The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Lawrence Anthony (speld decodable readers txt) 📖

was obvious we had some very agitated, unpredictable wild elephants on our hands, and I couldn’t rid myself of the vision of them trampling through a village. The words ‘conservation’s Chernobyl’ were etched on my mind as we picked our way through the dense bush.

Peter was unable to fly that day so the chase was pared down to the bones – an elemental race on foot between the herd and us. But with their ten-hour lead, the odds were definitely uneven.

Meanwhile Françoise, tired of pacing around the house in anticipation, decided to do some sleuthing of her own. As the elephants had been in the area last night, she jumped into her car with Penny our almost pure-white bull terrier, who was a couple of years younger than Max, and scouredthe dirt tracks surrounding the reserve asking anyone in sight, ‘Haf you zeen my elefans?’

Few rural Zulus can understand English, let alone navigate the intricacies of a rich Gallic accent. Even fewer have clapped eyes on an elephant in their lives. Yet here, way out in the sticks was a beautiful blonde stranger with an almost albino-white dog asking if there happened to be any strolling around. No doubt they thought the sun was frying foreign heads.

However, Françoise’s search became quite famous as a local news agency picked it up and by the time the report reached the boulevards of Paris, it had been rehashed so extensively that Françoise was portrayed as single-handedly pursuing elephants down a multi-lane highway.

In fact the story of the elephants’ escape and our chase was now being carried in local papers. People were following our progress and fortunately for us the media coverage focused on the plight of the elephants and the fact that there was a baby with the herd.

Later that morning with some relief I heard from KZN Wildlife that the elephants had broken into the Umfolozi reserve during the night at two different points several miles apart, crashing through the electric fence with ease as it was only live-wired from the inside. There in the reserve they would be safe, at least from the macho hunting brigade.

The herd had split into two groups during the night, with Nana, her two calves and Mnumzane in the one and Frankie and her son and daughter in the other. Only once they were deep in the sanctuary did they meet up again. How they did that defies human comprehension. It seems impossible to navigate in the dark so precisely without compasses or radios – yet the two groups had travelled up to seven miles apart and then came together in dense bush at a given point. When you consider that, there is no doubt that elephants possess incredible communication abilities. It’s known theyemit stomach rumblings at frequencies far below human hearing that can be detected even when they’re many miles apart. The animals either pick up these sensory impulses through their vast ears, or – as a newer theory postulates – they feel the vibrations through their feet. But whatever it is, these amazing creatures have some senses far superior to ours.

Close to where the two groups had rendezvoused was a thatched rondavel, a circular Zulu hut used by KZN Wildlife anti-poaching units. The rangers inside were fast asleep when they felt the flimsy structure of the building shaking as if caught in an earthquake. Then the top half of the stable door burst open and in the moonlight they saw a trunk snake through. The elephants had smelt the rangers’ stock of rations, sacks of maize meal, the Zulu staple, and were going to take their share, which of course meant all of it. The men scurried under their beds for protection as the trunk weaved like a super-sized vacuum cleaner around the hut and yanked the maize sacks out.

Several other twisting trunks shattered the windows and the elephants jerked the furniture around, smashing it as they searched for more food. One man’s bush jacket was wrenched from his hands and peeking through the splintered door he saw shadowy figures of the young calves stomping on it and flipping it into the air in a game between them.

Not once did the men on the floor reach for their weapons. Their lives were devoted to saving animals; they would only kill as a last resort. Shaken as they were and watching their possessions being strewn around a hut about to cave in was not considered a last resort.

As soon as the rampaging behemoths left, the rangers radioed through to the game reserve’s headquarters.

At dawn Umfolozi’s vastly experienced conservation manager, Peter Hartley, decided to assess the situation first-hand. While driving off-road he spotted the animals in thedistance and got out to approach on foot without disturbing them. He knew from the number and descriptions that this was the Thula Thula herd. Cautiously advancing, he was still some distance away when suddenly Frankie swivelled. She had nosed his scent.

Elephants seldom charge humans unless they get too close, but with a bellow of rage, Frankie came thundering at him. Hartley, caught by surprise, turned and ran for his life through the thornveld, cutting himself as he scrambled through the barbed foliage. He leapt into his 4x4 and fortunately the vehicle started instantly as he dropped the clutch and sped off with five tons of storming juggernaut just yards behind, verifying the old rangers’ maxim that there is no dignity in the bush.

Charging the conservation manager – of all people – seriously blotted the herd’s already spotty reputation. Grim-faced, Hartley arrived back at reserve’s headquarters and told of his close escape. The senior rangers were now extremely worried. This was getting out of hand and Hartley suggested they contacted the former owners in Mpumalanga to get a more comprehensive background report. And what they heard they didn’t like at all.

I was still in the bush when I got the radio call to come to Umfolozi to ‘chat’ about the situation. Urgently.

It sounded ominous and I drove despondently along the