affection being showered on him after his ordeal.
I found out later that a flooded stream had taken out a small piece of the fence but left one electric strand still standing that was just high enough for Mandla to walk under – but too low for the rest of the herd. Once out, he panicked and couldn’t get back.
I was so relieved to get Mandla back that I forgot to compliment Musa on his ‘bravery’ – about how scared the elephants, particularly Frankie, were of him. But I’m sure the yarns he told around the village campfire that night more than made up for that.
Most rural Zulus believe that spirits, in countless forms and guises, are very busily involved in the destiny of man, that they take form in the plant and animal kingdoms, and that the rivers, skies and mountains are inhabited by supernatural beings.
They believe that after death there is no heavenly reward or hellish retribution, only a reassumption of the personality of an ancestor, from where one continues a never-ending role in the eternal symbiosis between the spiritual and material worlds. These deep-seated beliefs are poorly understood and too easily ridiculed by many Westerners who think they know best.
That is of course, until you turn out the lights. For there is nothing like darkness, nothing like experiencing night in the African bush with rural Africans who know strange stories to lead your spirit down the same roads. For surely it was not ‘civilization’ that eroded the spirit world, it was electric light at night, the light that took away the dark, blinded us to ghosts, angels and demons, and vanquished our ancestors.
It was nearly midnight and I was taking the lodge’s night staff back up to their houses. There was a tree lying across the road. Mnumzane had come through the area earlier and he had a habit of doing that. Sometimes I used to think he was purposely closing roads. I mean, how come the trees were never pushed over away from the road?
I couldn’t squeeze past the tree so I turned to go along the river road, a good alternative route, when one of the staff girls said to me, ‘Mkhulu, why are you going this way?’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘It’s much shorter.’
‘You cannot,’ she replied quietly. ‘Not this way, not now.’
‘Why not?’ I repeated.
‘Do you not know of the
tagati
that lives here?
‘No, I don’t. Where?’
‘In the big rock in the cliff at the river, it lives there, we cannot go near, please turn around.’
A
tagati
is a proactive evil spirit and the cast-iron rule for Zulus is that you don’t have anything to do with them, ever. So, respecting the staff’s wishes, I reversed and we took the longer road home. Later, I did some research and went back to find out what they were talking about.
The village
sangoma
, or diviner (often mistakenly called a witchdoctor), explained it to me: ‘That
tagati
has been there for as long as anyone can remember,’ he said. ‘Long before Thula Thula, long before the white man came, and he will be there long after we are all gone. It is his place; do not go there.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
He looked at me in a strange way. ‘Why would anyone want to go to a
tagati
?’ he asked querulously. ‘You do not know
tagati
, be very careful.’
Well, of course I went there. A few times, in fact, and try as I might I didn’t see or feel anything. I think. Well maybe, if I stretch my imagination far enough, and add a dollop of fantasy. On one occasion when I was there for a while studying the rock I could have sworn I picked up a little something, a little uneasiness, but it was inconsequential and I forgot about it.
In deference to my staff who had all been talking disapprovingly
about my visits to the place, I started to pay respect to the superstition and only went past if I had to. It was near one of our roads after all.
Then one evening at dusk I was slowly driving along the river road, looking for foreign plants of all things, when I got an uncomfortable sensation of sorts, and unconsciously looking up, found myself below the same concave rock I had been warned about.
Surprised by this illogical intrusion into my practical contemplations, I stopped, and as I did so a strange feeling came over me and I experienced a dim awareness that all was not right. The feeling slowly grew as I sat there spellbound. Suddenly I became aware of a presence I can only describe as one of absolute malevolence. An involuntary alarm seized me and I went into goosebumps all over. Then slowly the sensation dissipated, almost as if it was taken up by the rock itself.
Not being superstitious at all I was shocked at my reaction and looked back at the rock, still drawn to it. I swear there was still a little something there, a tiny residue of what I had just experienced. And that’s when I recognized it. The residue was what I had picked up on my previous visits, when I thought I felt a little something but wasn’t sure. I recovered myself and left very perplexed, too embarrassed to tell anyone about it, and eventually put it out of my mind.
A few weeks later I decided I had to go back. I wanted another’s opinion. Not from a Zulu for I already knew what they would say, if I could even get them to go. I wanted a Westerner’s opinion. David would be the one. So I waited for dusk and then said to him, ‘Come with me, I want you to see something.’
We drove down the river road just as it was getting dark and I stopped below the rock and turned the motor off.
‘What are we doing here?’ David asked.
‘This place …’ I said, ‘that rock, what do you think of it? Take your time.’
David knew we were here for a reason and looked around unhurriedly, and then I watched as his gaze slowly went up to the concave edifice as if drawn there. My skin started to prickle as he did so, and after a while he turned to me. David, who is as tough as they come, smiled strangely and said to me quietly, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here – now.’
We stayed silent until we were almost back at the lodge and then he laughed and said to me, ‘What the hell was that?’
‘A
tagati
,’ I said, laughing back, ‘a bloody
tagati
, that’s what it was.’
Sangomas
rule the roost in rural Zulu society, not overtly, but behind the scenes, where they are very influential and highly respected. Many are charlatans who manipulate superstition for their own ends, but there are those who are legitimate, practising an ageless art which is as far removed from Western science as you can possibly get. Any interview with a good s
angoma
is a more than interesting experience.
A
sangoma
is born, not made. One cannot just decide to be a
sangoma
, you have to be chosen or otherwise accepted under unusual circumstances, and historically this takes place at a very early age. Sometimes the
sangomas
will even arrive at a home and announce to the parents that their child is a
sangoma
, perhaps the incarnation of a deceased
sangoma
and tell them who. This is a great honour for the family and not so long ago they would even give up the child who then goes away to live with these spirit doctors for indoctrination, taking on the mantle of
sangoma
for the rest of their life.
Sangomas
, unlike
inyangas
who are herb doctors or medicine men, deal exclusively with the spirit world. Typically an interview will have the
sangoma
go into a trance, communicating
with the ancestors, principally your own ancestors; your long-dead family members. Messages will be passed to you from one ancestor or another, advice given and sometimes the future foretold.
If you have an ailment it must be divined by the
sangoma
. This is the opposite of Western medicine where one must tell the doctor the symptoms. With a
sangoma
you may not say what is wrong with you. It is the
sangoma
who must make the diagnosis entirely without your help. Their reputations depend on it.
I once gave a
sangoma
a lift and in return he offered me a session which I accepted out of interest. I happened to have a back pain which he diagnosed. It is uncanny to sit there with an ailment and have it identified and be given the cure via an ancestral-induced trance.
Since then I have attended several such trances and the results can sometimes be absolutely remarkable, though it is not for the faint-hearted since
sangomas
tell it like it is.
Françoise had an idea that overseas guests would be interested in this, so we made an arrangement with a local
sangoma
to receive lodge guests who wanted to ‘have their fortunes told’. He started doing well with the extra fees he was receiving and the guests loved it.
The next thing we knew he was showing off a brand-new, shiny briefcase which he carried with him wherever he went. We spoke to him, explaining that his image and regalia of skins and beads were important for overseas guests, and that he must always hide his new briefcase when they arrive. He agreed most reluctantly, because, as he explained, it was such a beautiful briefcase and the guests would be most impressed.
As his income increased his accoutrements grew to include a new cellphone which he strapped to his belt with Zulu beads. We also had to reason with him about that because he had taken to making calls in the middle of his
divinations, explaining to his clients that this special phone didn’t need wires.
With Françoise and me it is very much ‘when in Rome’, so we respect the local beliefs. Periodically when staff get sick too often, or there are unusual mishaps, we will call in a respected
sangoma
to put
muthi
or protective spells around the reserve, and it is important for us to be seen to be doing so. For without white magic, they believe
tagati
will get bold, take human form, and ride through the night on the back of a baboon striking terror and spreading evil.
But there are many other lighter and sometimes humorous manifestations of the ancestors and other spirit presences at Thula Thula, such as the infamous
tokoloshe
. A
tokoloshe
is an evil, mischievous little demon, in character somewhat like Loki, the Norse god of chaos, but much smaller in size.
Tokoloshes
are the minions of a
tagati
, and they are sent out all over Zululand every night to create mayhem. Almost every Zulu on Thula Thula has his bed mounted on bricks, two or three under each leg. This is to prevent the tiny
tokoloshe
from bumping his head while he scampers around the floor, and thus earning the sleeper unwanted attention. It is said that only innocent young children can see a
tokoloshe
, who also causes bad dreams.
I have always found it interesting that if you take a Zulu to task about the
tokoloshe
they will often make light of it, laughing at the notion derisively, but go into their room and sure enough, there will be the bricks under his or her bed.
Witchcraft has a more sinister side though. One day I was with Brendan and a ranger called Zungu, watching smoke rising from half-a-dozen places around the village.
‘What’s going on?’ Brendan asked Zungu.
‘Today they are burning out the witches and wizards,’ he
said matter-of-factly, as if it were an annual event. ‘Some have even been seen riding baboons at night.’
‘Are they killing them?’ Brendan asked worriedly.
‘No, no, in the old days they would kill them, now they burn their houses and all their belongings, and chase them away from the village. Some may be beaten but they do not kill them. But they must go,’ he added with a note of conviction in his voice.
‘What do you mean, they are witches, how do they know they are witches or that witches even exist?’
‘Everybody knows they are witches,’ he replied comfortably.
Brendan decided not to give up and pushed forward with a line of questioning that had way too much Western logic in it.
‘But what would happen if they said your mother was a witch and came for her too,’ he asked.
‘They wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because everybody knows she is not a witch.’
‘OK,’ said Brendan, nonplussed. ‘If they have done such bad things, why aren’t they taken to court?’
‘Because the court will ask for proof,’ said Zungu.
‘That’s a good thing,’ said Brendan. ‘Surely there must be proof of wrongdoing before punishment.’
‘There is no proof,’ said Zungu. ‘Of course there is no proof, and there can be no proof with witches, that’s why they are witches.’
Brendan walked away shaking his head. What Zungu was saying made some sense though. What judge would ever believe that a man died of a snakebite, or crops had dried up because a witch had put a spell on the household?
The news of my strange communication with elephants, coupled with my refusal to allow anyone to kill even a
deadly snake or scorpion had spread, and many in the village considered me to be somehow mysteriously connected to the animals. I mean, what sort of person would shun normal life and live in the African bush preferring to commune with elephants, rather than his own kind?
Now, if I can just tame a big baboon …

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