‘That’s why the village will help us when we go to the police,’ I replied.
Phineas was the gate guard who had been used to skin the slaughtered animals. He was a simple, sickly young man, having long been afflicted by Aids, the scourge of modern Africa. On the streets the slang for Aids was ‘slow puncture’, a particularly apt description of how the disease gradually saps one’s life and frail Phineas was no exception. We had moved him from the labour team to far less demanding gate duties to ease his day.
I was gambling that he would side with us and become a key witness. All I needed was the correct approach.
Phineas arrived and as is customary in rural Zululand, he came in without knocking. Crouching low, he moved across the room and then sat down without being asked. He averted his eyes and stared at the floor, which is considered good manners.
‘Yehbo, Phineas,’ I greeted him.
‘Sawubona, Mkhulu,’ he replied without looking up.
Instead of first politely discussing one’s health or the weather, again customary in rural Zululand, I went straight for the jugular.
‘Phineas, I hear that you have been tricked into skining animals that the Ovambos have stolen.’
The effect was instant. Phineas glanced around wildly, as if looking for an escape route. Then his sickly pallor turned even more ashen as his breath laboured out in wheezes, no doubt cursing his bad luck. If he had known what this meeting was about he would have headed for the hills and never returned. Now he was trapped.
‘Come, Phineas,’ I said, pressing the obvious advantage of surprise. ‘Everybody knows what has happened and I don’t want to hand you over to the police. Jail will be a bad place for you. I am offering you the chance to help us.’
His head slumped on his chest. Then, without warning, he started sobbing. Even though I knew that Aids had crippled his immune system, ravaging his physical and mental health, I was taken aback at how quickly he broke and my heart went out to him. No doubt his conscience had also been preying brutally on his weakened state of mind.
‘Ndonga promised me money,’ he said, voice quavering. ‘Then he did not pay me.’
‘You told me the truth, thank you,’ I said. ‘But you will have to make a full confession to the police. If you do this, not only will you be protected from the Ovambos, but you will also keep your job.’
‘I will do what you ask,’ he said rubbing his eyes. ‘I am sorry, Mkhulu.’
He then gave me full details of the poaching ring, exactly how many animals and what species they had shot as well as times and dates. I was astounded at the scale of the operation. These bastards had slaughtered at least a hundred animals – which translates into several tons of meat, and thousands of dollars of profit.
I now had my first witness. We spent the rest of the day piecing together information, interviewing other staff fingered by Phineas, collecting facts, and taking more statements until we felt we had a case. But I decided to stew on it all for a while and see what other stories emerged over the next few days.
In the meantime my rangers were busy moving into quarters next to the Ovambos while David was Ndonga’s ‘new best friend’, constantly shadowing him and seriously curtailing any poaching activities. I also started calling Ndonga over the radio at all hours, day and night, asking where the Ovambos were, setting meetings in the bush and making surprise visits to their house.
The tension was starting to tell. Ndonga didn’t suspect we knew anything but he was as jumpy as hell, never knowing what was coming next. Whenever the Ovambos went out in a group, my rangers would radio me and we would drive up to them from nowhere, exchanging pleasantries and just hanging out. The confusion on their faces was almost comic. The main thing was that they be given no opportunity to poach.
Oblivious to all this human intrigue, Nana and her family appeared to be settling in well and I decided to spend a morning watching them, just to see for myself.
After about an hour’s drive I found them shading themselves under a sprawling giant fig right next to the river. It was still early, but already the mercury had rocketed to almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit. I stopped the Land Rover, crept forward and settled down under a leafy marula tree about fifty yards downwind. They stood motionless but for the gentle flapping of their ears, cooling themselves as best they could. Elephant ears are the size of a hefty woman’s skirt and act as a natural air conditioner. Behind each massive flap of cartilage is a roadmap of veins that pumps gallons of blood just beneath the skin and gentle fanning cools the corpuscles, which in turn lowers the body temperature.
Mnumzane was about twenty yards nearer to me than the rest and sensed my presence. He moved closer and watched from a comfortable but wary distance, then continued grazing, glancing up every now and again. It seemed he preferred my company to that of the herd and made no effort to raise the alarm.
He was a superb specimen, well proportioned with strong tusks. He would soon grow into a great bull, lord of all he surveyed. But at the moment he was a confused and lost teenager, still aching from the death of his mother.
In the background Nana found a succulent young paper-bark acacia tree and decided it was ideal for a family lunch. She pushed gently, testing the tree’s strength, and then adjusted her angle; put her head down and with a push-relax-push motion worked up massive momentum. The tree rocked violently and as it swayed at the very end of its tether she gave a final shove and it came splintering down.
The rest of the herd ambled across to join in the feast. If there is one thing that elephants have, it’s time, large dollops of endless time spent without having to commute to offices like less-privileged mortals. Even when a juicy bush banquet is on offer, they don’t rush.
The sound of the tree crashing stilled the bush for a few moments and I noticed a nearby family of nyala prick up their ears. The bull scented the air, knowing instinctively what had happened. Once the elephants moved off, he and his harem would also be able to gorge on the felled acacia’s juicy top leaves that they would never otherwise be able to reach. In fact, during dry winters when grazing is poor herds of antelope often shadow elephants for days waiting for the matriarch to bulldoze a tree down.
The noise also alarmed a leguaan, a large African monitor lizard that had been raiding birds’ nests up in a red-flowered weeping boerbeen tree overhanging the river. Startled, the four-foot-long, black-grey reptile sprang off a high branch, twisting through the air and belly-flopping into the river.
At my feet Max heard the splash and thinking the reptile was a snake, was off like a shot into the reeds before I could grab him. Splashing about in crocodile territory was suicidal for even large animals, let alone a dog, and when he came out shaking his dripping torso like a sprinkler, I tersely reprimanded him. Try as I may, I was unable to wean him off his snake fetish.
None of this perturbed the elephants. Nana, Nandi and Mandla stood on one side of the fallen tree with Frankie, Marula and Mabula on the other, methodically converting leaves and bark into edible mulch with the most powerful molars in the animal kingdom. Although they were now one family, each group was the remnant of a much larger herd that had been cruelly whittled by sales and execution. They still sometimes instinctively bunched in their original two groups.
A draught eddied through the saplings and cosseted my back. The wind was edging to the south. When I had arrived I was downwind, but with the subtle shift I now had to move fast.
As I stood I saw the tip of Nana’s trunk suddenly angle and swivel towards me, snatching a trace of scent. She then stood back and, lifting her trunk to verify the odour, turned to face in my direction.
Collecting my binoculars and water bottle I climbed into the Land Rover with Max just as she started advancing towards me, the rest of the herd falling in behind her. There was plenty of time to drive off, but I was intrigued by the fact that she was actually heading my way. Normally she would have hurriedly herded her family in the opposite direction.
I manoeuvred the Land Ro
ver into a good getaway position, steeled my nerves and waited. At the last moment, just yards away from me, she changed direction ever so slightly and walked past the vehicle, followed by her family who each turned to stare as they passed. Frankie, who was bringing up the rear, splayed her ears and gave an aggressive shake of her head towards me.
Then suddenly, she swung off the back of the line, triumpeted harshly, and started coming at me, fast as a truck, her ears flared and trunk raised high. I knew instinctively it was a mock charge, and the worst thing to do would be to drive off as this could encourage her, perhaps spark a real charge. I braced myself as she pulled up spectacularly just yards away in a whirlwind of flapping ears, dust and rage. After tossing her head in anger once or twice, she stomped off back to the herd with her tail angrily erect.
I stared after her, transfixed. Even though I had seen it many times a charging elephant is one of the most awesome physical spectacles in the world. I’ll have to be careful with Frankie, I thought, once I had regained my ability to think. She was still too ill-tempered, too eager to vent her fury. Even though Nana was the matriarch, Frankie was far more dangerous.
I followed them for a bit, thorns squeaking and stabbing the Land Rover’s paintwork until the bush became too wild and I turned off on an old overgrown track and set course for home.
I had just gulped down a pint of ice-cold water when the phone rang. The wildlife dealer was on the line.
‘Really, Lawrence, I can’t for the life of me understand why you’re wasting your time with this herd,’ he said. ‘I can let you have a much better one within a week and your problems will be over. You know, you could easily get yourself killed by this lot. They need more space, to be completely away from humans. Surely you owe that to them.’
‘You may be right,’ I said, fumbling for a pen and some paper. ‘By the way, I never got the name of your company – or even your phone number. What is it?’
I wrote down the details and immediately dialled the Elephant Managers and Owners Association in Johannesburg, asking for Marion Garai.
‘Marion, do you know who these people are?’
‘Oh God, Lawrence. Please don’t tell me you’re dealing with them.’
‘Why?’
‘This lot was trying to get your herd first but I beat them to it. They are registered wildlife dealers, perfectly legitimate, and I had heard they had already pre-sold your animals to a Chinese zoo – that’s why I was in such a hurry to get them to you. They’re pretty upset with me and are now trying to get the animals back to fulfil their contract. If you sell them to him, your elephants’ lives will be a misery. There’re few animal rights laws in China, so anything could happen. And even worse, the zoo only wants the babies so the two adults will probably be shot. Please … please don’t deal with them.’
‘Well, you can relax,’ I said, relieved finally to hear the truth. ‘My elephants are going nowhere.’
I phoned the dealer and told him politely never to contact me again.
He was flummoxed. ‘You can have all this money plus a new herd and you prefer to keep the problem, which is only going to get worse. Don’t come crying in three months’ time because it will be too late for us. And for you.’
‘I’m not selling.’
‘OK, OK.’
He then hesitated for a bit and I could tell he was mentally wrestling with something. ‘Listen … don’t tell my boss I told you this, but the previous matriarch, the one they shot, wasn’t so bad. I reckon she was just trying to get the herd to better water and grazing, that’s why she kept busting the fences. She was just doing her job.’
I put the phone down as that revelation slowly sunk in. The old matriarch had been doing her duty to her family – and she had paid for it with her life. They had even shot her baby daughter. My anger flared; no wonder this herd was traumatized.
I never heard from the dealer again.
chapter twelve
During the next few days fresh information about the poachers kept popping up, all of it helpful.
The Ovambos, unable to hunt due to our constant surveillance, had taken to slipping out into the village at night and getting rat-faced drunk at the local shebeen, a traditional, usually illegal, tavern. The more they drank the more they talked, and we made sure we always had an informer there. With alcohol-fired machismo, they bragged openly about their exploits. Slowly we were piecing together our case.
‘OK, what do we do now?’ David asked.
‘We go to the police and give them the statements. I have set it up with a lieutenant who’s expecting us.’
The next day we drove into Empangeni, met with two senior policemen and recounted the full story, handing over all the affidavits.
‘This is an open and shut case,’ said one after reading Phineas’s statement. ‘They’re as guilty as hell. We’ll be out there later to make the arrests.’
That was exactly what I wanted to hear and at 5 p.m. on the dot two police vans arrived. David and I led them through the reserve to the Ovambos’ cottage. It was strangely silent, with no one to be seen. Leaving the cars quietly, we split into two groups, heading for the front and back of the building.
We were too late. As we burst into their rooms, all we found were rifles strewn on the floor and cupboard doors flapping open. All their personal possessions were gone. No doubt they saw us coming and instantly hotfooted it. They were now running for dear life through the bush and without knowing which direction they had taken, there was no way we would catch them before dark.
The police said they would put a general alert out for the fleeing guards, which was all we could do for the moment. ‘They are probably halfway to Namibia by now,’ one of the police said ruefully.
Back at the house I recounted the drama to Françoise and we strolled outside, watching the blood-red sun ease itself down beyond the sweeping hills. The reserve looked tranquil. Perhaps I was imagining it, but with the guards gone the whole mood had changed – as if some particularly malignant force had been purged.
chapter thirteen
Thula Thula, at last, was finding its equilibrium.
The elephants weren’t trying to be serial escapers and the poaching problem was largely solved. I knew we would never entirely stamp out poaching. In Africa a few tribesmen shooting the odd impala or duiker for the pot is going to happen whatever you do, and spending night after night out in the bush from dusk till dawn on guard against a few poorly armed youngsters soon loses its romance. It’s when the operations go commercial, as what had happened to us, that problems skyrocket.
On another front, my discussions with the amakhosi and the tribes about converting their surrounding cattle land to a game reserve were continuing well and progress was being made, albeit in tiny fractions, as the idea started taking hold. Trying to persuade thousands of Zulus, for whom cattle are an iconic form of wealth, that they should switch the use of their land to wildlife was an ambitious undertaking and fraught with many complications, cultural and otherwise. But there was no doubt it was the right thing to do. Patience and persistence were the keys.
So now for the first time I could concentrate on our core mission – running an African game reserve.
It is a tough, rewarding life. Each day starts at dawn and not only are there are no weekends, but if you are not careful you can also quickly lose track of the days of the week. Fences have to be checked and fixed daily, roads and tracks must be repaired and wrested back from bush encroachment or you lose them forever. The never-ending invasion of alien plants needs constant attention – some plants are invaders from other countries, varieties that don’t have natural enemies in Africa and are not palatable to wildlife, so their growth is rampant. Then there are game counts and veldt assessments, dam inspections and repairs, fire breaks to maintain, anti-poaching patrols, maintaining good relations with neighbouring tribes, and a hundred other things to do. But it is a good, clean life with just enough danger and adventure to keep you on your toes and enjoyin
g it.
The elephant herd was settling in nicely and staying away from the fences. I spent as much time as I could near them. Despite only being out of the boma for three weeks, they were already stuffing themselves on a myriad of delicacies and putting on weight noticeably.
Obviously I always kept a comfortable distance and was as unobtrusive as possible, watching and learning about their behaviour, where their favourite watering holes were, what they were eating and where. But sometimes things didn’t always go to plan. Once I got a fright when I thought the herd was some distance away. I got out of the Land Rover to make a call on my brand-new cellphone.
Something made me look over my shoulder. To my horror, about twenty yards behind watching me was Frankie. And behind her was the rest of the herd.
The Landy was only a short distance away and with an alacrity that impressed even me, I yanked open the door and leapt inside. However, in my haste I had dropped my fancy new phone, and the elephants were now milling around it. I had no option but to wait until they moved off before I could retrieve it.
Then it rang; the ringtone piercing the wilderness like a whistle blast. The elephants stopped, and then almost in unison, moved over to the source of the alien noise. Frankie was there first, snaking her trunk over the piece of plastic, trying to figure out what it was. The others joined in and I watched this bizarre spectacle of seven elephants swinging their trunks over a chirruping cellphone in the middle of the bush.
Finally Frankie decided she had had enough. She lifted her mighty foot above the phone and thudded it down. The ringing stopped.
The herd moved off, ambling along in their own sweet time. When they were finally out of sight I got out of the Landy to fetch the phone. It was embedded an inch into the ground and I had to prise it free. The clear plastic section of the casing was shattered.
As an experiment I punched in a number – and it rang. It was working just fine.
I later phoned Nokia and told them about the incident, congratulating them on the ruggedness of the phone. After a long silence the manager thanked me and hung up. I reckon even they didn’t believe their products could withstand being stomped on by a wild elephant.
The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Page 10
