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

by Lawrence Anthony

  We were interrupted by a messenger sent to fetch me. I followed him into the sardine can and sat in the front row just as an induna garbed in full warrior regalia finished off an extremely animated address. Suffice it to say, the gist of his message was that their enemies had spies in this room. The crowd growled, searching around for suspects.

  The speaker, a senior chief, introduced me and asked the crowd that I be accorded a fair chance to put my case. Given the explosive mood of the meeting, this was no idle request.

  I took a deep breath and, holding the priest’s bottled muthi, stood and thanked the speaker whom I knew well. I could count on him if the going got rough. I then pointedly thanked the Nkosi for inviting me, as well as other councillors and headmen or anyone else I recognized, naming them one by one. In other words, I was shamelessly name-dropping. The priest translated.

  I then put the muthi bottle on the floor next to my chair. There was no immediate reaction, but I could see that it certainly had got some of the crowd’s attention. Perhaps they knew what it signified, and I was glad I had decided to bring it along. I needed all the help I could get.

  Despite my apprehension, my voice came out strong, following Prince Gideon’s instructions to the letter. This gave me some confidence and I pulled myself upright. Speaking as calmly as I could, I stressed that Zulu culture honourably entitled everyone to a fair hearing. I spoke in English as I wanted any questions to be translated, giving me precious extra moments to mull before I answered.

  Just as I thought everything was going swimmingly, all hell exploded. ‘Apologize!’ screamed a loud voice, ignoring what I had just said. ‘Apologize for what you have done.’

  Other agitators took up the chant, trying to provoke the crowd. ‘Apologize! Apologize!’

  For a moment I was shocked, like a hare in a spotlight. Then instantly it all became clear; I knew what I had to do. Any apology would be a fatal acknowledgement of guilt and that’s exactly what the cabal wanted. If I fell into that trap, giving in to a lame plea bargain, I would be finished. So I ignored the goading and waited for the speaker to restore order, which he eventually did. When it was quiet, he nodded at me to continue.

  ‘I cannot apologize …’ I said, which immediately incited more jeers from one section of the crowd. My eyes shot across. They had made the mistake of sitting together and now I knew exactly who they all were.

  ‘I cannot apologize,’ I repeated, ‘because I have done nothing to apologize for.’

  More jeers.

  ‘A man – if he is a man,’ I accentuated, ‘will only apologize if he has done wrong and then he must apologize. Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to lie to the Nkosi? Do you want me to lie to this meeting? Are you asking me to give up my manhood and lie like a coward just because I am being threatened?’

  These arguments may sound medieval in an airconditioned First World courtroom, but in rural Zululand your integrity is central to your masculinity. That’s the way it is. You may lie to outsiders, but not to your clan.

  A wiry man with a wispy moustache jumped to his feet. ‘But you are lying! You’re lying as your words come out! I myself saw you giving guns to our enemies! It was dark but I saw you with my own eyes meeting secretly with our enemies. I saw you giving them many weapons.’

  I knew him. He was a layabout and a poacher, and not a good one at that. And, wow! he was their key witness. I breathed a faint sigh of relief. Their prime source against me was a well-known petty thug with no standing in the community whatsoever. I knew the Nkosi and his advisers wouldn’t miss that.

  Unable to contain himself in the headiness of his newly acquired status, the impimpi – informer – had blown his cover by jumping up too soon. Now the crowd knew that the chief witness was basically unreliable.

  Then the leader of the cattle cabal stood up and the hall went silent. A beefy man with a distinguished lantern jaw grizzled over by a peppercorn beard, he was a senior community member whose standing was rooted in cattle wealth. He spoke with authority, trying to undo the damage brought about by his impimpi’s premature accusation.

  ‘Mr Anthony, I thank you for coming here to clear up some important matters. I know you are a man who does not lie’ – he paused, clearing his throat for effect – ‘and as you do not lie, do you deny that people were living with you on Thula Thula while they attacked our people and threatened our chief?’

  In effect, the cabal head was saying he had eye-witnesses that combatants had been on my land – and daring me to dispute it.

  ‘We all want to hear the answer to that question,’ I replied slowly. ‘That is why we are here.’ I saw the leaders on the podium lean forward. ‘But, I ask that I be allowed to finish what I have to say – everything – before anyone makes a judgement. Is this agreed?’

  I needed those assurances desperately.

  ‘It is so,’ said a senior chief. ‘Anthony will finish.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, then raised my voice. ‘Then I deny that they were living with me. I deny it emphatically.’

  The room erupted, so sure were they of my guilt. The cabal leaders were grinning wildly. I had been caught out. I was a liar.

  It took a few minutes for the izindunas, headmen, to restore some semblance of order. Then, as promised, I was able to continue.

  ‘However, I do not deny that men have been hiding on Thula Thula,’ I said. ‘I emphatically deny that I know them, or that they were living with me.’

  The cabal leader again stood, shaking his head and grinning.

  ‘This man says he does not know who is in his home, on his own land.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Which man does not know his visitors?’

  Laughter. The Nkosi raised his hand for silence. He nodded at me to carry on.

  ‘As you all know, Thula Thula is a very big place. It takes many hours to walk fast from one side to the other. Anyone can easily hide there.’

  ‘But you have workers patrolling on your land!’ shouted the cabal leader, pointing a finger. ‘And you still say you don’t know your visitors?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘But do you? Do you know who lives on Biyela land?’

  ‘Of course we know! No man will dare stay on our land if the induna of the area does not know his name.’ He laughed again, playing to the crowd, confident of victory.

  I then signalled to David at the back of the room. A few moments later he came forward with Ngwenya who, impressed by the occasion raised both his hands head-high in traditional greeting.

  I introduced him. ‘This is Ngwenya, my senior ranger. We all know his family is well respected in this area.’ I was pleased to notice several of the senior indunas nodding in assent.

  I turned to one of the indunas who controlled the Ntambanana area, west of us. ‘Biyela land in Ntambanana is off limits to anyone. No one can stay there. Is that correct?’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘No one is there, no one may stay there.’

  ‘Ngwenya and I have just been there and I can tell you now there are several people living deep inside the land. We found them and spoke with them, they have been there for weeks. The bush has hidden them. Just as it hid the men you said were on my land.’

  Ngwenya nodded as I spoke.

  ‘Is this true, Ngwenya?’ asked the induna, suddenly standing up. ‘Were you there? Are there people living there?’

  Ngwenya nodded. ‘Yebo, it is as Anthony has said.’

  ‘Hau!’ The induna’s traditional exclamation of surprise echoed across the now silent room. ‘Then they are trespassers. ’

  The cabal leader shrugged dismissively, but my argument had found traction and the tribal leaders were now looking at me expectantly.

  ‘I repeat, I did not know anyone was hiding in the bush on Thula Thula. The same way the honourable induna did not know men were hiding on his property. Trespassers are trespassers; they are not visitors. They are not welcome.’

  There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. Not huge, but still reassuring.r />
  ‘What about the guns?’ someone shouted from the back.

  Now that was what the meeting was all about.

  ‘Yes, we have guns,’ I said. ‘We have guns to protect ourselves from wild animals – you all know that. Why would we give away our guns and put our lives in danger walking in the bush with no protection?’

  I was about to answer my own question but a tribal elder stood up first to defend me. This was a sure sign that the tables were turning.

  ‘Mkhulu speaks the truth,’ he said. ‘I have spoken to his rangers and they all still have their guns. Their guns never leave their hands because they need them for their work. They wouldn’t give them away to endanger their own lives.’

  ‘Anthony lies!’ shouted another cabal member in desperation. ‘Everyone knows he is the one supplying guns to be used against Nkosi.’

  OK, this was now getting personal and anger crept into my voice.

  ‘No. Not everybody knows. This has got nothing to do with everybody. It’s not “everybody” who’s accusing me. It is just a few saying these terrible things and they say it recklessly without proof. All that’s happening here is someone is trying to drive a wedge between me and the Nkosi; someone with another agenda altogether.’

  ‘We don’t believe you!’ shouted the same man. ‘Our people are dying because of you. We don’t want you here living with us. You are white, and we do not trust you. You must take your family and go.’

  I could hear the sudden intake of breath. Every head in the crowd swivelled, first to the Nkosi, and then towards me.

  I suddenly felt tired. This is what it had all come to; in South Africa, when logic shrivels, the same dreary dinosaurs rear their vicious heads. But thanks to the racial slur, I now had the crowd’s absolute attention.

  ‘Several of the leaders here today knew my name long before I came to Thula Thula. They know that I worked with Zulu leaders during apartheid, even before some of you were born,’ I added, invoking the deep Zulu respect for age.

  ‘I had believed, and hoped with all my heart, that apartheid was dead. Yet this man wants to start it again here in our village.’

  I turned to him, ‘You will bring shame on all of us.’

  At that moment the young Nkosi stood up. He stood straight as a spear, and at that instant I knew that he was a true leader.

  ‘This has gone too far. We are not holding a trial here,’ he said. ‘Anthony’s not on trial. This gun-running is a matter for the police. If anybody has proof, then take it to the police – not just make wild claims, which is what is happening here in this hall. I will speak to the police myself after the meeting. Anthony was a good friend to my father. This matter is dismissed.’

  It was done and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  That was the last thing the cabal wanted to hear. They had no proof of anything other than some rebels had been trespassing in the virtually inaccessible corners of Thula Thula. They knew the gun-running claims were complete hogwash; they knew how much I revered the Nkosi’s family. They knew that the only way to get at me was to incite the crowd into open revolt. They had failed and been publicly humiliated in the process.

  Indeed, their bluff had been called by the Nkosi himself. The victory was sweet for me, and after the meeting many villagers, some carrying fighting sticks, shook my hand or waved, as if welcoming me back to the fold. Addressing this hostile meeting had in itself proved my innocence. Under Zulu tradition the matter could not be opened again. Thula Thula was safe.

  Back at Thula Thula later, with Max comfortingly at my side, I looked out over the reserve and on the horizon caught a glimpse of the herd. They were on the move, safe and free to go where they pleased. The victory was sweet indeed, but that didn’t mean the struggle was over. I had made some serious enemies, as I was soon to find out.

  chapter twenty-five

  Early next morning Marion Garai of the Elephant Managers and Owners Association phoned. As usual, she had unusual news.

  ‘Can you take another elephant? I’ve got a fourteen-year-old female that desperately needs a home.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s a real shocker. To give the short version, her entire family have been shot or sold and she’s completely alone on a big five reserve.’

  Big five reserves are so named due to their quarry’s reputation as the most dangerous animals to hunt – elephant, black rhino, buffalo, leopard, and of course lion. An elephant may be a big fiver – in fact number one on the list – but a juvenile could not survive for long without the protection of its herd if lions are about. No lion would dare attack an adult tusker, but an adolescent would be relatively easy prey for a pride.

  Then Marion added fuel to the fire. ‘Even worse, she’s been sold to a trophy hunter.’

  She delivered that snippet almost as an aside, but she knew it would get me going like nothing else. It was something I simply couldn’t fathom … what type of person would shoot a terrified teenage elephant, and a female at that? For a tawdry fireside trophy? For the pleasure of the kill? And what kind of reserve owner would hawk a vulnerable young animal for such a reason?

  I have never had a problem with hunting for the pot. Every living thing on this planet hunts for sustenance one way or the other, from the mighty microbe upwards. Survival of the fittest is, like it or not, the way of this world. But hunting for pleasure, killing only for the thrill of it, is to me an anathema. I have met plenty of trophy hunters. They are, of course, all naturalists; they all know and love the bush; and they all justify their action in conservation speak, peppered with all the right buzz words.

  The truth is, though, that they harbour a hidden impulse to kill, which can only be satisfied by the violent death of another life form by their hand. And they will go to inordinate lengths to satisfy, and above all justify, this apparently irresistible urge.

  Besides, adding to the absurdity of their claims, there is not an animal alive that is even vaguely a match for today’s weaponry. The modern high-powered hunting rifle with telescopic sights puts paid to any argument about sportsmanship.

  I had to consider the implications of introducing a new elephant into the herd. On the credit side, Nana and her clan were settled and I was pretty confident she would accept another young female into her family. Only stable herds will do that; a maladjusted group of elephants will chase any newcomer off – or worse.

  No matter the risks, the thought of a solitary elephant – still a teenager – terrified out of her wits, surrounded by lions and soon to be hunted grated deeply.

  ‘I’ll take her.’

  ‘Great. I have a donor who’ll pay capture and translocation costs.’

  Predictably the hunter refused to relinquish his trophy. However, in a stroke of genius, Brendan decided to check the man’s big game permit. You can say it was serendipity; you can say it was an act of God – whatever – but unbelievably the permit was due to expire that exact day. Even more wondrously, one of Brendan’s ex-university friends worked in the permit office and we managed to block the reissue. At the eleventh hour, we saved the life of this orphan elephant.

  The hunter was upset as he technically still owned the animal. He wanted his cash back. Thankfully Marion’s donor again came to the rescue and paid him his blood money. A week later the juvenile was on her way to Thula Thula.

  We hurriedly repaired the boma and David, Brendan and I prepared for another stint in the bush while our new arrival acclimatized. We even parked the Land Rover in the same position as when the original herd was in quarantine, wondering if Wilma our industrious bark spider was still around to weave her silky web on the aerial.

  Max did a perfunctory check of the area and settled himself down. He knew we would be here for a while.

  The transport truck arrived in mid-afternoon and backed into the loading trench. This time we had the levels right and the loading bay opened smoothly. We all craned forward for a good look. It was a good thing I didn’t blink, for as the door ope
ned the youngster sprinted straight into the thickest part of the boma’s bush. And there she hid for the next few days, coming out only in the dead of night to eat the food we were tossing over the fence. Whenever we crept around trying to get closer, she bolted to the far side as soon as she sensed us. I have never witnessed such terror in an animal. There was no doubt she thought we were going to kill her, just as humans had killed the rest of her family.

  Using the techniques I had developed with the herd, I started to talk to her gently, walking around singing and whistling, trying to get her used to me as a benevolent presence. But no matter what I did she remained petrified, rooted to the spot in the densest part of the thicket.

  For almost a week there was no change in her emotional tone or attitude so eventually I decided I needed to interrupt the process. Instead of trying to communicate with her, albeit in a roundabout way, I came up to the fence, picked a spot and just stayed there, saying nothing, doing nothing, just studiously ignoring her. Just being there.

  Each morning and each afternoon I chose a different spot; always shifting fractionally closer to her hiding place and repeating the procedure.

  The third day I did this prompted a reaction – but not quite what I wished. Instead of being soothed, which was the whole idea, she came out of the bush furiously, charging like a whirlwind at me.

  I watched her come, amazed. I had thought such a lost soul would respond to warmth. The boma’s electric fence was between us and as there was no real danger I had three choices: I could stand firm and show her who was boss; I could ignore her; or I could back off.

  Her charge, as ferocious as it seemed, didn’t gel. I could sense that this poor creature, a couple of tons of tusk and flesh that could kill me with a single swipe, had the self-confidence of a mouse. She needed to believe in herself; to know she deserved respect and was a master of the wilderness. She needed to believe she had won the encounter. So I decided to back off with some major theatrics. I decided, counter-intuitively in an environment where the strongest survive, to let her know that in this instance she was the boss. It wasn’t that hard to fake; if there hadn’t been a fence I would’ve been running for real.