Elephant Dawn

by Sharon Pincott

  ‘Abson,’ I yell. ‘Please, there’s a snake in my cottage.’

  ‘I’ll come soon,’ he promises, in that laid-back African way that I’m now accustomed to, but which regularly drives me insane.

  ‘No Abson, not soon. You need to come now, please,’ I plead.

  He arrives quickly, moves bits of furniture, spots my intruder and then jumps back, eyes wide. He phones for reinforcements.

  Austin appears in a flash, and he and Abson chatter together in isiNdebele.

  ‘Please, you need to tell me what’s going on. What type of snake is it? It’s small, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mandlo, this snake is . . . big. And it is a spitting cobra,’ Abson announces.

  I put my hands to my eyes, massage my temples and shuffle outside to leave them to it. There are vervet monkeys swimming the length of one of my ponds, fully submerged. They’re having a ball, unaware there’s a snake not far away.

  The men soon emerge with something that is unnervingly thick, quite deadly, and as tall as me. The vervets scatter, sounding their alarm calls. What I’d seen inside had been only the tail end. I have a ‘snake blocker’ that Craig and Amos made for me when I moved in, which leans against my open door. This giant must have slid right over the top of it and had probably been inside for some time.

  ‘Lucky it wasn’t in your toilet,’ Abson says in consolation.

  It’s not unheard of to be bitten on the bum by a venomous snake. Suddenly, I long to be living back in New Zealand, the land of the long white cloud and absolutely no snakes! Nor creepy black scorpions, the size of small lobsters, that have been known to crawl up my walls. Perhaps I should invite some of those strangers in after all.

  LADY

  2012

  One morning in November, as soft rain falls outside, I simply can’t make myself get out of bed. I’ve known it for most of the year, but now I have to finally face the reality.

  Lady is dead.

  I lie under my mosquito net, curled in the foetal position, unable to move. I ignore a knock on my door, and reach over and switch off my mobile phone before it has a chance to ring. I am numb with grief, eyes swollen with tears. It is time to say goodbye.

  I can’t bear that she is gone. Her absence is devastating to me. She had kept my heart alive. For so long I could not—would not—accept that she was gone, but now it is time.

  My heart is broken, my mind is tired. There’s a screaming in my head. Surely it’s time. Time to get out. Time to leave for good. This place has been devouring me, little by little, one piece at a time. There is now something missing from my bush life that is so unbearable I know it can never, ever, be the same again.

  In the early evening, I finally get up and make myself a snack of Vegemite toast, which always brings comfort. I carry it back to my bed, and hug a big brown bear that I bought at the street markets. I want to sleep, even though it’s what I’ve been doing on and off all day. I need to escape from this grief and despair. I need all of the turbulence to end.

  I wake during the night, haunted by thoughts of what Lady likely went through in her final moments. I lie there for hours, wishing her back to life. And I stay in bed for another day, reliving the ups and downs of the past twelve years. I feel trashed, smashed and ripped apart. I so desperately want the rain that is falling outside to wash away all of the bad things.

  I wish there was somebody to make me a cup of hot chocolate and to tell me that everything will be okay, but I really need to do this alone. Even the thought of climbing into my 4x4 and going out in the field to be with my elephant friends fills me with anxiety. I am burnt out. And truly frightened. Frightened that over time these elephants will all be picked off one by one.

  I haven’t been able to really talk about this loss to anybody, not even my closest friends. Inside Shaynie’s flat in Bulawayo, I’ve secretly moved around photos of Lady so that she’s not staring me in the eye.

  I feel not just grief. I feel guilt. Guilt that I had not been able to keep Lady alive. Guilt over all that has happened to her family: the deaths and snares. Why had I not been able to do more for my friend?

  The next day I drive into Hwange National Park and sit by Makwa pan, where a long time ago I scattered some of my dog Chloe’s ashes, and where I’ve enjoyed many happy times with just the silence and beauty of nature. Now that the rains have arrived there are few elephants, but there are giraffes and zebras and antelopes and baboons and an assortment of birds to keep me company. I think back over it all once more, trying to put things in perspective.

  All I know about Lady’s death is that there is no body. And that perhaps is worst of all. Privately run anti-poaching teams had searched extensively in areas where I’d seen distraught members of Lady’s family, but the bush is thick and vast and they had found nothing. I have no proof that she’s been shot, but a natural death is unlikely. She certainly didn’t die of old age. When elephants die naturally, or when they’ve been killed just for their ivory, a body is more likely to be found. But when the skin and the meat are taken—which happens during ration- and sport-hunts (sport-hunters also take the head and the feet)—the carcass breaks down quite quickly. Even though some big bones remain, they can be hard to locate, including from the air. When Lady’s sister Leanne disappeared for good in 2007, her body was also never found. With her beautifully symmetrical tusks, she’d been a prime candidate for sport-hunters. But Lady had broken one of her tusks and serious trophy hunters were unlikely to have been interested in her.

  Over the years, local Parks management have never allowed me to visit their ivory storeroom to ascertain—in conjunction with my elephant identification photos—if a specific elephant’s ivory is there. Ivory in this storeroom comes from elephants who die naturally or who have been ration-hunted by Parks staff. Or it’s ivory that has been confiscated from poachers. This time I couldn’t face being dismissed again, and didn’t ask to see the stockpile. It was already abundantly clear that they didn’t want to help me pinpoint how any Presidential elephant died, especially a prominent one.

  I’ve known first-hand for more than a decade that death, despair and disappearances tear elephant families apart, and now I have my soundest evidence. Since Lady’s death, her family has been in disarray, ultimately splitting into three small groups. What has been most heartbreaking is seeing Lady’s adult daughter Lesley. She still often stands with her head drooping against a tree trunk, aloof and detached. She and her own calves, moving together with Lady’s calves, were the first to leave the others. And then the remaining adults, Lucky and Louise, split up too. Only occasionally have I seen them all back together in one cohesive group.

  During the time I knew her, Lady gave birth three times, to Lucy, Libby and Lantana. One of her older sons is Levi. He became an independent bull seven years ago. What has become woefully intriguing to me is that he sometimes now returns to be with his family. I’ve seen him with both his adult sibling, Lesley, and one of his aunties, Louise. Bulls that have been independent for years don’t normally hang around their natal family. And they usually wander far. Is it possible that he came back because he knows of his mother’s death? Were members of his family able to send out an infrasonic call specifically to alert him? Or is this just coincidence? There are still so many things that we don’t understand about these remarkably intelligent and sensitive creatures.

  There is also a sad misconception that elephants are safer fearing humans. Lady was calm and friendly, like I’m sure all elephants used to be, before we changed the balance and started terrifying them with weapons. But Lady is dead not because she didn’t run away from humans. No elephants, whether fearful of human beings or not, can escape skilled marksmen.

  I’ve brought with me to Makwa pan a photograph of Lady, her image alive on a three by five. Looking at it, I think back to the many extraordinary times I shared with this remarkable elephant, and all of the people who’d met her. I was her voice during these past twelve years, and I’m so very happy that she
was heard, bellowing with the best of them.

  I pull my little folding camping shovel from the rusty tin trunk in my 4x4 and dig a small hole under a bush, where a giraffe has just been standing and where balls of elephant dung lie. I secretly bury Lady’s image there, in tiny little pieces, knowing this is a place that I will always feel happy coming back to. The rains and the insects will take care of her.

  I sit on the sandy ground, leaning against the front tyre of my 4x4, and look out over the pan. I’ve always appreciated how unique my life is here and have never taken for granted all that’s going on around me. But when you give so much of yourself it is exhausting.

  I feel sure Lady wouldn’t want me to give up though. She deserves more people to know who she was, and how important her life was too. If she could talk, I think she’d tell me to keep going; to at least give it one more go.

  One more go. Geez, how many goes is that? I’ve been giving it one more go for the past ten years.

  Nevertheless, this is what I will do. I still can’t walk away.

  During this time of grief, other disturbing events have taken place. A few months ago I wrote to Minister Nhema when I discovered there were mining pegs marking out coal and methane gas licences, right in the key home range of the Presidential Elephants. I reminded him of the reaffirmation of the Presidential Decree and requested that a no-mining zone be put in place with haste within a sensible radius of Hwange Main Camp. While the minister hasn’t responded to me directly, I’ve found out that he asked, ‘Why do I have to hear this from her?’ It worries me dreadfully that as the responsible minister, he doesn’t appear to have even known about this.

  Not nearly enough was said aloud by others either when two rhinos were senselessly murdered on the estate. I used to love watching cheeky young elephants mock-charging these pointy-horned beasts, sparring playfully before being forced to turn on their heels and make a hasty retreat in a puff of dust. The rhinos had wandered onto one of the grabbed hunting concessions, where they were shot and their horns hacked off to be powdered for their supposed medicinal properties. Now there are no rhinos to be seen here, and poaching has decimated their population inside the national park as well.

  There are always plenty of bizarre goings-on too, including a story that one of the Dete schools, just down the road from where I live, has been closed because goblins are terrorising its teachers. The teachers deserted the school, leaving hundreds of students stranded. According to a newspaper report, government officials have instructed the villagers to cleanse this school of the goblins. A spirit medium has been engaged to do this.

  My own reputation for possessing ‘very special magic’ when it comes to wildlife has grown. I actually quite enjoy being thought a little bonkers because I choose the company of wild elephants over that of humans. Perhaps a goblin has taken over my body too.

  Lady certainly has. I still see her every day, hurrying towards me. Her magic lingers in the air. And although my voice falters, I sing ‘Amazing Grace’ to her, certain that her spirit is still here.

  SPLITTING APART

  LATE-2012 AND 2013

  Run by a white Zimbabwean named Johnny Rodrigues, Zimbabwe Conservation Task Force is a Harare-based group loathed by the government. During the past decade Johnny has been the only person inside the country who has been brave enough to distribute regular bulletins about the plight of the wildlife. He has endured extreme criticism, death threats and the attention of the dreaded CIO.

  Without Johnny, even those of us inside Zimbabwe would be aware of far less going on around the country. He has now reported news that’s particularly disturbing. More young elephants have been ripped from their mothers inside Hwange National Park. Four have already been airlifted to Chinese zoos, while five others are captive in enclosures known locally as bomas, awaiting departure.

  I am alarmed to read this, especially in light of the previous Mugabe’s Ark fiasco, which was overturned. Did they learn nothing? The world understands so much about the complex lives of elephants these days, and even neighbouring South Africa announced a ban on the capture of elephant calves just a few years ago, declaring it unethical. This was despite CITES (the international controlling body of world trade in animals) having deemed this practice legal. But what is legal, and what is ethical, is sometimes two very different things.

  It is not quite 7 a.m. when I read Johnny’s report. I pick up my mobile phone immediately and ring Minister Nhema, not apologising for the early hour. He claims to know nothing about this. Again.

  ‘How is it that the world now knows about this, and you don’t?’ I ask boldly, but gently. I get nothing but silence. ‘Surely your signature has to be on the export permits?’ Still there is only deafening silence on the end of the line.

  I know that I’ve probably said too much but eventually the minister asks me to confirm my information. I do. Others already know about this, they just haven’t been game to say anything.

  I simply cannot believe that Minister Nhema could know nothing as he claims.

  As a foreigner working with elephants here, there is little I can do publicly. But that doesn’t mean I do nothing. Joyce Poole once again gets involved from afar. So does the SPCA and a few others in Harare who meet urgently with Minister Nhema. Australian-based activist Jude Price creates a petition to CITES, and lobbies extensively online under the banner ‘Elephant E-ctivism’ (later renamed ‘For Elephants International’).

  A heartbreaking photograph of one of the forlorn little elephants, languishing in a concrete cell at a Chinese zoo, eventually surfaces. I can tell at a glance that this youngster is not even three years old—ripped from its mother while still suckling. It’s deeply distressing to look at this photo. One of the other three elephants imprisoned in China has already died.

  By late January, the ministry and the Parks Authority bow to local and international pressure and cancel the deal. I would like to believe that Minister Nhema has seen the light; he does after all, have the final say. The five remaining elephants in bomas inside Hwange National Park are too young to be simply released back into the wild, now that they’ve been separated from their families. They’re taken to a fenced Parks facility outside Harare for rehabilitation, where they’re integrated with other elephants. This, though, doesn’t help the three already enduring awful conditions in China.

  Johnny believes that we haven’t seen the last of this. He’s convinced that more elephants will ultimately be ripped from their families, and transported to Chinese zoos. The Parks Authority has reportedly stated that it has outstanding orders from zoos in the United States, France and the Ukraine.

  I am again questioning why I’m still here.

  I have, however, with Minister Nhema’s assistance, finally been granted a two-year residence permit. It has only taken me twelve years to get this. Yet the immigration department still can’t help itself. The permit has been back-dated: in just eighteen months I’ll have to fight for yet another permit and dish out more money. For now at least it’s better than having to report to Bulawayo every three months, as I’ve done for the past six years.

  ‘It’s like he wants to keep you just close enough to ensure you keep your mouth shut, but not close enough to actually help you in any substantive way,’ a colleague says.

  I know that Minister Nhema could have done much more, had he really wanted to. An authority letter he promised, to stave off those still trying to make trouble with my land access in Presidential Elephant areas, has never materialised, despite numerous reminders. In the end I figure I have nothing to lose, and request the authority letter directly from the office of the president.

  I receive it immediately. It is in my hands within 24 hours, kindly signed by Minister Didymus ‘Diesel Rock’ Mutasa, who is currently minister of state for presidential affairs. Minister Mutasa is pleased to hear of the continued success of the documentary and appears genuinely delighted that it’s been nominated in all four wildlife categories in the 2013 South African Film
and Television Awards: Best TV Wildlife Program, Best Director, Best Editor and Best Cinematographer. We talk of inviting the president to come and meet the most special of the elephant families, in an effort to raise more local awareness. Minister Mutasa assures me he will speak to President Mugabe.

  But it isn’t long before the most disturbing news of all reaches me. The area of Kanondo has been claimed—again—following the ex-governor’s eviction in 2005. I cannot believe it. I phone Minister Nhema immediately. He says he knows nothing about this. Yet again. He advises me to gather further information. Yet again.

  The claimant says she’s inherited this land from her recently deceased mother. Why have I never seen or heard of the mother before? The fact that nobody, including the minister, is admitting to recognising their names is even more perturbing to me. And I can only imagine the nightmare involved, given local spirit beliefs, in intervening in land purported to have been owned by a dead person.

  At first I wonder if there could be some benefits to this claim; new faces could perhaps improve processes. But having private individuals actually owning the land, in such key Presidential Elephant areas, isn’t the way. And everything I learn only increases my concerns. It’s reported that this land claimant inherited ‘a business empire’ from her mother and there are no doubt powerful connections in play. Later it’s also discovered that this family is in the sport-hunting industry. The claimant is personally named in a post on a sport-hunting website, in which she is directly linked to her brother, offering hunts. It’s also reported that the brother has already been in court for hunting illegally. After this information becomes public, the claimant’s name quickly disappears from this hunting website and she denies that she will attempt to hunt.

  Is this the ex-governor—or his accomplices—simply back in disguise? I point out to Ministers Nhema and Mutasa that this land encompasses all but one of the waterholes recently scooped out by my donor. I stress that the Presidential Elephants are supposed to be a resource that benefits the nation and that any private claim is bound to have a negative impact on accessibility and therefore on tourist game drives, too. The key home range of a flagship herd simply can’t be treated like agricultural land and split into small plots owned and controlled by individuals. I also remind them that the previous claim, on this exact piece of land, was overturned eight years ago.