‘Think of it,’ I said. ‘How am I ever going to tell them the man guarding their lodge is a murderer, or the maid in their lodge was party to a gruesome murder?’
Suddenly the penny dropped. They asked me for an alternative solution to this problem. I told them to leave it with me for the time being and that I would get back to them soon. Although they agreed reluctantly, I had at least managed to buy some more time.
Even with these people of legendary patience, I knew that time was of the essence. I had to get help from someone who had first-hand experience with this sort of thing as soon as possible. Calling in a favour from an old friend in the forestry business, he put me onto a labour lawyer who dealt with tribal law issues, and who had knowledge of a similar case. What a relief this was, and when I was told of the possibility that a solution could be achieved by using another witchdoctor, to clean the ‘dirty spell’, I knew there was hope. This would cost another R3 000 or so, I was told, but that was the least of my concerns at that stage.
What was of real importance was that this fee had to be paid by the accused himself, as a demonstration of good faith and, I suspect, as an admission of guilt. So, I called in the baboon-man and put the proposition to him. He accepted without hesitation. I then approached the rest of the staff, who appeared relieved that there was a possible solution and that at least it involved the accused having to fork out a pile of cash. Most importantly, however, it included a witchdoctor’s cleansing ritual.
The following day, our driver went to Ohrigstad to collect the ‘cleansing’ sangoma. Again for reasons of impartiality, he needed to be from as far away as possible, and we all agreed that 100 kilometres was far enough.
This witchdoctor was a younger man and proceeded without too much fanfare and paraphernalia. He was taken to some of the lodges at his request, on which he systematically performed a simple cleansing ritual. He then did the same in the staff village and compound area. The ritual appeared to be based on a mixture of water, a little soil, and something else from his bag of tricks; he then took small amounts of this potion and dabbed it on the door, while chanting a few words. Although this took a lot longer than the previous witchdoctors’ two-hour ritual, he only charged R3 000.
I was surprised that no effort was made by the sangoma to consult with the baboon-man: surely logic dictated that this would be the first port of call? Anyway, I knew better than to question these things.
The following morning, the witchdoctor phoned the office to enquire if all was well. When we advised him that everything was fine, he simply replied, ‘That’s cool!’
We didn’t really know how to interpret either that comment or the need for the phone call in the first place. I had difficulty believing it was a classic example of after-sales service, a follow-up from a true professional, rather positioning it as part of the mind games employed to perpetuate superstition, fear and belief to his own advantage. Being a sceptic, I also assumed he was checking up on the effect of the ceremony and the perceived value of his dubious muddy concoction. The reality was that the materials he used had no potency whatsoever in a physical sense.
Although I remain sceptically unconvinced of any of the individual elements employed by any of the witch doctors, they achieved results which neither I nor the police could achieve – and that’s what mattered. Over time I have asked many believers and supporters of the role of the sangoma why witchdoctors have no effect on me whatsoever. The answer is always the same.
‘But, you are a white man …’
Signs of Elephant Running out of Space?
November 2005
When the elephant began moving into the Balule area, they did so with purpose, and although it wasn’t a surreptitious infiltration, they were in amongst us before we could wipe the sleep out of our eyes. The majority of the population comprised breeding herds, some of which numbered up to 60 individuals at that time, though we have seen herds of well over 100 elephant since. Accompanying these large herds, but not integral to them, were young bulls in the age group 18–35 years old, moving in smaller bachelor groups of up to 16 strong. At this stage, there were only a handful of older bulls in the age group 35–45 years old on the reserve. The significant numeric observation is that the total number of elephant in Balule had risen from a couple of dozen to nearly 500 in about five years!
Understandably, there was a spate of exploratory forays to all corners of this new area, but these were mostly undertaken by the young bull herds. The cows were less inclined to investigate, especially if this involved crossing barriers or obstacles. The older bulls, being more experienced, were more habitat-selective. They also chose to stay on the periphery of the breeding herds, except when in musth, at which time they would move with the herd and seek out potential cows for breeding. Essentially, these were new elephant colonising a new area, ‘pioneer elephant’, for want of a better term.
As in all settling-in periods, there were bound to be teething problems. How we went about trying to solve them became an all-consuming management effort. This was particularly prevalent on the reserve’s western boundary, which effectively was now the Greater Kruger Park’s new western boundary, and where most of the elephant kept on breaking out. The potential danger to motorists on the R40 which lay almost immediately beyond the fence was a major concern, as most of the break-outs occurred at night, and this is a high-speed and popular route with commuters to and from the mining town of Phalaborwa. Can you imagine five tons of dark grey, non-reflecting elephant on a dark grey road, and you’re doing 120 km/h … it’s good night!
One morning, driving through from Nelspruit to White River, I heard a general alert on Radio Jacaranda warning motorists of three elephant on the section of this road between Mica and Phalaborwa. I immediately got on my cell phone and with the help of the Balule regional wardens and a local chopper pilot, co-ordinated an operation to get these animals off the road and back into the reserve.
A couple of hours and R12 000 later, the elephant were safely back in Balule. But I knew this would not be the last time, and the frustration was compounded by the knowledge that we could not contain them with the existing fence. Clearly, the situation needed immediate attention, without any delays that would be inherent in complicated and/or expensive solutions. We couldn’t wait for any committee-based decisions.
The first priority was that motorists be made aware of the danger. That sounds simple; signage was the obvious solution. But, though we quickly decided to make up road signs that would get the attention of all drivers, we also had to come up with a design that was clear enough to explain in all eleven languages of this country that this road was used by elephant, day and night. In fact, given the use of the road by many international tourists, the signage needed to be universally understood.
At this point, the professionals got it all wrong. The first, and embarrassing, batch of signs produced used the unmistakable silhouette of Indian elephants! Working with elephant researcher and artist Melodie Bates, we promptly re-designed the signage using the African bull elephant’s side silhouette and a standard caution triangle. This emerged as the image you see today on provincial road signs. The first acceptable batch was made up at the Phalaborwa Number Plate and Sign Company, with the bill being footed by Olifants River Game Reserve and Balule.
You may ask if the signs got the attention of motorists? Well, they certainly did. All bar two of the first batch we put up were stolen within a week! One of the remaining two must have been copied by the provincial road authorities as, in a matter of weeks, official road signs were erected using our artwork, a great indirect compliment to Melodie’s artistic talent. Not an official word of thanks or acknowledgement, mind you!
Fortunately there were no vehicle accidents involving elephant. On the other hand, there were a number of casualties resulting from breakouts, and all of them involved the young elephant bulls themselves. When they broke out of the reserve, they were classified as problem animals and then destroyed, but, if they weren�
��t too far from the reserve’s boundary, we would get a stay of execution, and then in most instances, at huge cost, chase them back in by helicopter.
Some of these elephant would wander great distances, often too far to try and get them back. A few of them even reached the citrus estates near the Blyde River’s confluence with the Olifants River, some 35 km from the reserve’s western boundary. Once they had gone this distance, they reached the point of no return, and were summarily destroyed by the Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism (DEAT). In one year, 14 elephant were shot in these circumstances, and all of them were bulls roughly between 14 and 30 years old. However, to date not a single cow has been reported outside the reserve.
Under increasing pressure from pro-elephant lobbyists, the department officials were becoming more inclined to try alternatives to killing elephant, but they were also aware of the farmers’ predicament. The possibility of confrontation and the associated danger that these young bulls posed in the relatively high people density zones or residential areas was also a serious concern.
One day I received a call from our local nature conservation official appealing for our help. Five elephant had broken out of Balule and were in the Hoedspruit Air Force base residential area. They had been there for a few days, arousing much curiosity and interest from the residents, most of whom had no idea of the potential danger involved, so there was understandably increasing concern for people’s safety. He went on to say that they had been using Air Force helicopters to try and move the elephant out of the area since the day before, but had been unsuccessful, and that possibly a co-ordinated ground and air effort might just do the trick. I agreed, and mustered all the regional wardens and their game guards, then arranged to meet with the official in Hoedspruit to discuss strategy.
We planned to have the helicopter move the elephant slowly towards the northern fence line of the Air Force base, where we would cut down 50 metres of game fencing. We would lay it as flat as possible then chase them over it into the game farm next door. If this went according to plan, we would then simply lift the fence back into place and repair it. With the elephant safely out of the residential area, they could then be directed without threat to human life, first back to the main road, then across back into Balule. Everyone agreed and the operation commenced.
Taking my bolt cutters, we cut the fence and laid it flat in a matter of minutes, though some of the expanded metal used along the bottom section of this particular fence was springy and didn’t lie as flat as I would have liked. We could hear the chopper getting closer and knew by the throb of the rotor blades that it was bringing the elephant towards us, so we didn’t have time for too many last-minute adjustments. Getting into position upwind and out of sight, we sat and hoped for the best, ready to shout and yell in case the elephant needed encouragement or were off line.
Everything so far had gone according to plan; they were coming in at a gentle run and were being skilfully herded towards the gap we had cut in the fence. The first four went over the flattened fence without a problem, but as the fourth one crossed the line, the toenail on his back foot caught, and momentarily lifted, the flap of expanded metal. This was enough to alert the fifth elephant, which immediately put on the brakes, turned around and ran back the way it had come! The pilot had to maintain momentum and keep the others moving until they were in far enough to allow him to backtrack and try and get the other one rounded up for a second attempt.
Despite a concerted effort by the pilot, I knew this wouldn’t work. The fifth elephant now knew there was something fishy about the fence line, and would never cross at that point. Nevertheless, we had to give it a try. In fact, we tried repeatedly, even employing the vehicles in an attempt to narrow the passage and force the animal through. All we succeeded in doing was to increase the elephant’s stress levels to the point where it was becoming aggressive.
At this point, the Air Force helicopter’s gearbox began overheating, not being designed for this tight manoeuvring. It was also rather heavy on fuel, so had to return to the airfield to fill up prior to the move of the other four as planned. As warden of Balule at the time and responsible for ground operations, I was instructed by DEAT to shoot the elephant. While I knew that this was an innocent animal, acting instinctively out of fear and confusion, and did not deserve this fate, so did the official. This must have also been a tough call for him, but after two days of effort he decided that saving four out of five was the best that could be done.
As emotionally difficult as it was, and with increasing pressure from the circumstances as they played out, there were just no options left. Although I dreaded the instruction to act as executioner, I understood the decision and its beneficial effect on the remaining four elephant. They were not then herded back into Balule as initially planned; instead they were darted and translocated to an ‘elephant-back safari’ outfit in Polokwane. Incredibly, they all settled down and within two weeks, one of the young bulls was apparently allowing his mahout to ride him! Knowing the trauma they had been through, I found this news yet further proof of the adaptability and intelligence of these wonderful animals.
In all honesty, I have mixed feelings regarding the elephant-back safari industry. It’s not the concept per se that worries me, but the ability of the operators to provide the long-term commitment necessary to provide a life beyond the working period for such long-lived creatures. In this instance, however, the choices were extremely limited, and we were grateful that someone could provide a home for these four elephant.
Since this report, the fence on the western boundary of Balule has been replaced with one erected to the latest specifications. The result is that the number of elephant breaking out has been drastically reduced and the need for our signs has also been reduced.
This last comment is not to be interpreted as an invitation to help yourself to one of ‘our’ African elephant traffic warning signs, no matter their investment potential.
Pigeons and Prisoners
Recollections of the early 1970s
Long before the concrete highway sliced through the Johannesburg suburbs of Sunninghill Park and Rivonia, where it now crosses the Jukskei River, there used to be a small seven-acre estate known as The Lychgate. Set amongst the poplars and willows on the bank of the river, you could not imagine a more idyllic setting for a country home. At the time, a good friend of mine, Irving, was lucky enough to practically live there, it being owned by his Aunt Mavis and he being her favourite nephew. I recall spending some of the most interesting times of my youth in Sunninghill and surrounds. Having spent all my life stifled in suburbia, this was the closest I ever came to experiencing the taste of traditional country living.
I loved any time I spent at the The Lychgate, but the autumn and winter days were particularly memorable. There was an atmosphere of history about the place that is difficult to describe, a feeling that was enhanced by the impressive array of antiques, old military weapons, swords, spears, and the like, boys’ stuff mostly. I well remember the beautiful old stone and thatch house, which had the cosiest, most lived-in lounge this side of the Cotswolds. In winter there was always a log fire going, so the whole house smelled pleasantly natural, permeated with a subtle blend of wood smoke, the wheaty odour of thatch and a hint of creosote.
The cheesy-smelling old gun dogs, lying on the hair-covered couches or in front of the stone fireplace, were an almost permanent feature. They’d loll about languid and lazy until you picked up a shotgun, when, without having to say a word, there would be three instant volunteers, tails wagging, ready to go hunting.
On the mantelpiece was Uncle Mike’s assortment of old smoking pipes and his Erinmore flake tobacco, with a pinch of rum and maple. Next to that, a pile of old books always accumulated and always needed to be returned to the study. This was also where the gun-cleaning kit was kept, so there was never an excuse for a dirty gun. It contained the nicest-smelling gun oil, which apparently did everything from cleaning through to preventing rust to
acting as an insect repellent on human skin.
One day I had just placed the kit on the coffee table and was about to open the leather case containing a pair of WW Greener shotguns to start cleaning them, when Aunt Mavis appeared.
‘Mario, would you and Irv be darlings and shoot a few pigeons for me, a dozen or so should be fine; I have a dinner party tomorrow night and want to do them for starters,’ said Aunt Mavis.
‘No problem, Aunt May, I’ll wait for Irving to get home, and then we’ll go out and try our luck,’ I responded as the dogs pricked up their ears in parallel response.
It was Irving’s influence and the pages of The Old Man and the Boy, Robert Ruark’s classic, that taught me the etiquette of conduct in the field and the ethics of wing shooting. This book is a must for anyone aspiring to train and use gundogs in field sports; it contains nearly everything you need to know and although set in North Carolina, the associated guidelines, ethics and philosophy are universally applicable.
Being the middle of the highveld winter, it was chilly but not unbearable, only occasionally dropping to below zero. Most of the willows and poplar trees were bare and from the paddock in front of the house you could see the Jukskei River glinting through their silver-grey branches. This tree-lined river course was a popular flight path for hundreds of speckled pigeons, which we called ‘rockies’, going to and returning from feeding. Even though it was late in the season, the birds were plump; their crops were stuffed full of ripe sunflower seeds from the outlying fields where the farmers were busy reaping what was left of that season’s harvest.
It was a beautiful winter’s afternoon with clear blue skies and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The crisp air began to cool rapidly as the late afternoon sun dropped lower on the horizon so we picked a suitable spot and settled down to wait, concealed in amongst some low scrub facing the river. The shooting conditions could not have been better, and it wasn’t long before the first couple of pigeons came hurtling through, jinking and twisting just above tree-top level.
Mhudi Page 37