The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild (26 page)

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Authors: Lawrence Anthony,Graham Spence

BOOK: The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild
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‘Here, Mkhulu, here!’ shouted Bheki, leaning over from the back of the Land Rover into the driver’s window. ‘Left, left!’
I yanked hard on the steering wheel, bumping roughly off the lip of the rutted track, then swerved to keep the wicked overhanging thorns from raking the rangers standing in the Land Rover’s back.
Max, who had his head out of the passenger’s window, spilled across the cab and onto my lap.
‘Straight, straight!’ shouted Bheki, thumping on the roof to get my attention. Ducking the barbed branches and navigating from his elevated position he directed me through the tangled bush and a few jarring minutes later we arrived at the carcass.
It was a wildebeest, albeit barely recognizable as the corpse had been messily butchered. But that was not why we were here. Lying close to the carcass was a dead vulture and further afield I could see another. Both of them had their heads hacked off.
One of the most accurate indicators of a vibrant game reserve is a healthy vulture population. I remembered when we first arrived at Thula Thula searching vainly for breeding pairs. If you don’t have large numbers of game you’re not going to have resident vultures. In those early days these great, graceful scavengers used to flock in from the Umfolozi
game reserve, tiny specks in the sky surfing the thermals at incredible altitudes as they searched for carrion.
Today, with our healthy game population, we had plenty of breeding pairs ensconced in their nests at the top of the great trees lining the river, raising their chicks seasonally and generally doing well for themselves. But now out of the blue, vultures had become top of the poaching hit list and for bizarre reasons that no conservationist could ever have guessed. The once-belittled vulture had become an extremely potent good luck totem among the
sangomas
.
The reason was simple: money. A national lottery had recently been introduced with huge weekly payouts. If you guessed the six winning Lotto numbers you were an instant millionaire. Most of us know that playing a lottery is pure luck. But in Africa, predicting the winning numbers has become a mysterious art verging on the occult. A growing number of South Africans believed that there was only one way to scoop the pools, and that’s to consult your ancestors. And who was the vital link between mortals and spirits? Why, the
sangomas
, of course.
This is not just primitive rural superstition; ancestral guidance is practised by all kinds of people, from illiterate herd boys to multi-degreed university professors. If you don’t understand the power of this belief, you will never truly grasp the rich albeit often incomprehensible spirituality of Africa. According to some unscrupulous
sangomas
, the most powerful Lotto
muthi
was dried vulture brain. So as the race to become an instant millionaire heated up, the humble vulture was being poached almost to extinction in some game reserves.
Muthi
is a collective Zulu term given both to magic spells and to the foul-tasting potions prepared by
sangomas
. It can be good
muthi
, or bad
muthi
, the latter always associated with witchcraft. Dried vulture brain was considered to be very good
muthi
indeed. So much so that
sangomas
told
their gullible clients that if they placed a slice of it under their pillows at night, their ancestors would whisper the winning Lotto numbers to them in their dreams.
One of the most inconceivable aspects of vulture
muthi
is how someone blindly places so much faith in something so manifestly unreliable. Thousands of desperately poor peasants, totally ignorant of basic gambling odds, were placing all they could afford into a lottery in which there were precious few winners. Each week, millions lost their hard-earned wages, with or without vulture brains under their pillows.
This translated into big business for
sangomas
. A tiny sliver of vulture’s brain cost about ten US dollars, which is a lot of money in outback Zululand. Yet despite there being only a few winners, visits to
sangomas
skyrocketed. And no matter how much they lost, villagers continued forking out wads of cash for more vulture brains, which they religiously placed under their pillows, waiting for their ancestors to murmur the magic numbers.
The end result was distressingly obvious: people squandered lifesavings and vultures continued to die – so much so that in some game reserves breeding pairs were becoming increasingly rare. In fact, the true Lotto winners were the
sangomas
.
We clambered out of the vehicle, dodged a series of tall brown termite mounds which had blocked the Land Rover’s passage and closely studied the gory remains of the wildebeest, looking for the cause as we always do with an unnatural death. Other vultures, attracted to the carcass like iron filings to a magnet, either circled above or gathered atop nearby trees, disturbed by our presence.
For obvious reasons, a contagious disease fatality is our biggest fear as it can spread in a blink to other animals. We first checked for nasal discharges, tick loads, injuries, and what the overall condition of the animal had been prior to its demise. This wildebeest had been fit and healthy and the
cause of death, while not immediately obvious from the hacked remains, seemed to be a bullet.
Bheki and Ngwenya put down their rifles and were moving in to turn over the body so we could inspect the other side, when something made me stop them.
‘Poison,’ I said, slowly realizing what had happened. ‘I think there is poison here. Don’t touch the body until we inspect the vultures.’
They looked up surprised, but said nothing and stepped back, following me as I walked to the first headless bird.
I kept a close eye on Max, ordering him to ‘heel’ often enough to let him know he must not leave my side, not even for a sniff of the dead creatures. A noseful of strychnine, insecticide, or whatever it was they were using would certainly do him no good.
I had never been that close to a white-backed vulture before. With a seven-foot wingspan it is a big, impressive bird by any standards, but how undignified and ignominious it looked in death. This superb sultan of the skies lay there headless, sprawled awkwardly with one huge wing jutting into the grass. There was not a mark on it and judging by the distance from the wildebeest carcass it must have died very quickly, perhaps even while trying to take off. It was the same with the other one, which had managed to get a little further away. After a thorough search of the immediate area we found four in all.
The wildebeest carcass must have been loaded with toxin to cause death that quickly. Any smaller a dose and the bodies would be dropping miles away and the poachers would never find them.
We walked back and stood leaning against the Landy’s hood, surveying the carnage. The rangers also remarked that the wildebeest’s tail had been sliced off.
‘They have died strangely. There is witchcraft here,’ Ngwenya said ominously.
A wildebeest’s tail is much prized by
sangomas
who use it as the Zulu equivalent of a magic wand. Ngwenya was correct in believing witchcraft was behind this killing, but for the wrong reason.
‘Yes, there is witchcraft here,’ I said, confirming his suspicion, ‘although not in the way you think.’
I then told them the story of dreams and vulture brains, of the
sangomas
and the Lotto, and waited for their reaction.
Bheki was first to respond. ‘I have heard of this. Far away up in the north near Mozambique, but never here.’ He shook his head. ‘We do not do this.’
‘But it is with us now,’ said Ngwenya. ‘These people do not think. If the vultures die, who is going to clean up all the dead animals in the bush? Disease will come from the rotting meat left behind. It will be bad.’
Ngwenya looked around. I could sense with all the talk of disease what he was thinking. ‘The poison is still here, we must burn everything – the wildebeest, the dead birds, everything, or more will die,’ he said, pointing at the vultures circling above. ‘And tonight the hyenas and jackals who think they have a feast will also die. We must do it now or …’
‘No. Not yet,’ interrupted Bheki. ‘The thieves can see the birds above us from faraway and they’ll come back to check for more. Let us rather hide now and we will catch them later today.’
‘Good idea,’ I agreed. ‘I have also heard that these vulture poachers act as
impimpi
– informers – for other poachers. If we don’t catch them this time, the elephants and rhino will be in serious danger as well.’
I looked at my watch; it was already early afternoon, and there was always something else that needed tending to on the reserve.
‘I have to go now, but radio me so I know what is going
on. But whatever happens, do not let any more birds – or anything – eat the meat.’
‘Of course, Mkhulu. We will find you here later.’
A couple of hours afterwards I was driving along looking out for either Mnumzane or the herd when a gunshot barked a couple of miles away. I braked hard … then the calm voice of Ngwenya staccatoed over the radio.
‘Mkhulu, Mkhulu, come in, Mkhulu.’
‘Standing by.’
‘We have them,’ Ngwenya said, jubilation incongruously creeping into his usual phlegmatic voice. ‘Two of them.’
‘Already! Well done. OK, stay right there – I’m on my way.’
As I passed the housing quarters an idea came to me. Perhaps we could play the
sangomas
at their own game …
I drove to the storeroom next to the garage and selected several items, placed them in two large hessian bags and loaded everything on the back of the Land Rover. Then I went into the kitchen and took three packs of beef ribs out of the fridge, wrapped them up and shoved them under the driver’s seat where Max couldn’t get at them.
Then I radioed two other Zulu rangers, one a middle-aged man whose impressive gravitas would ideally serve my purpose, told them to change into civilian clothes and where to meet me.
Finally I called Ngwenya and asked if he had quizzed the poachers about the poisoned carcasses.
‘Negative,’ came the reply.
‘Good,’ I said relieved. ‘Don’t say anything about the vultures or the poison. Just pretend you’re arresting them for killing a wildebeest. I’ll explain when I arrive.’
I picked up the two other rangers and on the way we stopped at the lodge where I raided the curio store.
As we drove to where Bheki and Ngwenya were waiting, I explained to the two rangers what had happened and what
I wanted them to do. I then showed them what was in the bags. The older man stared and started laughing; he grasped the plan instantly.
‘How is your hyena call?’ I asked the younger ranger.
‘At school I was the best,’ he said modestly.
Imitating animal sounds with uncanny accuracy is a skill many rural Zulu youngsters acquire and tonight we would put it to good use. A hyena, some believe, has supernatural characteristics. When you observe these magnificent creatures up close, their loose-limbed canter and eerie nocturnal howl, you can see why this myth continues.
Zulus are natural actors who enjoy a show and this was going to be fun for them. But it was also serious and their acting had to be both simple and convincing. I left them under a tree to discuss their drama tactics and drove on to join Ngwenya and Bheki.
The two culprits were squatting on their haunches, hands cuffed behind their backs while Bheki and Ngwenya sat around the carcass, their presence deterring the gathering flock of vultures from descending on the poisoned meat. The surrounding trees were now heavy with their presence.
The poachers were in their early twenties and both adopted the air of feigned apathy and despondency that I have seen in every poacher we have ever caught. Given half a chance, though, they would be gone like rabbits and if they still had their guns they would be shooting. In fact, where were their guns, I wondered? I didn’t see any.
Ngwenya greeted me and I gave them some water. It had been a hot thirsty day keeping vigil.
‘
Yehbo
, Mkhulu,’ he said before taking a long draught from the canteen. ‘It was easy. They walked up and sat down and we came from behind. I fired one shot in the air and they surrendered. There is their gun and a machete.’
I looked at the old but well-maintained Rossi .38 revolver lying on the grass.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked surprised. ‘They can’t shoot a wildebeest with a revolver.’
‘We questioned them and they told us half lies, half truths,’ said Ngwenya. ‘They are not locals. They work for a
Sangoma
in the north and say their job was only to collect the tail – which they don’t even have. They say the wildebeest was shot by two professional poachers also hired by the s
angoma.
The poachers took most of the meat and left them here. The revolver is just for protection. They are very inexperienced these two, but dangerous.’
‘So, these are the magician’s assistants?’ I said out loud. ‘Where is their transport?’

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