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

inside the hall, many in traditional clothes with others standing outside. I was shown to a chair in the front row while the chief went to the podium.

He introduced me and I stood to speak.

The project was sensitive, principally because it involved both actual and potential cattle land. I had already spent the better part of two years holding meetings and workshops throughout the area, explaining the workings of conservation and outlining the benefits that eco-tourism would bring to communities in this desperately deprived area.

It was a tough task. Over the last month I had been taking tribal leaders into the Umfolozi reserve and was shocked to discover that most of them had never seen a zebra or giraffe – or much of the other indigenous wildlife so iconic of the continent. This was Africa, their birthright. They lived on the borders of an internationally acclaimed game reserve, yet as a direct result of apartheid they had never been inside. Historically they considered game reserves to be ‘white concepts, mere excuses to seize their land’, and as they had never been included by the previous government, even with the abolishment of apartheid this was not going to change overnight. They had absolutely no idea what conservation was about, or even why the reserve was there. Worst of all, a large chunk of it was traditional tribalterritory that had been unilaterally annexed and this resentment had festered over the generations. It was historically their land and it had been wrested from them with no consultation whatsoever. No wonder that they were at best ambivalent about what they perceived to be the ‘white man’s’ concept of conservation.

Looking at the sea of faces before me in the room, hardy sons and daughters of the soil, I talked about the huge potential the Royal Zulu promised in improving their lives. I spoke of job opportunities, skills training, wealth creation, and education – all which would spring from the project. I appealed to them to all support the project, not only for themselves, but for the sake of their children – and, most importantly, for the sake of the earth, the mother of us all.

But old habits die hard; old resentments burn long. As soon as I finished speaking, cattle owners who coveted the land for their herds sprang to their feet, giving impassioned speeches about the Zulu heritage of keeping cattle. However, there was plenty of land for all. It was all about tradition, and the conservative cattle owners did not like the idea of change. In rural Zululand cattle are a primary form of currency and they didn’t want the status quo to alter, whatever the reasons or benefits.

‘How will you pay your lobola, your dowry, if there are no cattle? We will have no wives!’ one thundered to sustained applause.

‘And what about sacrificing cows to the ancestors? Are we now going to use bush pigs?’ shouted another to derisive laughter.

The discussion went on in the same vein for the next couple of hours until the Nkosi finally put up his hand to end it. Despite obvious opposition, I was not displeased with the outcome of the meeting. I had achieved an important goal. Everybody now knew I had been invited by the Nkosiand that he would not have brought me if he was against the project.

But if I was aware of that, so were the cattle owners. The significance of the Nkosi’s summons would not be lost on them and I sensed bitter clashes ahead.

I then decided to stay and watch the Nkosi, renowned for his biblical Solomon-style wisdom, preside over a trial of one of his subjects who had stabbed another during an argument.

Both parties gave their version of events and when they were finished the Nkosi delivered his verdict. The stabber was sentenced to a substantial fine, albeit in keeping with his modest income, as well as eight lashes. Judging by the murmurs of the crowd, this was considered a fair outcome.

Then everything went into overdrive. Chairs were scattered, as the court orderlies stepped forward, grabbed the poor man, stripped off his shirt and forced him onto his stomach in the middle of the room. They sat, one on each arm to ensure he couldn’t move, as out of a side door emerged a huge man carrying a sjambok, a wicked six-foot-long whip made of twined hippo hide. Without any ceremony he ran up to the prostrate criminal and brought the whip whistling down on his bare back with as much force as he could muster. The violence of the strike shocked me and I waited for the man to scream. He stayed silent.

Eight lashes later and the skin on the man’s back was a pulped bloody mess and he was pulled to his feet and led groggily out of the door. Yet still he did not utter a sound.

‘He didn’t cry out once,’ I said to the aide next to me. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘He must not,’ he replied. ‘A criminal gets an extra two lashes every time he squeals.’

Tough justice indeed, but it was justice quickly dispensed in keeping with Zulu traditions and one thing wascertain: the knifeman wasn’t going to stab anyone else in a hurry.

A few months later I was privy to another incident of brutal justice, which gave a jolting reminder that just below the thin skin of civilization lay much of what is wrong with this exotically beautiful country.

I was driving in the deep rural areas surrounding Thula Thula when I noticed a vocal group of men from a neighbouring tribe walking down the road dragging something. At first I thought it was an animal, perhaps an impala they had shot, but to my surprise it was a man who had been so severely assaulted that he couldn’t stand. As I pulled up they dropped the semi-conscious body onto the ground like a rag doll.

‘Sawubona, Mkhulu,’ said one who recognized me.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked, getting out of the Land Rover, shotgun in hand, horrified at the