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

‘This man has raped and murdered a woman. We are taking him down to the river to kill him,’ one replied casually, almost in a ‘why don’t you join us’ tone.

‘Are you certain it’s the right man?’ I asked, trying to defuse the situation. As I spoke the crumpled victim moaned and tried to crawl away, only to be viciously kicked back by one of the group.

‘It is him,’ they replied. ‘His house has already been burned.’

‘Why don’t you take him to the police? He will be severely punished by the magistrate.’

‘Ha!’ spat one caustically. ‘The magistrate … he will do nothing.’

Tiring of the conversation they grabbed the beaten man and started dragging him along.

‘But surely there must be another way. Is there nothing I can do?’ I said, blocking their way.

As I stood before them, their mood changed in an instant. The leader of the group’s eyes hardened.

‘This is not your business Mkhulu. Leave us,’ he said, ignoring the fact that I was carrying a shotgun. The tone of his voice was final. If I pushed more I would be transgressing the shadow line into a tribal matter, with possibly violent repercussions. I stepped aside.

As I drove off, I thought of going to the police but the nearest station was thirty miles away on a barely drivable road. I wasn’t even sure they would have a vehicle to respond with. As for a search, they would never find the body and the perpetrators would have long since disappeared into the surrounding huts and hills.

Such is Africa, the flawed, beautiful, magnificent, beguiling, mystical, unique, life-changing continent … its seductive charm and charisma, its ancient wisdom so often stained by unfathomable spasms of blood.

That night after returning from the meeting I got further bad news. David told me he was resigning to go to England. He had met an attractive young British guest at the lodge, whom I noticed had kept extending her stay.

‘It’s just “khaki fever”, David,’ I teased, referring to the well-known attraction some female guests have for uniformed rangers. ‘When you get to England, whatever you do don’t take off your uniform or it will all be over.’

Nevertheless he left and it was a massive blow to us. He was an integral part of Thula Thula and had been my right-hand man and friend for so long it was like losing a son. He loved the bush so much – I just couldn’t imagine him in rainy England.

The lodge had just opened and David had been a tremendous help to Françoise in getting it up and running, but she took it with her customary good humour. ‘I know guests sometimes steal a towel or soap,’ she said, ‘but this one stole our ranger.’

Sadly we had to move on and she advertised in various wildlife publications for a new reserve manager. The first applicant phoned from Cape Town.

‘I’d like to come up for the interview but the flight’s expensive,’ said the caller. ‘So if I come all that way and spend all that money, I must get the job.’

This was not the conventional method of impressing potential employers; in fact, it bordered on impertinence. I was about to tell him to take a running jump when I paused for a moment … perhaps Brendan Whittington Jones, a name more suited to a firm of august lawyers than a game ranger, could afford a touch of ‘unusualness’. He certainly had impressive credentials on paper. But how could I decide on his merits – or, as his phone call suggested, otherwise – without first seeing him? This really intrigued me. All my life, I have been attracted by unusual approaches.

‘Do you play sport?’ I asked, the question coming out of nowhere.

‘Yes. Field hockey.’

I mulled this over for a second or two.

‘You can start as soon as you get here.’

Field hockey is a gentleman’s game. My father was an international player and for whatever reason he always said it was a sport which attracted the right sort of people. I decided to follow his advice, though probably not the way he intended it.

Brendan arrived a few days later with a battered suitcase containing his sum total of worldly goods. He was an athletically built young man with a shock of strawberry-blond hair, a slow smile and a deliciously sardonic sense of humour. He would need it to sustain him at Thula Thula.

He had a degree in zoology and wildlife management with a major in entomology and loved insects with an almost mystic passion. Through him I learned that everything in thewild happened ‘down there’ on the ground and in water. In the mulchy stew of undergrowth and seething-yet-still ponds and rivers, the often invisible bug world is the font of any wild eco-system.

However, he also loved animals and his bright attitude and innate sense of fairness quickly won over Françoise and the staff.

It wasn’t long before he had adopted an epileptic young warthog which he called Napoleon. The grandly named hog had been abandoned as an infant by his mother and we had found him wandering aimlessly on the reserve, lost and alone and easy prey for any passing leopard or hyena. The poor creature we found out later, sometimes had seizures, which is probably why it had been dumped by his mother. However, Napoleon soon regarded Brendan as his surrogate mother and even joined him in his bed at night. Max also took to Brendan immediately and tried to emulate Napoleon by slipping out of our room one night and getting into the new ranger’s bed.

Going into Brendan’s room the next morning was an experience. Once you had cut through the fog of sweaty bush clothes, Max’s jowly head emerged from the blankets, followed by the quizzical Napoleon, then a little later blearyeyed Brendan.

Françoise, who took to Brendan immediately, was aghast at this somewhat eccentric ménage à trois.

‘How will you ever find zee wife if you sleep with zee dog and zee pig?’ she asked, shaking her