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

by Lawrence Anthony

  The timing could not have been worse. I was well outside the electric wire and to be caught with Thula in the open by her mother could be calamitous. I might even be regarded as a kidnapper. If I abandoned Thula and made a run for it there was no doubt they would whisk her off, and she would die. Her little – by elephant standards – feet were totally ill-equipped for life in the bush. A stroll around the garden as opposed to what she would be expected to do with her family was like comparing climbing a hill to Everest. It would be a slow death sentence even if Nandi lagged behind with her.

  The only thing going for me was that the herd didn’t know Thula was alive. They had come for a social visit – not to find their baby. I had to move fast.

  ‘Come, Thula! Come, my girl!’ I called anxiously, looking over my shoulder and made for the gate about a hundred yards away as fast as I could urge her. Luckily I was downwind and the herd didn’t scent us while Thula stumbled along behind. If the wind had been blowing the other way, it could have provoked a stampede from the herd. Ahead Biyela was frantically pointing at the oncoming elephants with his umbrella, desperately calling Thula to hurry.

  We made it to the gate – just – and I passed Thula on to Biyela, and then turned to watch the herd coming up.

  They drew level a few minutes later and Nana’s trunk shot up like a periscope, the tip switching until she fixated on where Thula had just ambled out of sight behind a hedge of wild strelitzia. She turned, her stomach rumbling. Nandi and Frankie joined her, scenting the air, analysing floating molecules Thula had left behind. They were like detectives at a crime scene and eased forward just inches from the electric wire.

  I went to Thula’s room, made sure she was closed in with Johnny and called a ranger to double-check the fence’s current. I then waited, guiltily hoping they would leave. I was copping out, pretending nothing was happening.

  Twenty minutes later they were still there and I felt I could no longer ignore them. They were entitled to know what we had done.

  But how? If I let them see Thula it might prompt something so primordial we could not handle it; if elephants believe their babies are in danger they’re uncontrollable. Their maternal instinct is ironclad. So what could I do to pacify them but still keep Thula with me until she was ready to be returned to her family fit and strong?

  I didn’t know. But I felt that at least I should let them know their baby was alive.

  I went to Thula’s room, took my shirt off and swabbed it over her body, put it back on and wiped my hands and arms all along her. I then walked back down to the fence and called them.

  Nana came over first and as her trunk swept just above the single electric wire in greeting I stretched my hand out as I usually do. The response was remarkable. The tip of her trunk paused at my hand and for an instant she went rigid. Then her trunk twitched as she sucked in every particle of scent. I offered both hands and she snuffled up my shirt and vacuumed every inch. Nandi the mother and Frankie the aunt stood on either side, trunks snaking as they too got the olfactory messages that Thula was alive and close by.

  All the while I talked to them, telling them how we helped Thula cheat death, what was wrong with her feet and why she had to stay with me for a little longer. I told them we all loved her because she was so brave and happy. I told them that they could be proud of their newest little member, who was fighting so gamely for her life. I then told them, for some completely random reason, that even Max – the ultimate canine curmudgeon – had befriended her.

  I have long since lost my self-consciousness at chatting away to elephants like some eccentric. As I spoke I looked for signs that something of what I meant was getting across. I needn’t have worried. We had come a long hard road together, this herd and I, and talking to them had been a crucial part of that process. And why not? Who am I to judge what elephants understand or otherwise? Besides I personally find the communication most satisfying. They evidently liked it too, responding with their deep stomach rumblings.

  Eventually they read whatever they could from my shirt and these three magnificent elephants stood there before me like a judicial panel assessing the evidence.

  After much deliberation they moved off and I could tell that they were relaxed and unconcerned. I’m not saying this lightly as I have seen unhappy elephants. I am familiar with many of their emotions. When they left, I know that they were happy. I know that they could have stormed the fence, electric or not, if they had been otherwise. I felt a glow ignite inside me. They trusted me, and I knew I could not let them down.

  The weeks passed by and Thula was doing well, revelling in the affection and care ladled on her by Françoise and Johnny. So much so that Bijou became insanely jealous, constantly barking at the hulk towering up above like the original mouse that roared. Thula ignored the yapping poodle with impressive regal disdain.

  Inside the house she was Françoise’s shadow, particularly in the kitchen where she would dip her trunk in anything Françoise was cooking. I remarked that this would be the first elephant who would want her marula berries marinated in garlic.

  Still she broke everything. The rangers’ weekly shopping trip to town now included lugging mountains of crockery to replace Thula’s damage. But what could you do? How could you get angry with a gallant creature that never gave up? That never complained? That refused to lie down and succumb?

  Outside, Biyela was her hero. With his multi-coloured golf umbrella constantly covering her, the two became inseparable. In fact Biyela started sulking if she remained in the house for too long.

  Indeed, for all of us, Thula was our talisman. She exuded an energy and vitality that tapped into the ethos of the reserve: that life was for living.

  Then one morning Johnny called from her room and I went through to find her struggling to get up.

  ‘She can’t stand,’ he said, pushing and pulling to try and get her on her feet. I climbed in and helped. Eventually after much squealing and protesting we had her up and she tottered briefly then limped outside.

  Biyela and his umbrella appeared as if by magic and as we followed I saw that it took far longer for her to loosen up. So did Biyela, and I watched as he spoke softly into her weakly flapping ears. I then realized she wasn’t just stiff in her feet; she was in acute pain – not just the pain she had bravely fought before. Her right hip also seemed to be troubling her. This was serious and I called the vet.

  ‘Short of doing X-rays, which is impossible, I can’t tell you what’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Nothing is broken but she has badly inflamed joints in her front feet and hip, probably caused by the way she walks.’

  He then prescribed some anti-inflammatories and instructed us to ease off on long walks.

  The next morning it was the same. She couldn’t stand up. The same happened the following. My concern rocketed.

  A week later she wouldn’t drink. Johnny, unshaven, wildhaired, despondent and soaked in the milk he was trying to coax her to take, summed it up. ‘She’s just not interested any more.’

  I looked at Thula who was in the corner facing the wall, apathetically swinging her little trunk back and forth. She was also suffering from thrush, which as any mother knows is an extremely uncomfortable yeast infection in a baby’s mouth, and she hated the pungent ointment we spread over her tongue and gums each day.

  Johnny was exhausted so I took the bottle from him and tried to ease it into her mouth, with no success. Then Françoise, whom Thula truly loved, tried. She was gentle with her, but Thula still wouldn’t take the bottle.

  As Johnny said, she wasn’t interested. From a feisty little fighter, she suddenly seemed to have given up. I had no idea why, except that perhaps the pain she had endured in her courageous quest to live was now simply unbearable.

  The next day she took a quarter of a bottle – a fraction of what she needed – but the fact she had even taken that gave me heart. I prayed that her indomitable spirit would resurface triumphant.

  That evening she was on a drip. The vet had co
me out of her own volition. Thula had also captivated her.

  Two days later, despite drips and encouragement from the entire staff which would rival cheering at an international rugby match, she sunk into bottomless apathy.

  Early the next morning a disconsolate Johnny told us she slipped away during the night while he was with her.

  Thula’s death affected everybody, particularly Françoise. I have never seen her sob so bitterly. We’ve had lots of animals living with us over the years and we were close to them all but with Thula it was different. Her cheerful disposition, her refusal to surrender until the last few days inspired everyone. She had shown us how life could be joyous despite pain; meaningful despite brevity. How life should be lived for the moment. The pall of sorrow she left behind was for many days impenetrable.

  Her body was taken out into the veldt by Johnny to allow nature to take its course.

  I later went out alone, found the herd and led them to the carcass. They gathered around. This time I didn’t speak; I didn’t have to tell them what had happened. For a moment I held my head in my hands; I had let them down. When I looked up, Nana was outside the vehicle’s window, her trunk raised in her familiar greeting pose. Next to her was Nandi. They then moved off.

  The remnants of Thula’s skeleton are still there and every now and again Nana leads her family past and they stop, sniffing and pushing the bones around with their trunks, toying with them in an elephant remembrance ritual.

  chapter thirty-seven

  Cape buffalo are the quintessential African animal. The quandary for the uninitiated tourist is that a buffalo looks like and seems like a cow, an African cow perhaps, but a cow nevertheless, and why would anyone want to spend valuable safari time staring at bovines?

  But for the aficionado of African bush there is nothing that quite compares, nothing that better symbolizes Africa, and there is no animal more regal, more unpredictable, or more dangerous. I had always wanted to introduce these magnificent beasts to Thula Thula and today was the day.

  It was 4.30 a.m. Dawn was streaking with the first shards of light as we were taking delivery of a prime breeding herd of Cape buffalo. We had been up since 2 a.m. preparing the ramp, positioning vehicles and drinking coffee with excited rangers and a few lucky guests from the reserve. The state vet was there and the seals on the truck door had long since been broken for the animals to be freed but for some reason they were refusing to come out.

  Then everything went wrong. Firstly, the state vet announced with all the officiousness he could muster in the very unofficial bush that two of the cows were dead and a formal investigation may be required. That stunned us. Apart from our concern for the welfare of the buffalo, they were very expensive and to lose two was a big blow. Secondly he complained that the truck was late; the herd did not want to come out; and that ours was not the only game delivery that he had to attend that morning. In short, he was a busy man and the lack of enthusiasm of the buffalo to leave the trailer was impinging on his valuable time. And it was obviously our fault.

  By now Hennie had had enough. In between trying to persuade the buffalo to disembark and convincing the unhappy inspector that their reluctance was nothing personal, he climbed down off the trailer roof with deliberately audible curses and walked back to his vehicle dialling his wife to say he would be late. That was when the bull finally left the truck …

  Without warning a huge bull came thundering out of the back of the trailer and instead of disappearing into the bush, inexplicably made a U-turn that would give a Spanish matador the heebie-jeebies. But this was no mere toro; this was a one-and-a-half-ton Cape buffalo in its prime. And it was spitting mad. For the briefest moment he took in his surroundings and then focused on the ample figure of Hennie ambling off.

  ‘Dear God no!’ I thought and watched awestruck as the bull charged at Hennie in revenge for his uncomfortable journey.

  ‘Oom! Oom!’ screamed a young Afrikaner ranger, calling Hennie by the reverential ‘Uncle’ title Afrikaners give their elders. ‘Die bull kom!’ The bull is coming!

  It sure was. Hennie glanced over his shoulder, dropped his cellphone and ran for his life.

  I knew he wouldn’t make it. Hennie was a large man, the distance too far and there was no time for us to get a gun out, nevermind load and fire an accurate shot. An eerie stillness blanketed the scene unfolding in front of us – a real-life horror movie in surreal slow motion.

  Wisely abandoning any hope of opening the vehicle’s door in time, Hennie angled for the bonnet to try to duck out of the way of the horned juggernaut. Despite his lack of fitness and ungainly step he had built up a head of steam and was pounding along a lot faster than I thought possible. But that’s adrenalin for you. With the bull inches behind he somehow reached the vehicle’s bumper and they both sprinted around the front left corner as one, the beast’s wicked horn-tips hooking viciously at his back.

  It was so close I was certain Hennie had been pierced. But he somehow emerged with the buffalo less than a snort behind him, then ran the width of the pickup and managed to twist again around the bumper and dash for the tailgate.

  ‘Go, Oom!’ the ranger again cried at the top of his voice, shattering the silence. And with that we all came out of our collective trance and started shouting: ‘Go, Hennie, go!’ trying to distract the beast.

  It must have worked as the buffalo overshot a fraction on the next turn and suddenly there was a glimmer of light between the two.

  ‘Go! Hennie’ we screamed louder.

  Somehow Hennie managed to gain another precious half a yard as they sprinted like Olympians around the vehicle again.

  Bulky as Hennie is, he was still nimbler on the corners and on their third lap he was able to yank the driver’s door open and dive in. He slammed it shut and scrambled to the passenger side as the buffalo could skewer a vehicle door like a can opener, but it wasn’t necessary. As far as the beast was concerned, Hennie had vaporized into thin air. He gave up the chase.

  Well, not quite. Hearing our cheering, he turned to face us all standing on the back of the Land Rover, as if we were watching gladiators at the Coliseum. That certainly put a damper on things. This angry beast could easily flip the Landy.

  Breaking into a trot he hurtled forward, head down and I braced for the impact. Thankfully it never came as the snorting ton of horn and sinew missed by inches and continued straight off into the bush. With that a cheer went up … even louder than the one we roared for Hennie.

  Hennie then climbed out and crouched with his hands on his knees catching his breath in rasping gasps. As he did so, the rest of the buffalo herd scrambled out of the back of the trailer into the bush.

  Game rangers are a tough bunch and the gallows humour started immediately.

  ‘Hey, Hennie, I missed that. Do it again, will you?’ shouted one.

  ‘Why are you breathing so hard?’ called another. ‘Oxygen is free.’

  A third walked over to him and shoved a cold beer into his hand. ‘Well done, ou maat. God was with you today.’

  That was true. Hennie gulped the brew down without checking what time of day it was. As he did so I noticed the rip in his trousers. The bull’s horn had actually pierced his clothing on the first turn. It was that close.

  Bheki, Ngwenya and Vusi, who was now a section ranger, came with us as we went to inspect the two dead females. The state vet had to give his report, but to us the tragedy was right there in a mound of unmoving flesh. We weren’t sure how they’d died. But one thing we did know was that we had some angry muscle out there charging through the bush.

  ‘Ayish, Mkhulu, that bull is something,’ said Vusi, echoing my thoughts. ‘Hennie was lucky. We must be very careful as these cows will be the same, maybe worse.’

  ‘I agree. Let’s cancel all walking safaris for a while. And, Bheki, warn all your guards and the labourers to stay well away from them. Tell them all what happened here today.’

  I knew that the story would be embellished upon �
� exactly what I wanted. We had to let this herd settle down, which I knew they would.

  But Hennie’s close encounter with permanency got me thinking about something else I had been trying to avoid.

  Life and death go hand in glove. Death is cyclical, witnessed more in the natural order of the wild than anywhere else. And my thoughts turned back to Max who was now fourteen years old and too old to accompany me into the bush he loved so much. The old warrior, who had survived poachers, snakes and feral pigs double his size, had succumbed to chronic arthritis in his hind legs. As I left him in his basket early that morning, he tottered about in a vain attempt to come with me. A year back he would have been in the front seat of the Land Rover. Now he could barely walk. And the sight of Hennie running for his life brought this home with unimaginable sorrow.

  It’s funny how these things happen so quickly. It seemed just yesterday that we were out and about on our adventures. I had been told by Françoise and a few close friends that I had to face up to the fact Max was no longer bulletproof. He was very old and in pain and not going to last much longer, but it was just too dire for me to consider. I countered that with the best veterinary help I could get but recently he had all but stopped taking food and sadly I knew his time was coming.

  Even so, I was surprised to see Leotti the vet’s car parked in the driveway so early in the morning as I got back. She was sitting next to Max’s basket in the lounge. With her was Françoise. She seemed on the verge of tears.

  Max tried to get up to greet me and fell over. He tried again … he wouldn’t give up.

  Leotti, who had treated Max throughout his numerous escapades, including regular mfezi fights, looked at me and shook her head.

  ‘Françoise phoned me about this. Lawrence … I know you love him but’ – she gestured at my loyal friend – ‘it would be cruelty for this to carry on.’