As we rounded the last corner I got my first glimpse of the river. My heart jumped at the view of the seething torrent and I pulled over. ‘Good God! Look at that – it’s a monster!’
I reversed back and turned down the track to the river crossing, just above where we had been charged on the quad bike by Frankie, and played the headlights on the liquid mayhem roaring past.
A dead cow swept past in the gurgling waves, then another. ‘This is unbelievable,’ I said. Françoise just stared.
I slammed the Land Rover into reverse, but instead of going backwards the wheels spun loosely in the slimy mud and to my horror we started inexorably sliding forward, slipping down the slope into the hurtling river.
Just as I thought all was lost and we were going into the torrent, I instinctively swung the wheel and jammed the Landy hard against the right bank, wedging it into the soft soil.
‘Get out quickly,’ I told a wide-eyed Françoise. ‘The Landy could slip away again. Let’s go!’
She opened her door and disappeared from view as she fell into the mud. I clambered over to her side and helped her up. Then we slithered up the crossing back to the main track in the darkness, slipping and grabbing onto each other for support in the frictionless mud. Thankfully I had the presence of mind to bring the radio and a torch was clipped onto my belt. I called Brendan.
‘Standing by. Where’re you?’ he asked.
‘At the lodge crossing. The Landy’s stuck at the water’s edge. Can you get the tractor down as fast as possible? Or we’re going to lose it.’
‘Shit, what you doing there?’
‘What do you think? I was about to go for a swim but changed my mind when I saw the dead cows.’
‘Yeah, I saw them bobbing like corks. Even worse, I think I’ve also seen a body or two as well. Not sure, though, with the dark. Sorry but I can’t get to you – our vehicles are up to the axles in mud. I’ll try and work out how to get Gunda Gunda down.’
‘Françoise is with me. We can’t stay here, we’re going to walk to the lodge.’
‘OK …’ He paused. ‘Just remember the ngwenyas.’
Knowing Françoise was listening he had purposefully used the Zulu word for crocodiles. I silently thanked him.
The entrance to the lodge grounds was only about a hundred yards away, with the lodge itself another hundred after that. But between us and the entrance were two deep pools, one on each side of the road. Just yesterday Brendan and I had noticed that two huge crocs had taken up residence, one in each pool. Unusually, I hadn’t brought a gun and now I really wished I had. Not to shoot the reptiles, but to frighten them off.
I surveyed the way ahead. The pools had overflowed onto the road between them and merged into a small lake. I knew exactly where the road went but it was swamped, about a foot and a half deep – easily enough to hide a crocodile in the dark.
We stopped at the edge and I played my torch over the water and found one almost immediately, its red eyes reflecting back at us. Then I saw the other. They were together and had left the deluge and moved away about thirty yards to a ledge on much higher ground. They were far enough away and, praying that the duo hadn’t been joined by a third mate since we last saw them, I took Françoise’s hand and we waded through the flow.
Emerging on the other side, it suddenly dawned on me that even the crocodiles were instinctively seeking higher ground. How much bigger was this river going to get?
A few minutes later we were at the lodge which was in complete darkness. Françoise cleaned herself up and went to some of the guests who had left their rooms and were in the bar area putting on brave faces. I grabbed the security ranger and we walked down the expansive lawn towards the Nseleni valley. We were barely able to hear each other speak, such was the roar of the river, and then I felt water sloshing through my boots. These were no mere rain puddles.
A flash of lightning showed me the truth. The river, about a hundred yards away, was so swollen it had overflowed its banks and was starting to surge across the lawns. I immediately turned and ran back past the lodge down to near where we had passed the crocodiles in the pools.
As I suspected both pools were now completely submerged by a new river that had broken away and surged around the rear of the lodge grounds. And then I realized that we were completely cut off; the rampaging Nseleni River in front, and a flash flood at the back. This was why the crocs were seeking higher ground. The lodge was in danger of being engulfed.
I vaguely heard the radio cackle. It was Brendan: ‘Come in, come in …’ he was calling repeatedly.
I thumbed the button. ‘Standing by. Sorry, I didn’t hear the radio with the river noise.’
‘We got the Landy out, but only just. I’m afraid we can’t get to you. The river’s jumped its banks.’
‘I know. There’s not much we can do, we’re trapped at the lodge. We’ll have to sit it out here. Stay in touch and let’s conserve batteries.’
‘Roger and out,’ said Brendan and a few minutes later I saw his vehicle lights piercing the gloom a mile or two away as they headed back to the house.
I returned to the lodge where for three nerve-wracking hours I watched as the overflowing river inched closer and closer to the buildings. Thankfully the rain had stopped and just as I thought we would have to start getting my guests onto the lodge roof, the water stopped rising. We were safe. Françoise had found us an empty room. I had a warm shower, then told the night ranger to wake me if the river rose higher.
The next morning I was woken at dawn by Brendan on the radio issuing instructions to staff. The storm was over. Looking out of my window there wasn’t a cloud in the sky … after all that drama last night. The sun was beaming and the river was dropping, but we were still cut off.
‘Hi, Brendan, what’s the damage?’
‘Well, we measured six inches of rain and then the gauge overflowed. The Nseleni broke its banks for five solid miles. Our problem is, it didn’t only take out the sacrificial fence, but another 500 yards on the eastern boundary as well. It’s gone, like it was never there.’
‘Where’s the herd?’
‘No idea. But if I know Nana, she’s taken them to the top of the hills.’
‘I hope so. That fence’s going to take all day to repair and you still have to cross the river somehow to get to it.’
‘Don’t tell me. We’re going to try and string a cable across, as it’s still too wild to swim. I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘OK, but put some guys on the lookout for the elephants. We need to know where they are.’
‘Will do, out.’
Luckily when the herd was eventually sighted they were on the opposite side of the river to where Brendan was working, unable to access the gap in the fence even if they wanted to. I told Ngwenya to find a high spot and keep an eye on them.
The flash torrent behind the lodge had now dropped and a ranger drove my Land Rover down to rescue us – and not a moment too soon as I got the call I had always dreaded. It was Ngwenya.
‘Mkhulu, Mkhulu! Come in! Come in quickly, the elephants are out. They are outside.’
I grabbed my radio and answered in a flat spin, ‘Where? What’s happened?’
‘On the northern boundary. They’re walking along the fence, but on the wrong side.’
The northern boundary was not too far away and thankfully on high ground. I jumped into the Land Rover and called Musa the fence ranger, instructing him to follow me on the quad bike and we sped off, skidding on the barely passable roads.
We arrived twenty minutes later and I saw Nana right away. But she and the others were inside the fence; what was Ngwenya on about?
Such was my relief that it took me a moment to realize that something was indeed seriously amiss. Both Nana and Frankie were pacing back and forth as agitated as all hell. Every few seconds they would stop and stretch their trunks over the top electric wires and shake the fence poles, the only part they could reach without shocking themselves.
I counted the herd as I always do. There was one missing, but which one? It had to be Mnumzane? No, there he was too, so I counted again.
Then I saw a movement on the other side of the fence that was attracting the herd’s attention. There stood little Mandla, Nana’s firstborn son. He was alone, and from his forlorn demeanour it seemed he had gone from panic into apathy and given up trying to get back to his agitated mother. The fence would hold, for the time being at least, but how were we going to get Mandla back in? The nearest gate was miles away, but a gate would be of little use because it was just as likely that Nana would go out as Mandla come in.
I drove closer and called out to Nana to let her know I was there. She looked over at me, staring hard. My mind sped, trying to find solutions. If we didn’t get Mandla inside soon, the herd would break through the fence. There was no question about that; an elephant mother will do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of her babies.
Perhaps we could cut the fence, but then we would have the same problem as with a gate. I got out of the Landy, lit a cigarette and pondered the problem. How could we get Mandla in without letting the herd out? I looked at the electric wires and an idea started to form. If we cut the fence itself and then also the middle and bottom electric wires, Mandla could get in, leaving the top live wire intact to prevent the adults from going out. The question was, would the top electric wire alone be enough to keep Nana and Frankie at bay?
Nana shook the fence violently again. Suddenly I heard the sound of dogs barking … hunting dogs. Zulus traditionally hunt with indigenous hounds and there was a hunting party somewhere out beyond Mandla. Nana heard them too and she stopped rattling the fence, spreading her ears to absorb every sound.
The hunters were on their own land and in themselves not a problem. What concerned me was that if the dogs got the scent of Mandla and started harassing him, Nana would tear through the fence like a bulldozer.
We took the wire cutters out of the toolbox. The question now was how do we open the fence and cut the electric wires in front of Mandla with a herd of agitated elephants breathing down our necks?
I answered my own question: we cut the hole fifty yards away. I then call Nana, she comes, Mandla follows on the other side of the fence, finds the hole, realizes he can get through and the drama is over.
Easy … right?
We moved away, cut the hole, folded back the fence and dropped the bottom two electric wires. The first part of the plan worked fine. Not so the second part: Nana refused to move away from Mandla and I spent a fruitless ten minutes trying to call her. It was a stalemate.
With the yapping of the dogs in the background getting louder I turned to Musa and asked him to go through the hole, backtrack behind Mandla and then make a noise to frighten him forwards toward the hole.
‘He’s just a youngster,’ I said. ‘Stay a good distance away and clap your hands to make him run to the hole. There is no danger.’
‘Yebo, Mkhulu,’ he said without enthusiasm.
‘Good. We will speak on the radio and I will tell you exactly what to do.’
Musa was a good man but could be a bit of a show-off and often regaled other staff with fantastical stories of his courageous encounters with wild animals – including the elephants. ‘I am not scared of them,’ he would say, imitating Frankie’s gait, using his arm as a trunk. ‘They are scared of me.’
Well, now we would see.
He climbed through the fence and after giving him five minutes to get into position I called: ‘Where are you?’
‘I am here,’ he replied, and I wanted to pull my hair out. Musa thought I could ‘see’ him through the radio. One can laugh at this, but it is just as easy for rural Zulus to laugh at how ignorant many technologically competent Westerners are in the wild.
‘Okaaay. Where is here?’
‘It is here,’ he replied confidently. ‘Here where I am.’
I promised myself I would strangle him later.
‘Good, can you see the young elephant?’ I asked.
‘Yebo, Mkhulu. I can.’
‘How far are you?’
‘Close.’
‘Good. Now clap your hands and I will call the mother at the same time.’
Silence.
‘Musa why are you waiting? Clap your hands.’
Nothing.
‘Musa! Clap your flipping hands!’
Then I heard clapping … well, barely. Painfully slow and methodical and so gentle it would not startle a flea. Worst of all it was happening right next to me, just on the other side of the fence. I looked around and there he was sitting on the ground in the middle of some shrubs slowly clapping his hands. He had gone through the hole in the fence and then hidden in the bush a few yards away rather than approach baby Mandla. So much for him not being afraid of the elephants.
‘Musa?’
‘Yebo?’
‘I see you, come out from where you are.’
This made him doubly certain that I could see through the radio and he slowly emerged staring at me, then at the transmitter.
There was nothing left to do but continue trying to call Nana to come to where we had cut the hole and get Mandla to follow her. After forty minutes or so with me going hoarse calling, asking, begging and pleading, she ambled over. Mandla followed dutifully, found the hole, scampered into the reserve and it was over.
As he got back, every one of the elephants crowded around him, touching him with their trunks, fussing over him and rumbling their stomachs. It was humbling to watch the care and affection being showered on him after his ordeal.
I found out later that a flooded stream had taken out a small piece of the fence but left one electric strand still standing that was just high enough for Mandla to walk under – but too low for the rest of the herd. Once out, he panicked and couldn’t get back.
I was so relieved to get Mandla back that I forgot to compliment Musa on his ‘bravery’ – about how scared the elephants, particularly Frankie, were of him. But I’m sure the yarns he told around the village campfire that night more than made up for that.
chapter thirty
Most rural Zulus believe that spirits, in countless forms and guises, are very busily involved in the destiny of man, that they take form in the plant and animal kingdoms, and that the rivers, skies and mountains are inhabited by supernatural beings.
They believe that after death there is no heavenly reward or hellish retribution, only a reassumption of the personality of an ancestor, from where one continues a never-ending role in the eternal symbiosis between the spiritual and material worlds. These deep-seated beliefs are poorly understood and too easily ridiculed by many Westerners who think they know best.
That is of course, until you turn out the lights. For there is nothing like darkness, nothing like experiencing night in the African bush with rural Africans who know strange stories to lead your spirit down the same roads. For surely it was not ‘civilization’ that eroded the spirit world, it was electric light at night, the light that took away the dark, blinded us to ghosts, angels and demons, and vanquished our ancestors.
It was nearly midnight and I was taking the lodge’s night staff back up to their houses. There was a tree lying across the road. Mnumzane had come through the area earlier and he had a habit of doing that. Sometimes I used to think he was purposely closing roads. I mean, how come the trees were never pushed over away from the road?
I couldn’t squeeze past the tree so I turned to go along the river road, a good alternative route, when one of the staff girls said to me, ‘Mkhulu, why are you going this way?’
‘Why not?’ I replied. ‘It’s much shorter.’
‘You cannot,’ she replied quietly. ‘Not this way, not now.’
‘Why not?’ I repeated.
‘Do you not know of the tagati that lives here?
‘No, I don’t. Where?’
‘In the big rock in the cliff at the river, it lives there, we cannot go near, please turn around.’
>
A tagati is a proactive evil spirit and the cast-iron rule for Zulus is that you don’t have anything to do with them, ever. So, respecting the staff’s wishes, I reversed and we took the longer road home. Later, I did some research and went back to find out what they were talking about.
The village sangoma, or diviner (often mistakenly called a witchdoctor), explained it to me: ‘That tagati has been there for as long as anyone can remember,’ he said. ‘Long before Thula Thula, long before the white man came, and he will be there long after we are all gone. It is his place; do not go there.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
He looked at me in a strange way. ‘Why would anyone want to go to a tagati?’ he asked querulously. ‘You do not know tagati, be very careful.’
Well, of course I went there. A few times, in fact, and try as I might I didn’t see or feel anything. I think. Well maybe, if I stretch my imagination far enough, and add a dollop of fantasy. On one occasion when I was there for a while studying the rock I could have sworn I picked up a little something, a little uneasiness, but it was inconsequential and I forgot about it.
In deference to my staff who had all been talking disapprovingly about my visits to the place, I started to pay respect to the superstition and only went past if I had to. It was near one of our roads after all.
Then one evening at dusk I was slowly driving along the river road, looking for foreign plants of all things, when I got an uncomfortable sensation of sorts, and unconsciously looking up, found myself below the same concave rock I had been warned about.
Surprised by this illogical intrusion into my practical contemplations, I stopped, and as I did so a strange feeling came over me and I experienced a dim awareness that all was not right. The feeling slowly grew as I sat there spellbound. Suddenly I became aware of a presence I can only describe as one of absolute malevolence. An involuntary alarm seized me and I went into goosebumps all over. Then slowly the sensation dissipated, almost as if it was taken up by the rock itself.
Not being superstitious at all I was shocked at my reaction and looked back at the rock, still drawn to it. I swear there was still a little something there, a tiny residue of what I had just experienced. And that’s when I recognized it. The residue was what I had picked up on my previous visits, when I thought I felt a little something but wasn’t sure. I recovered myself and left very perplexed, too embarrassed to tell anyone about it, and eventually put it out of my mind.
The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Page 24
