Elephant Dawn Page 7

  There’s been an adult elephant with an oversized snare wrapped around his chest sighted only once. Two zebras, six buffaloes, and six sables were all found too late. All of them had been snared; all of them are dead. And another elephant has been found shot dead. Time and again I wonder where it will all end. I can’t bring myself to think about how many years this has been going on, mostly unnoticed. It surely didn’t start in earnest the moment that I arrived, yet the darters are only now run off their feet.

  The loading of a rifle is a sound that I don’t particularly like but there are dangerous animals out there, and dangerous people. It’s a necessary precaution when searching for poachers. I walk into the bush with two armed men, after discovering human footprints that I can’t identify.

  We stop abruptly. Branches chopped off a tree signal that all is not right. A few metres away we see crossbeams, set high in a tree. It’s a structure used for drying meat. The long horns of a sable, impressive no longer, are aloft in the branches. The sable’s disembodied head is on the ground. We spot a yellow-billed kite in the sky above. Kites discover fresh meat before the vultures. We inch forwards, until it’s clear that we are alone. Further on, a buffalo lies dead. Across the sandy road the poachers have boldly set up camp, leaving behind them a plastic mealie meal bag on the ground, ashes from a recent campfire, and more structures for drying meat. There is a zebra skin, and another buffalo skin.

  Forewarned perhaps, the poachers have fled.

  Fresh spoor around broken snare lines is disturbing proof that elephants have recently encountered these death traps. I fight an overwhelming urge to somehow be able to take the snare off the leg of the innocent giraffe that I sighted a few days ago, and wrap it tight—tighter—around the legs of these poachers, leaving it there to fester and debilitate, day after day. Would this be punishment enough, I wonder? My blood continues to boil.

  Elsewhere, Jabulani and his anti-poaching team have been sitting quietly in ambush for days, waiting for someone to return to the snares that they’ve expertly uncovered. This time someone does return, and the team captures him. This poacher is old, short and extremely thin. He has no teeth, at least not in the front of his mouth. His grubby long trousers hang to his ankles, bare hardened feet poking out from beneath.

  At first the old man professes his innocence and refuses to talk. But a few less than subtle intimations change his mind, and now he is ready, he says, to talk to the police. It is late by the time we escort him to the police station, and so it will be morning before he will be questioned.

  After a night in jail though, he has once again changed his mind. Now he is innocent, he says. Nevertheless, under the escort of two policemen we tramp back into the bush. Warnings to him are becoming increasingly pointed, as patience wears thin. One of the policemen gives him a clip across the back of the head.

  Eventually he cooperates, leading us to more of his snares set for guinea fowl and antelope, and under order, destroys every one. Fresh duiker spoor surrounds one of his traps, yet he seems undaunted that he very nearly had another fresh kill, right in front of the police. He admits to having snared larger antelope too—buffalo and sable—sometimes leaving their skins and horns behind in the bush. Sable meat, he finally tells us, is drying in his house right now.

  We drive to a small mud shack not far off the tarred road. The tiniest, oddest looking wee dog runs around and wags its tail. A bigger dog is skeletal, with skin clinging tightly to clearly visible ribs. Inside the dark hut I’m overwhelmed by the stench of death. Fly-covered meat hangs from the roof, close to the poacher’s ruffled bed. I quickly retreat outside, in need of fresh air.

  The poacher hands over the lower legs of the recently poached sable. Then, while still being interrogated by the police, he casually bends down and brazenly gives the smallest dog some of the dried poached meat.

  He had once been a lorry driver, he tells us. He’s now divorced and unemployed. He has been poaching regularly for the past two years. The meat, he says, is sold and bartered in his village. His story changes often as he tells it. Clearly he has accomplices and knows of other teams of poachers but he will not rat on his mates.

  ‘I can set snares up to pole 138,’ he boasts. I shudder. The poachers have given the telegraph poles numbers; poles that I pass every day. Like lions, they have their own territories to hunt within.

  While the police search other huts I sit and wait in the 4x4, looking at, and really seeing, the poverty that surrounds me. The gaunt-looking poacher walks, scruffy and barefoot, into his mud hut, reappearing with a handful of wild berries. He gums on them loudly as I watch him walk towards me. He holds out his hand, this desperately poor man with no teeth, and offers me some of his berries. Wearily, I close my eyes. And very slowly shake my head.

  We drive back to the police station. The poacher is now wearing a dirty old pair of shoes with holes at the toes, and I find myself surprised that he actually owns any footwear at all. More than anything else, I am just taken aback. After leaving him in the hands of the police, I drive out into the field with my head spinning. I’m having difficulty reconciling the events of the morning.

  There is little doubt, I remind myself, that this poacher has illegally killed and maimed probably hundreds of animals. Over thirty of his snares were destroyed just this morning. He’s been stopped, at least for now. And there are many other poachers out there who are simply greedy, more so than poor.

  I think of Limp, and I can see it all clearly once again. A snare set for a small antelope can rip off an elephant’s trunk. A snare set for a larger antelope can horribly maim, and indeed kill, an elephant. It’s an irrefutable fact that snares are despicably cruel, and deadly, to all who encounter them. I’m convinced that handing poachers—all types of poachers—over to the police is the right thing to do.

  The animals have few friends, I remind myself. I know that we must continue to ensure that snares are destroyed, and that poachers are arrested. It’s also glaringly obvious to me now that there are other fundamental problems that someone, somehow, somewhere, must strive to solve in this country where many of the Ruling Party elite, and indeed some of the safari operators in the area, are very wealthy. Such imbalances are disconcerting.

  Of course it’s not the only disconcerting thing going on in the world. In October I hear the news that 88 Australians and far too many other tourists have been killed in bombings in Bali. I am horrified and saddened, and struggle to comprehend the level of terrorism that has taken hold around the world since my move to Africa. Things in Zimbabwe are bad, but I’m not aware of a targeted attack on tourists here since 1982 (just two years after Independence), when six foreign visitors were kidnapped at gunpoint, seized as political hostages, as they travelled between Victoria Falls and Bulawayo, and later murdered. These days, they mostly target their own people.

  Everywhere, it seems, innocent souls suffer at the hands of others.

  IN THE BUSH

  2002

  When I’m alone with the elephants, and there are no strange sounds and smells to distract them, I feel the ties between us growing. I don’t force myself among them. I simply park in one spot, sit on my roof, and let them come to me. More and more often, as the months pass, they choose to congregate just a few metres away. And they now stay for longer periods of time, as I talk and sing to them, which they appear to find soothing and seem to genuinely enjoy. They stand quietly, opening and closing their eyes very slowly, in pure pachyderm pleasure. It is these times—when there’s not a snare in sight—that refill my soul with joy and peace.

  My connection with Lady in particular continues to intensify, as I doggedly search for her family, daily, in order to check on Limp. Despite the heartache of seeing his dreadful injury, there is relief in knowing that his leg is gradually healing. This L family in particular is teaching me so much about elephant bonds and relationships, about elephant joy and sadness. All four adult females happily suckle their youngest calves only a few metres away from me. So
me days, when the world around me seems so screwed up, I find myself sitting with them for several hours. Some days I choose not to even open a notebook.

  Sometimes I sleep out on the back seat of my 4x4 around a pan with my roof open wide. Brimming with contentment at these times, I might see a grey heron, silhouetted against a deep yellow sky, fly off into the night. The light evening breezes create ripples on the glassy surface of the water, which shimmers in the moonlight. As I lie on my back seat I frequently hear waterbucks enjoying their dinner of reeds, and the soothing rumbles of elephants. Fireflies dance with dreams and desires, extending an invitation to follow their light. If I was able to follow, I think to myself, I might arrive at some magical place. But I stay where I am. I’m already at a magical place.

  Anything a little out of the ordinary, these days, is a welcome distraction from the poaching. A solar eclipse a few weeks before Christmas brings an opportunity for another break from it all, and a chance to rejuvenate my soul. But I choose to forgo driving one hundred kilometres deep into Hwange National Park with Julia, Greg and others. Instead I hope that my friends, leathered and feathered, will join me for a partial eclipse on the Hwange Estate. Sometimes now, just hanging out with the elephants, rather than with people, is all that I want to do.

  By 8 a.m. daylight is fading. More than 50 elephants are unexpectedly around the pan where I’m parked. This is unusual for early in the morning, and I whisper a thank you. As the light diminishes and begins to resemble sunset, the elephants appear completely bewildered. I watch their confusion. There is an eerie silence. They bunch together and take on an almost purple glow. They move their heads from side to side, trying to make sense of this strange phenomenon, but make no audible sound. I realise that the loudest sound I can hear is the excited thumping of my own heart.

  Through protective eye-wear I can see the almost total blackout of the sun; just a bright thin crescent remains visible. I wish that I had another two sets of eyes. I want to watch the elephants. I want to watch the sun. I want to watch the pair of saddlebill storks. I want to watch the zebras, waterbucks, kudus, sables and impalas; with their noiseless hooves I’d forgotten they were even here.

  ‘Far out, this is absolutely incredible!’ I say to myself, utterly mesmerised by it all. It all feels strangely dreamlike.

  As incredible as I think this all is, many of my indigenous companions have made it clear to me that they believe a solar eclipse to be a sign of evil things in store; a dire warning that bad will now overtake the good for many years to come. I dismiss this notion without a second thought, rolling my eyes at the superstitions. But perhaps they know something that I do not. I have, since then, learnt not to be so insensitive towards the beliefs of others.

  At the close of 2002, I choose to spend Christmas alone, searching for the seventeenth snared elephant I have sighted. I simply can’t bring myself to join Julia and Carol in Harare for Christmas celebrations. I decide that I need to stay in the bush with the elephants.

  I think about the joyous Christmas celebrations that must be going on elsewhere. I think about my family in Queensland. I think about my friends from my Ernst & Young days, who still get together—Anne, Sue and Susan—and our memorable parties, frequent bouts of laughter and scrumptious Mexican dinners. I think about my Air New Zealand friends in Auckland—Andrea, Bobby and Eileen—who watched, a little dumbfounded, as I fell in love with the African wilderness. In a box in a storeroom in Australia I have exquisite Christmas decorations, collected from all around the world, that I know Andrea would love for herself. And I wonder if Bobby is still pondering how I could possibly survive in the bush without a hairdryer. I think of Mandy in Melbourne, who I met on the seminar in the Dandenong Ranges. A talented singer–songwriter, she sends me tapes full of carefully selected music to enjoy. One song is ‘Born to Try’ by Delta Goodrem, which she says reminds her of me. Maybe this is so, but in truth it can all sometimes be intensely trying.

  But do I want to be in Australia right now? No, I really don’t. I want to be right here. With such clarity I can see that this is what matters most to me: being here, doing what I can to help the elephants. I now see, hear and feel everything so intensely. It’s an electrifying, albeit heart-rending, way to live. As I pop open a bottle of bubbles, I am grateful. I wish my elephant friends peace and goodwill.

  It is a sad end to the year. John is in the final stages of leaving Hwange forever and I wonder who will be next.

  Perhaps he is better off away from it all. Earlier this year, images of the bloodied bedspread-covered body of white farmer, Terry Ford, had made headlines around the world. This 55-year-old had been bound to a tree on his farm by government-sanctioned land invaders, and shot in the head. For hours, his loyal Jack Russell terrier named Squeak remained curled up by his side, refusing to leave. These images are difficult to get out of my mind, even at Christmas. And they are increasingly impossible to ignore.

  It hits home even harder when people you know are threatened. My friends Denzil and Shirley have been heckled, humiliated and mentally tortured this year. They are kind, animal-loving folk who are second-generation Zimbabwean. Their youngest family members are fourth generation.

  ‘We were frog-marched to a place on our farm. There we were made to raise our right arm and clench our fist, mimicking the president, and ordered to chant slogans for hours,’ Denzil tells me. ‘Up with Mugabe, down with Tsvangirai.’

  Morgan Tsvangirai is the leader of the only viable opposition, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). A raised clenched fist is the Ruling Party’s official symbol of black empowerment. Conversely, a raised open palm is the symbol of the MDC. So you can’t even wave in this place without being accused—and possibly arrested—for being an Opposition party supporter. You can also be arrested for criticising the president, even in private conversations if you happen to be overheard, since saying anything to insult or undermine the president or his office is a criminal offence.

  ‘We were made to chant all sorts of other anti-Opposition slogans too, and phrases like “Down with the whites, Land for the people”,’ Denzil recollects with a disturbing re-enactment. ‘And when we didn’t do it properly, we were made to do it again, and again. Then we were ordered to pack our suitcases and leave within the hour. “You are Opposition party supporters. You must leave immediately. This is our house now. This is our farm”, the invaders bellowed at us, waving their axes around.’

  There is nothing right or fair about how these land grabs are being handled, and by extension, they have a damaging impact on my attempts to positively promote Zimbabwe’s flagship herd, which bears the president’s identity. I’m alarmed by some of the realities, no matter how much I try to bury my head in the Kalahari sand.

  When Denzil and Shirley purchased their land, well after Independence, it had been derelict, but with a lot of hard work and capital investment they’d turned the farm around. They built huge dams, and grew tobacco, maize, wheat, barley and roses, and bred cows, sheep and chickens. On their 4500 acres they employed close to 400 black workers. All in all, up to 700 people lived comfortably on this revived stretch of land. Housing was provided for the workers and their families in several well-maintained compounds across the farm, each house with its own toilet, water and electricity—luxuries that few of the rural folk living in this country’s communal lands could ever hope for.

  And Denzil and Shirley did much more. They paid the school fees so that all of the children who lived on the farm could be educated. They provided a free clinic, staffed by a nurse’s aide, and supplied transportation to hospital whenever it was required. They built a crèche and a playground for the younger kids, and regularly handed out gifts of clothing. There was a trading store, which sold basic commodities like bread, mealie meal, dried fish, meat and milk. There was also a recreational beer hall with an entertainment area and a television and radio. They took pride in looking after their staff well.

  Wandering around the farm, some of the unruly m
ob of youths and war veterans found a metal box, about six feet long—the outline and shape perfect for a coffin. It was in fact an old tobacco barn roof ventilator. In paint on each side of this makeshift coffin, they printed Denzil’s name. He was forced to drive, excruciatingly slowly, behind his own coffin, as the pallbearers made their way up a road. Symbolic graves and coffins weren’t unheard of, not that this made it any less terrifying for Denzil and Shirley.

  This sort of thing was happening around the country with the blessing, and indeed the encouragement, of the president and his Ruling Party elite.

  As 2003 approaches, I can only hope that the New Year turns out to be a better one for everybody. What is happening to this country is tragic. And I’m resigned to the fact that John will be better off elsewhere.

  I think of the words of a poem by A. E. Housman I once learnt:

  With rue my heart is laden,

  for golden friends I had,

  for many a rose-lipped maiden,

  and many a light-foot lad.

  Times change. Andy is dead. Other friends are gone. Friends and wildlife suffer. It is this increasingly troubled nation that I have chosen to call home. I escape into the past, and raise my glass in a melancholy toast, ‘To rose-lipped maidens and light-foot lads.’

  When I was a visitor, I used to favour Zimbabwe’s April to October dry season, when animals in need of water are forced to congregate around the open pan areas and are therefore easier to spot. Now that I live here, and better understand how harsh the dry season can be for the wildlife, it’s the wet season that I long for most. And it is finally here. Those who visit only in the dry often leave with the mistaken belief that the Hwange veld is perpetually grim, drab and hostile, looking unlikely to ever recover. But it always flourishes with the rains.