Elephant Dawn Read online

  ‘Arrhhh, but you are close now,’ he assures me.

  Yes, I can see the pump now—but I am still two hours away.

  I gaze at the old bakery on my left. Gone are the days when you could buy greasy cream buns and sweet rolls. Now it doesn’t even sell bread, the doors tightly closed. Across the road, shabby square shops of brick and tin are brightly painted, attempting to disguise, perhaps, all that is not available within.

  By the time I reach the pump they’re no longer selling a full tank of fuel. It is being rationed to 40 litres. Five hours for a mere 40 litres. What can I do but sigh and try to smile? This is Zimbabwe after all.

  ON FRIENDLY LAND

  2005

  Zimbabwe is a country of extremes. There is poverty and abundance. There is beauty and cruelty. And although at times it makes me just want to sit down and weep, there are still occasions when all I can do is laugh out loud.

  A big daddy baboon occasionally appears from nowhere at the open door of my rondavel, to sit for a while on my doorstep. He’s friendly enough, but he flashes his dental weaponry to make it clear who’s the boss and always shows up so unexpectedly. I fear that one day he’ll give me a heart attack. I learnt long ago not to leave any food items in sight, but a kind friend has just gifted me a packet of potatoes, and I haven’t yet put them away.

  In just two lightning-fast steps Mr Baboon has the packet in his hand and is racing out of my rondavel with them. I take off after him, determined to recover some of my meagre fresh produce. I lose ground. He sails over my thatched fence, potatoes under his arm, while I have to run around it. We must look ridiculous. I hope there’s no one recording this bizarre scene. In a rather undignified manner I run and shout and throw stones. In his scramble to get away from me, the plastic packaging breaks. As I’m closing in on him, he picks up as many scattered potatoes as he can, lining the length of one hairy arm. Thank goodness he has no kangaroo’s pouch! In the end, I have more potatoes than he does, but I resent this big bugger’s thievery, and tell him so in no uncertain terms. I hobble back to my rondavel with a victorious grin, carrying what’s left of my potatoes in the fabric of my shirt.

  When I email this story to my friends in Australia and New Zealand, bragging that tonight I won’t have to eat three-minute noodles after all, I receive bewildered replies. They’re not about the baboon or the potatoes: ‘Why are they three-minute noodles?’ I’m asked. ‘They’re two-minute noodles Down Under!’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘things always take time in Zimbabwe.’

  While I continue to wait, impatiently, for an official announcement concerning the third hunting quota issued to the ex-governor’s family, more tragedies unfold.

  Now an F family youngster’s trunk has been ripped off by a wire snare. My records show that he was born to the Presidential Elephants in early February 2003, making him not yet three years old. Due to all that has been consuming my time in the years since his birth, I haven’t yet named him. When I last saw him with his shortened trunk, he was still suckling from his mother, Freida, and was fat and seemingly doing okay. But he has only a very short section of trunk now. I know that ultimately, unless he can somehow adjust and become a browser once his mother’s milk is no longer on offer, he has no chance of long-term survival. I am still deliberating as to whether or not we can intervene in a constructive way.

  I’m driving along the vlei, thinking about the latest bushfire, smoke choking the distant air, and there he is. Alone. Abandoned? Or has something happened to his mother? I simply can’t believe he’s been abandoned since Freida has always been particularly protective of him, both before and after he was cruelly stripped of his trunk. The last time I’d seen them, less than two weeks earlier, Freida had been unconditionally tolerant of his suckling.

  Something seemed very wrong. I would look for Freida later. Right now, all I can think of is trying to save this little Presidential Elephant. He is much too young to be wandering alone, and he has no trunk to speak of with which to feed himself. He is already agonisingly thin and lethargic. Clearly, he’s been wandering alone—traumatised and unseen—for some time.

  I step out of my 4x4 and walk towards him, calling to him, remembering a previous newborn elephant found alone by a roadside who had walked straight up to me and frantically tried to suckle from my arm. This little fellow, though, is older and much less trusting. He attempts a mock charge, forcing me to sidestep behind a bush. Even in his weakened state he could inflict harm. It would have been comical I suppose, if it hadn’t been so tragic. I race to the other side of the vlei and pick up some Acacia erioloba pods from the ground, imagining that he might be able to get down on his knees and feed with his mouth if I throw them in his direction—but he just doesn’t know what to do with them.

  It is late in the day. I have no choice but to leave him, praying to invisible forces that he will, in his vulnerable and fragile state, survive the night. I need to make the necessary arrangements. He deserves a chance. We have to try to save him.

  Plans are in place quickly. A facility in Victoria Falls named Elephant Camp has a good reputation, and although it’s a captive facility that offers elephant-back rides—a practice increasingly frowned upon by animal lovers—it is known to treat its elephants well. A Zimbabwean named Gavin immediately agrees to take him in, and further agrees to never ride him. There, at least, he will be given a chance to live in a caring environment—and to become an ambassador for the Presidential Elephants, and for snare victims everywhere. I then ring for the necessary approvals from the Parks Authority who, surprisingly, quickly give permission without fuss. These officials know by now I won’t back down easily, nor will I be quiet if reasonable requests are denied.

  To be able to capture him though, we have to find him again. When I left him, he was heading slowly down the vlei, towards the land grabbed by the ex-governor’s family. How could this little elephant know that this small slice of the vlei is currently off-limits to us all? No one is even permitted to drive across this land, which these family members angrily reaffirmed just a few days ago. There always seems to be something.

  ‘If you have a problem, speak to the president!’ I find myself preparing these words in advance under my breath, in anticipation of yet another hostile encounter. I’m determined to be ready to stand up to them, should they try to interfere with this operation.

  After a few hours sleep, I drive along the vlei searching for this little elephant, but I can’t see him anywhere. I quickly ask Jabulani and his anti-poaching team to track his spoor, and I drop them off in the area where I’d last seen him.

  It’s after midday when Jabulani’s radio call finally comes in. ‘Mandlovu, Mandlovu, this is Jabulani. Do you copy?’

  ‘Go, Jabulani’, I say.

  ‘We have the ndlovu,’ Jabulani states.

  ‘Is he alive?’ I ask with my heart in my throat.

  ‘Positive,’ Jabulani confirms.

  ‘Is he on problem land?’ I ask, my heart still in my throat.

  The response is what I want to hear: ‘Negative Mandlo. He is on friendly land.’

  ‘I need to organise the others, Jabulani. It’ll take time. Stay with him. Let me know if he’s moving too far. I’ll bring you and your men food and water as soon as I can,’ I say.

  ‘Copy that. Out,’ says Jabulani, and he is gone.

  The men from Elephant Camp have been ready to depart, and are immediately on their way. They will dart and transport this little elephant back to Victoria Falls. I’ve decided to call him Future—for the future of the Presidential Elephants, and the future of anti-poaching and snare-destruction efforts everywhere.

  It becomes necessary for me to make last-minute phone calls to high-level authorities, and to give further explanations, but no one tries to impede the process. Permits such as these take time—usually a very long time—but cooperation is at its best. Future is weak and any delays will certainly cost him his life.

  The Elephant Camp team arrives after a
two-hour drive. The Parks Authority scouts arrive with the transportation crate that will supposedly take a three-year-old elephant.

  ‘Will he fit in there? I don’t think he’s going to fit in there,’ I say, shaking my head.

  We can’t delay now. We need to get down the vlei. Time is running out. With a convoy of helpers in tow, we finally arrive at the place where Jabulani and his team are watching over Future. No one can tell for certain, but we all agree that the crate appears not to be tall enough. There’s a frantic dash back to the maintenance section of the nearest lodge to find a way to cut the top off this sturdy crate.

  I stay on the vlei, concerned that the day is fading fast. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, again and again.

  Finally, the radio call comes in. They are on their way back down the vlei with the modified crate. It is 5.35 p.m. Soon the sun will set. There is no time to lose.

  The darter looks to me for the go-ahead and I nod. He immediately takes aim, with a reduced amount of immobilisation drug. In his weakened state, there’s always a chance that Future will not survive the drug. Soon he is down. He’s even thinner than I’d realised. His skin lacks lustre and his trunk is so tragically short. His breathing and heartbeat are being closely monitored.

  I kneel down beside him, and while gently touching him with my hand, I whisper a quiet prayer to the god of wild things.

  The helpers now move in. A path has to be frantically cleared to where Future is lying in the bush, the truck carrying the crate has to be reversed in, and Future has to be lifted by scores of able-bodied hands onto the back of the truck. And then he has to be pushed into the crate.

  The loading work is successfully completed, but the moon is already shedding light. I look up at little Future, his head well above the top of the crate, thankful for the foresight and assistance of others. I step up onto the back of the truck, place my hand against his shortened nose, and once again I wish him well.

  We head back up the vlei in darkness. Future is to be immediately transported to Victoria Falls. I watch him standing in the crate on the back of the truck, heading out to the main tar road towards his new life.

  My chest is tight with quiet hope.

  When there are no messages I assume that all is okay. I telephone early the next morning from the nearby lodge (as there is still no mobile phone network here) to confirm that Future did indeed survive the night-time journey. Everyone is asking about his welfare. There is jubilation and excitement at the prospect that he will now survive.

  But Future is just too weak. Despite gallant efforts, and a drip to help him regain his strength, Future dies, peacefully and with company, the next evening at 6.30 p.m. A little piece of me dies with him. His mother, Freida, is never seen again.

  We are all desperately sad, but I try to focus on the positives in all of this. Two years ago, I would likely have never been given permission, at least not in such a short timeframe, to do anything to assist. And I may not have found anyone willing to take on the dedicated care of an elephant with such a major injury. Cooperation has improved ten-fold. I will always remember little Future for his part in helping this along.

  WAITING FOR THE RAINS

  2005

  ‘Don’t we lead such different lives!’ I exclaim in an email to my Kiwi friend, Andrea.

  It’s strange that less than ten years ago we led such similar lives. We jetted around the world together making recommendations for major system installations. We travelled first-class, in the air and on the ground, never doing without. Now Andrea is the doting mother of two, living in a sprawling home surrounded by green rolling hills dotted with the inevitable flocks of sheep. She successfully juggles family life and a thriving career, and talks about extraordinary parties and First World fun and adventure.

  An email from Bobby ignites a momentary ache in my chest. She tells me that she and her husband jumped in a plane and flew from the North Island of New Zealand to the South Island—for dinner. Oh, how I dream of enjoying that sort of extravagance again. Once in the 1990s I did a similar thing, and flew from Auckland all the way to New York for dinner. It’s a little different for me these days. For my birthday earlier this year Bobby emailed me and asked, ‘Did you manage a cake? . . . candle? . . . cupcake?’, which made me laugh at her own plummeting expectations of what I might have available to enjoy.

  Mandy has been ending her emails with celebrity and world snippets of news, so that I’m not completely out of touch. Even so I am frequently having to admit that I have no clue who she’s talking about! (Our own Princess Mary of Denmark? Who on earth is Princess Mary?) Feeling well over participating in the bar and club scene, Mandy tells me she’s taken to internet dating to try to find a perfect man. Is that what people do now? I am definitely out of touch, and can’t help but wonder if someone will find her body before they find mine!

  I crawl into my sofa bed on the floor of my rondavel, in a space not much bigger than my walk-in wardrobe used to be, my thoughts with the elephants. I feel a deep contentment—despite the many struggles—that I’ve experienced in no other place. From this landlocked country, though, I do find myself yearning for seashells and children’s sandcastles and flying kites on a beach by a rolling ocean.

  The next morning I untangle myself from my mosquito net, and crawl off my foam mattress onto the cement floor. Although it’s standard practice to hire help here, I do my own washing, gardening, cooking and cleaning so my early morning hours are filled with these chores. By 10 a.m. I’m loading my 4x4, preparing for another day in the field.

  In this year of drought there’s barely any grass, and right now not an animal in sight. I’m driving slowly towards Kanondo pan and am struck by a feeling that I’m driving towards a beach. The ground is an expanse of white, a cooling morning breeze is blowing gently, a few clouds are dulling the sky. There are babblers, but I pretend that they’re seagulls. I fight an overwhelming urge to get out of my vehicle and run, pretending to fly that kite.

  ‘What the hell,’ I say to no one. ‘Why am I fighting it?’ Impulsively, I’m out of my 4x4, doing just that. And it feels good to chase those dreams!

  It’s such a relief to really laugh again. I feel young and carefree. I feel free. I run and run and run, looking over my shoulder and up at my colourful bright kite, floating high in the sky. But I’m much too unfit for this, the possibility of lions a good excuse, I tell myself, for not running too far. My breathing laboured, I laugh some more as I run back to my 4x4, still flying that imaginary kite, hoping there’s nobody in the bushes watching me.

  It was a crazy flight of fancy. But it relieved some of the pent-up frustrations that have been growing inside me since the land invasions began, which have had me feeling more trapped than free, even in these wide open spaces. And if my beach was fantasy, I think to myself, my need to escape the seemingly endless problems is not.

  ‘You really need to get out of the bush more often,’ Shaynie says to me afterwards, trying to visualise me flying that imaginary kite. ‘That can’t have been a pretty sight!’

  At long last the official announcement comes, banning the ex-governor’s family from sport-hunting between the two photographic lodges on the vlei. Minister Francis Nhema is quoted in the press saying, ‘We have banned hunting activities in those areas where we find the Presidential herd of elephants for sanity and order to prevail.’

  Given that he is the very person who carelessly signed off these hunting quotas in the first place, I find his talk of sanity and order a little pitiful. I do, however, allow myself to feel relief, and a little hope that at last we might be able to return to life as it was in the days before the land invasions. It’s doubtful that it will ever again be exactly as it once was though. And I know that the ex-governor’s family will be out to get further revenge, so I’m not exactly filled with joy.

  I do dance around with joy however, whenever I’m able to source a jerry can of fuel.

  ‘Only in Zimbabwe,’ one of my indigenous neighbours named
Busi says to me, ‘can you get that excited about twenty litres of petrol!’

  Busi, intelligent and level-headed, once had me reeling in excitement at her staggering kindness. She unexpectedly gave me a gift that I knew she could not really afford. It was a bracelet of silver: eight exquisite elephants all chained together.

  ‘The perfect gift for Mandlovu,’ she declared.

  With so many people struggling to feed, clothe and school their families, it was an exceptionally generous gesture. So many have relatively little, but what they have, they share.

  I also try to share in different ways, particularly with the children of Main Camp primary school. Photographs are a real novelty for these kids, and some have never even seen a live elephant despite living inside the national park boundary. I want them to learn the importance of protecting their elephants. Every now and then I’ve been spending a couple of hours sharing stories and surplus photos, watching students create their own drawings and tell their own stories. I long for them to have something more—a better quality life, with more positive influences—but I have little spare time and even fewer resources.

  Sometimes, the innocence of childhood speaks volumes. ‘This is my father,’ one little girl says to me, pointing to a bright red stick man that she has drawn, with big blobs of grey elephants all around.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I ask.

  ‘He is poaching,’ she says. And before I have a chance to say anything she adds, ‘I can teach him it is bad.’

  It’s a tragic fact that some national park and safari lodge employees—whose jobs depend on the wildlife—are among those who add to our poaching problems. Indeed, it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that poachers are often related to, or in cohoots with, Parks employees, police or government officials. And sometimes, alas, even with anti-poaching scouts from a privately run team. Of course there are very ethical and dedicated people as well. It’s a tragic fact though, that some of those in trusted, paid positions are the ones I’m now most wary of.