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

they knew how much I revered the Nkosi’s family. They knew that the only way to get at me was to incite the crowd into open revolt. They had failed and been publicly humiliated in the process.

Indeed, their bluff had been called by the Nkosi himself. The victory was sweet for me, and after the meeting many villagers, some carrying fighting sticks, shook my hand or waved, as if welcoming me back to the fold. Addressing this hostile meeting had in itself proved my innocence. Under Zulu tradition the matter could not be opened again. Thula Thula was safe.

Back at Thula Thula later, with Max comfortingly at my side, I looked out over the reserve and on the horizon caught a glimpse of the herd. They were on the move, safe and free to go where they pleased. The victory was sweet indeed, but that didn’t mean the struggle was over. I had made some serious enemies, as I was soon to find out.

chapter twenty-five

Early next morning Marion Garai of the Elephant Managers and Owners Association phoned. As usual, she had unusual news.

‘Can you take another elephant? I’ve got a fourteen-year-old female that desperately needs a home.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s a real shocker. To give the short version, her entire family have been shot or sold and she’s completely alone on a big five reserve.’

Big five reserves are so named due to their quarry’s reputation as the most dangerous animals to hunt – elephant, black rhino, buffalo, leopard, and of course lion. An elephant may be a big fiver – in fact number one on the list – but a juvenile could not survive for long without the protection of its herd if lions are about. No lion would dare attack an adult tusker, but an adolescent would be relatively easy prey for a pride.

Then Marion added fuel to the fire. ‘Even worse, she’s been sold to a trophy hunter.’

She delivered that snippet almost as an aside, but she knew it would get me going like nothing else. It was something I simply couldn’t fathom … what type of person would shoot a terrified teenage elephant, and a female at that? For a tawdry fireside trophy? For the pleasure of thekill? And what kind of reserve owner would hawk a vulnerable young animal for such a reason?

I have never had a problem with hunting for the pot. Every living thing on this planet hunts for sustenance one way or the other, from the mighty microbe upwards. Survival of the fittest is, like it or not, the way of this world. But hunting for pleasure, killing only for the thrill of it, is to me an anathema. I have met plenty of trophy hunters. They are, of course, all naturalists; they all know and love the bush; and they all justify their action in conservation speak, peppered with all the right buzz words.

The truth is, though, that they harbour a hidden impulse to kill, which can only be satisfied by the violent death of another life form by their hand. And they will go to inordinate lengths to satisfy, and above all justify, this apparently irresistible urge.

Besides, adding to the absurdity of their claims, there is not an animal alive that is even vaguely a match for today’s weaponry. The modern high-powered hunting rifle with telescopic sights puts paid to any argument about sportsmanship.

I had to consider the implications of introducing a new elephant into the herd. On the credit side, Nana and her clan were settled and I was pretty confident she would accept another young female into her family. Only stable herds will do that; a maladjusted group of elephants will chase any newcomer off – or worse.

No matter the risks, the thought of a solitary elephant – still a teenager – terrified out of her wits, surrounded by lions and soon to be hunted grated deeply.

‘I’ll take her.’

‘Great. I have a donor who’ll pay capture and translocation costs.’

Predictably the hunter refused to relinquish his trophy. However, in a stroke of genius, Brendan decided to checkthe man’s big game permit. You can say it was serendipity; you can say it was an act of God – whatever – but unbelievably the permit was due to expire that exact day. Even more wondrously, one of Brendan’s ex-university friends worked in the permit office and we managed to block the reissue. At the eleventh hour, we saved the life of this orphan elephant.

The hunter was upset as he technically still owned the animal. He wanted his cash back. Thankfully Marion’s donor again came to the rescue and paid him his blood money. A week later the juvenile was on her way to Thula Thula.

We hurriedly repaired the boma and David, Brendan and I prepared for another stint in the bush while our new arrival acclimatized. We even parked the Land Rover in the same position as when the original herd was in quarantine, wondering if Wilma our industrious bark spider was still around to weave her silky web on the aerial.

Max did a perfunctory check of the area and settled himself down. He knew we would be here for a while.

The transport truck arrived in mid-afternoon and backed into the loading trench. This time we had the levels right and the loading bay opened smoothly. We all craned forward for a good look. It was a good thing I didn’t blink, for as the door opened the youngster sprinted straight into the thickest part of the boma’s bush. And there she hid for the next few days, coming out only in the dead of night to eat the food we were tossing over the fence. Whenever we crept around trying to get closer, she bolted to the far side as soon as she sensed us. I have never witnessed such terror in an animal. There was no doubt she thought we were going to kill her, just as humans had killed the rest of her family.

Using the techniques I had developed