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

slammed the vehicle into reverse and edged further back, acutely aware of the granite bush maxim that you don’t go anywhere near an elephant and her baby. But she kept coming and I figured they wanted to use the road, so I reversed off at right angles into the long grass to allow them to pass well in front of me.

To my absolute surprise Nana left the road and followed me, with Frankie and the others just a few yards behind. I was no longer in her way so there was no need for this. They could have just strolled past – this was a conscious decision to come after me and my heart started thumping overtime. I quickly shoved Max off the front seat onto the floor and threw my jacket over him. ‘Stay, boy,’ I said as he settled down. ‘We have visitors.’

Squinting hard into the sun, I tried to detect any hint of hostility … any edginess that I was intruding in matters maternal. There was none, not even from fierce-tempered and still-very pregnant Frankie. All around, the bush breathed peace. It was as if a group decision had been made to come to me.

Nana ambled up to my window and stood towering above the Land Rover, dominating the skyline. Below her was her baby. Incredibly she had brought her newborn to me.

I held my breath as her trunk reached into the Land Rover and touched me on the chest; the sandpapery hidesomehow as sensitive as silk, then it swivelled back, dropped and touched the little one, a pachyderm introduction. I sat still, stunned by the privilege she was bestowing on me.

‘You clever girl,’ I said, my voice scratchy. ‘What a magnificent baby.’

Her massive skull, just a few yards from mine, seemed to swell even larger with pride.

‘I don’t know what you call him. But he was born during the first spring showers, so I will call him Mvula.’

Mvula is the Zulu word for rain, synonymous with life for those who live with the land. She seemed to agree and the name stuck.

Then she slowly moved off, leading the herd back the way they had come. Within minutes they’d evaporated into the bush.

Two weeks later they disappeared again and I made another trek to Zulu Graves. They were there, at exactly the same place and time as before. This time it was Frankie with a perfect new baby. I went through the same backing-off procedure to ensure I didn’t invade their space and eventually she too came to me, herd in tow. However, she didn’t stop like Nana had, just doing a cursory walk past to show off her infant.

‘Well done, my beautiful girl,’ I said as she slowly came level with the window, maternal pride in full bloom. ‘We will call him Ilanga – the sun.’

I shook my head in wonderment. A little over a year ago she had almost killed Françoise and me on the quad bike. Now she was proudly parading her baby. It blew my mind just thinking about it. We had travelled a long road together.

That evening they all came up to the house. Frankie’s little one had walked nearly four miles through thick bush and she was only a week old. This time Frankie stood in front of the others right at the wire facing me.

‘Hello, girl. Your baby is so beautiful! She really is!’

Frankie stood caressing her calf, visibly glowing with pride. All the while she was looking directly at me. This was the closest we had come to linking directly with each other. We both knew something precious had passed between us.

These almost inconceivable experiences had a sequel several years later when my first grandson was born and the herd came up to the house. I took baby Ethan in my arms and went as near to the patiently waiting elephants as his worried mother would allow. They were only a few yards away. Their trunks went straight up and they all edged closer, intensely focused on the little bundle in my arms, smelling the air to get the scent and rumbling their stomachs excitedly.

I was repaying the compliment to them, introducing them, trusting them with my baby as they had with theirs.

A few days after Ilanga’s birth a message arrived from the principal chief in the area saying he wanted to see me and I drove out to his kraal – homestead – in the country. As was customary, I called out my name and waited at the rustic gate next to the cattle enclosure to be invited in.

Nkosi Nkanyiso Biyela was the essential cog in the Royal Zulu project to involve tribes in conservation, and he and I had become good friends. Descended from Zulu royalty, he conducted himself as an aristocrat and with his beard, handsome wide features and regal pose, looked remarkably like King Goodwill Zwelethini, the reigning monarch of the 10-million-strong Zulu people, to whom he was related.

I was then shown to the isishayamteto, the large thatched hut reserved for important matters. Some freshly brewed Zulu beer was placed on the floor and after tasting it himself, his aide brought the beer to me for a sip straight from the traditional calabash. This drinking bowl was then passed to the other two aides who did likewise. Zulu beer is a wholesome, low-alcohol drink brewed from maize meal and sorghum. While the yeasty ripeness smells like cheesyfeet and is guaranteed to turn up a tourist’s nose, it’s a taste I acquired years ago and this was a particularly good brew. I asked the Nkosi to pass my compliments to his wife, the brewmaster.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he smiled, accentuating the wrinkles on his good-humoured face. ‘I want you to attend the tribal court and speak about our game-reserve project. My people must hear directly from you on the matter.’

We left the hut and walked across to the courtroom where the Nkosi held council and tried cases once a week.

There were perhaps a hundred people squashed