An Elephant in My Kitchen: What the Herd Taught Me About Love, Courage, and Survival

by Françoise Malby-Anthony

  ‘What was that about?’ Lawrence said.

  ‘He came to say hello,’ Ndlovu shrugged, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for a bull elephant that had broken six electrified fences, been chased by two helicopters and a swarm of 4×4s, and then been drugged to the teeth and hauled back to base camp on a flatbed truck, to wander up for a casual hello with an old friend.

  ‘What’s our next move?’ Lawrence asked.

  ‘We wait for him to feel safe.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘Look at it from his point of view,’ Ndlovu said softly. ‘He comes to Thula Thula and he can smell there are other elephants. He knows there must be a dominant male around.’

  ‘Mabula is a squib compared to Gobisa,’ Lawrence scoffed.

  ‘Ah, but he doesn’t know that, does he? He knows he’s not feeling his best and that he must hide to protect himself from the dominant bull whose territory he’s in.’

  ‘How long will he hide for?’

  ‘As long as it takes for the sedatives to wear off and for him to feel confident enough to explore his new terrain and gather as much information as he can about Mabula to understand whether he’s a threat or not. He will smell the presence of all the other elephants but he’ll be most interested in the bull that might fight him for territory. He will eventually realize from Mabula’s dung that he’s no danger to him. Be patient. Give him space.’

  We were lucky to have such a wise Zulu man to advise us and help us understand what was going on with Gobisa. The way he explained it made so much sense and made me feel a lot less worried about him.

  ‘Won’t Mabula realize that Gobisa is here?’ I asked Lawrence.

  ‘He probably does, but if he has any sense he’ll stay with the herd and keep out of Gobisa’s way, because after what I saw of Gobisa, there’s no way Mabula would survive a run-in with him.’ He fell silent. ‘I have never in my life seen such courage. This bull is going to be good for our herd.’

  On Sunday, Vusi phoned to report that the battle of kings had begun. For two days, Gobisa and Mabula fought with bone-shattering, tusk-clashing fury. I knew it had to happen but I hated every minute of it.

  ‘Where is the rest of the herd?’ I asked Lawrence anxiously.

  ‘Nana’s headed north with them. They’re safe but two of the younger ones have snuck back to see what’s going on.’

  Mandla and Ilanga watched from the sidelines, never getting involved, but learning what lay ahead if they ever took on the winner.

  ‘Ndlovu feels that Gobisa has the upper hand,’ Lawrence told me.

  ‘Does he know how much longer it’s going to carry on for?’

  ‘As long as it takes for Mabula to back off. He’s putting up one hell of a fight. Thank God Gobisa came when he did. If Mabula is already so bloody-minded at eighteen, imagine the kind of bull he would have grown into without a father figure to teach him a thing or two about being part of the herd.’

  ‘How will we know it’s over?’ I fretted.

  ‘Ndlovu says we can relax when Gobisa flicks Mabula’s penis with his trunk. It’s the ultimate sign of dominance.’

  I was so relieved when their power struggle came to an end and Mabula survived with no serious injury other than a few surface wounds and a punctured ego.

  ‘Do you think Gobisa was careful not to hurt him too badly?’ I asked Lawrence.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ he nodded. ‘Make no mistake, he had his hands full fighting Mabula, but he probably had a few tricks up his trunk that he used to prolong the battle and tire out his opponent. We got ourselves a true king, Frankie.’

  Mabula never really accepted Gobisa’s authority, but he had no choice while Gobisa was bigger and stronger than him, and when I look at Mabula today I know we did the right thing. He’s full of sass, just like his mother Frankie, and having to submit to an older bull’s authority helped ensure that his spirited behaviour was never allowed to become dangerous. Quite the contrary! He channelled that feistiness into becoming the herd’s entertainer, and nothing makes him happier than being in the spotlight. If he were human, I have no doubt that he would use his South African connections to beg Trevor Noah for a job at Comedy Central.

  His favourite trick is disrupting a game drive with bush yoga, but his rules are strict. No cheering, no show. He starts with a back leg stretch then raises his leg up high, slowly bends his front legs and lowers his huge head onto the ground, eyeballing the guests as he freezes in a Three-Legged Downward Elephant position.

  Between cameras clicking and guest applause, Mabula knows that he has an appreciative audience, and the rangers know they’re in for a long wait because once our performer gets going, there’s no stopping him. The louder the laughter, the better.

  His adaptation of the Corpse Pose is legendary. He plonks down on his bum, shifts about on his butt cheeks to get comfortable, then straightens out one leg and lounges onto his side in the Mabula Centrefold Pose. His comic timing is superb because if he hears the ranger shift gears to leave, he too changes gears and quickly kneels on all fours and twerks. Yes, twerks. Anything to prevent his fans from going. His gyrating rump makes Miley Cyrus look like a beginner.

  His other favourite trick is a game of chicken.

  He faces the vehicle, shakes his head and billows out his ears, getting ready to charge. The ranger knows it’s a pretend charge but the guests don’t. He starts with a slow trot that speeds into a stampede. Adrenalin in the 4×4 rockets. That much elephant bearing down on you at breakneck speed is terrifying, and he knows exactly how scary he looks.

  Bearing in mind that the behaviour of a wild animal is always unpredictable, the ranger usually backs away to give him space. As soon as the 4×4 kicks into reverse, Mabula veers off to the side. Game over and he knows he’s won, preening in delight as he saunters back to the herd.

  Everyone in show business knows that performances don’t always go according to plan, as Mabula found out the hard way.

  Tambotie trees are so strong that their timber is used for gun stocks and arrows. Not an easy tree to knock down, and usually an elephant will use its entire body weight to knock one of them over, but Mabula wanted to show that he could do it with just one leg.

  With his right foot against the trunk and his eyes on his audience in the Land Cruiser, he pushed with all his might. The tree bent and creaked. The guests clapped and whistled. Mabula pushed harder. The tree groaned and buckled to breaking point.

  Suddenly his foot slipped and the tree boomeranged against his forehead.

  Gales of laughter exploded from the vehicle.

  Mabula flew into a rage, whipped around and charged. He likes people to laugh with him, not at him.

  But the ranger was ready for his temper tantrum and sped off, leaving him on his own, wondering what the heck had gone wrong with his show.

  10

  Dangerous deals

  I reread the message my assistant had left propped up on my desk.

  Piet Potgieter called three times. Has rhinos and wants a meeting.

  Piet Potgieter1? Never heard of him. I had no money to buy more game. Maybe he was a journalist trying to get an interview. I tapped the piece of paper then shrugged and dialled the number. One call wouldn’t commit me to anything. A clipped voice answered the phone.

  ‘Potgieter.’

  ‘Hello, it’s Françoise Malby-Anthony. You called me this afternoon.’

  ‘Ah yes, Françoise. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. You’re quite a difficult woman to get hold of.’

  ‘Sorry about that but I have a lot on my plate. How can I help you?’

  ‘I have a proposal I’d like to discuss with you but pref- erably not over the phone.’

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘Rhino conservation.’

  That caught my interest.

  ‘Your message said you had rhinos for me. I must warn you, I’m not in the market to buy,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sell
ing. I have eight rhinos I’d like to rehome and they won’t cost you a cent, other than maybe the transport, although I’m even negotiable on that. I’m talking big-scale rhino conservation here, but it’s too complicated for a phone conversation. How about we meet the next time you’re in Johannesburg so I can explain? My farm’s up in the Limpopo but I’m often in Joburg on business.’

  ‘I don’t have a trip planned but I’ll let you know when I do,’ I said neutrally.

  He didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘No problem. I’ll come to you. We’ve heard a lot about Thula Thula and I know my wife would love to meet you. Would the last weekend of this month work for you? We could be there by midday on the Saturday.’

  To say I was taken aback is putting it mildly. There’s no easy route from the Limpopo to Thula Thula. It would take him two flights followed by a two-hour drive to get to me. I wondered why I didn’t recognize his name but I figured it was probably because he kept a low profile. You get people like that. They do fantastic work and yet they stay out of the limelight. It would have been rude to refuse, and to be honest, by then I was more than a little curious about why he was prepared to go to such lengths to talk to me. We agreed on dates and I promised to send him driving directions from Durban airport to Thula Thula.

  I lowered the phone, feeling slightly uneasy without know-ing why. I put it down to his offer of free rhinos. Lawrence always said that if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Who gives away animals as valuable as rhinos? Eight of them would be worth about R2.8 million – an enormous amount in South Africa’s struggling currency. Even in a more stable currency like dollars, it was a lot of money. I could do plenty for conservation with $330,000.

  A fortnight later, the gate guard called to announce Mr and Mrs Potgieter’s arrival. I glanced at my watch – five past twelve. My rhino benefactor was a punctual man.

  ‘Thanks, Thembo,’ I said to the guard. ‘Please could you arrange for someone to escort my guests to the lodge and let them know that I’ll be there to meet them.’

  It’s a short drive from my office to the lodge and of course I don’t go anywhere without Gypsy, but because I walk fast and her short legs can’t keep up, I usually carry her. By the time I arrived at the lodge with my little poodle in my arms, Piet Potgieter was already downing a Castle Lager at the bar. He jumped up when he saw me and Gypsy went into a barking frenzy at the bearded stranger striding our way.

  Potgieter was a stocky man somewhere in his seventies, and his square face burst with confidence more suited to a young buck than an ageing bull. I nuzzled Gypsy to calm her down, then I put her on the ground at my feet. Piet Potgieter took my hand in both of his.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, and let me just say this: you’re even more beautiful in real life.’

  I searched his watery blue eyes but saw nothing. And I mean nothing. No windows to the soul there, I thought to myself. I asked my lodge hostess, Sindi, for my usual glass of cold sparkling water and a bowl of water for Gypsy, who had positioned herself between me and the man.

  ‘Is your wife not joining us?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s just freshening up. Nice place you have here.’

  ‘Thank you. So, on the phone you said you have a farm up in the Limpopo?’

  ‘I’ve got 8,000 hectares a few kilometres outside of Tzaneen. How many do you have here?’

  ‘About half that. You’re not a hunting farm, are you?’

  His laugh was somewhere between a snort and a guffaw.

  ‘I’ve been accused of many things but hunting isn’t one of them. I breed rhinos.’

  ‘You breed them? To do what with, if you’re not selling them to hunters?’

  ‘To save the species.’

  I took in this grand statement and checked his eyes for fire. Still nothing.

  ‘That’s one hell of a mission,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘And you can be part of it.’

  My stand on conservation was no secret. I wanted to help rhinos, one orphan at a time. Despite his rather annoying manner, I was intrigued.

  ‘How do you mean, I can be part of it?’

  He signalled for another beer and waited for it to be poured.

  ‘I’ve been breeding them for about twenty years and now I have too many, so—’

  ‘What do you call too many?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Just under a thousand.’

  I hid my shock. ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘One of the largest stocks in the world,’ he nodded.

  I flinched at the word stock.

  ‘So where does the conservation part come into it?’ I asked.

  ‘Simple. Poaching is going to kill our rhinos. The demand in Asia for horn won’t change in our lifetime and if we don’t do something about it, they’ll disappear. I know it. You know it. Three rhinos are killed every day in South Africa alone, and at this rate they’ll be extinct within a few decades. I breed them and harvest their horns, so one day soon when it’s legal again, I’ll flood the market and we can all sit back and watch the price per kilo plummet. Then all those—’

  He stopped mid speech at the arrival of a very well groomed, very young blonde. Gypsy growled and I quickly slipped off a shoe and stroked her with my bare foot.

  ‘Françoise, meet my Anneline,’ Potgieter said.

  ‘Hello Françoise, it’s fantastic to meet you. I just loved The Elephant Whisperer. I mos cried the whole way through.’

  From her accent, I deduced that Anneline Potgieter was Afrikaans. From the size of the rocks on her fingers, and the fact that she looked young enough to be his daughter, I deduced he was her sugar daddy. It didn’t bother me in the least. If trophy wives and sugar daddies found a way to combine love with business, who was I to judge?

  ‘I’m glad you liked the book,’ I smiled.

  ‘Oh my God. I love your accent! Isn’t her accent sexy, Pietie?’

  ‘We both have accents,’ I laughed. ‘Where are you from, Anneline?’

  ‘I’m from Bredasdorp but I wish I sounded like you. You know, we went to Paris for our honeymoon. It was so romantic, wasn’t it, Pietie?’

  Potgieter passed her a glass of sweet white wine.

  ‘Here you go, my bokkie. I ordered your favourite wine from Klein Constantia.’

  ‘Ag my hemel, I’m so excited to be here. How do you say cheers in French?’ She clinked her glass against my water glass. ‘When can we go on a game drive?’

  ‘Popette, remember how I said Françoise and I first need to talk some business? Let me finish my meeting and then I promise you, we’ll do whatever you want.’ He gave her a quick kiss and turned back to me. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘You were explaining how harvesting rhino horns would save the species,’ I said dryly.

  ‘The way I see it is that if we dump a crapload of rhino horn on Asia, demand will drop.’

  ‘You’re saying the more horn that’s available, the less people will want it? How does that work?’

  ‘Basic economics. Supply and demand. Flood the market and prices drop. You see what I mean?’

  ‘No, actually, I don’t think I do. Rhino horn is used for anything from curing cancer to a status trophy in a boardroom, so why would flooding the market—’

  ‘I’ll give you an example. Say your favourite food is pizza and—’

  ‘I’m French. I don’t eat much pizza.’

  ‘Okay, frogs’ legs then. Imagine they cost five hundred rand per leg and suddenly you can get them for fifty rand. What do you do? You eat yourself sick and then you won’t want them any more.’

  He gave me a triumphant grin. Anneline smiled proudly at him over the rim of her wine glass. I was beginning to feel like I needed a glass myself.

  ‘Look what happened when they banned the sale of rhino horn in 2009.’ Potgieter hammered his fist on the bar. ‘The bloody price shot up.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Here’s what I’ve been doing about it. I’ve been removing my rhinos’ horn
s for years. Better a live rhino without a horn than a dead rhino without one. You get my drift? The idea is to sell the horns to protect the rhinos. I have an army looking after mine – sharpshooters, ex-military men, a helicopter, infrared cameras, electric fencing, the lot – and it costs me an effing fortune, pardon my French.’

  ‘I still don’t understand the conservation part, because your rhinos aren’t actually being rehabilitated to go back into the wild, are they?’

  ‘Let’s keep it real. They get killed in the wild. If we don’t do what I’m doing, there won’t be rhinos left to protect. My rhinos have outgrown my farm so I’m looking for game reserves to get on board to help. Me and my team will take care of the horn harvesting and here’s the part that will interest you – I’ll split the proceeds. You get a third, the community gets a third and I keep a third, and by the way, I don’t care what you do with your third.’

  He made it sound so logical, so easy. At the time, I was still struggling to pay off debts after Lawrence’s death and didn’t have a cent to my name. He must have known how attractive his offer was to me, and he was somehow making it sound as if I would be irresponsible if I didn’t help him in some way. I desperately needed time to think.

  ‘I’ll never be able to afford to keep so many rhinos safe.’

  ‘I’ll send men to provide round-the-clock protection.’

  He had it all worked out.

  ‘The horns are worth $90,000 per kilo,’ he continued. ‘Bearing in mind that just one of them weighs four kilos, that’s plenty bucks coming your way. And I want to give you eight rhinos. It’s a no-brainer, Françoise. Think what you could do for the community. Think what you could do for Thula Thula.’

  ‘But what you’re saying is quite hypothetical, isn’t it? Because right now, selling horns isn’t allowed and I’m not interested in anything illegal.’

  ‘It won’t be for long. I’ve got contacts. Plenty contacts. People who’ll help me change the law. Don’t you worry about that. The law’s going to change and then selling rhino horn will be one hundred per cent legal.’