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

by Lawrence Anthony

  To my absolute surprise Nana left the road and followed me, with Frankie and the others just a few yards behind. I was no longer in her way so there was no need for this. They could have just strolled past – this was a conscious decision to come after me and my heart started thumping overtime. I quickly shoved Max off the front seat onto the floor and threw my jacket over him. ‘Stay, boy,’ I said as he settled down. ‘We have visitors.’

  Squinting hard into the sun, I tried to detect any hint of hostility … any edginess that I was intruding in matters maternal. There was none, not even from fierce-tempered and still-very pregnant Frankie. All around, the bush breathed peace. It was as if a group decision had been made to come to me.

  Nana ambled up to my window and stood towering above the Land Rover, dominating the skyline. Below her was her baby. Incredibly she had brought her newborn to me.

  I held my breath as her trunk reached into the Land Rover and touched me on the chest; the sandpapery hide somehow as sensitive as silk, then it swivelled back, dropped and touched the little one, a pachyderm introduction. I sat still, stunned by the privilege she was bestowing on me.

  ‘You clever girl,’ I said, my voice scratchy. ‘What a magnificent baby.’

  Her massive skull, just a few yards from mine, seemed to swell even larger with pride.

  ‘I don’t know what you call him. But he was born during the first spring showers, so I will call him Mvula.’

  Mvula is the Zulu word for rain, synonymous with life for those who live with the land. She seemed to agree and the name stuck.

  Then she slowly moved off, leading the herd back the way they had come. Within minutes they’d evaporated into the bush.

  Two weeks later they disappeared again and I made another trek to Zulu Graves. They were there, at exactly the same place and time as before. This time it was Frankie with a perfect new baby. I went through the same backing-off procedure to ensure I didn’t invade their space and eventually she too came to me, herd in tow. However, she didn’t stop like Nana had, just doing a cursory walk past to show off her infant.

  ‘Well done, my beautiful girl,’ I said as she slowly came level with the window, maternal pride in full bloom. ‘We will call him Ilanga – the sun.’

  I shook my head in wonderment. A little over a year ago she had almost killed Françoise and me on the quad bike. Now she was proudly parading her baby. It blew my mind just thinking about it. We had travelled a long road together.

  That evening they all came up to the house. Frankie’s little one had walked nearly four miles through thick bush and she was only a week old. This time Frankie stood in front of the others right at the wire facing me.

  ‘Hello, girl. Your baby is so beautiful! She really is!’

  Frankie stood caressing her calf, visibly glowing with pride. All the while she was looking directly at me. This was the closest we had come to linking directly with each other. We both knew something precious had passed between us.

  These almost inconceivable experiences had a sequel several years later when my first grandson was born and the herd came up to the house. I took baby Ethan in my arms and went as near to the patiently waiting elephants as his worried mother would allow. They were only a few yards away. Their trunks went straight up and they all edged closer, intensely focused on the little bundle in my arms, smelling the air to get the scent and rumbling their stomachs excitedly.

  I was repaying the compliment to them, introducing them, trusting them with my baby as they had with theirs.

  A few days after Ilanga’s birth a message arrived from the principal chief in the area saying he wanted to see me and I drove out to his kraal – homestead – in the country. As was customary, I called out my name and waited at the rustic gate next to the cattle enclosure to be invited in.

  Nkosi Nkanyiso Biyela was the essential cog in the Royal Zulu project to involve tribes in conservation, and he and I had become good friends. Descended from Zulu royalty, he conducted himself as an aristocrat and with his beard, handsome wide features and regal pose, looked remarkably like King Goodwill Zwelethini, the reigning monarch of the 10-million-strong Zulu people, to whom he was related.

  I was then shown to the isishayamteto, the large thatched hut reserved for important matters. Some freshly brewed Zulu beer was placed on the floor and after tasting it himself, his aide brought the beer to me for a sip straight from the traditional calabash. This drinking bowl was then passed to the other two aides who did likewise. Zulu beer is a wholesome, low-alcohol drink brewed from maize meal and sorghum. While the yeasty ripeness smells like cheesy feet and is guaranteed to turn up a tourist’s nose, it’s a taste I acquired years ago and this was a particularly good brew. I asked the Nkosi to pass my compliments to his wife, the brewmaster.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he smiled, accentuating the wrinkles on his good-humoured face. ‘I want you to attend the tribal court and speak about our game-reserve project. My people must hear directly from you on the matter.’

  We left the hut and walked across to the courtroom where the Nkosi held council and tried cases once a week.

  There were perhaps a hundred people squashed inside the hall, many in traditional clothes with others standing outside. I was shown to a chair in the front row while the chief went to the podium.

  He introduced me and I stood to speak.

  The project was sensitive, principally because it involved both actual and potential cattle land. I had already spent the better part of two years holding meetings and workshops throughout the area, explaining the workings of conservation and outlining the benefits that eco-tourism would bring to communities in this desperately deprived area.

  It was a tough task. Over the last month I had been taking tribal leaders into the Umfolozi reserve and was shocked to discover that most of them had never seen a zebra or giraffe – or much of the other indigenous wildlife so iconic of the continent. This was Africa, their birthright. They lived on the borders of an internationally acclaimed game reserve, yet as a direct result of apartheid they had never been inside. Historically they considered game reserves to be ‘white concepts, mere excuses to seize their land’, and as they had never been included by the previous government, even with the abolishment of apartheid this was not going to change overnight. They had absolutely no idea what conservation was about, or even why the reserve was there. Worst of all, a large chunk of it was traditional tribal territory that had been unilaterally annexed and this resentment had festered over the generations. It was historically their land and it had been wrested from them with no consultation whatsoever. No wonder that they were at best ambivalent about what they perceived to be the ‘white man’s’ concept of conservation.

  Looking at the sea of faces before me in the room, hardy sons and daughters of the soil, I talked about the huge potential the Royal Zulu promised in improving their lives. I spoke of job opportunities, skills training, wealth creation, and education – all which would spring from the project. I appealed to them to all support the project, not only for themselves, but for the sake of their children – and, most importantly, for the sake of the earth, the mother of us all.

  But old habits die hard; old resentments burn long. As soon as I finished speaking, cattle owners who coveted the land for their herds sprang to their feet, giving impassioned speeches about the Zulu heritage of keeping cattle. However, there was plenty of land for all. It was all about tradition, and the conservative cattle owners did not like the idea of change. In rural Zululand cattle are a primary form of currency and they didn’t want the status quo to alter, whatever the reasons or benefits.

  ‘How will you pay your lobola, your dowry, if there are no cattle? We will have no wives!’ one thundered to sustained applause.

  ‘And what about sacrificing cows to the ancestors? Are we now going to use bush pigs?’ shouted another to derisive laughter.

  The discussion went on in the same vein for the next couple of hours until the Nkosi finally put up his h
and to end it. Despite obvious opposition, I was not displeased with the outcome of the meeting. I had achieved an important goal. Everybody now knew I had been invited by the Nkosi and that he would not have brought me if he was against the project.

  But if I was aware of that, so were the cattle owners. The significance of the Nkosi’s summons would not be lost on them and I sensed bitter clashes ahead.

  I then decided to stay and watch the Nkosi, renowned for his biblical Solomon-style wisdom, preside over a trial of one of his subjects who had stabbed another during an argument.

  Both parties gave their version of events and when they were finished the Nkosi delivered his verdict. The stabber was sentenced to a substantial fine, albeit in keeping with his modest income, as well as eight lashes. Judging by the murmurs of the crowd, this was considered a fair outcome.

  Then everything went into overdrive. Chairs were scattered, as the court orderlies stepped forward, grabbed the poor man, stripped off his shirt and forced him onto his stomach in the middle of the room. They sat, one on each arm to ensure he couldn’t move, as out of a side door emerged a huge man carrying a sjambok, a wicked six-foot-long whip made of twined hippo hide. Without any ceremony he ran up to the prostrate criminal and brought the whip whistling down on his bare back with as much force as he could muster. The violence of the strike shocked me and I waited for the man to scream. He stayed silent.

  Eight lashes later and the skin on the man’s back was a pulped bloody mess and he was pulled to his feet and led groggily out of the door. Yet still he did not utter a sound.

  ‘He didn’t cry out once,’ I said to the aide next to me. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘He must not,’ he replied. ‘A criminal gets an extra two lashes every time he squeals.’

  Tough justice indeed, but it was justice quickly dispensed in keeping with Zulu traditions and one thing was certain: the knifeman wasn’t going to stab anyone else in a hurry.

  A few months later I was privy to another incident of brutal justice, which gave a jolting reminder that just below the thin skin of civilization lay much of what is wrong with this exotically beautiful country.

  I was driving in the deep rural areas surrounding Thula Thula when I noticed a vocal group of men from a neighbouring tribe walking down the road dragging something. At first I thought it was an animal, perhaps an impala they had shot, but to my surprise it was a man who had been so severely assaulted that he couldn’t stand. As I pulled up they dropped the semi-conscious body onto the ground like a rag doll.

  ‘Sawubona, Mkhulu,’ said one who recognized me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked, getting out of the Land Rover, shotgun in hand, horrified at the bloodied condition of their prisoner.

  ‘This man has raped and murdered a woman. We are taking him down to the river to kill him,’ one replied casually, almost in a ‘why don’t you join us’ tone.

  ‘Are you certain it’s the right man?’ I asked, trying to defuse the situation. As I spoke the crumpled victim moaned and tried to crawl away, only to be viciously kicked back by one of the group.

  ‘It is him,’ they replied. ‘His house has already been burned.’

  ‘Why don’t you take him to the police? He will be severely punished by the magistrate.’

  ‘Ha!’ spat one caustically. ‘The magistrate … he will do nothing.’

  Tiring of the conversation they grabbed the beaten man and started dragging him along.

  ‘But surely there must be another way. Is there nothing I can do?’ I said, blocking their way.

  As I stood before them, their mood changed in an instant. The leader of the group’s eyes hardened.

  ‘This is not your business Mkhulu. Leave us,’ he said, ignoring the fact that I was carrying a shotgun. The tone of his voice was final. If I pushed more I would be transgressing the shadow line into a tribal matter, with possibly violent repercussions. I stepped aside.

  As I drove off, I thought of going to the police but the nearest station was thirty miles away on a barely drivable road. I wasn’t even sure they would have a vehicle to respond with. As for a search, they would never find the body and the perpetrators would have long since disappeared into the surrounding huts and hills.

  Such is Africa, the flawed, beautiful, magnificent, beguiling, mystical, unique, life-changing continent … its seductive charm and charisma, its ancient wisdom so often stained by unfathomable spasms of blood.

  That night after returning from the meeting I got further bad news. David told me he was resigning to go to England. He had met an attractive young British guest at the lodge, whom I noticed had kept extending her stay.

  ‘It’s just “khaki fever”, David,’ I teased, referring to the well-known attraction some female guests have for uniformed rangers. ‘When you get to England, whatever you do don’t take off your uniform or it will all be over.’

  Nevertheless he left and it was a massive blow to us. He was an integral part of Thula Thula and had been my right-hand man and friend for so long it was like losing a son. He loved the bush so much – I just couldn’t imagine him in rainy England.

  The lodge had just opened and David had been a tremendous help to Françoise in getting it up and running, but she took it with her customary good humour. ‘I know guests sometimes steal a towel or soap,’ she said, ‘but this one stole our ranger.’

  Sadly we had to move on and she advertised in various wildlife publications for a new reserve manager. The first applicant phoned from Cape Town.

  ‘I’d like to come up for the interview but the flight’s expensive,’ said the caller. ‘So if I come all that way and spend all that money, I must get the job.’

  This was not the conventional method of impressing potential employers; in fact, it bordered on impertinence. I was about to tell him to take a running jump when I paused for a moment … perhaps Brendan Whittington Jones, a name more suited to a firm of august lawyers than a game ranger, could afford a touch of ‘unusualness’. He certainly had impressive credentials on paper. But how could I decide on his merits – or, as his phone call suggested, otherwise – without first seeing him? This really intrigued me. All my life, I have been attracted by unusual approaches.

  ‘Do you play sport?’ I asked, the question coming out of nowhere.

  ‘Yes. Field hockey.’

  I mulled this over for a second or two.

  ‘You can start as soon as you get here.’

  Field hockey is a gentleman’s game. My father was an international player and for whatever reason he always said it was a sport which attracted the right sort of people. I decided to follow his advice, though probably not the way he intended it.

  Brendan arrived a few days later with a battered suitcase containing his sum total of worldly goods. He was an athletically built young man with a shock of strawberry-blond hair, a slow smile and a deliciously sardonic sense of humour. He would need it to sustain him at Thula Thula.

  He had a degree in zoology and wildlife management with a major in entomology and loved insects with an almost mystic passion. Through him I learned that everything in the wild happened ‘down there’ on the ground and in water. In the mulchy stew of undergrowth and seething-yet-still ponds and rivers, the often invisible bug world is the font of any wild eco-system.

  However, he also loved animals and his bright attitude and innate sense of fairness quickly won over Françoise and the staff.

  It wasn’t long before he had adopted an epileptic young warthog which he called Napoleon. The grandly named hog had been abandoned as an infant by his mother and we had found him wandering aimlessly on the reserve, lost and alone and easy prey for any passing leopard or hyena. The poor creature we found out later, sometimes had seizures, which is probably why it had been dumped by his mother. However, Napoleon soon regarded Brendan as his surrogate mother and even joined him in his bed at night. Max also took to Brendan immediately and tried to emulate Napoleon by slipping out of our room one night and getting i
nto the new ranger’s bed.

  Going into Brendan’s room the next morning was an experience. Once you had cut through the fog of sweaty bush clothes, Max’s jowly head emerged from the blankets, followed by the quizzical Napoleon, then a little later blearyeyed Brendan.

  Françoise, who took to Brendan immediately, was aghast at this somewhat eccentric ménage à trois.

  ‘How will you ever find zee wife if you sleep with zee dog and zee pig?’ she asked, shaking her head.

  Soon after Brendan had settled in I received a surprise call from David. He had just landed in Johannesburg.

  ‘It didn’t go well in England, boss. I’ve just got back to Johannesburg. I’m stuck in a traffic jam and I hate it. Can I have my job back?’

  ‘But I’ve just employed someone else.’

  ‘I don’t care. You don’t have to pay me, I’m coming anyway. I’ll be there tonight,’ he said, putting down the phone before I could reply.

  He certainly meant it. The summer rains had fallen in torrents over Zululand and the Ntambanana River had burst its banks, cutting off Thula Thula from Empangeni. The roads were quagmires and virtually impassable.

  David’s father drove him as far as he could, just past the Heatonville village where the Ntambanana was in full spate and completely swamping the concrete bridge. No problem for David; he somehow forged the raging river in the dark on foot and then hiked a sodden twelve miles until he reached Thula Thula.

  He arrived sopping wet and covered in mud but ecstatically happy to be back in the bush. Brendan took one look at this drenched, muscular apparition and then shook his head, laughing.

  ‘OK. I’m handling the scientific side and will concentrate on the environmental studies – which you really need to get done. He could have his old job back.’

  They complimented each other extremely well and in time they became the closest of friends, so much so that the staff nicknamed them ‘Bravid the clone ranger’.