In fact, the more I thought about the dealer, the more irritated I became. I should have been grateful for the lifelinebeing offered; that would have been the sane reaction. But instead of profound relief that a solution was in sight, I felt strangely annoyed.
It then dawned on me that something fundamental – something innate but indefinable had happened. That phone call triggered the startling revelation that I had unwittingly forged a bond with this delinquent herd, even though I barely knew them. The strength of this connection shocked me.
The experiences of the past days had illustrated for me that despite fashionable eco-tourism, elephants didn’t really count for much in the real world. This was a group of desperate and bewildered animals who had been on the run. But to the brandy and bullets brigade they were target practice with a yield of ivory; to the local tribesmen they were a threat. No one gave a fig that these were sentient creatures whose ancestors had roamed this planet for eons.
It hasn’t always been like that. Indeed, just a few decades ago Zulus revered elephants. They still roar ‘Wena we Ndlovu’ – You are the Elephant – as praise to their king at public gatherings. The crescendo of thousands of martial voices is haunting, evoking memories of a time when these iconic creatures were hugely esteemed.
No longer. In Africa today elephants are simply competitors in the race for the land. In the West, they are mere curiosities while the East values only their ivory.
Our desperate three-day chase had hammered home to me the reality that these immensely powerful giants were actually as vulnerable as babies. Wherever this lost and confused group went, they would be at risk without someone fighting in their corner. As it was, Nana and Frankie were in all likelihood about to be executed.
Once I grasped that, an almost irrational link was established, which would re-chart my life. Like it or not, I felt part of the herd. Life had dealt them a cruel hand and I wasdetermined to rectify what I could. I owed them that at least.
Finally some good news arrived, something in short supply at Thula Thula during those depressing days. KZN Wildlife agreed to a stay of execution. The elephants would be captured and returned to the boma at Thula Thula. Nana and Frankie had been reprieved.
But if they escaped again, the entire herd would be shot on sight. There would be no encore of the last chase. There would be no further discussion. This was no casual threat. I was told Africa’s infamous elephant gun, the .458 was now being issued as standard equipment to all rangers in the area.
This was to be both their and my last chance.
chapter six
With the strings-attached stay of execution, I felt as though I could breathe again, now that the stresses of the past few weeks had been eased. To my overwhelming relief, I had been given another chance.
This time I had to succeed. It was literally a matter of life or death; KZN Wildlife was not going to compromise on that. This was the final throw of the dice, and the price of failure was simply unthinkable.
The boma had been repaired and I now could only wait while KZN Wildlife prepared to capture the herd. I spent most of this time trying to figure out how we could get the animals to calm down when they were returned. Not only must this be done for their sakes, I also had to consider the implications of having an agitated, delinquent herd on the reserve. Before I let them out into the freedom of the greater reserve I had to be absolutely certain they were settled. But how?
While this was churning in my mind, I received another call from EMOA. It was good to hear Marion Garai’s voice, my only ally in this fiasco.
‘Lawrence, I have an idea that may help.’
‘I need all the help I can get. What’s up?’
‘I’ve heard of an animal psychic …’ She paused and laughed nervously. ‘But before you say “no” please hear me out.’
Hmmm … I was somewhat concerned that our situation seemed so desperate that she was considering paranormal solutions.
‘Shoot,’ I said, then bit my tongue. ‘Sorry … wrong choice of words, go ahead.’
‘Apparently this psychic’s done good work with troubled animals and has a unique way of communicating with them. Maybe she’ll reach out to the matriarch, perhaps get her to settle down and then the rest of the herd will follow. I know this sounds really unusual, and I really can’t guarantee anything, but it may be worth a try.’
Well, OK. I know first-hand that communication with animals can defy normal comprehension. Orthodox behaviour is not always the answer in the bush. But bringing in a psychic seemed way over the top. But what else was on offer? And what harm could it do? At best it may work; at worst it was merely quixotic.
‘OK. But tell her politely to stay out of my way. I’m going to have my hands full when the elephants return.’
The psychic arrived a couple of days later; a middle-aged Canadian woman with curly red hair.
The next day for lunch she ordered peanut-butter sandwiches.
Françoise was aghast. The mere mention of peanut-butter sandwiches in her French kitchen was sacrilege. They were sent back for not being properly prepared. ‘How many ways can you make a peanut-butter sandwich?’ Françoise protested.
We later went down to the boma where she spent several hours sniffing the bush and sprinkling what she called ‘cerebral vibrations of family, love and respect’ onto the fences.
‘That,’ she said, ‘will keep them in.’
The next day she pointed to my favourite tree in the garden: a magnificent wild fig with half-submerged roots as thick as a man’s leg stretching into the lawn.
‘That tree,’ she said with a shudder, ‘it has
