Elephant Dawn Read online

  I organise my photographs into family groups. Who are the great matriarchs? Who belongs to which family? Who is the mother of whom? Who is a sister? Brother? Aunt? Grandmother? In order to be able to understand their social structure and population dynamics, I need to get to know the elephants both individually and in a family context, before ultimately recording such things as births, deaths, oestrus and musth periods (when females and males respectively are in heat), matings, calving intervals and sex ratios. All of these are important inputs to understanding what is really going on within an elephant family.

  To aid identification, I use the same naming convention that was devised in East Africa: I assign a specific letter to each family group and then give each elephant in the family a name beginning with that letter. There is the L family, for example. I name the matriarch of this family Lady, and I dig out my baby names book and assign L names to all of her family members. So now there’s Leanne, Lucky, Louise, Leroy, Lesley, Levi, Loopy and others.

  My data collection becomes increasingly meaningful as I become more and more familiar with the elephant families. I note changes in group size and composition, and I construct family trees. I become familiar with individual interactions, both within the family groups and between different families. There’s an awful lot to learn and understand, so I dedicate eight hours to field work each day, and work on photographs and notes long into the night.

  The elephants fast become like family to me. I look forward to encountering them on the estate and am thrilled when I easily recognise members of a particular family. They’re no longer just great lumps of endearing grey. They’re individuals as well as members of close-knit families—and I look forward, in time, to getting to know them intimately. Curious, they move close to my 4x4. Rarely threatening in any way, they simply wander casually by. I revel in my close-up view of their finer details—eyelashes to die for, a hairy lower lip that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy and huge tough-looking toenails. Some of them pass by close enough for me to count tail hairs.

  At times, though, they get a little too close for comfort. When one cheeky teenager momentarily puts his huge foot on my front bumper, John urges me to put my foot on the accelerator and get out of there. But in fact, as I learn in due course, this elephant was just being friendly.

  I become fascinated with elephant language. Through a symphony of rumbles elephants greet, call, comfort, coordinate and converse. There are long soft rumbles, loud throaty rumbles, slow deep rumbles, low purring rumbles, short gurgling rumbles—and these are just the ones that are audible to my ears. Many, I know from studies undertaken in Kenya, are below the level of human hearing. This infrasound ability is so effective they can communicate with each other over distances as great as 10 kilometres. I get a kick out of the discovery that female elephants use many more and varied vocalisations than males do. So, it seems the ladies like to natter! And even more typical, the males are known to talk primarily of supremacy and sex.

  Not all elephant noises indicate a conversation in progress, mind you. ‘Was that an elephant rumble?’ I’m asked one day.

  ‘Actually that was elephant flatulence,’ I reply.

  Just like any toddler, baby elephants seek constant attention. And like human families, close bonds between family members are strikingly evident. Resorting to a temper tantrum when his mother doesn’t stand still long enough to allow him to suckle, a young elephant screams in protest. I find it incredible that one so comparatively small can make so much noise. His chilling high-pitched scream has the desired effect, stopping his mother in her tracks. Another youngster, standing alone, bellows a call of distress. He has lost his mother—or at least he believes he has. He bellows relentlessly; a loud, harsh call that echoes around the veld. The calf’s mother runs towards him and upon reaching him, wraps her trunk around his belly, caressing and comforting.

  One day I’m observing a small family group when two more families arrive, and soon there are over fifty elephants surrounding me. Everything is peaceful until a dominant bull approaches, his rumbles audible. Excited by his arrival, the members of the family groups jostle. One huge female finds herself pushed up against the side of my 4x4, which I’d stupidly parked on a slight incline.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I mumble in fright, as several tonnes of elephant threaten to topple my vehicle. Thankfully, she manages to regain her balance and right herself pretty quickly, leaving three small dents and no side mirror as a lasting reminder of this memorable day.

  The elephants love to play in the deep excavations that they make while seeking minerals in the open calcrete areas. Using their tusks—heads deep in the excavations and huge bums in the air—the adult elephants break off large chunks of salty earth, which then crumble to the ground. The youngsters steal what they can. It certainly doesn’t look particularly appetising, but for the elephants—and indeed for pregnant local women who often crave it as a calcium and potassium packed dietary supplement—these chunks of sand are clearly a special treat.

  Sitting on the rooftop of my 4x4 as the twilight deepens, I watch the elephants disappear into darkness. For a short time, before the moon and stars shed enough light, I’m unable to see anything around me. During these moments I’m intensely aware of the sound of leather against bark as the elephants scratch themselves against tree trunks, and the gasp of mineral dust being inhaled. Playful screams echo in the still night. When the moon is full it rises like a gigantic single hot coal, resplendent in the night sky, fully illuminating the elephant families surrounding me.

  I’m out in the field doing what I love most—unravelling the secret lives of the Presidential Elephants of Zimbabwe.

  CUTTING THE WIRE

  2001

  ‘Stop! I want to check this herd of zebras for snares,’ John demands, bringing a pair of binoculars to his face. I do as I’m told, but I actually wonder if he’s showing off a bit in front of me. Is it really necessary to check every single animal for a snare? These are wire trapping devices set by both commercial and subsistence poachers. They consist of a noose, often with the wire twisted into multiple strands for strength, and are set in the bush at variable heights depending on what type of animal the poacher is trying to catch. Trapped animals sometimes escape from them, often seriously injured with the strangling wire embedded in a part of their body.

  It doesn’t take long for me to understand that John is entirely correct. There are all sorts of animals, elephants included, walking around with wire snare injuries that will eventually kill them if nothing is done. Although snares aren’t usually set with the intention of catching an elephant, they walk into these traps nonetheless.

  And it turns out that I’m the first person in years to dedicate entire days, every day, to observing the wildlife on this land. I see first-hand that poaching is on the increase in Zimbabwe and animals are suffering. Of course there are the safari guides who drive tourists around for a couple of hours every day. However their focus is understandably on the beauty and wonder and they tend to spend only a minute or two with a group of animals before moving off to find their next great sighting. Now, with Zimbabwe in such decline, there are fewer game-drive vehicles around and therefore even fewer eyes than there would normally be in the field. Parks personnel concentrate their efforts inside the national park and rarely venture here.

  Thankfully, just like Andy before them, there are a few trained and licenced men around who I can call in to ‘dart’—that is, to immobilise the animal with a tranquiliser dart fired from a rifle, remove the wire and treat the wound. Before I left Australia, I helped secure a dart rifle for one of them. But without radio or mobile phone contact, I need to leave the injured animal temporarily, race to find the closest landline, and hope the animal is still there when I return. It’s certainly not ideal, but this is the only way we can work for now. John, Val and I attend various snare removals together. We’re all keen to help, and to learn more.

  I sight a zebra with a wire clearly visible around her
neck. Thankfully it hasn’t yet cut into her skin, but it needs to be removed since it could easily tighten further. As soon as she’s darted, she gallops off. We drive off too, through thick bush, searching for her. She has collapsed with her head caught in the fork of a small tree. She hasn’t hurt herself however, and within seconds of the wire being cut she bolts off at high speed, now freed from the deadly trap.

  An adult sable bull, noble with massive curved horns, is suffering the debilitating effect of a tight wire snare around his leg. He also flees into dense bush immediately after the dart hits his rump. This time, it’s not possible to drive in after him, leaving us with no choice but to walk into the thick bush, relying on the impressive skills of an indigenous tracker. The ground is hard in places, and covered with leaf litter, yet the tracker expertly follows the indistinct spoor (footprints) and manages to locate the sable. It takes time however and the drug is already wearing off. Three men are needed to hold the sable down while a top-up is administered. The tight wire around his leg is then successfully removed and another animal is spared what could have become a protracted and painful death.

  Darting can be a risky business, as I come to know personally. A heavily pregnant zebra is successfully immobilised and her deadly snare removed, however she gets to her feet before all the reversal drug is administered and starts to gallop away. With a high chance that she will relapse into immobility, which would leave her vulnerable to lions, it’s decided to dart her again with the remainder of the reversal drug, using a non-barbed dart this time. The drug will automatically inject on contact with her body and the dart will fall to the ground. There’ll be no requirement to pull it from her rump, avoiding more distressing human contact. But something goes wrong. The dart is prepared as usual but by pure mischance it explodes and the liquid drug sprays all over us.

  ‘Oh shit!’ we gasp in unison.

  We are lucky. Had it been the immobilisation drug in that dart rather than the reversal drug, our lives would have immediately hung in the balance. Without the antidote, death is only minutes away if the immobilisation drug is absorbed into the human body via cuts on the skin. The antidote is always kept close at hand, and we all know how to use it, however it’s a frightening reminder of the deadly risks involved in saving an animal’s life. Another non-barbed dart filled with the reversal drug soon hits the zebra, and all is well.

  Not all hazards associated with snare removal are quite so life threatening. Holding no grudges following his serious goring years earlier, John takes off his shirt and places it over the head of a sedated buffalo to protect the animal’s eyes from the glaring sun while its snare is being removed. The snare is soon off and the fearsome buffalo is up and running into the bush quicker than expected, shirt around his horns. John pats the pockets of his shorts. And panics. His house keys are in that shirt! The benevolent buffalo soon tosses the shirt off and we all chuckle with relief.

  Human-inflicted suffering continues. Early one morning I’m driving with Julia on the main tar road when we come upon a painted hunting dog by the roadside. Considered vermin by some, they’re one of the most endangered animals in Africa, their patterned coats and white tips of their tails a sight to behold. This particular dog had been hit by a vehicle and although we didn’t know it for certain then, it had a severed spine. From a nearby lodge we get hold of an animal rescue team. They respond quickly. A blanket is thrown over the dog and it is carefully placed into the back of a vehicle. A drip is attached and it is driven the three long hours to a vet in Bulawayo. But the journey is in vain. We tried to undo the damage humans had caused but there was nothing that could be done to save this dog’s life.

  I have seen life-threatening snares around the trunks and legs of female elephants, but nobody is yet game to dart within an elephant family. The risk of attack by protective family members is considered high. As I get to know the elephants, their family structures, their personalities, and their rank within the family, I’m confident that, with this increased background knowledge, the risks can be minimised. For now though, only lone bull elephants are darted.

  I’m already making plans to help support a dedicated anti-poaching cum snare destruction team for the Hwange Estate. These men will be employed, paid and fed by a nearby photographic safari company, which has compassionately agreed to assist. It will be my task to elicit donations of overalls, boots, hats, jackets, warm jumpers, tents, bedrolls, sleeping bags, water bottles and the like. I will also help to deploy the team into the field, in the areas where the Presidential Elephants roam. These men will not only destroy all wire snares that they come across, they will sit in ambush near trap lines, capturing poachers to hand over to the local police. It is, after all, illegal to set a snare in Zimbabwe. Or at least it’s supposed to be.

  I feel a deep sense of satisfaction being able to help in this way. It won’t be easy, though, to get the support we need. President Mugabe’s wildlife minister is Comrade (a wartime title that the Ruling Party still love to use) Francis Nhema. He makes it clear that we must not speak publicly about any snaring or other poaching problems. He fears that any public reports will discredit his government’s land reform program. And in this country, if you speak out, it’s at your own peril.

  RHINO SCARS

  2001

  Around the country, white farmers and their workers continue to be intimidated, tied up, abducted, tortured and murdered as the land reform program continues. The offending mobs are said to be government paid rent-a-thugs, frequently numbering several hundred travelling together. They use pangas (machetes), knobkerries (clubs), rocks, sticks, bricks, axes and iron bars when confronting farmers and their families at their homes. Some have guns. They scream and shout, ‘Hondo! Hondo!’ (‘War! War!’)

  In 2000, when the fast-track land reform program began, approximately 4500 white farmers owned close to 70 per cent of Zimbabwe’s prime agricultural land. Furthermore, whites made up less than 1 per cent of the 12.5 million population. Land reform was therefore widely applauded. The way it is being implemented by President Robert Mugabe’s ZANU-PF (Zimbabwe African National Union, Patriotic Front) is, however, widely condemned.

  In all the chaos, photographic safari lodges around the country are now being threatened with take-over too, even though they are not on agricultural land. Lawlessness is escalating.

  The locals call this madness jambanja. One day, when I take the opportunity to ask a man on the streets of Bulawayo what jambanja means, he replies shyly: ‘It’s a place you go to cause war . . . it is a very bad thing.’ The police rarely intervene, as the invasions are deemed ‘political’. Kidnappings and torture of farmers and their workers are alarmingly referred to as ‘re-education’. The government is forcibly removing the white farmers and their trained workers without even giving them a chance to pass on their skills to the new black land claimants. It becomes increasingly clear that the aim is to merely boost the individual power and land wealth of Ruling Party officials and their supporters, at the cost of continuing any sort of productive farming.

  With no television, radio or internet access, I don’t hear much about all of this violence, and am happy to be able to bury my head in the sand most of the time and simply get on with things. Like most whites, though, I have several jerrycans of fuel stowed (I have no choice but to store mine inside my cottage) as well as a ‘gap bag’, which is packed with my passport and other important documents, some cash, a change of clothes and a few other essentials. We have all discussed a plan, and know which way we will drive together if we need to ‘gap it’ and get ourselves out of the country in a hurry. I am also registered with the Australian Embassy in Harare, which issues email bulletins with need-to-know information and warnings.

  I’m more worried about losing my support network after it becomes clear that Val still plans to leave the country. She has a two-year-old son to think about. And even John is now feeling he may be forced to leave as well, his Zimbabwean pension worth a pittance with the Zimbabwe dollar
devaluing. John’s wife, Del, is entitled to a South African pension and they may find themselves with no choice but to move across the border in order to survive.

  Despite all of this, we still manage to share some wonderful times. When I’m not in the field, finding relief under the calming influence of the elephants, I’m pleased to have an added night-time diversion. Val is an accomplished singer and loves to play guitar, as does John. We have sing-alongs in my cottage, and around campfires. We share stories, so many stories. We are each other’s company, something that we take great pleasure in.

  I frequently think back to the days when Andy was alive. Without him I might never have found the courage to take the giant leap into this new life. John and I had flown together with Andy in the National Parks helicopter in which he died. Both of us knew him to have been a particularly cautious pilot, always double- and triple-checking everything before takeoff. I’m always nervous in light aircraft, but Andy made me feel like there was absolutely nothing to fear. John and I have never quite believed he ran out of fuel, as the accident report declared, and have our own thoughts and suspicions about what might have happened. We prefer, though, to reflect on the happy times.

  The story of the lion cub relocation is one that John loves to hear, especially since he was supposed to be with us on that day. He’d pulled out at the last minute—ever the hermit—to stay home alone.

  It was only Andy, Lol and I together inside Hwange National Park. I was once again on holidays, in between IT contracts, and took every opportunity on offer to spend time with them. On this particular day, Andy was simply planning to do a few routine patrols inside the park.