Elephant Dawn

  I take a deep breath and pour myself a glass of red wine, resisting the urge to drink straight from the bottle. I can’t believe that after all I’ve been through with Minister Nhema, I have to start all over again. With this.

  I understand enough about Zimbabwe to know that not all of this may be true. But I decide that I should probably fear him. Not yet 43 years old, he is the baby of Mugabe’s Cabinet, where the average age is around 70. (Old age is relative when your president is nearly 90 years old. The head of the youth league is reported to be 61!) Officials are rarely appointed on merit. Kasukuwere is too young to be a liberation war hero and isn’t reported to be related to anyone special. I decide, therefore, that he could well be a thug of note.

  But then I decide that I’m not going to fear him after all. I will try to work closely with him. My opportunity comes soon afterwards. He’s on Facebook, taking questions about his new portfolio. I post a comment, introducing myself. His reply is a one-word command: ‘Call’.

  But I have no idea how to call this man. The next day he phones me. ‘Sharon, this is Saviour,’ he says in a surprisingly friendly, happy and pleasant tone. I’m taken aback. Straight away he’s on a first-name basis with me, which is unusual. He is polite and well spoken—but then so was the ex-governor when I first met him.

  Over the course of our first long conversation later that day, I tell him about absolutely everything. He probably already knows most of it, but I want him to hear it directly from me. I tell him about the allegations of spying levelled at me by his mate, the ex-governor, and the harassment and intimidation I’ve endured, including being on the wanted persons list. I speak at length about the land claims, stressing that this needs immediate resolution. And I tell him about the debauched hunting fraternity who continue to try to make trouble for me. I also remind him that I am white—which gets a little laugh—and I tell him, as I’d previously told Minister Nhema, that if he can find a black person who is prepared to work for no salary as I’ve done, and who can secure accommodation, and buy a 4x4, and fund food, fuel, a computer and field equipment for themselves, then I will be more than happy to hand over to this person immediately. Which gets another little laugh.

  In response, he tells me that he is a businessman, first and foremost. The bush is not really his thing. But while he may have been dumped into this role, it’s clear to me that he’s determined to make an impact regardless.

  And he does, almost immediately.

  Johnny Rodrigues reports that hundreds of elephants, perhaps more than three hundred, are dead from cyanide poisoning in an area just south of Hwange. Their ivory tusks are gone. Poisoning elephants is not new in Africa. For centuries, tribal people have used natural toxic ingredients from trees on their spears to kill a few. But now ivory has real value, and commercial poisons are being used here to kill en masse. This had started—but had not been publicly reported—under Minister Nhema’s watch. Minister Kasukuwere springs into action.

  A delegation of ministers flies into Hwange to discuss this catastrophic poaching case and Minister Kasukuwere invites me to meet him at the airport, to chat during his chauffeured drive into Main Camp. He is indeed a big bear of a man. Without a line on his face, he looks like he’s been Photoshopped.

  A few weeks later, after more poisoned elephants are discovered even closer to Hwange, I contact Minister Kasukuwere again and suggest we urgently need to see what is really going on from the air. ‘If we can arrange a plane and a pilot, prepared to fly for free, will you provide the fuel?’ I ask.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says, without hesitation.

  And instantly we have an agreement. I speak to a contact in Wildlife Environment Zimbabwe, whose assistance will be crucial, and then to a white Zimbabwean in Harare named Pat Cox, who will pilot his own plane, a Cessna 206, which has room for five pairs of eyes in addition to the pilot. Minister Kasukuwere does exactly what he said he would, and the fuel is paid for and ready for collection. I’ve never experienced such efficiency here when dealing with a government department.

  I urge vigilance since we don’t know who is involved in this poaching racket, and how much our presence will ruffle feathers. The fuel, and also the plane while it’s on the ground in Hwange, is subsequently secured against sabotage. We don’t manage to secure against hyenas, however, and overnight one chews the tip of the tailplane (a small wing which provides stability). We awake to fragments of plane scattered on the ground.

  ‘Do you have any duct tape?’ Pat asks.

  ‘Really?’ I screech.

  I loathe light aircraft, and now I’m flying in one patched with duct tape after it’s been chewed on by a carnivore! Pat gives me motion sickness tablets and I suck away on his boiled sweets, as six of us fly in previously plotted, tight transects, scanning for carcasses. Pat flies as close to the ground as he dares. What we see over the course of several days confirms that a tragedy has certainly unfolded here, but thankfully the number of elephants dead from poisoning is less than half that reported.

  There is, however, an additional alarming find. ‘It may just be rocky boulders, but there’s something way out to the left,’ I shout over the roar of the engine. ‘You need to circle around.’ Simion, a National Parks scout who I respect, sees something too. Unlike some of his colleagues in the plane, he never nods off. We are all anxious as the aircraft banks around.

  And there they are: another eight elephants dead. Fresh carcasses, with tusks already gone, lying quite close to a key Main Camp tourist spot inside Hwange National Park. Simion is immediately on his mobile phone, calling in ground forces, ensuring that they’re ready to get into the field immediately upon our return to base. Pat takes coordinates and I take photographs to show the Parks warden.

  When we land, I phone Minister Kasukuwere with the disturbing news.

  I don’t even want to think about what this new bout of poisoning would have escalated into, had these flights not happened at once. Minister Kasukuwere is quick to demand further action and answers from his men on the ground. No Presidential Elephants have been affected, but it’s all now far too close for comfort.

  Simion is back in the field without delay, where he and other rangers discover three additional carcasses and uncover buried ivory. They track a lone poacher and show him no mercy. But it is the Mr Bigs of the poaching rings who continue to evade capture.

  These poachers are poisoning mineral licks with cyanide, a substance that is supposed to be strictly controlled. Even a creature as mighty as an elephant doesn’t get more than 50 metres or so before the poison takes its toll. It’s a simple way to kill. There is no telltale noise from rifles. There’s also no need to hack off the face with an axe, which is a time-consuming and messy task, since the poison causes the bodies to decompose rapidly, and within just a day or so the tusks slide out of their sockets effortlessly. There are ancillary deaths in the animal kingdom but thankfully not as many as might be expected. This type of poison not only quickly turns the meat putrid, making it generally unpalatable, but it also very quickly detoxifies. Hungry animals that get to the elephant carcasses swiftly however, most notably flocks of vultures, are certainly poisoned.

  Minister Kasukuwere and I have kept in touch every day. While Pat is flying back to Harare, I suggest to the minister that he might like to personally thank Pat for his time and generous use of his aircraft. He invites Pat into his offices for a cup of tea. Then he goes one better, and thanks him on social media. He thanks me publicly too, which is a first from any official here.

  After it is admitted that poisoning has been going on for some time, the Parks warden on the ground in Hwange casually describes his lack of reporting as ‘an oversight’. Minister Kasukuwere, on the other hand, publicly acknowledges serious problems not only with out-of-control poaching, but with tree-felling, abuse of wetlands (for development), and also the contamination of waterways. He may be a thug, but perhaps a thug is what we need right now.

  ‘He’s like a bloody big bulldog with
a bone,’ I say to those who ask about him.

  THE LOG WITH TEETH

  2013

  All the President’s Elephants is still gathering acclaim around the world, winning ‘Outstanding Contribution to Nature’ at this year’s Japan Wildlife Film Festival. ‘It is very moving to see how closely people and elephants can be mentally connected,’ the judges commented, while expressing respect and appreciation for my work. I’m still not used to this sort of public acclaim but am pleased the elephants are in the spotlight. It was also a finalist for an International Gold Panda award at the Sichuan TV festival in China, nominated for ‘Best Nature and Environment Protection’. This is somewhat ironic given all that’s currently going on with the Presidential Elephants and their land, and also taking into account China’s love of ivory. But it’s so important that documentaries like this one are shown and appreciated in countries like China, where instilling a love and respect for elephants, and not their ivory, is paramount.

  I’ve broadened my work area to include adjoining Forestry Commission land, where I know the Presidential Elephants also roam, since this protected property surely won’t ever be claimable under land reform. I’ve secured for them a very generous donation of a solar-powered water pump, plenty of solar panels, and a tall robust stand so that the panels are out of the elephants’ reach. Water for the wildlife is an ongoing problem in these areas just outside the national park boundary (where most operators still care only about their own lodge waterholes), so I’m eagerly anticipating this delivery.

  I make plans to remove the mass of weed from some key waterholes, even though they’re in the claimed areas. An unpalatable, invasive weed is smothering the surfaces of two of them, including one of those at Kanondo. Parks staff don’t often venture here, but given the ongoing land claim mess I drag the head warden out with me for a site inspection so he can see the problems first-hand, and give me permission to proceed.

  Together with the men I’ve employed, we search hard for crocodiles before they start the heavy, dirty work. But we haven’t searched well enough! There’s a splash, and suddenly the men are hollering and dancing around in the pan.

  ‘I thought it was a log,’ Chrispen says frantically, still trying to extract his feet from the muddy bottom. ‘I was kicking it with my foot, and then I bent down to pick it.’

  ‘Arrhhh, that log has teeth,’ Costa shudders. ‘That one, it is too clever,’ he decides.

  The croc is about a metre and a half long; big enough to do some damage. I phone the head Parks warden to organise a team of skilled men to come and capture it.

  ‘There’s no crocodile in there,’ they all declare after first looking around for spoor, and running their huge net through the pan once.

  We know better! It takes time and there’s a lot more hollering and dancing about, but the cunning croc is eventually caught.

  Always, when times are tough and my spirit runs low, new people pop into my life. I like to imagine that the ‘spirit messengers’, the soaring bateleurs, are helping to make this happen.

  I’m glad to now know Ayesha Cantor. She runs a Facebook page focusing on life in Africa that’s very popular and a lot of fun, which she also uses to raise awareness for rhinos. She adores elephants too, and is fortunate to live close to Addo National Park in South Africa. We chat frequently online about conservation issues. After a power surge blows up one of my laptops and damages the other, Ayesha secretly puts out a plea for a replacement, and a man named Roby Sabatino obliges. I am floored by this kindness. Others cooperate, in a string of compassion, to get the laptop into my hands. When I ask Roby to name the latest addition to the Presidential herd, who happens to have been born into the A family (the daughter of Aya, granddaughter of Anya), he calls her Ayesha. And I have another extra special little elephant to keep track of. I’m not as alone in all of this as I sometimes think that I am.

  Which is good to know, especially when Chief Dingani turns up on my doorstep, brandishing his official ‘offer letter’ that declares him to be one of the new land-owners in the key home range of the Presidential Elephants. ‘I don’t care about the President’s Office,’ the chief barks at me after I try to explain why this land should never be subject to individual claims.

  That will be interesting for them to know, I think to myself.

  ‘They have rewarded me with this land,’ he tells me.

  That’s even more interesting. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and call it a bribe?

  ‘Nobody can tell me what to do. I am the Chief. I am going to the police, you are not allowed on my land,’ he declares as he leaves. ‘You are not even a Zimbabwean.’

  I feel his piercing, parting shot hit my heart. Yet, I can’t argue with this. Try as I might, I still can’t even get permanent residency here, let alone citizenship, even after nearly thirteen years of working with the president’s elephants.

  His visit has rattled me. He’s already threatened to make trouble for anybody who helps me, including the lodge where I’m based. I immediately text Ministers Kasukuwere, Mutasa and Nhema. I know that all of them will take my calls.

  Minister Kasukuwere phones me immediately. His concern for me appears so genuine that for the first time while speaking in a professional capacity, I momentarily break down in tears. ‘Rest assured that I will resolve this matter,’ he immediately confirms to me in writing. And later he writes, ‘I will get you permanent residency. Trust me.’

  At a Cabinet meeting in early December, a document from the Parks Authority is tabled recommending that all offer letters in the area of the Presidential Elephants be withdrawn.

  ‘All of the offer letters will be withdrawn,’ Minister Kasukuwere confirms to me after the meeting. This gives me some renewed hope, but knowing what I do about how things work in this country, I’m still hesitant to believe it will actually happen. I admit to feeling increasingly nervous driving around by myself, especially on the one-way bush roads where there’s no possibility of escape if approached. He assures me that I have no reason to feel anxious, and that the land claimants will soon be gone.

  Two days later, I join the world in mourning the death of Nelson Mandela. The differences between Mandela and Mugabe, both freedom fighters in their own countries, is glaring. As South Africa’s first black president Nelson Mandela championed racial reconciliation. He was unwaveringly patient and widely revered. By contrast, Robert Mugabe is generally viewed as a dictatorial leader of a brutal regime. But he, too, has many admirers, especially in Africa. At Nelson Mandela’s memorial service in Johannesburg, President Mugabe is greeted by thunderous applause. I wonder what Mandela would think of that, given he once said, ‘I detest racialism, because I regard it as a barbaric thing, whether it comes from a black man or a white man’.

  From Nelson Mandela’s homeland, my friend Henry and his son Caleb arrive, and insist that I join them for a break of a few days before Christmas. My old trusty Range Rover was sold for a song, after sitting under a tarp for several months on their Gwayi property. This family has been so kind to me over the years. Caleb is now a striking nineteen year old, who prides himself on having met all three of my favourite elephants, Lady, Whole and Misty, and has developed an intense love of all wildlife. They’re booked for two nights at Ngweshla campsite, inside the national park, where we enjoy a fantastic few days. It’s a terrific campsite for wildlife sightings, but is renowned for its perilous-looking wire fence, which is low and full of holes.

  Their tent leaks in the pouring rain while I snuggle in my sleeping bag under an ominously open-sided, roofed structure, with a picnic table in its middle and my mosquito net draped from the wooden beams above.

  ‘Come and join me under thatch,’ I urge. ‘It’s nice and dry out here.’

  ‘No ways,’ they say, while listening to the roaring lions.

  ‘Listen to that,’ I tease. ‘Is that a roar? Really? A roar?’ I have to admit that with all that grunting, a lion’s roar always sounds more like a cross between constipation a
nd orgasm to me!

  Caleb is over the moon the next day as he photographs two of the sleek, nimble cats as they make a kill right in front of us. For me, it is heart-wrenching. A lioness springs into action and brings down a baby wildebeest, but skilfully keeps it alive so she can teach her adolescent offspring how to kill. She toys with it, waiting for her daughter to arrive for her vital life lesson. Then they play a game of catch and release. I wish it had ended much more quickly for the tiny wildebeest calf. But it is nature’s way.

  The dominant black-maned lion named Cecil also graces us with his presence. We sit and watch him and his big blond-maned friend as they snooze, stretch and yawn. One of these boys will be the father of the cub. We laugh at how lazy they are, and enjoy their regal company for an hour or so. Cecil is still as ‘astronomical’ as ever.

  We laugh too at the African-print shirt I have on. I happen to be wearing it every time I see these guys. It’s another top I brought with me from Australia way back in 2001 and I’ve worn it regularly in the field over the past thirteen years. In photographs with the Presidential Elephants, no matter what year it is, I’m frequently seen in this shirt! I really should allow myself to splurge on a few more items at the street markets, I decide.

  ‘You should auction that thing online on eBay,’ Caleb declares. ‘You could make a good dollar—that shirt has history!’

  After a wonderful few days full of fun and friendship they drop me back at my cottage. Henry knows that he won’t likely be able to hold on to his Gwayi property for much longer. Odds are he’ll very soon become yet another victim of the land reform program. Not even humanitarian projects are safe these days. ‘These land grabs will be the death of Zimbabwe if they don’t get things under control,’ he laments, and I couldn’t agree with him more.