The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild by Lawrence Anthony (the ebook reader txt) 📕

‘I’ve already done that. All trees near the fence have been chopped.’

The last time I had heard that was just before the herd had escaped from the boma. I didn’t want to risk it again.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well … OK. See you later.’

I drove off. The recent rains had brushed the bush in colours of green and gold and the fecund earth throbbed with life. Unfortunately, as beautiful as it looked, this rampant foliage would make the elephants more difficult to track. We needed to know all the time exactly where they were in case they attempted another breakout.

Biyela, our loyal gardener and everybody’s friend, ran up to welcome us back as Max and I got out the car, glad to be home. As I walked through the door Françoise told me that Ngwenya, my security induna or foreman, wanted to see me.

He was sitting on a tree stump outside the verandah of the rangers’ quarters about thirty yards from our house. This was unusual. He obviously didn’t want to be seen approaching me. I walked over.

‘Sawubona, Ngwenya.’ I see you.

‘Yebo, Mkhulu.’

We spoke for a bit about the unusually wet weather and the elephants. Then he got to the point.

‘Mkhulu, we all know strange things are happening.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Such as the shooting of nyamazane’ – game – ‘on Thula Thula.’

I stiffened. I had been so absorbed in the elephants that the poaching problem had been put on a backburner.

‘But now I am also hearing strange stories,’ Ngwenya continued. ‘And the strangest of all is that people are saying that Ndonga is the man who is doing the shooting. The man killing our animals.’

‘What?’ The blood drained from my face. ‘What makes you say such a serious thing?’

Ngwenya shook his head, as if he too couldn’t believe it. ‘Ndonga shoots the buck, but the skinning is done by theother Ovambos and by Phineas, the gate guard. Then sometimes a truck with ice comes late at night with no lights and fetches it. Or sometimes Ndonga takes the meat to town.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘It is what the people here are saying. Also, I am told the other Ovambos are unhappy. They complain in the village that they are doing all the hard work and Ndonga gives them no money. He only gives them meat. Not even good meat – they get maybe the head and shins. That’s all.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

Ngwenya shrugged. ‘Since the day you came. But I have only found this out now. That is why I have come to you.’

‘Thanks, Ngwenya. Good work.’

‘These are dangerous times.’ He eased himself off the stump. ‘The Ovambos must not know I have spoken to you. Sale gahle, Mkhulu.’ Stay well.

‘Hamba gahle, Ngwenya.’ Go well.

I sat there, stunned as if I had been smacked on the head. This was a horrific accusation, not just because the poachers had killed so many animals, which was bad enough. But to add insult to injury, if Ngwenya’s allegations were true, was that my own employees were guilty of poaching my animals with my own rifles. The Lee – Enfield .303s that the Ovambos had been issued with belonged to Thula Thula.

‘Boss.’

I looked up. David was standing next to me.

‘The electrician has arrived. He’s at the gate. Should we take him down to the energizers?’

I nodded, remembering that we had booked the man to check the fence’s electrics thoroughly now that the elephants had been freed. As we got into the Land Rover the radio crackled into life. It was Ndonga. I tensed with anger. My head guard may be innocent and I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, but Ngwenya’s story rankled deep.

‘We’ve found the elephants. They’re right on the northern boundary.’

‘Excellent,’ I replied, fighting to keep the fury out of my voice. ‘Keep an eye on them and wait for us. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.’

With the electrician squashed between us straddling the Land Rover’s gear stick and Max on David’s lap we drove off. It made sense that the herd had emerged at the far border, the direction of their previous home, but nevertheless it was chilling news. Were they still determined to break out, I wondered?

As Ndonga had said, gangs of workers had indeed chopped down all trees within felling distance of the wires. Narrow vehicle tracks had been hacked out to make a rough road for anti-poaching patrols and maintenance checks along the boundary, so it was relatively simple to keep the animals in sight as we followed from a distance.

Nana was moving down the line, the tip of her trunk just below the top electric strand, sensing the pulse of the surging current. With her clan following, she had walked almost the entire twenty miles of the reserve’s perimeter using her natural voltmeter to check if there was any weak link – any section without power in the fence.

By now it was nearly four o’clock. It had taken the animals most of the day to circumnavigate the reserve and I was relieved to see that despite checking for breaks in the power, Nana was not attempting to make direct contact with the fence. She wasn’t going to take the pain and smash through like the previous matriarch had at the Mpumalanga reserve.

But just as the herd was completing its tour, we saw a large acacia standing proud right next to the wires that Ndonga’s clearing gang had inexplicably missed. It was the only ‘danger’ tree along the entire border that had not been felled, and it stood out stark as a monument.

‘Dammit,’ groaned David. Both he and I knew what was going to happen next.

Sure enough Nana and Frankie stopped, saw the tree and loped over for a closer inspection.

‘No, Nana no!’ I shouted as they positioned themselves on either side of the acacia and started shouldering it, testing its resistance. There was no doubt they were going to shove it down and if we were going to prevent the inevitable breakout we