The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild

by Lawrence Anthony

  ‘Apparently this psychic’s done good work with troubled animals and has a unique way of communicating with them. Maybe she’ll reach out to the matriarch, perhaps get her to settle down and then the rest of the herd will follow. I know this sounds really unusual, and I really can’t guarantee anything, but it may be worth a try.’

  Well, OK. I know first-hand that communication with animals can defy normal comprehension. Orthodox behaviour is not always the answer in the bush. But bringing in a psychic seemed way over the top. But what else was on offer? And what harm could it do? At best it may work; at worst it was merely quixotic.

  ‘OK. But tell her politely to stay out of my way. I’m going to have my hands full when the elephants return.’

  The psychic arrived a couple of days later; a middle-aged Canadian woman with curly red hair.

  The next day for lunch she ordered peanut-butter sandwiches.

  Françoise was aghast. The mere mention of peanut-butter sandwiches in her French kitchen was sacrilege. They were sent back for not being properly prepared. ‘How many ways can you make a peanut-butter sandwich?’ Françoise protested.

  We later went down to the boma where she spent several hours sniffing the bush and sprinkling what she called ‘cerebral vibrations of family, love and respect’ onto the fences.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘will keep them in.’

  The next day she pointed to my favourite tree in the garden: a magnificent wild fig with half-submerged roots as thick as a man’s leg stretching into the lawn.

  ‘That tree,’ she said with a shudder, ‘it has an evil spirit. You can feel it, can’t you? Come … I’ll exorcize it.’

  As we walked over I studied the grand, gnarled trunk closely. I always considered it a giant benign umbrella providing shelter for flocks of birds that chimed in perfect melody every morning. They were my bush alarm clock. I wondered what malignant ghosts were lurking in those branches … then quickly shook my head clear.

  She began some sort of religious incantation. I stood by, hoping like hell she would finish soon.

  ‘It’s gone,’ she said after a few minutes, obviously pleased with herself.

  As we were about to walk off, she turned and pointed to the sky.

  ‘See those clouds? They’re not clouds at all. They’re spaceships carrying evil aliens who are preventing the elephants from returning home.’

  All I could see was some cotton-puffs of cumulus. She must have noticed my scepticism.

  ‘I should know,’ she said, patting her ample bosom and leaning in close. ‘I have travelled in them.’

  The next day she walked into the kitchen to order her staple diet of peanut-butter sandwiches. But this time her instructions were that our ranger David must deliver the meal to her room.

  The sandwiches were made to her specification: loaded with peanut butter and placed on a tray. As directed, David took the food and knocked on the door. It swung open and there in front of him was the psychic. She was stark naked.

  David put the tray down and muttered, ‘Your sandwiches, ma’am.’ Then he turned and fled, his face the colour of beetroot.

  Finally something real happened. KZN Wildlife phoned to say the herd would be delivered the following day.

  Elephant capture is done throughout South Africa, but not in KwaZulu-Natal. In fact the team at Umfolozi, who had famously pioneered capturing white rhino, saving the species from extinction, did not have the heavy equipment required for loading family groups, elephant herds, which comprise only adult females and their young. Babies are never separated during capture. Adult bulls are always transported individually. However, a new dual-purpose heavy trailer designed for transporting both giraffe and elephant had recently been purchased and now was the time to put it to the test. Which begged the questions: Would it be strong and large enough to accommodate all seven elephants? And would the team be able to move the hefty creatures into the trailer without the specialized equipment and sleds used elsewhere in the country? My elephants were going to be guinea pigs, so to speak.

  I was comforted by the fact that my good friend Dave Cooper, Umfolozi’s internationally respected wildlife vet and probably the top rhino expert in the world, would be in charge of the welfare of the elephants.

  Capture always takes place early in the day to avoid heat stress. At six o’clock a helicopter carrying an experienced marksman in the shooter’s seat thudded off to where the herd was last sighted. Dave remained on the ground so that any problems could be confronted as quickly as possible. After a few false alarms, the elephants were spotted and the pilot swooped down, coming in just above the treetops in a tight bank and then dropping until he was hovering almost on the ground to turn the now-running animals.

  This is where African bush pilots’ famed flying skills come into their own. The pilot toyed with the chopper, swaying this way then that, first blocking then lifting then dropping, all while threatening, cajoling, and charging forward at the now frantic elephants, herding them towards a dirt track he could see scarring the plains several hundred yards ahead. That rudimentary road was pivotal as the ground crew needed to get the heavy transport truck as close as possible to where the animals went down.

  The marksman loaded the dart gun and readied himself as the pilot radioed his position to the ground crews.

  The herd was now in full flight, crashing through the bush with the clattering chopper blades egging them on.

  Suddenly Nana, family in tow, broke through the tree cover and into open ground at the area chosen for darting.

  The pilot deftly shifted to just behind the stampeding animals, offering a clear view of their broad backs.

  Crack! The .22 shell fired a hefty aluminium dart filled with M99, a powerful anaesthetic customized for elephants and other large herbivores, into Nana’s rump. The matriarch is always darted first followed by the other larger animals. The calves are darted last to prevent them from being trampled or smothered by the larger family members. Nana’s calf was in fact too small to safely dart from the air and Dave was warned to make up a dart and immobilize the calf on the ground.

  As soon as one dart hit another was rapidly loaded and fired. The fluffy bright red feathers of the dart stuck out of the rumps of the running animals like beacons. The shooter must work quickly. Any delay between shots would have comatose elephants spread out all over the bush complicating matters immeasurably.

  Once the last dart struck true the marksman gave a thumbs-up and the pilot gained altitude and hovered as first Nana, then the others started to stagger and sink to their knees before collapsing in slow motion. It is surreal when these galloping giants suddenly lose momentum and their tree-trunk legs turn to jelly as they buckle in the dust.

  The ground team’s speeding trucks were now less than a mile away. The timing was spot on and the helicopter bumped gently down in a whirlwind of red dust.

  Dave hurried to where Nana lay in the dirt. The baby, Mandla, was standing nervously next to her fallen body. He flapped his ears and reared his tiny trunk, instinctively trying to protect his prostrate mother. Dave got into position and fired a light plastic dart loaded with the smallest effective dose into the baby’s shoulder.

  As Mandla’s knees folded, the vet broke a twig off a nearby guarri tree and placed it inside the end of Nana’s trunk to keep the airways open. He did the same to the other elephants, and then went back to Nana, squeezing ointment into her exposed pupil, pulling her huge ear over her eye to protect it from the blossoming sun.

  The other slumbering beasts got the same treatment and he methodically checked each one for injuries. Fortunately none had fallen awkwardly, breaking bones or tearing ligaments.

  The ground team arrived and immediately reversed up to Nana. As the matriarch, they wanted her loaded first. This is done by unceremoniously winching the animal up into the air feet first and depositing the body at the rear entrance of the huge purpose-built truck. Then it is pulled and pushed into the truck by teams of men where it is re
vived by Dave with an injection of M5050. A five-ton slab of meat, muscle, blood and bone, hanging upside down is not a pretty sight, but it was done as gently and rapidly as possible. However without the specialized equipment this process took much longer than normal. While the larger animals were laboriously being loaded the effects of the drug started to wear off in some of those waiting their turn. When a drugged elephant starts waking up, you don’t waste time hanging around. As trunks started to twitch and elephants attempted to raise their heads, Dave was kept busy running from one to the next, administering additional drugs intravenously into a large vein pulsing in the ear. Once all were aboard and awake, the trucks revved off to Thula Thula. The animals recovered during the ninety-minute journey and although a little wobbly, Nana again led her family into the boma, followed by Frankie looking as defiant as ever. Their bid for freedom had, if anything, increased their resentment of captivity. I knew we would have a rough few months ahead of us.

  As the capture team drove off, one game ranger shouted over his shoulder, ‘See you soon!’

  This was no polite goodbye. His meaning was clear. He was saying these animals were bad news. He had no doubt that the herd would break out again and he would be back; this time with bullets, not darts. I felt like making an angry retort but couldn’t think of one quick enough.

  The next day the wildlife dealer phoned, doubling his bid to $40,000 and repeating the offer of a tamer replacement herd. Again it sounded unreal, just too good to be true. Again I stalled, saying I would consider it. And again, I felt irritated by the offer. I couldn’t shake the belief that fate had a hand in all of this. Fate had sent me these elephants – I hadn’t asked for them. And maybe some things were meant to be.

  Just before nightfall I took a drive down to the boma, parked some distance away and with great caution walked towards the fence. Nana was standing in thick cover with her family behind her, watching my every move, malevolence seeping from every pore. There was absolutely no doubt that sooner or later they were going to make another break for it.

  Then in a flash came the answer. I decided there and then that contrary to all advice, I would go and live with the herd. I knew the experts would throw up their hands in horror as we had been repeatedly instructed that to keep them feral, human contact in the boma must be kept to the barest minimum. But this herd had already had too much human contact of the very worst kind, and their rehabilitation, if such a thing was even possible at all, called for uncommon measures. If I was to be responsible for this last-ditch effort to save their lives, I should do things my way. If I failed, at least I would have done my best.

  I would remain outside the boma, of course, but I would stay with them, feed them, talk to them, but most importantly, be with them day and night. These magnificent creatures were extremely distressed and disorientated and maybe, just maybe, if someone who cared about them was constantly with them, they would have a chance. There was no doubt that unless we tried something different, they would continue trying to break out and would die in the attempt.

  It boiled down to this: we had to get to know each other or else all bets were off. We didn’t have time for the ‘stand-off’ measures proposed by the experts. As I said to David one evening, we had to get the matriarch to trust at least one person. Unless that happened, the herd would always be suspicious of humans and would never settle down.

  ‘That human will have to be you,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘We’ll see.’

  I discussed this with Françoise and she agreed that the conventional approach to settling in the animals didn’t seem to be working. I asked David if he wanted to come along and was answered by his broad smile. The boma was about three miles away from our house and so we packed the Land Rover with basic supplies. The vehicle would be our home for as long as it took.

  I also brought along Max, who was always great company outdoors. When he was young and got his first taste of the bush he tended to chase everything in sight. This is a problem on a sanctuary as you don’t want dogs harassing animals or incessantly barking as it may attract predators. I had to show Max the errors of his youth fast.

  He was a surprisingly quick learner, even though his first experience with wildlife had not been particularly pleasant. A large troop of vervet monkeys had made their home in the trees surrounding our home and delighted in taunting Max. They would gather on low hanging branches just out of his reach, tumbling over one another and screeching primate insults, sometimes even urinating on him or throwing dung at him with remarkable accuracy. Max would go berserk but was unable to respond to them.

  For over a year this torment continued until one day something almost unheard of happened. A big young male eager to lead the chorus of jeers slipped out of the tree, landing at Max’s paws. For a moment both animals looked at each other, stunned. Max circled silently as the male bared his teeth, then they pounced on one another. By the time I managed to get them apart Max had wrought revenge for those months of abuse.

  A little later I went back to remove the monkey’s carcass. The troop was still there and as I approached they became extremely belligerent. I backed off and witnessed a strange ritual, something I had never seen before. The monkeys descended and silently gathered around their dead colleague. Then after a few moments they gently lifted the corpse and carried it from branch to branch, tree to tree, as a funeral procession into the distance. An hour or so later they were back. I had no idea what they did with the body.

  However, it was a turning point for Max. From then on the vervets ignored him. A truce had been struck.

  Max was a true bush dog. A hushed command from me would see him crouched by my side or on the Land Rover seat, fully alert but as silent as a gecko whenever an animal approached. I knew he would behave around the elephants.

  To Max camping out with us at the boma would be another chapter in his adventurous life. We would be with the elephants around the clock, living in the bush, catnapping in the truck or stretching out under the stars with our wristwatch alarms set regularly to remind us to patrol the fences. We would share the cold nights with them and we would sweat together in the searing days. It would be mentally and physically exhausting, particularly as the herd had already let us know in no uncertain manner that they didn’t want us around.

  The first day we spent watching from a distance of about thirty yards. Each day we would get closer, but it would be a gradual exercise. Nana and Frankie watched us continuously, rushing up to the fence if they thought we were getting too close.

  Night came, swiftly and silently as it does in Africa. There is perhaps half an hour of gloaming and then it is dark. But darkness can be your friend. The wilderness seethes with life as the nocturnal creatures scurry out from holes and trees and crevasses, brave in the knowledge that most predators are resting. The sky switches on its full power, untainted by urban electrical static. I never tire of watching the megawatt heavens, picking out the Zodiac signs and revelling in the glory of the odd shooting star.

  David’s whisper woke me. ‘Quick. Something’s happening at the fence.’

  I threw off my blanket and blinked to adjust my eyes to night vision. We crept up to the boma through the bush. I could see nothing. Then an enormous shape morphed in front of me.

  It was Nana, about ten yards from the fence. Next to her was Mandla, her baby son.

  I strained my eyes, searching for the others. Despite their bulk, elephants are difficult enough to see in dense bush during the day, let alone at night. Then I saw them, they were all standing motionless in the dark just a little way behind her.

  I quickly glanced at my watch; 4:45 a.m. Zulus have a word for this time of the morning – uvivi – which means the darkness before the dawn. And it’s true. In the Zululand bush, the darkness is most intense just before the first shreds of haze crack the horizon.

  Suddenly Nana tensed her enormous frame and flared her ears.

  ‘Jeez! Look at her!’ whispered David, crouching next to me. ‘Look
at the bloody size of her.’

  Nana took a step forward. ‘Oh shit! Here she goes,’ said David, no longer whispering. ‘That bloody electric wire better hold.’

  Without thinking I stood and walked towards the fence. Nana was directly ahead, a colossus just a few yards in front.

  ‘Don’t do it, Nana,’ I said, calmly as I could. ‘Please don’t do it, girl.’

  She stood motionless but tense like an athlete straining for the starter’s gun. Behind her the rest of the herd froze.

  ‘This is your home now,’ I continued. ‘Please don’t do it, girl.’

  I felt her eyes boring into me, even though I could barely make out her face in the murk.

  ‘They will kill you all if you break out. This is your home now. You don’t have to run any more.’

  Still she didn’t move and suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck me. Here I was in thick darkness talking to a wild female elephant with a baby, the most dangerous possible combination, as if we were having a friendly chat.

  Absurd or not, I decided to continue. I meant every word and meant for her to get what I was saying. ‘You will all die if you go. Stay here, I will be here with you and it’s a good place.’

  She took another step forward. I could see her tense up again, preparing to go all the way. I too was ready. If she could take the pain and snap the electric wire the rest of the fence wouldn’t hold and she would be out. Frankie and the rest would smash through after her in a flash.

  I was directly in their path, something I was well aware of. The fence cables would hold them for a short while but I would still only have seconds to scramble out of their way and climb a tree, or else be stomped flatter than an envelope. The nearest tree, a big acacia robusta with wicked thorns was perhaps ten yards to my left. I wondered if I would be fast enough. Possibly not … and when had I last climbed a thorn tree?

  Then something happened between Nana and me, some infinitesimal spark of recognition, flaring for the briefest of moments.