I picked up the two other rangers and on the way we stopped at the lodge where I raided the curio store.
As we drove to where Bheki and Ngwenya were waiting, I explained to the two rangers what had happened and what I wanted them to do. I then showed them what was in the bags. The older man stared and started laughing; he grasped the plan instantly.
‘How is your hyena call?’ I asked the younger ranger.
‘At school I was the best,’ he said modestly.
Imitating animal sounds with uncanny accuracy is a skill many rural Zulu youngsters acquire and tonight we would put it to good use. A hyena, some believe, has supernatural characteristics. When you observe these magnificent creatures up close, their loose-limbed canter and eerie nocturnal howl, you can see why this myth continues.
Zulus are natural actors who enjoy a show and this was going to be fun for them. But it was also serious and their acting had to be both simple and convincing. I left them under a tree to discuss their drama tactics and drove on to join Ngwenya and Bheki.
The two culprits were squatting on their haunches, hands cuffed behind their backs while Bheki and Ngwenya sat around the carcass, their presence deterring the gathering flock of vultures from descending on the poisoned meat. The surrounding trees were now heavy with their presence.
The poachers were in their early twenties and both adopted the air of feigned apathy and despondency that I have seen in every poacher we have ever caught. Given half a chance, though, they would be gone like rabbits and if they still had their guns they would be shooting. In fact, where were their guns, I wondered? I didn’t see any.
Ngwenya greeted me and I gave them some water. It had been a hot thirsty day keeping vigil.
‘Yehbo, Mkhulu,’ he said before taking a long draught from the canteen. ‘It was easy. They walked up and sat down and we came from behind. I fired one shot in the air and they surrendered. There is their gun and a machete.’
I looked at the old but well-maintained Rossi .38 revolver lying on the grass.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked surprised. ‘They can’t shoot a wildebeest with a revolver.’
‘We questioned them and they told us half lies, half truths,’ said Ngwenya. ‘They are not locals. They work for a Sangoma in the north and say their job was only to collect the tail – which they don’t even have. They say the wildebeest was shot by two professional poachers also hired by the sangoma. The poachers took most of the meat and left them here. The revolver is just for protection. They are very inexperienced these two, but dangerous.’
‘So, these are the magician’s assistants?’ I said out loud. ‘Where is their transport?’
‘They have none,’ said Bheki. ‘They will walk and then take a bush taxi home.’
‘And the vulture heads?’
‘As you said, we didn’t ask but they had a sack. We left it in the bush close by. Don’t worry, it is safe,’ replied Ngwenya.
‘Good.’
I then lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘It’s a waste of time taking this to the police, just a wildebeest and some vulture heads. So today we will teach them a lesson they will never forget. They are a sangoma’s lackeys and they will take a message back to their boss that neither they, nor anyone else can ever come here again. We will fight this with our own witchcraft. Here is the plan.’
Bheki and Ngwenya listened with big smiles as I outlined some impromptu Thula Thula muthi. Then, according to plan, they strode across to the two poachers, stood them up and marched them into the bush.
I called the two back-up rangers who came in carrying wood and we lit a small fire about twenty yards away to boil the beef ribs in a three-legged cast-iron pot. They then took out the skulls of a crocodile and large baboon from the bags that I had brought from the storeroom, placing one on either side of the wildebeest corpse. The older man pulled a hyena skin over his shoulders and wrapped beads from our curio shop on his arms and legs. To finish off the special effects he stuck guinea-fowl feathers through his hair and swished about the all-important wildebeest tail.
For my plan to work, it was essential that I be out of sight. This was no place for a white man. I hid the Land Rover in a small copse and then walked back to the clearing with the younger ranger where we secreted ourselves behind a tree with a good view. The twilight was perfect for the surreal atmosphere I wanted so I radioed Ngwenya and told him to bring the poachers back, blindfolded.
As I put my radio down I heard a sudden crack of a branch behind. I almost leapt out of my skin. The herd! They were here. I was just about to radio Ngwenya to move off at speed when a shadowy silhouette caught my eye. It was a bachelor herd of large kudu bulls, their spiralled horns corkscrewing above thornbush.
‘Whew!’ Both the young ranger and I exhaled noisily with relief. If that had been Nana and her family, the whole plan would have backfired spectacularly.
We watched in the gathering murk as the two poachers were led to the wildebeest carcass where their blindfolds were removed. They stood blinking, taking in the new surroundings and as they saw the skulls by the carcass they flinched almost in unison and started backing off. Both crocodile and baboon skulls are malevolent symbols in a sangoma’s arsenal. Their spontaneous reaction was good news for it signalled that our charade was working.
‘Sit!’ ordered Ngwenya, as he pushed them to the ground.
‘But why is he here?’ one asked, looking across at our ranger sitting fifteen yards away, covered in a hyena skin. I grinned with satisfaction; they definitely believed that they were in the presence of another sangoma.
‘This is his place. All of this area around here right up to the mountains is his,’ replied Ngwenya with an imperial sweep of his arm. ‘He is here because many of his family have died here today. The vultures, they are all his children. Some say he flies with them.’
Ngwenya spoke slowly and deliberately with cold anger. He then gazed up at the vultures in the trees, nodding meaningfully. I felt like awarding him an immediate Oscar.
‘What does he want from us?’ one asked, his voice quavering.
‘What do you have that belongs to the impotent man you work for? Or is it a woman who controls you?’ Bheki suddenly roared.
‘We have muthi to protect us,’ said one hurriedly. ‘It’s here in our pockets. We will return it to him when we go back together with his gun.’
Bheki reached over and searching their pockets retrieved two small pink and white river stones wrapped in snakeskin. He walked over to our ‘sangoma’ and handed him the muthi, along with the revolver.
Then, swift as leopards, he and Ngwenya moved in, held the first man down and using their razor-sharp bush knives sliced off a lock of his hair and a tiny piece of fingernail. They did the same to the second poacher and placing both men’s hair and fingernails on a leaf, ceremoniously gave it to our ‘sangoma’ who was sitting with his back to them. For muthi to be truly effective the sangoma needs either to have some body part of the targeted person or at least one possession. And the poachers knew it.
They were now petrified. They believed they had trespassed on the turf of a powerful sangoma who now possessed their hair and fingernails as well as their master’s possessions – the stones and gun. This was juju at its most malevolent. They sat staring straight ahead, rocking mindlessly on their heels, just like trapped animals, I realized.
Our ‘sangoma’ called out in what I thought to be an impressively haunting tone and Ngwenya went over and came back with the semi-cooked ribs which he placed in front of them.
He untied their hands. ‘It is over. Now you will eat meat from the nyamazane. The meat is good and you have a long journey ahead of you.’
He may as well have hurled a spear at their hearts. The poachers assumed they were about to be poisoned, just as the vultures had been. After all, didn’t this strange omnipotent sangoma in a hyena skin who held them captive actually fly with vultures? Weren’t they his children?
They clamped their mouths tight, mo
aning through their noses in abject horror. They were completely taken in and I felt sorry for them, uneducated and unknowing as they were, but we had to play this out fully if we were to have any chance of protecting our vulture population from obliteration.
‘You refuse to eat? You have killed his children, now you refuse his hospitality!’ Ngwenya thundered, shoving a chunk of meat towards one of the poacher’s mouths.
The poor man was beside himself with terror, spitting and coughing, twisting his head this way and that. Then he broke, wailing uncontrollably with terror that they had been forced to collect the vulture heads and that they were sorry for what they had done. And above all, how could they know the vultures were the children of the ‘sangoma’?
Bheki waited a little longer and then instructed them to stay where they were while he and Ngwenya walked back to the ‘sangoma’, deliberately leaving them alone.
Just as expected, the poachers bolted, running blindly into the darkening bush as fast as they could go. Bheki fired two shots into the ground to speed their journey. They wouldn’t stop until they were miles away and I hoped they made it home safely. In fact, I needed them to make it in one piece so they could report back to their sangoma that his stones and gun as well as their hair and nails were now ‘owned’ by a powerful rival whose ancestors resided in vultures.
As soon as we were sure the poachers were well out of earshot the young ranger and I came out of hiding, laughingly congratulating our ‘sangoma’ as well as Bheki and Ngwenya for their superb performance that would have rivalled any of Hollywood’s A-listers.
‘We didn’t even need the hyena call,’ I said, slapping the young ranger on the back.
Then I asked the all-important question. ‘What do you think? Did they believe it?’
‘They will never come back here again,’ replied Bheki. ‘They believed everything.’
We gathered the four dead birds with the wildebeest, stacked wood up high and burned them all to cinders. Ngwenya then fetched the poachers’ bag of vulture heads. We counted seven, all liberally covered in salt. Some were more than a week old.
As the vultures’ bodies flared in the blazing wood, I began thinking of the huge Lotto winnings that perhaps I was watching go up in smoke. Even if I didn’t win the Lotto, the look on Françoise’s face would be worth a million bucks were she to find stinking vulture heads under my pillow.
chapter thirty-two
The afternoon breeze barely stirred the bush. Mnumzane was browsing languidly at the side of the road and I was about ten yards away, hanging around the Land Rover saying whatever came into my mind, both of us content in each other’s company. It was one of those days where you just felt like hanging out with friends, basking in the warmth of sunshine and companionship. As usual, I did all the talking and he did all the eating. But something had changed and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Max, who by now was used to having Mnumzane around, and in turn was totally ignored by Mnumzane, was under the Landy making a bed for himself, digging a hole to get to the cooler earth just below the surface.
I had come to see Mnumzane because one of the rangers had told of a huge ruckus among the herd that morning complete with prolonged trumpeting and screaming which could be heard a mile away. I had just checked on the herd, who were grazing a few miles off, and they seemed fine. Mnumzane too seemed calm … but there was something else; his once palpable insecurity seemed to have vanished. He seemed to have a new-found sense of self-assurance.
He walked over to me and I studied this huge bull elephant now standing not ten feet away. There was no doubt that he seemed more confident, more deliberate. Towering almost five feet above me, I needed every ounce of warmth and reassurance he dished out so liberally when we were together.
He then lifted his trunk towards me. That was extremely unusual. Mnumzane seldom put out his trunk, and if he did, he didn’t really like me to touch it, unlike Nana and Frankie who were quite comfortable with being tactile. He then turned and moved off into the savannah. That too was different, for I was always first to leave our bush sessions with Mnumzane invariably trying to block my way by standing in front of the Land Rover.
Later on, as the setting sun cloaked the hills in reds and gold, the elephants visited the waterhole just in front of the electric strand at the lodge. This was always a treat for the guests, to watch these lords of the wilderness up close, and it was then I saw exactly why Mnumzane was now so selfassured.
The herd was drinking and splashing around when Mnumzane emerged imperiously out of the bush and with head held high he moved swiftly toward the waterhole. Now that’s strange, I thought. Usually he skulks around the periphery. What’s going on here?
Nana looked up and saw him and – to my intense surprise – with a deep rumbling she moved off, calling the herd away.
Too late. Mnumzane, picking up speed, singled out Frankie – the herd’s prizefighter – and smashed into her so hard that the blow thundered across the bush, smashing her backwards and very nearly tossing her over.
Seeing what had just happened to their champion, the other elephants started scurrying off with indecent haste. I caught my breath as Mnumzane swung to face Nana, ears spread wide, head held high.
She quickly placed herself between the threat and her precious family and then turned and started reversing towards him, which is not just a sign of subservience, but also bracing herself to best absorb the pending meteoric impact. I winced as she took the colossal charge on her flank; ten tons of combined elephant bulk clashing at speed is like watching two Abrams tanks collide. I felt stunned, winded in sympathy just watching.
Satisfied that he now had the respect he believed he deserved, Mnumzane eased over to the water and drank alone, as was his right as the new alpha elephant. From now on he would always drink first.
Mnumzane had come of age.
Things changed on the reserve after that. Mnumzane no longer gave way to vehicles or anything else for that matter. He would stand in the middle of the road and finish whatever he was doing before moving off in his own sweet time. Any attempt to move him along would result in a warning, which was always heeded. Nobody wanted to be charged by the new big boss of the reserve. Everybody quickly learned bull elephant etiquette, namely to stay the hell away from him, or else.
Despite all that, to me he was still the same old Mnumzane and our bush meetings continued, although less frequently as he didn’t trumpet or call me any more. I was a lot more careful when I was with him and if I got out of the Land Rover I would try to make sure that at least the hood of the car was between us. That didn’t always work, as sometimes he still wanted to stand next to me. I just loved this magnificent creature and was so pleased to see his insecurities and fears gone. He had had a tough time growing up without a mother or any father figure and at last he had a role.
‘You are a mamba,’ I said to him at our last chance meeting. ‘You are surely now a real Mnumzane – a real boss.’ He stood there motionless as I flattered him, gazing with those big brown eyes, as if accepting the compliment.
Mnumzane may be the dominant bull, but Nana was still boss of the herd. Not long afterwards there was another clash – this time between Thula Thula’s two indomitable matriarchs.
‘Lawrence, Lawrence! Come queekly, look what’s happening !’
I dashed out of the house. At one end of the garden was Françoise; at the other was Nana. She had found a weak link in the fence and had broken into Françoise’s precious herb and vegetable patch. Along with her children Mandla and Mvula, she was gobbling every shrub in sight.
‘Tell her to stop! Take her away!’ ordered Françoise.
Farting against thunder would have been a more viable option. Seeing the big grin on my face, she turned to Nana and shouted: ‘Nana you stop this, I cannot buy zees herbs anywhere. I need zem for my guests. Stop! Merde!’
It was a stand-off: Françoise and Bijou weighing perhaps a combined 125 pounds versus Nana, Mandla and
Mvula, together topping the scales at perhaps ten tons.
Seeing that I would be of no use whatsoever Françoise rushed into the kitchen and came out with some pots and pans. Before I could stop her, she started banging them together like a demented bell-ringer.
First to respond was Bijou, who thought the sky must be falling and bolted for the safety of the house. I had never seen her deign to run before and was impressed at the speed her fluffy little legs could muster. This left Françoise on her own.
Nana looked up, startled at the clanging, then shook her head and stamped her drum-sized front foot like a dancing Zulu warrior, glaring at Françoise who glared right back, shouting at her to leave. After a while Nana got accustomed to the sound and simply continued eating.
Seeing her percussion wasn’t having any effect, Françoise went off and came back with the garden hosepipe. We have good pressure at the house, so from a safe distance behind a fence she opened the nozzle and started spurting water like a firefighter at Nana who again shook her head and stamped her foot back at her.
Eventually Nana got used to the high-pressure fountain and started trying to catch the spray. That was it for Françoise, who heatedly told me and other nearby rangers barely concealing their mirth exactly how useless we all were. She stormed back into the house shouting ‘Merde’ repeatedly.
Once things had calmed down I picked up the hose and relaxing the pressure valve gently offered it to Nana and she came across and let me fill her trunk before going back and totally wiping out the garden.
The next morning Françoise had an electrician over to fortify the fence and the garden from then on was rendered impervious to anything with a trunk.
Whenever the herd comes up past the house, even though they can no longer raid Françoise’s garden, they inevitably pass a 100-yard-long dam we call Gwala Gwala, just off the road, where they like to bathe in the shallows. But elephants can break things just by being there, and on more than one occasion the dam overflow wall has had to be repaired. My rangers told me this had happened again and I went down to have a look, Max at my heels.
The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Page 26
