The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (31 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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Biyela and his umbrella appeared as if by magic and as we followed I saw that it took far longer for her to loosen up. So did Biyela, and I watched as he spoke softly into her weakly flapping ears. I then realized she wasn’t just stiff in her feet; she was in acute pain – not just the pain she had bravely fought before. Her right hip also seemed to be troubling her. This was serious and I called the vet.
‘Short of doing X-rays, which is impossible, I can’t tell you what’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Nothing is broken but she has badly inflamed joints in her front feet and hip, probably caused by the way she walks.’
He then prescribed some anti-inflammatories and instructed us to ease off on long walks.
The next morning it was the same. She couldn’t stand up. The same happened the following. My concern rocketed.
A week later she wouldn’t drink. Johnny, unshaven, wildhaired, despondent and soaked in the milk he was trying to coax her to take, summed it up. ‘She’s just not interested any more.’
I looked at Thula who was in the corner facing the wall, apathetically swinging her little trunk back and forth. She was also suffering from thrush, which as any mother knows is an extremely uncomfortable yeast infection in a baby’s mouth, and she hated the pungent ointment we spread over her tongue and gums each day.
Johnny was exhausted so I took the bottle from him and tried to ease it into her mouth, with no success. Then Françoise, whom Thula truly loved, tried. She was gentle with her, but Thula still wouldn’t take the bottle.
As Johnny said, she wasn’t interested. From a feisty little fighter, she suddenly seemed to have given up. I had no idea why, except that perhaps the pain she had endured in her courageous quest to live was now simply unbearable.
The next day she took a quarter of a bottle – a fraction of what she needed – but the fact she had even taken that gave me heart. I prayed that her indomitable spirit would resurface triumphant.
That evening she was on a drip. The vet had come out of her own volition. Thula had also captivated her.
Two days later, despite drips and encouragement from the entire staff which would rival cheering at an international rugby match, she sunk into bottomless apathy.
Early the next morning a disconsolate Johnny told us she slipped away during the night while he was with her.
Thula’s death affected everybody, particularly Françoise. I have never seen her sob so bitterly. We’ve had lots of animals living with us over the years and we were close to them all but with Thula it was different. Her cheerful disposition, her refusal to surrender until the last few days inspired everyone. She had shown us how life could be joyous despite pain; meaningful despite brevity. How life should be lived for the moment. The pall of sorrow she left behind was for many days impenetrable.
Her body was taken out into the veldt by Johnny to allow nature to take its course.
I later went out alone, found the herd and led them to the carcass. They gathered around. This time I didn’t speak; I didn’t have to tell them what had happened. For a moment I held my head in my hands; I had let them down. When I looked up, Nana was outside the vehicle’s window, her trunk raised in her familiar greeting pose. Next to her was Nandi. They then moved off.
The remnants of Thula’s skeleton are still there and every now and again Nana leads her family past and they stop, sniffing and pushing the bones around with their trunks, toying with them in an elephant remembrance ritual.
Cape buffalo are the quintessential African animal. The quandary for the uninitiated tourist is that a buffalo looks like and seems like a cow, an African cow perhaps, but a cow nevertheless, and why would anyone want to spend valuable safari time staring at bovines?
But for the aficionado of African bush there is nothing that quite compares, nothing that better symbolizes Africa, and there is no animal more regal, more unpredictable, or more dangerous. I had always wanted to introduce these magnificent beasts to Thula Thula and today was the day.
It was 4.30 a.m. Dawn was streaking with the first shards of light as we were taking delivery of a prime breeding herd of Cape buffalo. We had been up since 2 a.m. preparing the ramp, positioning vehicles and drinking coffee with excited rangers and a few lucky guests from the reserve. The state vet was there and the seals on the truck door had long since been broken for the animals to be freed but for some reason they were refising to come out.
Then everything went wrong. Firstly, the state vet announced with all the officiousness he could muster in the very unofficial bush that two of the cows were dead and a formal investigation may be required. That stunned us. Apart from our concern for the welfare of the buffalo, they were very expensive and to lose two was a big blow. Secondly he complained that the truck was late; the herd did
not want to come out; and that ours was not the only game delivery that he had to attend that morning. In short, he was a busy man and the lack of enthusiasm of the buffalo to leave the trailer was impinging on his valuable time. And it was obviously our fault.
By now Hennie had had enough. In between trying to persuade the buffalo to disembark and convincing the unhappy inspector that their reluctance was nothing personal, he climbed down off the trailer roof with deliberately audible curses and walked back to his vehicle dialling his wife to say he would be late. That was when the bull finally left the truck …
Without warning a huge bull came thundering out of the back of the trailer and instead of disappearing into the bush, inexplicably made a U-turn that would give a Spanish matador the heebie-jeebies. But this was no mere
toro
; this was a one-and-a-half-ton Cape buffalo in its prime. And it was spitting mad. For the briefest moment he took in his surroundings and then focused on the ample figure of Hennie ambling off.
‘Dear God no!’ I thought and watched awestruck as the bull charged at Hennie in revenge for his uncomfortable journey.
‘
Oom! Oom!
’ screamed a young Afrikaner ranger, calling Hennie by the reverential ‘Uncle’ title Afrikaners give their elders. ‘
Die bull kom!
’ The bull is coming!
It sure was. Hennie glanced over his shoulder, dropped his cellphone and ran for his life.
I knew he wouldn’t make it. Hennie was a large man, the distance too far and there was no time for us to get a gun out, nevermind load and fire an accurate shot. An eerie stillness blanketed the scene unfolding in front of us – a real-life horror movie in surreal slow motion.
Wisely abandoning any hope of opening the vehicle’s door in time, Hennie angled for the bonnet to try to duck
out of the way of the horned juggernaut. Despite his lack of fitnesss and ungainly step he had built up a head of steam and was pounding along a lot faster than I thought possible. But that’s adrenalin for you. With the bull inches behind he somehow reached the vehicle’s bumper and they both sprinted around the front left corner as one, the beast’s wicked horn-tips hooking viciously at his back.
It was so close I was certain Hennie had been pierced. But he somehow emerged with the buffalo less than a snort behind him, then ran the width of the pickup and managed to twist again around the bumper and dash for the tailgate.
‘Go,
Oom
!’ the ranger again cried at the top of his voice, shattering the silence. And with that we all came out of our collective trance and started shouting: ‘Go, Hennie, go!’ trying to distract the beast.
It must have worked as the buffalo overshot a fraction on the next turn and suddenly there was a glimmer of light between the two.
‘Go! Hennie’ we screamed louder.
Somehow Hennie managed to gain another precious half a yard as they sprinted like Olympians around the vehicle again.
Bulky as Hennie is, he was still nimbler on the corners and on their third lap he was able to yank the driver’s door open and dive in. He slammed it shut and scrambled to the passenger side as the buffalo could skewer a vehicle door like a can opener, but it wasn’t necessary. As far as the beast was concerned, Hennie had vaporized into thin air. He gave up the chase.
Well, not quite. Hearing our cheering, he turned to face us all standing on the back of the Land Rover, as if we were watching gladiators at the Coliseum. That certainly put a damper on things. This angry beast could easily flip the Landy.
Breaking into a trot he hurtled forward, head down and
I braced for the impact. Thankfully it never came as the snorting ton of horn and sinew missed by inches and continued straight off into the bush. With that a cheer went up … even louder than the one we roared for Hennie.
Hennie then climbed out and crouched with his hands on his knees catching his breath in rasping gasps. As he did so, the rest of the buffalo herd scrambled out of the back of the trailer into the bush.
Game rangers are a tough bunch and the gallows humour started immediately.
‘Hey, Hennie, I missed that. Do it again, will you?’ shouted one.
‘Why are you breathing so hard?’ called another. ‘Oxygen is free.’
A third walked over to him and shoved a cold beer into his hand. ‘Well done,
ou maat.
God was with you today.’
That was true. Hennie gulped the brew down without checking what time of day it was. As he did so I noticed the rip in his trousers. The bull’s horn had actually pierced his clothing on the first turn. It was that close.
Bheki, Ngwenya and Vusi, who was now a section ranger, came with us as we went to inspect the two dead females. The state vet had to give his report, but to us the tragedy was right there in a mound of unmoving flesh. We weren’t sure how they’d died. But one thing we did know was that we had some angry muscle out there charging through the bush.
‘
Ayish
, Mkhulu, that bull is something,’ said Vusi, echoing my thoughts. ‘Hennie was lucky. We must be very careful as these cows will be the same, maybe worse.’
‘I agree. Let’s cancel all walking safaris for a while. And, Bheki, warn all your guards and the labourers to stay well away from them. Tell them all what happened here today.’
I knew that the story would be embellished upon – exactly
what I wanted. We had to let this herd settle down, which I knew they would.
But Hennie’s close encounter with permanency got me thinking about something else I had been trying to avoid.
Life and death go hand in glove. Death is cyclical, witnessed more in the natural order of the wild than anywhere else. And my thoughts turned back to Max who was now fourteen years old and too old to accompany me into the bush he loved so much. The old warrior, who had survived poachers, snakes and feral pigs double his size, had succumbed to chronic arthritis in his hind legs. As I left him in his basket early that morning, he tottered about in a vain attempt to come with me. A year back he would have been in the front seat of the Land Rover. Now he could barely walk. And the sight of Hennie running for his life brought this home with unimaginable sorrow.
It’s funny how these things happen so quickly. It seemed just yesterday that we were out and about on our adventures. I had been told by Françoise and a few close friends that I had to face up to the fact Max was no longer bulletproof. He was very old and in pain and not going to last much longer, but it was just too dire for me to consider. I countered that with the best veterinary help I could get but recently he had all but stopped taking food and sadly I knew his time was coming.
Even so, I was surprised to see Leotti the vet’s car parked in the driveway so early in the morning as I got back. She was sitting next to Max’s basket in the lounge. With her was Françoise. She seemed on the verge of tears.
Max tried to get up to greet me and fell over. He tried again … he wouldn’t give up.
Leotti, who had treated Max throughout his numerous escapades, including regular
mfezi
fights, looked at me and shook her head.
‘Françoise phoned me about this. Lawrence … I know you love him but’ – she gestured at my loyal friend – ‘it would be cruelty for this to carry on.’
She stood up. ‘I will be waiting outside.’
As she closed the door Françoise put her arms around me and squeezed for a moment. Then she too left.
I sat down next to my beautiful boy, lifted his rugged spade-shaped head onto my knee and he looked up, licking my hand as he always did. Even in his dotage he was still a superb creature.
He and I sat for about ten minutes, just us together. I told him how much I loved him, how much I had learned from his courage and loyalty and that the life in him was eternal. He knew exactly what was happening, we were too close for him not to, and I braced myself and called out to Leotti.
She came in. The syringe was ready and she administered that loneliest of all injections as I held him.
I was inconsolable.
About a month later I woke at 6 a.m. with something shaking my shoulder. It was Françoise.
‘So,’ she said in that delightful way the French have of being as direct as an arrow, ‘exactly when are we are going to get married …
mon chérie
?’
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. This was serious talk at this time of the morning and I had to engage my brain quickly.
‘Married? We are married. We’re married under common law. In fact we’ve been married longer and happier than most people I know. Almost two decades – a lifetime,’ I added with a yawning grin to rob any unintended offence.
‘Well, I don’t understand this common-law business you always talk about. You just say that to do me out of a real wedding,’ she replied, throwing a cushion at me with a laugh that didn’t fully disguise her intent.
‘I know. That’s because you turned me down.’
‘Turned you down? When, exactly?’
‘So you don’t remember? That shows just how important it was to you.’
She looked baffled. I moved in for the kill.
‘It was years ago when I first asked you to marry me. You didn’t even reply.’
‘Rubbish! I must have been asleep and you’ve made up all this incredible nonsense.’
Despite the easy banter we both knew that the eternal
battle of the sexes was in full cry and I was thankful when the two-way radio blared at that moment, giving me a pretext to rush off into the reserve. We’d been together for eighteen years and all of a sudden the marriage ‘thing’ was rearing its head. It wasn’t that we weren’t happy. Françoise was absolutely fantastic, and we had been crazily in love since the moment we met, but my theory in life is that if things ain’t broke, why fix them?
I kissed her as I left. She responded cheerfully … and I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, all was quiet on the Western front.
A month later I had to go to England and while away my mother called, asking when I would be returning as she wanted me to meet some government officials that would be visiting Zululand. I gave her the date and she phoned back to say the meeting was confirmed. I let Françoise know and a few days later caught the flight home.
I arrived on a Saturday morning and after greeting the herd, who came as always to meet me at the fence, walked up to the house.
Françoise went off to prepare the lodge for the VIPs and I dressed in my best khakis … well, OK the ones with the least holes in them, a little disgruntled that I had to put on a smiling face for some officials barely hours after returning from an exhausting trip.
I walked to the front entrance of lodge, battered bush cap in hand, and peeked inside. It was packed to the rafters. There was a wedding going on. This was nothing unusual as we often do functions for overseas couples wanting a romantic Zulu wedding in the bush. I turned and walked out, bumping into my mum. I kissed her hello.
‘Where are your VIPs? We can’t meet them here. There’s a wedding going on.’
She nodded, with a strange smile on her face. Something was up.
‘Hang on … who is getting married? Anyone we know?’
‘You are.’
There must be some innate male defence mechanism that kicks in at moments like this. I heard the two words she said, but neither registered.
‘OK, well let’s take the government people to the conference centre, out of the way of all this stuff.’
She shook her head, still with that strange smile. There were no government officials. My mum linked her arm through mine and we walked into the thatched lounge. Everyone stood and started clapping.
I had plenty of time to register what was happening because it unfolded before me as abstractly as an elephant charge, taking place in surreal slow motion despite its thundering reality. This was an ambush, a joint operation planned by both Françoise’s family and my own. I recognized her best friend from Paris sitting with the Anthonys in pride of place. They must have been in on this for some time; you don’t fly out from Europe just like that.
My staff were also dressed in their Sunday best standing in rows facing the minister at the podium, smiling and clapping. They too had been co-conspirators. The only person surprised was me – although stunned would be a more apt description.
Now my mother is the dearest person in the world to me. If it was anyone else I would have at least put up an argument. But she had me firmly by the arm, only surrendering her grip when I was at the podium and shaking hands with the minister.
There I stood, smiling and nodding at guests, feeling like an absolute idiot, knowing that they knew I had been utterly outmanoeuvred. I looked down at my shoes which gleamed back at me. Even they had been shined in a way I had never seen before. I then looked up to see Ngwenya and Bheki in their finery nudging each other and grinning hugely.
For the polygamous Zulus, what was taking place was contrary to their way of life and they were never going to let me live this down. Indeed, my Zulu friends are genuinely mystified why I don’t have multiple wives. You white men are so stupid, they would say. Everybody knows one woman is too strong for one man. Two are even worse as they will gang up against you. You must have three, as one will always be fighting with the other two to take the pressure off you.
Chauvinism? Sure, but then every woman I’ve told this story to has battled to hide a knowing smile. Well, at least for the first proviso.
My train of thought was broken by appreciative murmurs from the crowd as Françoise walked in. I turned as she came up the aisle looking absolutely gorgeous and as her beautiful eyes fixed on me everything came together and made perfect sense. I was willingly caught up in her magic and totally agreed to the surprise proceedings. It was all just so right.
‘Look,’ she said as she arrived at the podium and pointed across the river. Mnumzane was there browsing quietly.
‘He loves weddings,’ she said, smiling. ‘He seems to arrive for so many of them. Now he’s at ours.’
A ring magically appeared and when asked if I took this woman to be my wife, a chorus rang to the rafters: ‘He does!’
And I did.
We never have loud music at the lodge, but that night the bold rhythms of Africa throbbed across the reserve in celebrations that went on until the early morning.

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