‘They have none,’ said Bheki. ‘They will walk and then take a bush taxi home.’
‘And the vulture heads?’
‘As you said, we didn’t ask but they had a sack. We left it in the bush close by. Don’t worry, it is safe,’ replied Ngwenya.
‘Good.’
I then lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘It’s a waste of time taking this to the police, just a wildebeest and some vulture heads. So today we will teach them a lesson they will never forget. They are a
sangoma
’s lackeys and they will take a message back to their boss that neither they, nor anyone else can ever come here again. We will fight this with our own witchcraft. Here is the plan.’
Bheki and Ngwenya listened with big smiles as I outlined some impromptu Thula Thula
muthi.
Then, according to plan, they strode across to the two poachers, stood them up and marched them into the bush.
I called the two back-up rangers who came in carrying wood and we lit a small fire about twenty yards away to boil the beef ribs in a three-legged cast-iron pot. They then took out the skulls of a crocodile and large baboon from the bags that I had brought from the storeroom, placing one
on either side of the wildebeest corpse. The older man pulled a hyena skin over his shoulders and wrapped beads from our curio shop on his arms and legs. To finish off the special effects he stuck guinea-fowl feathers through his hair and swished about the all-important wildebeest tail.
For my plan to work, it was essential that I be out of sight. This was no place for a white man. I hid the Land Rover in a small copse and then walked back to the clearing with the younger ranger where we secreted ourselves behind a tree with a good view. The twilight was perfect for the surreal atmosphere I wanted so I radioed Ngwenya and told him to bring the poachers back, blindfolded.
As I put my radio down I heard a sudden crack of a branch behind. I almost leapt out of my skin. The herd! They were here. I was just about to radio Ngwenya to move off at speed when a shadowy silhouette caught my eye. It was a bachelor herd of large kudu bulls, their spiralled horns corkscrewing above thornbush.
‘Whew!’ Both the young ranger and I exhaled noisily with relief. If that had been Nana and her family, the whole plan would have backfired spectacularly.
We watched in the gathering murk as the two poachers were led to the wildebeest carcass where their blindfolds were removed. They stood blinking, taking in the new surroundings and as they saw the skulls by the carcass they flinched almost in unison and started backing off. Both crocodile and baboon skulls are malevolent symbols in a
sangoma
’s arsenal. Their spontaneous reaction was good news for it signalled that our charade was working.
‘Sit!’ ordered Ngwenya, as he pushed them to the ground.
‘But why is
he
here?’ one asked, looking across at our ranger sitting fifteen yards away, covered in a hyena skin. I grinned with satisfaction; they definitely believed that they were in the presence of another
sangoma
.
‘This is his place. All of this area around here right up to
the mountains is his,’ replied Ngwenya with an imperial sweep of his arm. ‘He is here because many of his family have died here today. The vultures, they are all his children. Some say he flies with them.’
Ngwenya spoke slowly and deliberately with cold anger. He then gazed up at the vultures in the trees, nodding meaningfully. I felt like awarding him an immediate Oscar.
‘What does he want from us?’ one asked, his voice quavering.
‘What do you have that belongs to the impotent man you work for? Or is it a woman who controls you?’ Bheki suddenly roared.
‘We have
muthi
to protect us,’ said one hurriedly. ‘It’s here in our pockets. We will return it to him when we go back together with his gun.’
Bheki reached over and searching their pockets retrieved two small pink and white river stones wrapped in snakeskin. He walked over to our ‘
sangoma
’ and handed him the
muthi
, along with the revolver.
Then, swift as leopards, he and Ngwenya moved in, held the first man down and using their razor-sharp bush knives sliced off a lock of his hair and a tiny piece of fingernail. They did the same to the second poacher and placing both men’s hair and fingernails on a leaf, ceremoniously gave it to our ‘
sangoma
’ who was sitting with his back to them. For
muthi
to be truly effective the
sangoma
needs either to have some body part of the targeted person or at least one possession. And the poachers knew it.
They were now petrified. They believed they had trespassed on the turf of a powerful
sangoma
who now possessed their hair and fingernails as well as their master’s possessions – the stones and gun. This was juju at its most malevolent. They sat staring straight ahead, rocking mindlessly on their heels, just like trapped animals, I realized.
Our ‘
sangoma
’ called out in what I thought to be an
impressively haunting tone and Ngwenya went over and came back with the semi-cooked ribs which he placed in front of them.
He untied their hands. ‘It is over. Now you will eat meat from the
nyamazane
. The meat is good and you have a long journey ahead of you.’
He may as well have hurled a spear at their hearts. The poachers assumed they were about to be poisoned, just as the vultures had been. After all, didn’t this strange omnipotent
sangoma
in a hyena skin who held them captive actually fly with vultures? Weren’t they his children?
They clamped their mouths tight, moaning through their noses in abject horror. They were completely taken in and I felt sorry for them, uneducated and unknowing as they were, but we had to play this out fully if we were to have any chance of protecting our vulture population from obliteration.
‘You refuse to eat? You have killed his children, now you refuse his hospitality!’ Ngwenya thundered, shoving a chunk of meat towards one of the poacher’s mouths.
The poor man was beside himself with terror, spitting and coughing, twisting his head this way and that. Then he broke, wailing uncontrollably with terror that they had been forced to collect the vulture heads and that they were sorry for what they had done. And above all, how could they know the vultures were the children of the ‘
sangoma
’?
Bheki waited a little longer and then instructed them to stay where they were while he and Ngwenya walked back to the ‘
sangoma
’, deliberately leaving them alone.
Just as expected, the poachers bolted, running blindly into the darkening bush as fast as they could go. Bheki fired two shots into the ground to speed their journey. They wouldn’t stop until they were miles away and I hoped they made it home safely. In fact, I needed them to make it in one piece so they could report back to their
sangoma
that his stones
and gun as well as their hair and nails were now ‘owned’ by a powerful rival whose ancestors resided in vultures.
As soon as we were sure the poachers were well out of earshot the young ranger and I came out of hiding, laughingly congratulating our ‘
sangoma
’ as well as Bheki and Ngwenya for their superb performance that would have rivalled any of Hollywood’s A-listers.
‘We didn’t even need the hyena call,’ I said, slapping the young ranger on the back.
Then I asked the all-important question. ‘What do you think? Did they believe it?’
‘They will never come back here again,’ replied Bheki. ‘They believed everything.’
We gathered the four dead birds with the wildebeest, stacked wood up high and burned them all to cinders. Ngwenya then fetched the poachers’ bag of vulture heads. We counted seven, all liberally covered in salt. Some were more than a week old.
As the vultures’ bodies flared in the blazing wood, I began thinking of the huge Lotto winnings that perhaps I was watching go up in smoke. Even if I didn’t win the Lotto, the look on Françoise’s face would be worth a million bucks were she to find stinking vulture heads under my pillow.
The afternoon breeze barely stirred the bush. Mnumzane was browsing languidly at the side of the road and I was about ten yards away, hanging around the Land Rover saying whatever came into my mind, both of us content in each other’s company. It was one of those days where you just felt like hanging out with friends, basking in the warmth of sunshine and companionship. As usual, I did all the talking and he did all the eating. But something had changed and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Max, who by now was used to having Mnumzane around, and in turn was totally ignored by Mnumzane, was under the Landy making a bed for himself, digging a hole to get to the cooler earth just below the surface.
I had come to see Mnumzane because one of the rangers had told of a huge ruckus among the herd that morning complete with prolonged trumpeting and screaming which could be heard a mile away. I had just checked on the herd, who were grazing a few miles off, and they seemed fine. Mnumzane too seemed calm … but there was something else; his once palpable insecurity seemed to have vanished. He seemed to have a new-found sense of self-assurance.
He walked over to me and I studied this huge bull elephant now standing not ten feet away. There was no doubt that he seemed more confident, more deliberate. Towering almost five feet above me, I needed every ounce
of warmth and reassurance he dished out so liberally when we were together.
He then lifted his trunk towards me. That was extremely unusual. Mnumzane seldom put out his trunk, and if he did, he didn’t really like me to touch it, unlike Nana and Frankie who were quite comfortable with being tactile. He then turned and moved off into the savannah. That too was different, for I was always first to leave our bush sessions with Mnumzane invariably trying to block my way by standing in front of the Land Rover.
Later on, as the setting sun cloaked the hills in reds and gold, the elephants visited the waterhole just in front of the electric strand at the lodge. This was always a treat for the guests, to watch these lords of the wilderness up close, and it was then I saw exactly why Mnumzane was now so selfassured.
The herd was drinking and splashing around when Mnumzane emerged imperiously out of the bush and with head held high he moved swiftly toward the waterhole. Now that’s strange, I thought. Usually he skulks around the periphery. What’s going on here?
Nana looked up and saw him and – to my intense surprise – with a deep rumbling she moved off, calling the herd away.
Too late. Mnumzane, picking up speed, singled out Frankie – the herd’s prizefighter – and smashed into her so hard that the blow thundered across the bush, smashing her backwards and very nearly tossing her over.
Seeing what had just happened to their champion, the other elephants started scurrying off with indecent haste. I caught my breath as Mnumzane swung to face Nana, ears spread wide, head held high.
She quickly placed herself between the threat and her precious family and then turned and started reversing towards him, which is not just a sign of subservience, but
also bracing herself to best absorb the pending meteoric impact. I winced as she took the colossal charge on her flank; ten tons of combined elephant bulk clashing at speed is like watching two Abrams tanks collide. I felt stunned, winded in sympathy just watching.
Satisfied that he now had the respect he believed he deserved, Mnumzane eased over to the water and drank alone, as was his right as the new alpha elephant. From now on he would always drink first.
Mnumzane had come of age.
Things changed on the reserve after that. Mnumzane no longer gave way to vehicles or anything else for that matter. He would stand in the middle of the road and finish whatever he was doing before moving off in his own sweet time. Any attempt to move him along would result in a warning, which was always heeded. Nobody wanted to be charged by the new big boss of the reserve. Everybody quickly learned bull elephant etiquette, namely to stay the hell away from him, or else.
Despite all that, to me he was still the same old Mnumzane and our bush meetings continued, although less frequently as he didn’t trumpet or call me any more. I was a lot more careful when I was with him and if I got out of the Land Rover I would try to make sure that at least the hood of the car was between us. That didn’t always work, as sometimes he still wanted to stand next to me. I just loved this magnificent creature and was so pleased to see his insecurities and fears gone. He had had a tough time growing up without a mother or any father figure and at last he had a role.
‘You are a mamba,’ I said to him at our last chance meeting. ‘You are surely now a real
Mnumzane
– a real boss.’ He stood there motionless as I flattered him, gazing with those big brown eyes, as if accepting the compliment.
Mnumzane may be the dominant bull, but Nana was still
boss of the herd. Not long afterwards there was another clash – this time between Thula Thula’s two indomitable matriarchs.
‘Lawrence, Lawrence! Come
queekly
, look what’s happening !’
I dashed out of the house. At one end of the garden was Françoise; at the other was Nana. She had found a weak link in the fence and had broken into Françoise’s precious herb and vegetable patch. Along with her children Mandla and Mvula, she was gobbling every shrub in sight.
‘Tell her to stop! Take her away!’ ordered Françoise.
Farting against thunder would have been a more viable option. Seeing the big grin on my face, she turned to Nana and shouted: ‘Nana you stop this, I cannot buy zees herbs anywhere. I need zem for my guests. Stop!
Merde!
’
It was a stand-off: Françoise and Bijou weighing perhaps a combined 125 pounds versus Nana, Mandla and Mvula, together topping the scales at perhaps ten tons.
Seeing that I would be of no use whatsoever Françoise rushed into the kitchen and came out with some pots and pans. Before I could stop her, she started banging them together like a demented bell-ringer.
First to respond was Bijou, who thought the sky must be falling and bolted for the safety of the house. I had never seen her deign to run before and was impressed at the speed her fluffy little legs could muster. This left Françoise on her own.
Nana looked up, startled at the clanging, then shook her head and stamped her drum-sized front foot like a dancing Zulu warrior, glaring at Françoise who glared right back, shouting at her to leave. After a while Nana got accustomed to the sound and simply continued eating.
Seeing her percussion wasn’t having any effect, Françoise went off and came back with the garden hosepipe. We have good pressure at the house, so from a safe distance behind a
fence she opened the nozzle and started spurting water like a firefighter at Nana who again shook her head and stamped her foot back at her.
Eventually Nana got used to the high-pressure fountain and started trying to catch the spray. That was it for Françoise, who heatedly told me and other nearby rangers barely concealing their mirth exactly how useless we all were. She stormed back into the house shouting ‘
Merde
’ repeatedly.
Once things had calmed down I picked up the hose and relaxing the pressure valve gently offered it to Nana and she came across and let me fill her trunk before going back and totally wiping out the garden.
The next morning Françoise had an electrician over to fortify the fence and the garden from then on was rendered impervious to anything with a trunk.
Whenever the herd comes up past the house, even though they can no longer raid Françoise’s garden, they inevitably pass a 100-yard-long dam we call Gwala Gwala, just off the road, where they like to bathe in the shallows. But elephants can break things just by being there, and on more than one occasion the dam overflow wall has had to be repaired. My rangers told me this had happened again and I went down to have a look, Max at my heels.
Sure enough, even from a distance I could see they had entered the dam on the overflow wall and their combined weight had collapsed it. It was no big deal, the labour team could fix it in a day and so I decided to park off for a while, enjoy the peace and quiet and see what was going on.
There is always plenty of life around water and a couple of hours spent at a dam are infinitely worth making time for. The season’s first tadpoles were out, schooled together in tight underwater clusters, some as big as soccer balls rolling gently just under the water, while in the reed banks orange dragonflies hovered and darted.
A large
shongololo
, the impressive six-inch long African millipede with its thick black body and orange legs came out of a crevice in the gabion retaining wall. I put my hand out and it climbed on and kept walking right up my arm as they always do. Eventually I pulled it off and let it down gently – in fact, very gently, for if you scare them they excrete a foul-smelling substance which even soap and water won’t readily remove.
Plenty of insects indicates an abundance of life, and the still surface of the brown water was continually marbled by barbell and tilapia rising to feed.
Nearby a bent old acacia robusta leaned over the water, laden with hundreds of weavers’ nests hanging like straw-coloured fruit from its branches. These beautiful bright-yellow birds were busy building their seasonal homes, and as usual there was at least one domestic argument going on.
It’s the male’s job to construct the nest and he is watched carefully by his mate who takes her role as self-appointed quality control officer very seriously indeed. The poor little guy, who had probably spent three days collecting reeds and slaving away to get the nest just right, was hopping from branch to branch, twittering and complaining. His wife had just been inside for the final inspection and was now pecking at the support knot that tied the nest to the branch. This meant one thing: the nest had been rejected and he was grumbling bitterly as the condemned home came away and fell into the water, joining dozens of other similarly discarded abodes. His new home had failed the test and he was now going to have to start from scratch, or lose his mate.
I took off my cap and, using it as a pillow, stretched out on a nearby grass bank and dozed, surrounded by paradise.
A gut feeling is a strange and advantageous thing. It comes from nowhere and is often illogical. Yet it is very real, and in the bush infinitely valuable. While I was dozing, a distant feeling of latent fright suddenly impinged on my
serenity. It took me a few moments to recognize it, and when I did I instantly came awake and frantically looked around.
Everything seemed peaceful. Max was at the water’s edge having a drink, and he would have given a warning if there was any danger. But what was it that had caused this worry to engulf me?
I checked and rechecked the calm surroundings repeatedly, but absolutely nothing was awry. I was about to rest my head on my cap again and very nearly missed it. Moving across the dam surface was an almost imperceptible ripple. That’s interesting, I thought sitting up again. What is it?
It seemed so innocent, so slight that it was barely worth worrying about. But something nagged and then my gut feeling kicked in again. I looked harder and went stone cold. For hidden in the murk-brown water under the barely visible ripple was a huge crocodile, its great tail propelling it towards Max. The ripple was generated by the tip of its nose nudging microcosmically out of the water.
I jumped up yelling at Max and rushed towards him. ‘Max come here; come here, Max … Maaaaaax!’
He stopped drinking and looked at me. He had never heard me screaming manically at him before and as he wasn’t doing anything wrong he must have concluded that my ravings had nothing to do with him. He put his head down and continued lapping.
I scrambled over the wall, grabbing at a small loose stone to throw at him to regain his attention, then slipped and fell, cutting myself on the sharp rocks and losing my missile. I got up and continued running towards him, but by now the crocodile was almost at the bank’s edge. Still Max continued lapping, oblivious to the terrible danger.
Then at the last moment, realizing that I actually was screaming at him, Max turned and sprinted up the bank with me fractionally behind – both fleeing for our lives; me
wittingly, him not. I have seen a croc launch itself out of a river before and it’s pretty low on my list of preferred ways to die.
Those awful moments before I reached the top lasted forever. As we made the safety of the ridge I turned and saw the water swirling around the huge shape of the monster surfacing exactly where Max had been drinking. It was probably twelve feet long.
We were safe and I sunk down on the ground to recover both my sanity and my breath. I reached out and put an arm around Max who gave me a big wet lick, obviously pleased that I wasn’t crazy any more. Then facing forward again he suddenly saw the croc, tensed and came on full alert. It was so lucky I had my arm around him for he started towards the monster. I just managed to grab his collar in time. I immediately thought of my brave Penny and how she died. The bush signs were right; she did go for the croc that killed her. Foolhardy or not the courage of the bull and Staffordshire terrier is truly unlimited.
It was Max’s drinking that had done it. Crocodiles are attracted by the sound of an animal’s tongue lapping. Their killing technique is simple: stay underwater, get close, then launch a vicious surprise attack from the depths. And they are very, very good at it. You have precious little chance of escaping death in the jaws of hell itself. With crocs there are no prior warnings.