Elephant Dawn

by Sharon Pincott

  The group that was insisting I sign their ‘partnership agreement’ has now mysteriously claimed that I’m attempting to sabotage their business. They’ve lodged a formal complaint with the Dete police to try and have me charged. The fact that I’ve had nothing to do with them since peacefully leaving my rondavel last year doesn’t seem to matter. The police decline to let me read what has been filed against me.

  My relationship with this country is starting to feel like an abusive marriage. I just keep going back for more, unable to break the cycle of harassment.

  I email Mandy, who I know will share in my bafflement. ‘So guess what this little elephant-loving girl from country Queensland is now?’

  ‘Your capabilities are mind-boggling!’ she replies. ‘Do people actually believe all of this stuff? A saboteur?’

  It is Zimbabwe’s way. If something is repeated often enough by those with powerful connections it doesn’t matter how untruthful, crude or incomprehensible, it’s likely to become fact. People are generally bullied into immediate and silent submission.

  ‘So what have you got to say about this?’ the local CIO agent asks me when he eventually appears on my doorstep. ‘Are you trying to sabotage their business?’

  ‘They don’t need any help from me, or anyone else,’ I declare to this man, whose involvement in Zimbabwe’s secret police isn’t very secret. ‘They’re doing a fine job of sabotaging themselves. Do you seriously believe this drivel?’ I ask.

  ‘You need to come down to the police station,’ he declares.

  ‘Excellent,’ I say. ‘A five-person film crew has just arrived from South Africa to start filming with me. Let me just go and get them, so they can come with me.’

  He leaves pretty quickly, without me in tow, but predictably soon reappears demanding all sorts of things that I am never going to agree to without a fight.

  ‘Do you and your people really have nothing better to do with your time than sit and doze on a filming vehicle all day long, for the next month or two?’ I ask incredulously when he tells me that he—or a fellow police officer—must be on the filming vehicle to oversee what is being taped, every single day without fail, despite all of the approvals already in place. ‘How about you spend your time investigating those who continually report me? Then, perhaps, you might actually find some bad guys.’

  If nothing else, at least this has given the film crew a first-hand glimpse into the frequent attempts to hamper my work. They don’t, however, risk turning on their cameras when these confrontations are taking place. They know their equipment would be confiscated in a flash.

  I’ve painstakingly arranged a small function at one of the lodges, during which Minister Nhema will read the Presidential Decree reaffirmation on behalf of President Mugabe. The crew will be there to film. Chief Nelukoba Dingani, who is the area’s traditional leader (akin to a tribal king) will also be in attendance, as will representatives from Parks and the media. Ingonyama, an exceptionally talented dance and drama group from Dete, will also be there to help welcome the minister, as will the Forestry Protection Unit, who are involved in snare destruction in the Presidential Elephants’ key home range.

  Of course there is a problem. There’s always a problem! Just two days before the function I unexpectedly find myself talking to Minister Nhema on my mobile phone.

  ‘Air Zimbabwe’s just gone on strike. I can’t make it to Hwange,’ the minister says to me.

  No way, I think to myself. You’re not getting out of this that easily! There are no commercial flights to Hwange these days. To save the time it takes to drive from Harare, he’d planned to fly to Victoria Falls, before driving on to Hwange.

  ‘What if we can charter a plane for you?’ I offer as a last resort, despite having absolutely no idea whether we can pull this off.

  ‘That would be okay,’ he says.

  I hang up, feeling faint. The film-crew leaps into action. They check to see if they can get approval to pay for this flight, and to see if a suitable plane is even available to fly from Harare into the Hwange airport. Half an hour later I ring the minister back. Everything is in place; he just has to get himself to the airport.

  This new plan actually comes with an upside: the film-crew can now request to record the minister’s arrival on the Hwange tarmac. No filming is generally allowed at any airports in Zimbabwe, purportedly for security reasons. It certainly doesn’t happen quickly, or easily, but we’re finally granted approval.

  Minister Nhema arrives the morning before the official function, and I greet him at the airport. He doesn’t remember that he’s met me before. I’m surprised when he casually invites me to climb into his awaiting vehicle beside him, to talk. His eyes are no longer downcast. He is charming and friendly. In fact, I feel that he is very much on my side.

  It is planned that I will take him out in my vehicle after lunch, with the film-crew in tow, to meet some of the Presidential Elephants. As I walk towards my 4x4, I see that it’s being combed by the CIO and police.

  ‘What is that?’ one of them asks me, pointing to what is clearly a brick under my seat.

  ‘It’s a brick,’ I say.

  ‘What do you plan to do with it?’ he asks.

  I just can’t help myself. ‘I plan to hit Minister Nhema over the head with it.’

  They can’t help but smile and then ask me again. I explain that I frequently drive in soft Kalahari sand and that if I get a flat tyre—which I do often—I need chocks for my wheels, and something to place my bottle-jack on so that it doesn’t sink into the sand.

  ‘Oh,’ they say.

  Then they find the hollow iron bar that John gave me for loosening tight wheel nuts. They look up at me, heads cocked to one side.

  ‘Just think about it,’ I whisper.

  Once they’re finally convinced that I have no intention of assassinating Minister Nhema, he climbs into my vehicle next to me. It’s unusually windy and cold and I worry the elephants might be in hiding. For the first hour we drive around and see very little. It’s a chance to talk however, and in this more casual environment, the minister happily answers many questions. But I’m getting anxious now. What if all of the elephants really stay away today?

  Thank goodness for the Ms and the Es, with whom we eventually catch up. Misty saves the day, being her gorgeous friendly self, as always, relaxing with her family just centimetres from the doors of my 4x4, as if I had magically placed them there myself. Minister Nhema stands on my battered passenger seat (after first, very politely, asking my permission to do so), and soon he’s up through the roof gazing into Misty’s eyes, visibly astonished. He has been Wildlife Minister since the year 2000 but has never met the Presidential Elephants before.

  ‘Amazing!’ he eventually says, flashing an impressive smile. ‘So that’s why you sing “Amazing Grace” to them.’

  We are laughing and smiling and talking together easily. I want to get out of my 4x4 and give Misty a huge hug.

  The documentary director, Richard, prompts me over my radio to ask Minister Nhema what his ‘totem’ is, a question I’m also really interested in knowing the answer to. The various clans in Zimbabwe are linked to different animal totems (elephant, lion, crocodile, monkey, zebra etc), which are sort of like a mythological ancestor. They’re a form of identity and a way of tracing lineage. It is said, for example, that people of the same totem shouldn’t marry, as this would be akin to marrying a relative. More importantly to me, it’s said that you shouldn’t eat your own totem, as this is considered similar to eating your own flesh. I find myself hoping that Minister Nhema’s totem will turn out to be the elephant, so that he feels more connected to them, and might take an extra special interest. But his is the lion.

  Back at the lodge late in the afternoon, the minister excitedly recounts his experiences to staff who’ve respectfully gathered to greet him on his return. I can’t understand what’s being said but there are wide eyes and lots of laughter and broad smiles. One senior Forestry Commission staff membe
r later says to me, ‘Minister Nhema told me three times about his afternoon with the elephants, each time showing me exactly the same photographs.’

  I’m thrilled this experience has touched the minister so deeply, and hope that his interest in the elephants doesn’t end up being short-lived. I’ve been warned that he has a reputation for being unpredictable and changing his mind. There are recent stories of him openly speaking of banning sport-hunting in Zimbabwe altogether, which he has the power to do, and next minute emphatically denying he’d ever said this.

  The official function the next morning goes off without a hitch. I introduce Minister Nhema, who passes on best wishes and congratulations from President Mugabe—although I’m quite sure the president doesn’t have the faintest idea that the minister is here on his behalf. Before reading the decree reaffirmation, Minister Nhema very clearly goes off-script, speaking from the heart about families, Presidential Elephant families. Among other things, he admits to ‘a rude awakening’, saying that yesterday he ‘met families that show love, respect and good attitude probably better than human beings’, and that the ‘wilderness is perhaps more civilised than what we call civilisation’. He concludes that lessons learnt from the elephants may ‘be the answer to mankind’.

  Tears well up in my eyes. I want to believe that Minister Nhema now understands the love and awe of the elephants that I have.

  Chief Dingani speaks too. Traditional leaders are supposed to be politically neutral, but these days the Ruling Party ‘encourages’ them—with gifts of houses and cars and goodness knows what else—to mobilise their communities at election times and ensure the vote goes the ‘right’ way. I try to forget this as Chief Dingani delivers his speech in isiNdebele.

  Given that I still have little grasp of this complicated language, I don’t understand why everyone erupts into laughter. ‘The chief says he’s going to find you a husband,’ the woman beside me whispers. Minister Nhema seems to find this particularly amusing, while I chortle along too, swept away in the pride of the day. Marriage is the last thing on my mind, but I’m told I should consider this an honour.

  It’s been a humbling few days for me. I am overwhelmed by the gracious words and camaraderie, although I know it’s unlikely to last. While I doubt that the chief—who has frequently called for elephants to be shot—is genuine, I dare to hope that if ever there is another fight to save the Presidential Elephants, Minister Nhema will be on my side. In an attempt to keep his interest high, I later name a new little baby boy in the C family Comrade Nhema and he is touched by this gesture.

  ‘Anyone who shoots at the Presidential herd is as bad as someone shooting at the president,’ he is later quoted as saying in a newspaper story. ‘When you shoot at these animals, you can expect to be shot back at. If you kill them, you will also be killed. No one should compromise the Presidential herd.’ And I feel a warm glow, deep in my heart.

  We start filming in the field in earnest. I find myself laughing a lot, and exclaiming just as often ‘I sure hope you don’t include that!’ as inquisitive elephants grab at microphones and at my clothes. One steals my jacket! There are cameras on my windscreen and occasionally under my 4x4. There’s always a camera in my face. I’m also asked to sit completely motionless for 45 minutes at a time, for time-lapse photography. We’re fortunate to be able to frequently film the families of Whole, Misty and Cathy. There are action-packed snare removals during which everything moves at a frantic pace. The darters and I don’t delay even for a second during these life and death situations and there are deep groans from the crew when they’re not in place quickly enough to film the cutting of one wire.

  Then one day I’m worried when Willa unexpectedly lies down beside a mineral lick, under the blazing sun. I don’t often see adult Presidential Elephants lying down, unless they’re unwell, although I’m aware that other elephant populations are observed asleep on their side quite frequently. I hadn’t recorded when she was last in oestrus but I think, based on the age of her youngest calf, and her own inter-birth intervals, that it will be at least another four months before she has another baby. So if she isn’t soon to give birth, perhaps she is sick? The days are hot, so maybe she’s simply exhausted.

  Willa gets back on her feet and wanders over to the shade of a teak tree to lie down on her side once more. I wait for her to rise, and then drive towards her, stopping a few metres away.

  ‘Hey, Willa girl. Are you alright, my Willa?’

  She wanders towards me, coming to a halt just centimetres away, as she always does. I talk to her, as I always do. And then something exceptional happens. Willa rests her trunk on the ground, and puts what feels like her full weight against my door. I feel my 4x4 shift, and understand that she could toss it on its side like a matchstick if she wished to. But I know this isn’t her intention. She wants company. She wants comfort. She wants me to reassure her that everything will be alright. While talking to her and tenderly touching her trunk with the back of my hand, I put my face against the long leathery nose of this wild giant and kiss her gently.

  This is not a hurried encounter. This is two beings, totally at peace with one another. It is a bond forged over years and years with love and patience and understanding, from both of us.

  We must make an incredibly perplexing sight for the film-crew and the guides who are watching this extraordinary display of trust unfold.

  I look up over the rim of my glasses, into Willa’s eyes, and hold her gaze. I kiss her again, and again. She stays just as she is, looking down on me with kind, wise eyes. This intelligent being, gifted with conscious thoughts and emotions, is clearly thinking. She may not be able to speak my language, nor me hers, but she has chosen to commune with me nonetheless. We understand each other and she knows that I’m concerned for her. I recognise her own genuine warmth.

  This encounter with Willa leaves me feeling euphoric. To have gained such trust from an enormous wild animal—one that has been through many difficult times—makes everything worthwhile. No human could thank me so well.

  ‘That was one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever witnessed,’ Richard declares.

  Later, when I share one of the film-crew’s photos of me kissing Willa with my hippo friend Karen, she weeps. And that’s because she understands it all, because to people like her this isn’t just a photo. It’s a whole, revealing story in itself.

  We keep searching and searching, but I simply can’t find Lady and her family. There have been so many disturbances in these areas and gunfire is still heard far too frequently. With the entire family missing, I’m quite confident they’re all together, somewhere else.

  Then one morning, with a lone cameraman, Riaan, in tow, I look up from my notebook and all of a sudden I see her in the distance.

  ‘It’s Lady!’ I cry. ‘Is it Lady? . . . There’s Lesley and Lucky and Louise . . . Yes! It’s Lady, Riaan, I have to go!’

  ‘Well, you can’t go yet!’ Riaan shouts while he’s, quite by chance, attaching a camera to the underside of my vehicle. ‘I’m only half done.’

  ‘Riaan, it’s Lady! I have to go. Now, really, I have to go. If you don’t get away from my wheel, I’ll be forced to run right over you.’

  Through binoculars I can see that Lady and her family are muddy and have obviously already been to another pan. They won’t stay here for long. Soon they’ll disappear into thick bush.

  ‘Riaan! I’ve really got to go,’ I demand.

  Within seconds he’s finished, and is on the crew vehicle filming me.

  I just need to get to her. I roar off to the other side of the pan. I stop and call to her, and she responds immediately. It turns out the camera under my vehicle is capturing exceptional footage, and Riaan races to catch up to us with his professional gear, but none of this matters to me as Lady comes and greets me for the first time in almost a year. I am so unbelievably happy to see her.

  ‘My girl. Hey, my girl,’ I croon with tears in my eyes.

  Lady knows what I fee
l for her, of that I am certain. After taking my fingers in the fingers of her trunk, she puts her trunk on top of my head, and then over my mouth and nose in a sand-filled elephant kiss! She continues to touch my body, as if she can’t quite believe it’s me. I rub her long rough nose over and over again. All that matters is that she is fine. Her family is fine. And there is Lol, with a little baby boy cavorting beside her.

  Rumbling excitedly, they all surround my vehicle before relaxing right beside me. I’ve missed them so much. This family in particular never fails to fill my heart with joy. I’m instantly at one with them all. I wonder where they’ve all been. What has made them start venturing further afield? I wish Lady could tell me. They’ve been through so much trauma here, but out there is even less safe. I desperately hope that they’ll now return to their old haunts.

  Lady has always been such a comfort to me and has taught me so much over the years about her kind. I just love her to the moon and back and more, and treasure this meeting. When she finally rumbles to signal that it’s time for her family to move off, I tell all of them to stay safe, as I always do.

  I’ve been so busy with the film-crew that the days and weeks fly by even more quickly than usual. I haven’t found time to wash my sheets or towels for weeks. Because baboons were constantly wreaking havoc with my thatched roof, I’d had to urgently arrange repairs. Thatching is always such a messy job and my home is in disarray. I’ve also resorted to ordering rolls of chicken wire to protect my roof from the primates, and this now needs to be fitted. I’ll be pleased when filming is over and I can set my home right again.

  ‘Only five more sleeps to go, and I’m freeeeee!’ I text Barbara and CJ. Then, ‘Only four more sleeps to go.’

  When the last day of filming finally arrives, the crew has some two hundred hours of footage that somehow has to be cut into a 52-minute film. Less than half of one per cent of the footage will make it into the documentary. I’m sorry to think of all the footage of my beloved elephants that is destined for the cutting-room floor. But the crew has filmed some remarkable stuff.