Before I even parked my car, I knew the elephants were around.
‘They arrived just after breakfast and have been wandering up and down the riverbank ever since,’ Mabona said.
We built the lodge on the Nseleni River but at this time of the year the river is dry and the herd don’t come here as often as they do in summer, our rainy season. It was hard not to read something into the coincidence of them being there. Why did they choose that day of all days to come to the lodge? I walked across the lawn to watch them with wildlife photographer Mireille, who immediately crouched low to get the best shot.
The whole herd was there – Nana and Frankie, the big boys, the little ones – ambling about in their wonderful unrushed way. Elephants are never in a hurry, whether they’re going somewhere or having a meal. I’ve never in my life seen an elephant gulp down food quickly. The only time they know is Africa time, where today is what matters and tomorrow is another day.
I watched Mabula saunter up to a marula tree, leisurely curl his trunk around a branch and pull slowly until it snapped, then he took his time to munch the foliage.
The calves rolled and tumbled in nature’s sandpit, hoovering up sand and blowing it over themselves. Even little Themba, our youngest calf, was getting the hang of it.
Frankie stood under a towering tall Cape ash quietly surveying her family. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she reflecting on how happy and carefree they were? We know elephants have superb memories, so she wouldn’t have forgotten the dark days of her life before she came to us – born in Zimbabwe, sold to a game reserve in South Africa, almost ending up in a Chinese zoo. In my heart, I knew she understood how Lawrence and I had saved her and the herd, and how I continued to fight to protect them. So much water had gone under the bridge since those early days. We had both become matriarchs before our time and taken on responsibilities we never thought would be ours.
You adapted quicker than me, I thought ruefully, but I’m getting there.
Two calves started a chaotic game of mock charge, whirling their wobbly jelly trunks in the air as they slammed and rammed each other, oblivious to the other elephants that they crashed into or how close to the riverbank they were.
Frankie lumbered across and put herself between them and the steep drop. The riverbed was dry but that only made it more dangerous. She didn’t put a stop to their cavorting but simply stood by protectively and made sure they stayed out of trouble.
This was how I usually enjoyed our elephants – on the opposite riverbank, from the other side of an electric fence, or in the distance across a valley. I looked at my watch and felt the all-too-familiar flutter of nerves. The game drive was in an hour.
* * *
We left on time, just after eleven. I felt excited and anxious but also reassured that Andrew and Muzi were my ranger and tracker. If they were surprised that I had asked for the drive, they didn’t show it.
‘Frankie’s going to be annoyed I’m here,’ I half joked.
Muzi turned and looked at me with solemn eyes. ‘She’s going to love it.’
I nodded with a tight smile. Kathy, the journalist, was sitting on my right, the wildlife photographer on my left, and Clément sat behind me with two guests. We drove out of the lodge gates in a cloud of dust. I stared down at my hands, heart hammering. I always felt like this on game drives but today was especially loaded with emotion. I so badly wanted it to go well.
‘There they are,’ Andrew murmured.
My head snapped up. The elephants were spread out on either side of our Land Cruiser and in front, blocking our way. I searched for Frankie. There she was. On my right, a good ten metres away. She didn’t acknowledge us but the fluttering of her ears gave her away. She knew we were there. I took a deep breath, sat back and relaxed.
They ambled about, doing what they do every day: eating, strolling, touching, communicating, just living their lives, radiating contentment.
Gobisa crossed the road and paused, gazing at us with his old-soul eyes.
‘Watch out. He’s looking for you, Clément,’ Muzi bantered.
‘That’s okay. He knows where to find me,’ Clément shrugged with a grin.
Gobisa dawdled on, chewed on a couple of acacia branches, then sauntered over to where Mabula and Ilanga were eating.
‘Watch,’ Andrew said quietly. ‘They’re Frankie’s boys and they’re not too keen on her boyfriend.’
Both young bulls trumpeted loudly at Gobisa, swaying their heads in annoyance. He paused, a gracious old man taken aback by the rudeness of the younger generation. It was seven years since Lawrence had brought him in as a father figure to help guide and control the adolescent bulls, but since then Mabula had become bigger and stronger than him and had eventually ousted him as dominant male, no doubt fuelled by a fair amount of animosity about his relationship with his mother. Ilanga took his cue from his big brother and was just as stroppy. Neither wanted Gobisa anywhere near them. He moved off to the side and approached the tree from a different angle but Mabula ran up and headbutted him away. Ilanga swaggered after them, bursting with attitude and resentment.
Not in the mood for a face-off, Gobisa left his intolerant stepsons and drifted back across the road to Frankie. He didn’t look particularly troubled but I felt sorry for him. Blended families obviously present problems even in other species. Frankie caressed Gobisa’s neck with her trunk, then they strolled off side by side, bodies touching, legs in step.
I felt Clément’s hand on my shoulder and turned.
‘Ça va?’ he smiled.
I nodded that I was fine, and it was the truth. I was so happy to be with the herd and it felt as if I was rediscovering old friends, ones I hadn’t seen in a very long time but where the trust and love and pleasure at being together had never gone away. I even asked Kathy to swap seats with me so I could sit on the outside of the 4×4.
Elephants have an exceptional sense of smell and at the first sign of danger, they will raise their trunk to locate any threat. In Kenya, they’re known to be able to pick up the difference between two tribes – the Maasai who hunt them and the Kamba who don’t.
Frankie knew I was in the Land Cruiser and if she didn’t want me there, she would have made it clear, but her trunk hadn’t periscoped up to sniff the air and she hadn’t even looked my way, as if purposely ignoring me.
I stared at her, stunned. That’s exactly what she was doing. My heart almost burst with gratitude. She wasn’t angry with me. She didn’t hate me being there. She wasn’t going to take advantage of my fear. She was letting me know that my being there made no difference to her whatsoever.
I can only describe the energy enveloping me as pure, almost divine. For a moment everything seemed to stop. It felt as if every cloud, leaf, bird and insect was bathing me in peace. My heart was so open and serene and I felt deeply humbled by the herd’s gentle welcome.
When you live with fear as long as I did, it is incredible to be freed of it. My anxiety had stemmed from real events but had become a monster with a life of its own. Of course our elephants are still capable of behaving unpredictably, but the difference between today and almost twenty years ago is that back then they were wild and dangerous, whereas now they are wild and in harmony.
‘Françoise,’ Mireille said urgently, pulling me out of my reverie. ‘Something’s wrong with Susanna. Her trunk is too short.’
Susanna is one of the young calves and she was standing just to the left of the Land Cruiser. Depending on how an elephant holds its head, the trunk tip usually dangles very close to the ground. Her trunk hung a good forty centimetres above it.
‘Haibo!’ exclaimed Muzi.
‘Andrew? Muzi? What do you think?’ I asked.
‘Snare injury. She must have got her trunk caught in one but somehow pulled herself free,’ Andrew grimaced. ‘And in doing so the wire must have sliced off the bottom part.’
I was sick to the stomach. No one said a word. The trunk is one of the most delicate and sensitive
parts of an elephant and her pain must have been mind-blowing. She stood in a dazed stupor next to her mother. I felt so helpless and so angry at the men who had set the traps.
Mireille quickly flicked through her photos and shook her head in dismay.
‘Look. Her trunk was intact this morning before we left the lodge,’ she said.
This is the horror of snare poaching for you. At 10 a.m., Susanna was a happy young calf without a care in the world, and by midday she had a life-threatening injury. It was even more heartbreaking because she had already suffered a snare trauma when she was tiny that had shredded part of her ear.
One minute, we’re savouring being so close to these evolved, gracious creatures and the next, we’re in code-red mode to help a calf with a horrendous wound.
It’s such a reminder about life itself. We can never know what’s around the corner and it makes it all the more urgent to relish precious moments of peace when they come our way.
We raced back to the lodge and sent Mireille’s photos to the vet for his advice. Mike was worried, but the fact that the injury seemed to be a clean cut without badly ripped flesh and muscle was very much in her favour.
‘It means she has a better chance of it healing without scar tissue that could block her nasal passages,’ he explained. ‘And she still has enough trunk left to grasp branches and suck up water. I’ve heard of worse trunk injuries and I’m sure she’ll learn to adapt to her disability. Right now, you need to watch out for septicaemia. Call me if the rangers see the slightest hint of inflammation or infection.’
We debated whether she needed preventative antibiotics to stave off potential complications, but decided against it in favour of monitoring her closely. First priority was to make sure she was eating and drinking.
But by the end of that day, the herd had split into two and gone underground and we had no way of knowing how Susanna was.
Every available 4×4 and ranger was out looking for Susanna the next day. It always astonishes me when we can’t find the herd. Twenty-nine is a lot of elephants to go missing, but I’ve learned with them – if they don’t want to be found, they won’t be.
I was beside myself with worry. What if her wound had become infected? How would we know? How could we be sure she was eating? Fortunately, she was still feeding from her mother and wouldn’t need her trunk to suckle. The milk would provide her with essential nourishment to keep up her strength while her wound healed.
But I wasn’t taking any chances – until we had seen her suckle, I couldn’t relax.
The herd stayed in hiding the whole day. Twenty-four hours and the clock was ticking.
At dawn the next morning, Siya and Muzi headed back into the bush to look for them. I was on the verge of calling in an aerial search party when they radioed in the fantastic news that the herd had reunited and was down in the valley where the grass was softer and easier for Susanna to eat with her damaged trunk.
‘The herd has surrounded her and formed a protective circle,’ Siya reported.
‘Does that mean you haven’t actually seen her eat?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Sending pics now.’
My phone beeped and I clicked open the image he sent – Susanna suckling, forehead nestled against her mother’s side, her wounded trunk curled high out of harm’s way. I swallowed hard. Forty-eight hours since we had last seen her and she was eating. I gripped my phone, fighting off tears.
‘Thank you, Siya.’
Susanna wasn’t out of the woods yet, but the fact that she was feeding was a huge relief. Not only for the nutrition, but also for the comfort that suckling would give her.
Only then did the full impact of the herd’s presence during my game drive hit me. Susanna had just been injured and yet Frankie only led the herd into hiding afterwards.
Elephants have an extraordinary ability to sense things. Often when Lawrence had been away from the reserve, they would come to say hello, arriving at almost the same time as he did, and once even turning back when he missed a flight.
Had Frankie sensed the significance of that game drive for me? I believe she did. That’s why she kept her distance and ignored me the entire time we were there. And why, a few weeks later, she brought the herd and Susanna to my home and didn’t leave until the next day – an unheard-of length of time for them to stay in one place.
It was only when I saw they were still there the following morning that it dawned on me she was doing the opposite of ignoring me. She looked up at the house, looked directly at me with her wise, gentle eyes, engaging with me in her elephant way. Quiet rumbles filled the air, echoed in my heart. I walked across the lawn towards her and watched her slide her trunk between the wires to sample the spring flowers on my side, as if sharing a meal with me.
She shows me again and again what an amazing leader and teacher she is, and how she lives every day with compassion, insight and kindness, whether it’s keeping an eye on the little ones near a river, leading Susanna to grass that’s easier to eat, or quietly nibbling on the flowers in my garden to remind me that I have nothing to be afraid of.
Afterword
2 March 2018
It is six years today since Lawrence died. So much has happened, so many lessons learned and obstacles overcome.
We have survived against all odds and I couldn’t have done it without the hand-in-hand loyalty and commitment of everyone at Thula Thula. Together with volunteers, guests-turned-friends, donors and contributors, we keep the passion alive and do everything we can to ensure the survival of our fragile environment.
Our herd has grown to twenty-nine elephants and counting. Susanna’s trunk healed beautifully and she has adapted well to life with part of her trunk missing. Thabo and Ntombi are nine years old and a happy, inseparable couple – and I’m impatiently waiting for them to make me a rhino granny! Our rehabilitation centre now has three orphans, with a baby kudu and baby wildebeest joining little Lucy at the beginning of January.
We are turning Lawrence’s vision of creating a huge conservation area into a growing, sustainable legacy for generations to come, and there are already two expansion projects on the horizon. The first is with private neighbours for an additional 1,500 hectares, which will tick the box for the wildlife authorities in terms of our land-to-elephant ratio and give us enough space to bring in lions, making us a big five reserve at last.
The second very exciting development is that the five amakhosi have agreed in principle for us to expand onto 3,500 hectares of tribal land – magnificent bush that isn’t suitable for cattle but is ideal for conservation. A feasibility study is in progress, but in the meantime we have already raised half the amount needed to fence this area, and the day that we drop the old fence is getting closer and closer.
We are in the middle of a research project to evaluate the social and emotional impact of our contraception policy on the herd. Elephants flourish in a family environment and it worries me that we’re inhibiting this primeval part of who they are.
I have my own dreams for Thula Thula. We have opened a volunteer camp near the rehabilitation centre where people from all over the world, along with youngsters from local communities, will come to live in simple tents that will bring them close to nature and wildlife, and where we will teach them the ways of the bush so they can learn the value of conservation for the well-being of themselves and their planet.
And I am going to dust off Lawrence’s old Land Rover and have it fixed. It will be my 4×4 for reconnecting with the bush I love so much.
As I celebrate thirty years in South Africa, I have learned never to give up, to hold on to my dreams, always to search for a silver lining, and that by looking forward, the difficulties of the past eventually fade out of sight.
Thula Thula is, and always will be, my home.
Françoise Malby-Anthony
Thula Thula, South Africa
Picture Acknowledgements
All photographs are from the author’s own collection, with the exceptio
n of the following:
here © Roy Watts
here © Karen Sandson / Saturday Star newspaper
here © Bella Marques
here © Bella Marques
here © Kim McLeod
here © Kim McLeod
here © Luke Hatfield
here © Christopher Laurenz
here © Thula Thula Staff Photos
here © Kim McLeod
here © Thula Thula Staff Photos
here © Kim McLeod
here © Kim McLeod
here © Kim McLeod
here © Kim McLeod
here © Mark Kitchingman / Mark Kitchingman Photography
here © Katja Willemsen
here © Mark Kitchingman / Mark Kitchingman Photography
Lawrence and Nana always had a special relationship.
Lawrence and myself with our chefs Tom (left) and Winnie (right).
Baby Thabo next to Elaine’s bed the day he arrived at Thula Thula. I soon learned that white sheets were not a sensible option.
Thabo and Ntombi kiss.
Our veterinary nurse Alyson with Thabo and Ntombi.
Me and our ranger Johnny with Baby Thula, Nandi’s calf, who was too ill to survive in the wild.
The herd at Lawrence’s beloved Mkhulu Dam.
At Mkhulu Dam after scattering Lawrence’s ashes.
Mabula with his alpha male role model, Gobisa.
Thabo was shot by poachers in broad daylight.
Baby Tom – the elephant in my kitchen! – after she became separated from the herd.
An Elephant in My Kitchen: What the Herd Taught Me About Love, Courage, and Survival Page 26