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

by Lawrence Anthony

  She pulled up at the fence in a cloud of dust and stared, dumbfounded – she had probably never seen humans run before. Any charge had probably been followed by the thunderclap of a rifle.

  She watched, or rather smelt my retreat and then swivelled and ran back into the thicket with her trunk held high in victory – the first time I had seen her do that. She had seen off an enemy. More importantly, she had turned fear into action which, for the moment at least, was a huge improvement.

  It worked well, almost too well. She now started charging whenever I came close. Each time I played the game, feigning fright and backing right off. I wanted to show her how powerful she was … that she was queen of the bush. Elephants are majestic; they are not bullies or cowards. I had to let her rediscover herself.

  She slowly starting getting her nerve back and even began coming out into the open during the day, wandering around the boma.

  Whenever she emerged from the thicket, I tried to ensure I was around and she watched with beady eyes as I once more started talking to her and singing at random, alternating that with just being there quietly. During these encounters she never uttered a sound, whether she was intrigued, angry or frightened. To me this was uniquely sad. A trumpeting elephant is bush music. Yet this distraught creature was as silent as the air, even when coming at us full tilt.

  Then one day she charged while we were pushing food over the fence. For the first time her hunger overrode her fear and she wanted to shoo us away. And for the first time she was trumpeting for all her worth. But instead of a clear, clean call she was honking like a strangled goose.

  David and I looked at each other. Now we knew why she had been silent. The poor creature had destroyed her vocal cords, screaming herself hoarse for help, calling for her mother and aunts, lost and pitifully alone in the wilderness while lions circled. She really was a special case.

  To try and lighten the mood we affectionately named her ET, short for enfant terrible – terrible child.

  Even though she started tolerating me marginally more, she was still profoundly unhappy. Her fear and loneliness gloomed the entire boma. Sitting around the campfire at night, usually a time for talk, we too could feel it. Often we just crept into our sleeping bags and lay on our backs, staring at the stars.

  Just as we thought we were winning, she had slid hopelessly back into an abyss of abject despair that not even shouting or the banging of cans could penetrate. Then she slipped further away and began walking endlessly in large figures of eight, oblivious to her surroundings. This sadness bordered on a grief too embedded to penetrate. She was so depressed I feared she might die of a broken heart, so I changed tactics.

  I went looking for the herd. They were the only solution.

  ‘Coooome, Nana, coooome, babbas!’ I called out once I saw them. Three hundred yards away Nana looked up, trunk reaching into the air. A few calls later she sourced the direction of my voice and they all started ambling through the bush towards me, pushing easily through wicked thornveld that would rip human skin to shreds. As they advanced I marvelled at this magnificent herd, these beautiful creatures, fat, grey and glowing, and how content they were with new youngsters.

  Now I needed their help. But first I was going to try something in the wilderness I had never done before: get them to follow me.

  As they approached I gently footed the accelerator and eased ahead for about fifty yards and Nana stopped, perplexed at why I was moving off. Then I called them and, after milling about for a bit, she came on. As she got near I drove off again; again she stopped, confused.

  Again I called ‘Coooome, Nana!’ willing her forward, calling out, telling her it was important, that I needed her. The words meant nothing, but would she get the emotion, the urgency?

  Amazingly she started following, and eventually just kept on coming without me even calling, her family following fractionally behind. I looked in my rear-view mirror. There were nine elephants following me; I was for a fleeting instant the pachyderm Pied Piper. Nana loomed in the rectangular reflection, the others behind her, obliterating all else. Deep in the African bush I had a herd of wild elephant actually following me because I wanted and needed them to. It was all so implausible – and yet it was happening. God I loved them.

  Three miles later we were at the boma. Unbelievably, the herd had stayed the course.

  I stopped thirty yards from the fence and Nana came towards me, paused for a moment, and then saw the youngster. She looked back at me, as if, perhaps, to acknowledge why I had called her, then went to the fence and emitted a long set of stomach rumbles.

  ET was as still as a tree, peering at the herd through the dense foliage, lifting her trunk to get their scent. For some moments this continued. Then suddenly, excited as a teenager at a funfair, she came out and ran to where Nana was standing at the fence. These were the first of her own kind she had seen in a year.

  Nana lifted her python-thick trunk over the electric fence, reaching out to ET who responded by raising her own trunk. I watched entranced as Nana touched the troubled youngster who demurely acknowledged the matriarch’s authority. By now the rest of the inquisitive herd had come forward and Frankie, who was also tall enough to get her trunk over the electric strand, did so as well. There they all stood, their stomachs rumbling and grumbling in elephant talk.

  This went on for an animated twenty minutes as scents and smells were exchanged and introductions made. What happened next though left me in no doubt that ET’s predicament was over. A solution found.

  Nana turned and moved off, deliberately walking past the gate where she had originally pushed over the poles to get out. I had no doubt she was showing ET the exit and simultaneously letting me know to open the gate. I had asked for her help and she had taken her decision: ‘Let her out!’

  But with all the elephants around we could not get anywhere near the gate and could do no more than watch as ET moved along with them on the inside of the boma fence until she reached the far end and could go no further. She backtracked up and down the fence, desperately trying to find a way to join them and ‘honking’ in despair. It was heartbreaking to watch.

  But would she allow us? No chance. Every time we approached the gate she thundered across, enraged at our presence, as if we were preventing her from joining the others.

  Eventually she stopped, exhausted by her continuous stampedes, and we were able to move in and quickly remove the horizontal gate poles and electric strands.

  Nana, who had been waiting nearby in thick cover watching all this, then came back out of the bush around the other side of the boma with her family following in single file. Deliberately and slowly, she once more walked past the now-open gate. ET rushed out of the thicket but again missed the exit and followed them on the inside of the fence until she could go no further. Her despair was wrenching but there was nothing we could do until she learnt that the gate was her sole exit point.

  This time Nana didn’t wait. She kept going towards the river and just as I thought we would have to close the boma for the night, ET backtracked to the gate and was gone, her trunk twitching just inches off the ground as she chased after the herd’s scent in a gaiting run.

  We switched off power to the boma fences and packed up. Half an hour later as we were driving home we saw them moving away across the open savannah. They were still in single file but already the pecking order had been established. ET was second-last, holding the tail of the elephant in front with Mnumzane behind her. He was resting his trunk on her back as they moved along. Comforting her.

  Walt Disney himself could not have scripted a better ending.

  chapter twenty-six

  Françoise named our new boutique hotel the Elephant Safari Lodge and threw herself into making a success of it. To keep the bush atmosphere she limited accommodation to just eight luxury rooms spread out around a large thatched lodge on the banks of the Nseleni River. Most courageously she refused to bring in professional help, preferring instead to train Zulus from the
next-door village for all positions. The Franco – Zulu communication challenges that ensued provided daily entertainment for David, Brendan and me.

  ‘No TV, no newspapers, no cellphones,’ she insisted, ‘this must be a natural wilderness experience, an antidote to city life.’ And it was, complimented by the fine food which she produced and presented with all her inherent flair. I balanced this against the knowledge that if I hadn’t met Françoise, the guests would probably be sitting on log stumps around a fire with a sausage on a stick and using a bush toilet.

  The lodge changed everything for both of us. It was a long day, starting with the early morning game drive and ending only when the last guest went to bed. I quickly learned that in today’s world, if you want to survive as a conservationist, you had better learn all about wines and how to mix a good Martini.

  All the while I knew the cattle cabal was still lurking in the background trying to disrupt the Royal Zulu game-reserve project, but being busy with the introduction of ET into the herd, I couldn’t give it much thought.

  Then my mother phoned from her office in Empangeni, her voice scratchy with worry. The Security Police had contacted her, trying to get hold of me, and the news they gave her was enough to terrify any mum. Police informers had infiltrated the homestead of a powerful local induna of an adjoining tribe who controlled an area to the east of Thula Thula and had learnt that assassins had been hired to kill me.

  It had to be the cabal. In fact, according to police information, the rogue induna had openly said that if I was bumped off, he and his followers would be able to seize the tribal trust land. Even though it legally belonged to five different clans and I was just the coordinator of the project, they believed that without me involved they could then stake their own claim and torpedo the project. The scenario was reminiscent of the circumstances which led to the murder of conservationist George Adamson of Born Free fame in Kenya many years ago. He was killed by tribesmen who wanted the Kora reserve, where he worked with lions, to be cattle land.

  The police even had the names of the assassins, but said they could not act as their information was only hearsay. However, it came from sufficiently reliable sources to be credible, hence the warning.

  I know, and love, Zulu culture. It’s part of my daily life. But I also know that if a person does not confront a problem instantly, it can balloon out of all proportion. Fierce blood feuds still flourish today for reasons no one remembers. There was no way around it; this threat had to be confronted head-on, and quickly. I had to pay the induna an early visit.

  A good friend and extremely courageous old man, Obie Mthethwa, deemed it was too dangerous for me to go to the headman’s kraal alone and volunteered to accompany me. Obie was a senior councillor to the Mthethwa clan, one of the most powerful Zulu tribes and well respected in the area. He and I had become good friends over the years and his presence would be invaluable.

  I told Obie the names of the assassins fingered by the police. He knew them by reputation. ‘Tsotsis,’ he said spitting on the ground, using the Zulu pejorative for thugs. That afternoon we drove over rutted tracks deep into rural Zululand to the headman’s home.

  It was a picturesque village with traditional round thatched huts neatly set out on top of a hill. People were finishing their daily chores, herd boys bringing in cattle, mothers calling in children, everyone preparing for the night. The smell of the evening meals wafted across the village.

  We were made to wait almost an hour and it was dark before being summoned into the kraal. This was an ominous sign and I took much comfort from the fact that Obie was with me. Then we were escorted to the isishayamteto, the largest thatch and clay hut, traditionally used for important business.

  Shadows pulsed on the walls from a single candle flame which illuminated the room’s simple furnishings, a table and a few flimsy wooden chairs. I noticed immediately the induna was alone. This was extremely unusual as advisers or councillors always accompanied him. We had seen some of them outside while we waited.

  Where were they now? What was it he didn’t want them to hear?

  Then, as is Zulu protocol, we began asking about each other’s health, the health of immediate families, and the weather. While all this was going on, I manoeuvred the back of my chair against the wall so no one could sneak behind me. I wanted to face whatever danger came at me head-first.

  Eventually the induna asked the nature of our visit. Speaking in Zulu, I explained that the police had told me there was a contract out on my life and the hitmen hired to do the killing came from the induna’s tribe.

  ‘Hau!’ he exclaimed. ‘It cannot be my people. They hold you in esteem, Mkhulu. You are the man who is going to bring them jobs with the new game reserve. Why would my people want to kill you?’

  ‘I know that is true. But the police say their information is also true. They say it is not all of your people that want to kill me – just a gang of tsotsis. They believe that if they kill me, they can grab the land for themselves.’ I paused for an instant and stared directly at him. ‘But we both know that it is not my land. It belongs to other tribes as well, and killing me will not make it someone else’s land.’

  Again the headman appeared astonished and I was starting to wonder if perhaps the police information was off-target. He was either innocent or a virtuoso liar.

  At that moment we heard a car pull up outside, followed by the traditional shout of identification. About ten minutes later four men walked in. They had come to report to their induna. He told them to sit and they squatted on the floor on their haunches, keeping their heads lower than their boss’s as a token of respect.

  As they settled down Obie grabbed my arm and whispered in English: ‘These are the killers – these are the tsotsis whose names the police gave us.’

  At first they did not recognize Obie and me in the dim light. But as their eyes grew accustomed to the shadows the sudden startled looks on their faces betrayed them.

  I was wearing a bulky bush jacket and in my pocket was a cocked 9-mm pistol. My hand slid around the butt. I gently thumbed off the safety catch and pointed it through the jacket straight at the closest man’s belly.

  Obie leaned forward, grabbed my arm hard again and whispered, ‘This is very dangerous. We have to get out. Now!’

  But there was no way out. I looked directly at the induna, hand tight on my gun.

  ‘The police have given me the names of the men out to kill me. Those names are the same as these four men.’ I pointed at them with my free hand. ‘Does that mean you know what the police are speaking about?’

  The contract killers sprang up and started shouting at me. ‘You lie – you have no business here!’

  I jumped up to face them, keeping a firm grip on the pistol. Obie also stood up, squared his shoulders and glared at the assassins.

  ‘Thula msindu – stop this noise!’ he commanded with iron authority. ‘This is the induna’s house. He must speak – not you. You must show respect.’

  The induna gestured at us all to sit down.

  ‘Mhkulu, I do not know where you get these stories from. I do not know why the police are lying about me. I do not know anything of what you say. All I know is that there is no killing list with your name on. Anyone who says so is a liar.’

  The words were smooth, but there was no doubt his attitude had radically changed. He was now in full retreat, indirectly accusing me of calling him a liar – a heinous slur in Zulu culture.

  ‘Then why is it that these men walk so easily into your house?’ I persisted. ‘Does this not seem suspicious?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘And what’s more,’ I added, ‘the police know I have come to talk to you. My visit here has been fully reported to them and they await our return. If Obie Mthethwa or I do not get back home this night, they will know what happened here. They will find you and you will suffer the full consequences of your actions.’

  Again, the induna did not reply.

  I knew it was unlik
ely I would be able to shoot my way out, but I certainly would take a couple of these cut-throats with me in the attempt. Perhaps that would also give Obie a chance to make a break for it.

  I focused on the candle, just a stride away on the floor. If anything started I planned to kick it over and plunge the room into darkness. The induna was also looking at the candle, no doubt harbouring the exact same thoughts. He then looked at me.

  We both knew why.

  The induna broke his stare first. I could see he was now unnerved – particularly as he now believed that the police knew we were at his kraal. He had been completely caught out by the arrival of the assassins and the fact that we knew who they were. All his earlier denials were now obvious lies.

  The contract killers looked at their boss, unsure of what to do. The four of them could easily overpower us, but as experienced gunmen, they also could tell I had a primed pistol underneath my jacket. If they went for their guns, I would get the first shot off, straight at the nearest man. It was now up to their boss what he wanted to do.

  The stand-off was tense and silent. Nobody moved.

  I finally provided the induna with a way out.

  ‘I am not calling you a liar. Maybe the police are, but that is a matter between you and them. All I want is your word of honour that I am in no danger from any man of your tribe – any man who answers to you.’

  He quickly agreed, grabbing the escape line with both hands. He gave his assurance that I would not be harmed by any of his people, stressing again that there was no hit list.

  That was all I needed. The main aim of the meeting had been achieved. The induna would be a fool to go back on his word of honour. He also knew he would be the prime suspect if anything happened to me – whether he was guilty or not.

  As a parting shot I said our discussion would also be reported to Nkosi at the next council meeting. We then left. When we got in the car, Obie let out a large ‘whoosh’ of breath. We had just stared death in the face, and I looked at the old man with gratitude and respect. He had the courage of a lion and had put his life on the line for the purest motive of all – friendship.