Elephant Dawn Read online

  But there had never been anything special implemented on the ground to give weight to the decree and there’d been no notable government interest in them since early publicity about their naming. The day that Andy first introduced me to some of the Presidential Elephants, he told me the man who’d obtained the decree had already sold up and was gone from the area. No one was currently monitoring these elephants or actively promoting their existence.

  I later learn that numerous people within Zimbabwe believe the notion of this herd to have been little more than a clever publicity stunt that had financially benefited only a handful of people. Others think that these elephants no longer exist; that they’ve been shot out by poachers. Most international tourists, and quite a lot of locals too, have never even heard of them.

  No one knows exactly how many there are. They’re said to currently number around three hundred, but this has to be a stab in the dark at best since all of the family structures are not yet accurately known, although some prior identification work had taken place years earlier. So my planned day-to-day work is to properly understand the social structure, and ultimately the population dynamics, of this particular clan of elephants—by first getting to know them all as individuals as well as members of their cohesive families. The vast Hwange National Park and this adjoining estate are unfenced and so elephants (and other animals) roam freely between the two, simply by walking across the railway line which separates them. This will make figuring out what constitutes a Presidential Elephant family, as opposed to a general national park one, not easy at first.

  Andy had taken me to meet Lionel Reynolds, a conservation-minded man on the ground, who at the time had jurisdiction over this land. After Andy died, my friend Val helped me get back in touch with Lionel, carrying a letter requesting that I be permitted to work on a full-time, voluntary basis with these elephants. I understood that committing anything less than three to five years full-time would be inconsequential. This was approved on the basis that I would be unpaid, and would have to find my own accommodation, and organise and fund everything myself. As we drive past one of the entrances to the Hwange Estate, I can still hardly believe that I’ll be living and working here, among these elephants. It’s such a far cry from information technology.

  My planned work is not revolutionary, although it certainly is an exciting prospect for me: world-renowned and respected pioneers Iain Douglas-Hamilton, Cynthia Moss and Joyce Poole have been living among elephants in East Africa since the 1960s and 70s and all learnt to know their study groups intimately. I’ve been a follower and admirer of their work for years, fantasising that I might one day follow in their footsteps. They’ve already had lifetimes of adventures with elephants, and now here I am to begin my own.

  While I’m certainly inspired by these three elephant pioneers, I have no interest in becoming an academic and working towards a degree—despite knowing that many of these folk with letters after their names contribute enormously to the knowledge pool. But scientific papers often sit in piles gathering dust on high shelves of academic libraries, read by relatively few. Increased public awareness and long-term comprehensive monitoring is what’s really important to these particular elephants right now. My mission is to concentrate on what will benefit them. Unpaid and self-funded, my own reward will be the wellbeing of the elephants themselves.

  I remind myself of Dr Louis Leakey’s early view of Jane Goodall’s work with the chimpanzees of Gombe. What Dr Leakey considered most important was ‘a mind uncluttered and unbiased by theory, a real desire for knowledge and a sympathetic love and understanding of animals’. It’s a view that I share.

  I’m incredibly fortunate to have been given a chance to work with these elephants, who have already been habituated to the presence of people in vehicles. What I want most is for them to be safe and cared for, with access to sufficient water and with help available to deal with the human-inflicted injuries that Andy used to attend to. Over time, I’d love to see them grow to become a true flagship herd for Zimbabwe, to be genuinely well-understood and well-respected around the world.

  IS THAT A DUCK OR A FROG?

  2001

  Dete, a small railway community about 180 kilometres south-east of Victoria Falls, is not your most enticing African township—Zimbabwean author Alexandra Fuller memorably wrote that the word Dete means ‘Narrow Passage: Shithole’—but the Main Camp entrance to Hwange National Park is close by, and that’s why I love this region so much. Val co-owns a small rustic safari lodge in the area and it is in these grounds that I will live.

  Things have changed in the area since I was last here. Several white faces are gone as racial tensions in the country escalate. (Use of the words ‘white’ and ‘black’ is standard practice in Zimbabwe. Although not conventional today elsewhere in the world, it’s the language of President Mugabe, and therefore the usual way to speak of the different races.) Lionel is no longer in Hwange. Andy’s wife, Lol, is gone too, having been required to leave their national parks home.

  What’s more, there’s a saying now that you’re more likely to see an elephant in Zimbabwe than a white person! All around the country people are fleeing the violence and general lawlessness associated with Zimbabwe’s fast-track ‘land reform’ program, in which white-owned farms are being forcibly seized. Whites are literally being thrown off, not only losing their land but their homes and sometimes their farm equipment and furniture too, with no monetary compensation.

  In spite of this havoc, some people are staying put. John, a grey bearded old-timer Zimbabwean, is somebody I already know well. He’s a spider-loving man, always with a knife on his belt, and renowned for once having been caught stark naked on the roof of his dilapidated home, and for having been seriously gored by a buffalo. There’s a waterhole nearby fondly named after him.

  ‘Howzit,’ John exclaims, embracing me with his trademark stiff hug. Without waiting for an answer, he adds: ‘The elephants have been waiting for you.’

  Over the past few years, John and I have shared extraordinary wildlife adventures—with elephants, rhinos, lions and more. Although he’s somewhat of a hermit, I plan to cajole him into getting out and about with me a little more.

  There are also academic researchers in the area who I’ve known for several years. Julia and Marion work with hyenas, and Greg works with painted dogs. Along with Val and John, we were all together at Andy’s funeral.

  As my little thatched-roof cottage is not quite ready for habitation, some of us opt to sleep for a few nights on wildlife viewing platforms inside Hwange National Park. These tall, sturdy, wooden structures overlook busy pans. In wild Africa a pan is so much more than a mere waterhole. It’s an oasis where animals quench their thirst, a place where birdlife abounds. There is always a quiet beauty, a cooling of the air, a magical feeling at sunset and sunrise. Right now, the moon is exquisitely full, a fabulous time to be out with the wildlife. The unmistakeable laugh of hyenas, the deep throaty call of lions, and exhilarating rumbles from elephants are constant companions throughout these nights. The rains are almost over, but the musical voices of throngs of frogs rise from reeds in the pans, some tinkling like wind chimes in the night, others sounding like champagne bubbles bursting.

  I’m now living in Africa, the world’s largest animal sanctuary. I have to constantly pinch myself to test that I’m awake; that it’s really true. All around me, there are sounds that I’m having trouble identifying, despite having visited often. ‘Is that a duck or a frog?’ I ask, bewildered.

  ‘It’s a baboon,’ Julia declares with confidence.

  Well, that was embarrassing. I have plenty to learn. Then I’m confused once again. ‘And that? What is that?’

  ‘It’s a distant train.’ And I realise that, try as one might, it’s never easy to escape all trappings of civilisation.

  In the grounds of Val’s lodge, my cottage renovations are finally complete. But other species have already moved in.

  Coming from Australia, I’m all
too familiar with snakes and spiders. Coming from Australia is perhaps the reason why I loathe snakes and spiders. They’re really the only two ‘bite-y’ things that I’ve grown up with. In Africa they seem to be even more prevalent—and much bigger and more inclined to bite. It’s not long before I discover a Mozambique spitting cobra inside my home. And baboon spiders, the size of . . . well, baboons! Not quite, I must admit, but awfully big and hairy. So, while there are footsteps and all sorts of other sounds around my cottage at night that never seem to quieten, indicating creatures that can quite literally eat you alive, it is the silent snakes and spiders that trouble me the most.

  When John appears at my doorstep one morning I blurt out, ‘Come in, my friend. I still have no furniture, but hey, sit back, relax. Go ahead, pull up a spider!’

  Spider-loving John just chuckles. But he soon redeems himself by helping me sprinkle ash, from nightly campfires, around the perimeter of my cottage. ‘It’s a deterrent against snakes,’ he tells me.

  ‘What about spiders?’ I ask, hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps spiders too,’ he winks.

  I ask John if he’ll help me select a suitable 4x4 to buy. Until I have one of my own, my work with the elephants can’t begin in earnest. I don’t want to spend too much money, since I have no idea, really, how this will all work out for me. I need something cheap, but most importantly it must be reliable. There’s no radio network here, no mobile phone network either, and I’ll be alone in my vehicle most of the time. And living by myself, there’s no guarantee that anyone will notice if I happen not to arrive home one day.

  With Julia in tow, we squeeze into John’s old ute and travel almost three hundred kilometres south-east to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe’s second largest city. It’s a little like a First World country town. Once a handsome city, with wide streets and reasonably modern buildings, it is now grubby and littered with rubbish. Everything looks tired and run down. We are all desperate to get back to the bush as quickly as we can.

  Scouting the second-hand car dealerships, and after much rolling of eyes, I eventually settle on a 1980 Range Rover. This model was manufactured in the same year Zimbabwe gained independence from Britain, and so is as old as the country itself. It costs me only a few thousand dollars, and although it’s going to be a gas-guzzler, fuel is currently subsidised by the government and with my foreign currency is cheap to buy. It is a permanent four-wheel drive with a black leather roof I can slide back, enabling me to stand up through the top when out among the elephants. It’s hardly reminiscent of the shiny red MX5 convertible I used to drive Down Under, but John is convinced that, after a bit of work, it will be a dependable vehicle. Given that he drives an ancient Isuzu that’s often off the road, I’m not sure I should trust his idea of dependable, but I take a chance and celebrate by buying some second-hand furniture at an auction house. Because so many people, both white and black, are fleeing the country, bargains are easy to find. I also buy myself a miniature fridge and some kitchen, bedroom and bathroom necessities.

  John is determined to ensure that I never get stuck alone in the bush, and so once we’re back in Hwange he instructs me in the art of tyre changing and the use of a high-lift jack. He makes me take off a tyre, and put it back on. Over and over and over again.

  ‘This contraption could knock your head off,’ I cry.

  ‘That’s why you’ll do it again, to be very sure you know exactly how to handle it,’ John insists.

  I would desperately love to call roadside assistance, but that is out of the question. I don’t think there’s even such a thing in the cities, let alone here in the bush. So I huff and puff with the heavy tyres and a hollow metal pipe that John bequeaths me to help loosen tight wheel nuts.

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t be so tight if you’d stop tightening them so much behind my back,’ I whine. I should have kept my mouth shut. John picks up the wheel spanner and makes the nuts on the next wheel really, really, really tight. By now I’m laughing so much I can barely even lift a tyre.

  ‘Do it again,’ John commands.

  There are long Acacia erioloba thorns everywhere in the bush, and frequently hidden in elephant dung too, so I know that I’ll have to be able to cope with endless flat tyres. Right now though, all I really know for certain is why that buffalo gored this man. If I had horns, I’d be tempted to do the same.

  ‘Come on, John! Let’s go,’ I shout. ‘I need you to show me some of the bush roads.’ With permission to ignore the no entry signs, we drive into the estate in my Range Rover with the top open, delighting in a deep sense of freedom. ‘Yesss!’ I yell, punching the air, while John chuckles beside me, sharing in my excitement.

  My work with elephants has begun.

  ELEPHANT RUMBLES

  2001

  ‘I have absolutely no idea where I am,’ I admit, rather sheepishly.

  We’re on the estate, at a fork in a sandy road. ‘It’s time to head back home,’ John declares. ‘Are you going to turn left or right?’

  I seriously have no idea. ‘Right,’ I say, hesitantly, while peering at him out of the corner of my eye for some hint as to whether or not I’m heading in the correct direction—but he just lets me turn that way, without a twitch or a word.

  And now I am completely lost. I have no idea if the tyre tread on the track in front of me belongs to my vehicle or another, but I fear that I’ve not been here before. All of the bushes along the roadside look exactly alike.

  ‘Getting lost is the best way for you to learn,’ John eventually announces, after I’ve driven around aimlessly for a further 10 minutes. I glance over at him, and feel a sudden urge to find a buffalo . . .

  I’m already well aware of my feeble sense of direction. While on a three-month stint surveying a remote uninhabited island in Lake Victoria, Uganda, in 1997 (in preparation for the release of captive and abused chimpanzees), I became renowned for repeatedly getting lost, despite carrying a compass. Even so, I feel a sudden need to defend myself. ‘I don’t always want to know where I’m going anyway,’ I declare.

  A few days later John agrees to come out with me again. I have admitted to him that I’m having difficulty telling male and female elephants apart. ‘Oh, really?’ John is clearly surprised. ‘A male elephant’s pecker can be well over one metre long. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Until you know what you’re looking for, it can indeed be challenging. Big males often wander alone, or with other big males, so that makes them pretty simple to identify and sex correctly. And if they appear five-legged I can be very sure! Those who are leading family groups will be female, so that’s not too difficult either. But the smaller fellas all look the same. We laugh at ourselves after having recorded one as being female, only to later watch ‘her’ pee.

  It’s not easy, either, working out all of the mother–calf relationships. The link between a mother and her youngest calf seems simple enough, since the youngest never wanders far from mum. That’s until I notice one with a ripped ear, easily identifiable, now suckling from a different female than it was before. ‘Okay, so this isn’t going to be as easy as I first thought,’ I lament to John. But he barely hears me. He’s staring at the genitals of the largest land mammals on earth. Of those huge males, I suspect, he’s a tad envious.

  By day’s end, the only elephants we’ve seen mounting each other are male; teenage male on male. ‘Imagine that,’ John utters with a smirk. ‘Our president is one of the most notoriously homophobic people in the world. He’d have a heart attack if he saw that going on in his herd.’

  John is fascinated by all things wild. ‘So, do you see different animals together like this in Australia?’ he asks. At that moment we’re surrounded by elephants, giraffes, zebras, impalas, kudus, waterbucks, warthogs and jackals.

  ‘I lived most of my life in the cities,’ I reflect. ‘The only time I saw koalas, kangaroos, wombats and the like was in captivity—or dead on the side of the road.’ Then, looking around at the gathering of animals on all sides of us,
I say, ‘There are stunningly beautiful places in Australia, but you don’t see sights like this.’ And I’m reminded again that I am, indeed, somewhere very different.

  Four years earlier, John had been involved in a project that I participated in for a few weeks, investigating the role of elephants in dispersing seeds inside Hwange National Park. One day we’d painstakingly counted an astonishing 5689 Acacia erioloba seeds in just one dung pile. Another day we came across a bull elephant, who’d recently feasted on the sweet fruit of a manketti tree, busily defecating. He’d swallowed the nut-like seeds inside the fruit whole, and their hard woody shell ensured they remained untouched by his digestive system, passing through him completely intact. We dutifully collected them. The next day we enjoyed freshly baked ‘manketti nut cake’, the key ingredient of which came out of a pile of pachyderm poo.

  In the days and months ahead, I spend countless hours working on an elephant identification library. Without the luxury of a digital camera, I have hundreds and hundreds of rolls of film developed in Bulawayo. Making sense of thousands of notations and photographs is a time-consuming task, to say the least, but it’s worthwhile when I no longer see a photograph of an elephant, but rather now see a photograph of a particular elephant.

  I study the tusks. Is the elephant left or right-tusked? Just as we are left or right-handed, elephants also favour the use of one tusk. This master tusk becomes more worn, often shorter than the other, with a groove in its tip where the constant action of pulling branches across it wears a furrow in the ivory. I look at the length and circumference of these oversized incisor teeth, marvelling at this quirk of nature. I also study the elephants’ massive ears, noting all of the holes, the nicks and the rips. Even more than the tusks, the ears of the adults are uniquely identifiable. Or at least they’re supposed to be. I roll my eyes at those elephants who seem to have walked into the same thorny bush, sustaining almost identical ear injuries, and at those who don’t have any injuries at all.