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

with the herd, I started to talk to her gently, walking around singing and whistling, trying to get her used to me as a benevolentpresence. But no matter what I did she remained petrified, rooted to the spot in the densest part of the thicket.

For almost a week there was no change in her emotional tone or attitude so eventually I decided I needed to interrupt the process. Instead of trying to communicate with her, albeit in a roundabout way, I came up to the fence, picked a spot and just stayed there, saying nothing, doing nothing, just studiously ignoring her. Just being there.

Each morning and each afternoon I chose a different spot; always shifting fractionally closer to her hiding place and repeating the procedure.

The third day I did this prompted a reaction – but not quite what I wished. Instead of being soothed, which was the whole idea, she came out of the bush furiously, charging like a whirlwind at me.

I watched her come, amazed. I had thought such a lost soul would respond to warmth. The boma’s electric fence was between us and as there was no real danger I had three choices: I could stand firm and show her who was boss; I could ignore her; or I could back off.

Her charge, as ferocious as it seemed, didn’t gel. I could sense that this poor creature, a couple of tons of tusk and flesh that could kill me with a single swipe, had the self-confidence of a mouse. She needed to believe in herself; to know she deserved respect and was a master of the wilderness. She needed to believe she had won the encounter. So I decided to back off with some major theatrics. I decided, counter-intuitively in an environment where the strongest survive, to let her know that in this instance she was the boss. It wasn’t that hard to fake; if there hadn’t been a fence I would’ve been running for real.

She pulled up at the fence in a cloud of dust and stared, dumbfounded – she had probably never seen humans run before. Any charge had probably been followed by the thunderclap of a rifle.

She watched, or rather smelt my retreat and then swivelled and ran back into the thicket with her trunk held high in victory – the first time I had seen her do that. She had seen off an enemy. More importantly, she had turned fear into action which, for the moment at least, was a huge improvement.

It worked well, almost too well. She now started charging whenever I came close. Each time I played the game, feigning fright and backing right off. I wanted to show her how powerful she was … that she was queen of the bush. Elephants are majestic; they are not bullies or cowards. I had to let her rediscover herself.

She slowly starting getting her nerve back and even began coming out into the open during the day, wandering around the boma.

Whenever she emerged from the thicket, I tried to ensure I was around and she watched with beady eyes as I once more started talking to her and singing at random, alternating that with just being there quietly. During these encounters she never uttered a sound, whether she was intrigued, angry or frightened. To me this was uniquely sad. A trumpeting elephant is bush music. Yet this distraught creature was as silent as the air, even when coming at us full tilt.

Then one day she charged while we were pushing food over the fence. For the first time her hunger overrode her fear and she wanted to shoo us away. And for the first time she was trumpeting for all her worth. But instead of a clear, clean call she was honking like a strangled goose.

David and I looked at each other. Now we knew why she had been silent. The poor creature had destroyed her vocal cords, screaming herself hoarse for help, calling for her mother and aunts, lost and pitifully alone in the wilderness while lions circled. She really was a special case.

To try and lighten the mood we affectionately named her ET, short for enfant terrible – terrible child.

Even though she started tolerating me marginally more, she was still profoundly unhappy. Her fear and loneliness gloomed the entire boma. Sitting around the campfire at night, usually a time for talk, we too could feel it. Often we just crept into our sleeping bags and lay on our backs, staring at the stars.

Just as we thought we were winning, she had slid hopelessly back into an abyss of abject despair that not even shouting or the banging of cans could penetrate. Then she slipped further away and began walking endlessly in large figures of eight, oblivious to her surroundings. This sadness bordered on a grief too embedded to penetrate. She was so depressed I feared she might die of a broken heart, so I changed tactics.

I went looking for the herd. They were the only solution.

‘Coooome, Nana, coooome, babbas!’ I called out once I saw them. Three hundred yards away Nana looked up, trunk reaching into the air. A few calls later she sourced the direction of my voice and they all started ambling through the bush towards me, pushing easily through wicked thornveld that would rip human skin to shreds. As they advanced I marvelled at this magnificent herd, these beautiful creatures, fat, grey and glowing, and how content they were with new youngsters.

Now I needed their help. But first I was going to try something in the wilderness I had never done before: get them to follow me.

As they approached I gently footed the accelerator and eased ahead for about fifty yards and Nana stopped, perplexed at why I was moving off. Then I called them and, after milling about for a bit, she came on. As she got near I drove off again; again she stopped, confused.

Again I called ‘Coooome, Nana!’ willing her forward, calling out, telling her it