The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (6 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 longer. In Africa today elephants are simply competitors in the race for the land. In the West, they are mere curiosities while the East values only their ivory.
Our desperate three-day chase had hammered home to me the reality that these immensely powerful giants were actually as vulnerable as babies. Wherever this lost and confused group went, they would be at risk without someone fighting in their corner. As it was, Nana and Frankie were in all likelihood about to be executed.
Once I grasped that, an almost irrational link was established, which would re-chart my life. Like it or not, I felt part of the herd. Life had dealt them a cruel hand and I was
determined to rectify what I could. I owed them that at least.
Finally some good news arrived, something in short supply at Thula Thula during those depressing days. KZN Wildlife agreed to a stay of execution. The elephants would be captured and returned to the
boma
at Thula Thula. Nana and Frankie had been reprieved.
But if they escaped again, the entire herd would be shot on sight. There would be no encore of the last chase. There would be no further discussion. This was no casual threat. I was told Africa’s infamous elephant gun, the .458 was now being issued as standard equipment to all rangers in the area.
This was to be both their and my last chance.
With the strings-attached stay of execution, I felt as though I could breathe again, now that the stresses of the past few weeks had been eased. To my overwhelming relief, I had been given another chance.
This time I had to succeed. It was literally a matter of life or death; KZN Wildlife was not going to compromise on that. This was the final throw of the dice, and the price of failure was simply unthinkable.
The
boma
had been repaired and I now could only wait while KZN Wildlife prepared to capture the herd. I spent most of this time trying to figure out how we could get the animals to calm down when they were returned. Not only must this be done for their sakes, I also had to consider the implications of having an agitated, delinquent herd on the reserve. Before I let them out into the freedom of the greater reserve I had to be absolutely certain they were settled. But how?
While this was churning in my mind, I received another call from EMOA. It was good to hear Marion Garai’s voice, my only ally in this fiasco.
‘Lawrence, I have an idea that may help.’
‘I need all the help I can get. What’s up?’
‘I’ve heard of an animal psychic …’ She paused and laughed nervously. ‘But before you say “no” please hear me out.’
Hmmm … I was somewhat concerned that our situation seemed so desperate that she was considering paranormal solutions.
‘Shoot,’ I said, then bit my tongue. ‘Sorry … wrong choice of words, go ahead.’
‘Apparently this psychic’s done good work with troubled animals and has a unique way of communicating with them. Maybe she’ll reach out to the matriarch, perhaps get her to settle down and then the rest of the herd will follow. I know this sounds really unusual, and I really can’t guarantee anything, but it may be worth a try.’
Well, OK. I know first-hand that communication with animals can defy normal comprehension. Orthodox behaviour is not always the answer in the bush. But bringing in a psychic seemed way over the top. But what else was on offer? And what harm could it do? At best it may work; at worst it was merely quixotic.
‘OK. But tell her politely to stay out of my way. I’m going to have my hands full when the elephants return.’
The psychic arrived a couple of days later; a middle-aged Canadian woman with curly red hair.
The next day for lunch she ordered peanut-butter sandwiches.
Françoise was aghast. The mere mention of peanut-butter sandwiches in her French kitchen was sacrilege. They were sent back for not being properly prepared. ‘How many ways can you make a peanut-butter sandwich?’ Françoise protested.
We later went down to the
boma
where she spent several hours sniffing the bush and sprinkling what she called ‘cerebral vibrations of family, love and respect’ onto the fences.
‘That,’ she said, ‘will keep them in.’
The next day she pointed to my favourite tree in the garden: a magnificent wild fig with half-submerged roots as thick as a man’s leg stretching into the lawn.
‘That tree,’ she said with a shudder, ‘it has an evil spirit. You can feel it, can’t you? Come … I’ll exorcize it.’
As we walked over I studied the grand, gnarled trunk closely. I always considered it a giant benign umbrella providing shelter for flocks of birds that chimed in perfect melody every morning. They were my bush alarm clock. I wondered what malignant ghosts were lurking in those branches … then quickly shook my head clear.
She began some sort of religious incantation. I stood by, hoping like hell she would finish soon.
‘It’s gone,’ she said after a few minutes, obviously pleased with herself.
As we were about to walk off, she turned and pointed to the sky.
‘See those clouds? They’re not clouds at all. They’re spaceships carrying evil aliens who are preventing the elephants from returning home.’
All I could see was some cotton-puffs of cumulus. She must have noticed my scepticism.
‘I should know,’ she said, patting her ample bosom and leaning in close. ‘I have travelled in them.’
The next day she walked into the kitchen to order her staple diet of peanut-butter sandwiches. But this time her instructions were that our ranger David must deliver the meal to her room.
The sandwiches were made to her specification: loaded with peanut butter and placed on a tray. As directed, David took the food and knocked on the door. It swung open and there in front of him was the psychic. She was stark naked.
David put the tray down and muttered, ‘Your sandwiches, ma’am.’ Then he turned and fled, his face the colour of beetroot.
Finally something real happened. KZN Wildlife phoned to say the herd would be delivered the following day.
Elephant capture is done throughout South Africa, but
not in KwaZulu-Natal. In fact the team at Umfolozi, who had famously pioneered capturing white rhino, saving the species from extinction, did not have the heavy equipment required for loading family groups, elephant herds, which comprise only adult females and their young. Babies are never separated during capture. Adult bulls are always transported individually. However, a new dual-purpose heavy trailer designed for transporting both giraffe and elephant had recently been purchased and now was the time to put it to the test. Which begged the questions: Would it be strong and large enough to accommodate all seven elephants? And would the team be able to move the hefty creatures into the trailer without the specialized equipment and sleds used elsewhere in the country? My elephants were going to be guinea pigs, so to speak.
I was comforted by the fact that my good friend Dave Cooper, Umfolozi’s internationally respected wildlife vet and probably the top rhino expert in the world, would be in charge of the welfare of the elephants.
Capture always takes place early in the day to avoid heat stress. At six o’clock a helicopter carrying an experienced marksman in the shooter’s seat thudded off to where the herd was last sighted. Dave remained on the ground so that any problems could be confronted as quickly as possible. After a few false alarms, the elephants were spotted and the pilot swooped down, coming in just above the treetops in a tight bank and then dropping until he was hovering almost on the ground to turn the now-running animals.
This is where African bush pilots’ famed flying skills come into their own. The pilot toyed with the chopper, swaying this way then that, first blocking then lifting then dropping, all while threatening, cajoling, and charging forward at the now frantic elephants, herding them towards a dirt track he could see scarring the plains several hundred yards ahead. That rudimentary road was pivotal as the ground crew
needed to get the heavy transport truck as close as possible to where the animals went down.
The marksman loaded the dart gun and readied himself as the pilot radioed his position to the ground crews.
The herd was now in full flight, crashing through the bush with the clattering chopper blades egging them on.
Suddenly Nana, family in tow, broke through the tree cover and into open ground at the area chosen for darting.
The pilot deftly shifted to just behind the stampeding animals, offering a clear view of their broad backs.
Crack!
The .22 shell fired a hefty aluminium dart filled with M99, a powerful anaesthetic customized for elephants and other large herbivores, into Nana’s rump. The matriarch is always darted first followed by the other larger animals. The calves are darted last to prevent them from being trampled or smothered by the larger family members. Nana’s calf was in fact too small to safely dart from the air and Dave was warned to make up a dart and immobilize the calf on the ground.
As soon as one dart hit another was rapidly loaded and fired. The fluffy bright red feathers of the dart stuck out of the rumps of the running animals like beacons. The shooter must work quickly. Any delay between shots would have comatose elephants spread out all over the bush complicating matters immeasurably.
Once the last dart struck true the marksman gave a thumbs-up and the pilot gained altitude and hovered as first Nana, then the others started to stagger and sink to their knees before collapsing in slow motion. It is surreal when these galloping giants suddenly lose momentum and their tree-trunk legs turn to jelly as they buckle in the dust.
The ground team’s speeding trucks were now less than a mile away. The timing was spot on and the helicopter bumped gently down in a whirlwind of red dust.
Dave hurried to where Nana lay in the dirt. The baby,
Mandla, was standing nervously next to her fallen body. He flapped his ears and reared his tiny trunk, instinctively trying to protect his prostrate mother. Dave got into position and fired a light plastic dart loaded with the smallest effective dose into the baby’s shoulder.
As Mandla’s knees folded, the vet broke a twig off a nearby
guarri
tree and placed it inside the end of Nana’s trunk to keep the airways open. He did the same to the other elephants, and then went back to Nana, squeezing ointment into her exposed pupil, pulling her huge ear over her eye to protect it from the blossoming sun.
The other slumbering beasts got the same treatment and he methodically checked each one for injuries. Fortunately none had fallen awkwardly, breaking bones or tearing ligaments.
The ground team arrived and immediately reversed up to Nana. As the matriarch, they wanted her loaded first. This is done by unceremoniously winching the animal up into the air feet first and depositing the body at the rear entrance of the huge purpose-built truck. Then it is pulled and pushed into the truck by teams of men where it is revived by Dave with an injection of M5050. A five-ton slab of meat, muscle, blood and bone, hanging upside down is not a pretty sight, but it was done as gently and rapidly as possible. However without the specialized equipment this process took much longer than normal. While the larger animals were laboriously being loaded the effects of the drug started to wear off in some of those waiting their turn. When a drugged elephant starts waking up, you don’t waste time hanging around. As trunks started to twitch and elephants attempted to raise their heads, Dave was kept busy running from one to the next, administering additional drugs intravenously into a large vein pulsing in the ear. Once all were aboard and awake, the trucks revved off to Thula Thula. The animals recovered during the ninety-minute journey and
although a little wobbly, Nana again led her family into the
boma
, followed by Frankie looking as defiant as ever. Their bid for freedom had, if anything, increased their resentment of captivity. I knew we would have a rough few months ahead of us.
As the capture team drove off, one game ranger shouted over his shoulder, ‘See you soon!’
This was no polite goodbye. His meaning was clear. He was saying these animals were bad news. He had no doubt that the herd would break out again and he would be back; this time with bullets, not darts. I felt like making an angry retort but couldn’t think of one quick enough.
The next day the wildlife dealer phoned, doubling his bid to $40,000 and repeating the offer of a tamer replacement herd. Again it sounded unreal, just too good to be true. Again I stalled, saying I would consider it. And again, I felt irritated by the offer. I couldn’t shake the belief that fate had a hand in all of this. Fate had sent me these elephants – I hadn’t asked for them. And maybe some things were meant to be.
Just before nightfall I took a drive down to the
boma
, parked some distance away and with great caution walked towards the fence. Nana was standing in thick cover with her family behind her, watching my every move, malevolence seeping from every pore. There was absolutely no doubt that sooner or later they were going to make another break for it.
Then in a flash came the answer. I decided there and then that contrary to all advice, I would go and live with the herd. I knew the experts would throw up their hands in horror as we had been repeatedly instructed that to keep them feral, human contact in the
boma
must be kept to the barest minimum. But this herd had already had too much human contact of the very worst kind, and their rehabilitation, if such a thing was even possible at all, called for
uncommon measures. If I was to be responsible for this last-ditch effort to save their lives, I should do things my way. If I failed, at least I would have done my best.
I would remain outside the
boma
, of course, but I would stay with them, feed them, talk to them, but most importantly, be with them day and night. These magnificent creatures were extremely distressed and disorientated and maybe, just maybe, if someone who cared about them was constantly with them, they would have a chance. There was no doubt that unless we tried something different, they would continue trying to break out and would die in the attempt.
It boiled down to this: we had to get to know each other or else all bets were off. We didn’t have time for the ‘stand-off’ measures proposed by the experts. As I said to David one evening, we had to get the matriarch to trust at least one person. Unless that happened, the herd would always be suspicious of humans and would never settle down.
‘That human will have to be you,’ he said.

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