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

‘Uh-uh.’ I refused. ‘I understand you’re pissed off. I feel the same, but we have to do this cleverly. This is our biggest opportunity to smash this damn poaching ring once and for all. They can’t know we’re on to them.’

David looked at me, unconvinced.

‘We’ve got to pretend everything’s OK until we get all the evidence,’ I continued. ‘Otherwise we’ll blow it. At the moment all we’ve got is hearsay and they will just deny everything.’

‘OK,’ he said with some effort. ‘But when it’s over we are going to have a little chat.’

‘That’s up to you. But until then we can’t let the guards out of sight, even for a minute. We’ve got to get two of our best rangers up to their house permanently. Get Ngwenya to brief them so they know what’s going on. I want them living and working with the Ovambos twenty-four hours a day and reporting their every move. That’ll stop them doing any further shooting and buy us time.’

‘Done, boss,’ said David and a slow, wicked grin started to spread. ‘Ndonga is also going to be seeing a lot more of me. I will be his new best friend, starting tonight.’

The next morning we were out early to see what the elephants were doing. After a couple of hours bouncing around in dense bush we found them grazing in the middle of the reserve, about as far from the fence as you could get. Mnumzane was a hundred yards or so from the main group, stripping leaves from a small acacia. We eased forward until we were close enough to see them clearly and I did a head count. Seven – all there, engulfed by long grass and succulent trees and stuffing their mouths like kids at a birthday party. With nearly double the rainfall, which meant double the food yield of their previous home, Thula Thula truly was a pachyderm paradise. I knew Nana, the most astute of matriarchs,would not fail to notice this rich bounty, especially after a dry Mpumalanga winter and the confines of the boma.

The tranquillity of the scene made it all worthwhile. After all the stress, drama, danger and frustration this hugely aggressive herd seemed at last serene in their new home. At least for the moment.

‘They’re exploring, and they like what they see,’ said David. ‘This must be better than anything they’ve known before.’

I nodded. Maybe, just maybe, our gamble in letting them out of the boma early had paid off.

We drove back up to the house where Françoise greeted us with a trencherman’s breakfast of boerewors – spicy Afrikaner sausage – bacon, eggs, tomatoes and toast, and mug after mug of home-made coffee. Bijou, Françoise’s little Maltese poodle, and Penny, the bull terrier, were with her and I always chortled at the contrast between her two dogs – both snow-white but one fluffy and soft, the other muscular and hard. Penny’s loyalty was infinite. Thula Thula was her home and as self-appointed protector of the realm she guarded it with her life.

‘Please tell Phineas I want to see him.’

Ngwenya shifted uncomfortably He knew what was coming.

‘Manje?’ Now, he asked.

‘Yes, now.’

Ngwenya moved reluctantly to the door and then turned back to face me. ‘We must be very careful Mkhulu. If the Ovambos hear we are talking to him they could kill him. These men have killed before. They are tsotsis, thugs of the worst kind and people in the village are very frightened of them.’

‘That’s why the village will help us when we go to the police,’ I replied.

Phineas was the gate guard who had been used to skin the slaughtered animals. He was a simple, sickly young man, having long been afflicted by Aids, the scourge of modern Africa. On the streets the slang for Aids was ‘slow puncture’, a particularly apt description of how the disease gradually saps one’s life and frail Phineas was no exception. We had moved him from the labour team to far less demanding gate duties to ease his day.

I was gambling that he would side with us and become a key witness. All I needed was the correct approach.

Phineas arrived and as is customary in rural Zululand, he came in without knocking. Crouching low, he moved across the room and then sat down without being asked. He averted his eyes and stared at the floor, which is considered good manners.

‘Yehbo, Phineas,’ I greeted him.

‘Sawubona, Mkhulu,’ he replied without looking up.

Instead of first politely discussing one’s health or the weather, again customary in rural Zululand, I went straight for the jugular.

‘Phineas, I hear that you have been tricked into skining animals that the Ovambos have stolen.’

The effect was instant. Phineas glanced around wildly, as if looking for an escape route. Then his sickly pallor turned even more ashen as his breath laboured out in wheezes, no doubt cursing his bad luck. If he had known what this meeting was about he would have headed for the hills and never returned. Now he was trapped.

‘Come, Phineas,’ I said, pressing the obvious advantage of surprise. ‘Everybody knows what has happened and I don’t want to hand you over to the police. Jail will be a bad place for you. I am offering you the chance to help us.’

His head slumped on his chest. Then, without warning, he started sobbing. Even though I knew that Aids had crippled his immune system, ravaging his physical and mentalhealth, I was taken aback at how quickly he broke and my heart went out to him. No doubt his conscience had also been preying brutally on his weakened state of mind.

‘Ndonga promised me money,’ he said, voice quavering. ‘Then he did not pay me.’

‘You told me the truth, thank you,’ I said. ‘But you will have to make a full confession to the police. If you do this, not only will you be protected from the Ovambos, but you will also keep your job.’

‘I will do what you ask,’ he said