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

by Françoise Malby-Anthony

  ‘Any sign of the baby?’ I radioed.

  ‘Negative,’ Promise replied. ‘The herd’s not happy about us being here. We’d better give them some space and try again in a few hours.’

  I groaned in despair. If they hadn’t spotted the baby while the herd was in plain sight then where on earth was she? Had they killed her? Gypsy nudged my leg, her soulful black eyes filled with tenderness. I lifted her onto my lap and held her to me.

  ‘Let’s hope she’s okay,’ I whispered.

  At 8.30 a.m., I dispatched every 4×4 on the reserve to search for the baby. Vusi decided to head back to the dam with Siya. His instincts were spot on, because the entire herd was there, as if waiting for him.

  ‘Herd’s here. No baby,’ Vusi radioed.

  ‘Stay safe,’ I urged.

  He manoeuvred closer, radio against his mouth, binoculars trained on the herd.

  ‘I’ve got eyes!’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Eish, she’s suckling,’ I heard Siya say.

  * * *

  I named the calf Tom in honour of my gentle chef, whose presence of mind in investigating a strange noise had saved the little one’s life. We monitored baby Tom for weeks to make sure she didn’t wander off again, but ET had obviously grounded her daredevil daughter because every time the rangers saw ET, baby Tom was right there at her mother’s side.

  At last we relaxed.

  I have witnessed amazing phenomena in my years at Thula Thula and the miraculous way baby Tom found her way to me is something I have no answers for. She was only a week old, so how did she end up at my home? How did she know she would be safe with me?

  My chef Tom and many of my Zulu staff believe Lawrence’s spirit is still with us, watching over his animal and human family like he did when he was alive, and they believe he guided the baby to me.

  I believe it’s a combination of things. I too sense Lawrence’s presence at Thula Thula and his influence still touches us every day, and I also feel that our elephants share knowledge amongst themselves. After years of living so close to them and observing their behaviour, I have seen their extraordinary ability to communicate.

  Maybe ET walked past my house with her baby during the first few days of her life, and maybe she told her daughter the story of how Lawrence and I had rescued her fourteen years earlier, and maybe, just maybe, little Tom remembered and knew that my home was the safest place for her to go.

  17

  Follow your dreams, they know the way

  We unofficially opened the doors to our orphanage at the end of 2014, almost a year to the day after receiving funding from Four Paws. I would have loved to have made more of a fuss but we hadn’t yet received final clearance from the authorities, and without proper permits we weren’t allowed to take in animals.

  The morning before Christmas, I drove up to check on the building. Work had pretty much finished for the year and everyone had left for the summer shutdown. Gypsy was curled up on the passenger seat next to me, panting in the heat. It was thirty-nine degrees at 8 a.m. Despite the heat, the air was heavy with humidity. This was the tropics and a storm was brewing. Eerie portholes of blue sky gleamed through thick black clouds. A few fat drops splattered on my dusty windscreen. Good. I hoped it would turn into a downpour.

  When we first bought the reserve and built the lodge, I never understood Lawrence’s fixation with rain. I always saw it as a nuisance, because game drives aren’t much fun for guests in a downpour, but my first real experience of a drought changed this very European outlook.

  Summer is usually our rainy season in KwaZulu-Natal, but that particular year it had been steaming hot and hadn’t rained for months. The dams dried up and the sun scorched the veldt and killed off the grass, leaving nothing for our wildlife to eat or drink. Animals belonging to local villagers were skin and bones. Neighbouring reserves began to consider culling as a last-ditch attempt to save at least some of their game. The earth was so arid that clouds of dust hovered everywhere.

  There is no such thing as piped water in rural areas and we’re all entirely dependent on boreholes or municipal water deliveries. Disaster struck when the government official responsible for coordinating water deliveries disappeared on holiday without making alternative arrangements. From one day to the next, Buchanana, the pastoral hamlet where the families of most of our employees live, had no water. The people are so poor that buying bottled water was an unthinkable luxury. We had a borehole and emergency water storage facilities at Thula Thula but they had nothing. Coming from Paris, it was a huge shock to see people I knew and loved panicking about something as basic as water.

  I went with Vusi to meet with the village elders. Children played in the dirt outside the sturdy brick meeting room and the sun baked on the tin roof. It was hotter inside than out.

  ‘If we don’t get water soon, we won’t be able to control the people’s anger,’ Mr Khumalo warned.

  ‘How much do you have left?’ I asked.

  His thumb and forefinger formed a circle. I glanced at Vusi. This was catastrophic.

  ‘We’ll give you what we can,’ I promised.

  ‘I’ll bring some down myself with the truck,’ Vusi said.

  ‘I’ll phone the municipality. They can’t all be on holiday,’ I said.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find an official who would take responsibility for delivering water to the village. My calls rang unanswered, my messages weren’t returned. No one was contactable.

  The villagers rioted, burning tyres, blockading roads. Our guests couldn’t get in or out. We shared whatever water we had. In desperation, I phoned the newspapers and it was only when images of the villagers’ plight went viral that someone sat up and took notice. Within two hours, a convoy of seven trucks of water arrived: barely enough for a few days, but it was a start.

  I never looked at rain the same way again. Without water, life stops.

  I stretched my arm through my car window and watched the plump raindrops bounce off my palm. Those first drops after a dry spell always seem heavier and rounder. They look as if they’re falling slowly, taking their time to come to earth after the long wait. Thunder rumbled and the wind swirled dust around my car – signs that more rain clouds would be rolling in. I started my car again. Getting stuck in a storm wasn’t how I planned to spend my morning.

  There was nobody at the orphanage and it was bucketing down by the time I went inside. The clatter of rain on the corrugated tin roof crashed through the empty rooms. Lawrence was always as exuberant as a kid when we achieved something new and he would have been so proud. I tried to look at the construction through his eyes. He had been much better than me at picking out problems.

  ‘Take off those rose-tinted glasses,’ I could hear him say.

  I gazed at the infrared lamps and wondered which little creature would be the first to lie under their life-saving warmth. We had space for up to twenty orphans but I hoped it would never come to that. Twenty orphans meant twenty dead mothers and that was too horrific to contemplate.

  Bricks and mortar are only one part of an emergency facility like ours. Its heartbeat and soul are the people who give up their lives to care for the animals, and I couldn’t have asked for a more dedicated team.

  Alyson had been part of the Thula Thula family for years and it was reassuring for me to have someone there whom I trusted and liked so much. The first thing you notice about her is her smile, quickly followed by her belly laugh. And believe me, you need laughter to do the work our animal carers do. Looking after distressed and injured creatures takes guts and grit. Not only was Alyson a capable veterinary nurse, she also had a natural instinct for animal psychology, and it was thanks to her that Thabo overcame the trauma of being shot. Her experience with him was invaluable once we started to receive orphans. Interpreting animal behaviour and understanding them usually requires years of experience but it can also quite simply be a gift. Alyson sensed when animals were down or scared and always knew exactly what to
do to lift their spirits.

  ‘Thabo loves having his face stroked. I never knew how affectionate rhinos could be until I started looking after them. They look tough on the outside but they’re so vulnerable and needy on the inside,’ Alyson said.

  The second person to join the orphanage team was Axel, a tousle-haired, easy-going young man from France. His qualifications were a degree in animal behaviour and a very big heart. The animals adored him and so did everyone who worked with him. He was unflappable – unusual for a Frenchman! – and he had a knack of soothing even the most frightened creature.

  Megan was the third team member, a fresh-faced young British girl who knew with a conviction beyond her years that caring for animals was what she wanted to do with her life. She arrived with an animal management diploma from England and rhino-calf nursing experience from another rhino facility.

  Alyson, Axel and Megan enjoyed working together and you felt it the minute you walked in. A home-like happy atmosphere is good for the animals. Top-level wildlife vets are indispensable for the medical side, but a warm cocoon where orphans feel safe and secure is just as important.

  The months that followed were strange. The orphanage was ready. Paperwork done. Permits issued. Team on standby. We were in a strange no man’s land of waiting for tragedy to happen. Our caregivers lived in a bittersweet state of readiness, excited to be almost operational but also very aware that their first rhino calf would have suffered terribly before getting to them. They used the time to add the last finishing touches to the orphanage – building wallow pools, planting grass and even decorating the ‘nursery’ with stencilled paw prints.

  The call came through early one morning in April 2015.

  ‘The Zululand Rhino Reserve anti-poaching unit found the carcass of a poached female but there’s no sign of her calf. If they find him, can you take him?’ Mike Toft asked.

  ‘Absolutely, bring him as soon as you can. How old is he?’

  ‘About six months. The rangers are out looking for him. No one knows if he’s dead or alive. The carcass is about two days old, so he’s been out there for a while. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know more.’

  Six months was very young, but just old enough to survive a few days on his own – as long as the rangers managed to find him before the lions did. The carers kicked into gear to get the ICU room ready for him – scrubbing floors and walls with disinfectant, laying out a clean mattress and blankets, sterilizing bottles and teats, checking food and medical supplies.

  We heard nothing the next day. Or the next. The clock was ticking for this little chap. At last, on Good Friday, after four days of being alone, the calf was sighted with another female rhino and her infant.

  ‘That’s why we couldn’t find it. We didn’t realize the cow had two calves with her. They’re the same age and look identical,’ reported Jake, the reserve manager.

  We were over the moon. It’s unusual behaviour for a rhino female to look after a calf that isn’t her own and we all hoped the gods were smiling on him at last. If she allowed him to stay with her, he had a chance of surviving. The orphanage was ready for him but top prize was for him not to need us at all.

  ‘When the poachers attacked the mother, the calf must have run off with the other female,’ the manager explained.

  Age plays a big role in how a rhino calf copes with losing its mother. A newborn calf stays close to its mother’s carcass, no matter how terrified it is, and poachers won’t hesitate to shoot it if it gets in their way. Older calves have a more developed survival instinct and will run off if threatened.

  Running away saved this calf’s life because he already had a tiny horn and at $90,000 per kilo, the poachers would have killed him for every gram they could get.

  He was named Ithuba, meaning ‘chance’ in Zulu, because he had dodged poachers and predators for over a week and now just needed luck to stay on his side and give him a second chance at happiness – either in the wild with his adopted rhino mother or safely with us at the orphanage.

  ‘Do you think the rhino cow will look after him if she has her own calf?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the big question. We have no idea how it’ll play out but the rangers will stay with him day and night.’

  ‘Is he old enough to survive without his mother’s milk?’

  ‘He could, but it’s far from ideal at his age, although quite frankly, getting milk isn’t his biggest problem right now. The adult female that he’s with is the problem. If she doesn’t let him stay with her, she’ll chase him off or kill him.’

  Rhinos aren’t as generous with their love as elephants are. In an elephant herd, it’s unthinkable to reject an orphan unless there’s something seriously wrong with it, and even then, every adult female will try to help it survive before they walk away.

  Jake phoned with an update at the end of the day. The cow was turning aggressive. Little Ithuba could smell her milk, could see the other calf drinking from his mother, but he wasn’t allowed anywhere near either of them. How he must have longed for the comfort of her teats, but the rhino cow was only interested in her own calf.

  I tossed and turned the whole night. At six the next morning Jake called.

  ‘The calf’s in danger. We’re going in to rescue him.’

  ‘Bring him, we’re ready. When will you get here?’

  ‘Don’t know. It’s going to be bloody dangerous. The two calves look identical and we’re struggling to tell them apart. If we take the wrong one, the cow will kill the orphan. We’re going to handle it from the ground to avoid stressing her with a helicopter.’

  The situation deteriorated dangerously. As soon as the 4×4 went anywhere near Ithuba, all three rhinos scattered and disappeared into the dense bush. The rangers didn’t catch him that day or the next. He lost condition and began to struggle to keep up with the female and her baby. If he was separated from them during the night, he wouldn’t last until morning.

  ‘She attacked him!’ the rangers radioed. ‘She threw him in the air. He’s injured and the cow and calf have run off.’

  With the angry rhino female out of the way, the rangers caught the terrified calf at last. Eight days after losing his mother, Ithuba arrived at the orphanage.

  The ranger bringing him drove the pickup truck and trailer as close to the new clinic building as possible. Easier said than done. Access to the high-care arrival room hadn’t been properly thought out. Trucks need space to manipulate large trailers and doing it in a confined area wasted time – a luxury we didn’t have.

  ‘I need him inside!’ shouted the vet who had travelled with him.

  ‘I can’t get closer,’ the ranger yelled back.

  ‘Open the back of the trailer,’ Vusi instructed. ‘There are enough of us to get him out safely.’

  ‘I’ll get boards so we can channel him to the door,’ Axel said.

  It was chaos and I had a sickening flashback to the night our herd arrived and we hadn’t been able to offload them quickly enough. A baby rhino is easier to control than seven elephants, but the arrival of an injured calf should be handled as serenely and efficiently as possible, and this was anything but. How could we have botched up something so important?

  At last Ithuba was inside, heavily sedated with a cloth protecting his eyes. He looked tiny lying on his blanket in the emergency room and I doubted he would survive. The vet searched for a vein and inserted a drip to rehydrate him.

  ‘He’s not in good shape,’ he murmured.

  There were festering wounds on his groin where the female had gored him and his skin was covered in infected tick bites. The vet cleaned him and administered a hefty dose of antibiotics. Everyone spoke in hushed tones.

  That first night, Ithuba slept peacefully, due no doubt to exhaustion and the effects of being sedated, because the second night was hell. It was as if he was going through all the trauma of the past week – his mother’s murder, being gored by a female he thought he could trust, transported in a clanging trailer, and
then finding himself in a strange room with humans who looked like the ones who had killed his mother. His high-pitched squeals of terror pierced every corner of the orphanage.

  Feeding him was impossible. He was too big and too stressed for the carers to safely go into his room to give him his bottle, but he was too scared to go near the bottle they held through the barrier for him. It was a terrible catch-22 situation. He needed to eat but he had to overcome his fear of humans first.

  The team took it in turns to try to persuade him to take a bottle, but his fear overruled his hunger and he cowered away from them.

  In that respect, newborn calves are easier to look after, as they’re still so trusting. Ithuba was six months old and he knew how dangerous humans could be; just the sight of his carers sent him careering around his room in panic. Two hundred kilos of agitated rhino can do a lot of damage to a pair of human legs. He was making it impossible to be given what he needed most – cuddles and food.

  ‘Don’t give up. He’ll get used to you. Start by sitting next to his barrier so he realizes you won’t hurt him. No sudden movements, no loud voices. Take it slowly,’ advised the vet.

  No one gave up on him. Axel jiggled a bottle of milk between the bars of the barrier.

  ‘Come, boytjie. You need to eat,’ he murmured.

  Ithuba watched him, fear in his eyes.

  Axel squeezed the bottle teat and splattered some milk on the ground. Ithuba didn’t move but his nose twitched hungrily. Axel tantalized him with a few more drops. Ithuba took a step forward. Axel held the bottle still, teat facing forward. Ithuba gave a hungry little squeak and shuffled a few steps closer, ready to bolt. The bottle was just out of his reach.

  ‘A few more steps,’ Axel encouraged gently.

  Ithuba stared at him, ventured closer. Axel stretched forward and nuzzled the milk-drenched teat against Ithuba’s lips. His mouth opened and he latched. His eyes fluttered closed and he drank and drank.