Read Online The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild by Lawrence Anthony, Graham Spence - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lawrence Anthony, Graham Spence
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that our situation seemed so desperate that she was considering paranormal solutions.
‘Shoot,’ I said, then bit my tongue. ‘Sorry … wrong choice of words, go ahead.’
‘Apparently this psychic’s done good work with troubled animals and has a unique way of communicating with them. Maybe she’ll reach out to the matriarch, perhaps get her to settle down and then the rest of the herd will follow. I know this sounds really unusual, and I really can’t guarantee anything, but it may be worth a try.’
Well, OK. I know first-hand that communication with animals can defy normal comprehension. Orthodox behaviour is not always the answer in the bush. But bringing in a psychic seemed way over the top. But what else was on offer? And what harm could it do? At best it may work; at worst it was merely quixotic.
‘OK. But tell her politely to stay out of my way. I’m going to have my hands full when the elephants return.’
The psychic arrived a couple of days later; a middle-aged Canadian woman with curly red hair.
The next day for lunch she ordered peanut-butter sandwiches.
Françoise was aghast. The mere mention of peanut-butter sandwiches in her French kitchen was sacrilege. They were sent back for not being properly prepared. ‘How many ways can you make a peanut-butter sandwich?’ Françoise protested.
We later went down to the boma where she spent several hours sniffing the bush and sprinkling what she called ‘cerebral vibrations of family, love and respect’ onto the fences.
‘That,’ she said, ‘will keep them in.’
The next day she pointed to my favourite tree in the garden: a magnificent wild fig with half-submerged roots as thick as a man’s leg stretching into the lawn.
‘That tree,’ she said with a shudder, ‘it has an evil spirit. You can feel it, can’t you? Come … I’ll exorcize it.’
As we walked over I studied the grand, gnarled trunk closely. I always considered it a giant benign umbrella providing shelter for flocks of birds that chimed in perfect melody every morning. They were my bush alarm clock. I wondered what malignant ghosts were lurking in those branches … then quickly shook my head clear.
She began some sort of religious incantation. I stood by, hoping like hell she would finish soon.
‘It’s gone,’ she said after a few minutes, obviously pleased with herself.
As we were about to walk off, she turned and pointed to the sky.
‘See those clouds? They’re not clouds at all. They’re spaceships carrying evil aliens who are preventing the elephants from returning home.’
All I could see was some cotton-puffs of cumulus. She must have noticed my scepticism.
‘I should know,’ she said, patting her ample bosom and leaning in close. ‘I have travelled in them.’
The next day she walked into the kitchen to order her staple diet of peanut-butter sandwiches. But this time her instructions were that our ranger David must deliver the meal to her room.
The sandwiches were made to her specification: loaded with peanut butter and placed on a tray. As directed, David took the food and knocked on the door. It swung open and there in front of him was the psychic. She was stark naked.
David put the tray down and muttered, ‘Your sandwiches, ma’am.’ Then he turned and fled, his face the colour of beetroot.
Finally something real happened. KZN Wildlife phoned to say the herd would be delivered the following day.
Elephant capture is done throughout South Africa, but
not in KwaZulu-Natal. In fact the team at Umfolozi, who had famously pioneered capturing white rhino, saving the species from extinction, did not have the heavy equipment required for loading family groups, elephant herds, which comprise only adult females and their young. Babies are never separated during capture. Adult bulls are always transported individually. However, a new dual-purpose heavy trailer designed for transporting both giraffe and elephant had recently been purchased and now was
‘Shoot,’ I said, then bit my tongue. ‘Sorry … wrong choice of words, go ahead.’
‘Apparently this psychic’s done good work with troubled animals and has a unique way of communicating with them. Maybe she’ll reach out to the matriarch, perhaps get her to settle down and then the rest of the herd will follow. I know this sounds really unusual, and I really can’t guarantee anything, but it may be worth a try.’
Well, OK. I know first-hand that communication with animals can defy normal comprehension. Orthodox behaviour is not always the answer in the bush. But bringing in a psychic seemed way over the top. But what else was on offer? And what harm could it do? At best it may work; at worst it was merely quixotic.
‘OK. But tell her politely to stay out of my way. I’m going to have my hands full when the elephants return.’
The psychic arrived a couple of days later; a middle-aged Canadian woman with curly red hair.
The next day for lunch she ordered peanut-butter sandwiches.
Françoise was aghast. The mere mention of peanut-butter sandwiches in her French kitchen was sacrilege. They were sent back for not being properly prepared. ‘How many ways can you make a peanut-butter sandwich?’ Françoise protested.
We later went down to the boma where she spent several hours sniffing the bush and sprinkling what she called ‘cerebral vibrations of family, love and respect’ onto the fences.
‘That,’ she said, ‘will keep them in.’
The next day she pointed to my favourite tree in the garden: a magnificent wild fig with half-submerged roots as thick as a man’s leg stretching into the lawn.
‘That tree,’ she said with a shudder, ‘it has an evil spirit. You can feel it, can’t you? Come … I’ll exorcize it.’
As we walked over I studied the grand, gnarled trunk closely. I always considered it a giant benign umbrella providing shelter for flocks of birds that chimed in perfect melody every morning. They were my bush alarm clock. I wondered what malignant ghosts were lurking in those branches … then quickly shook my head clear.
She began some sort of religious incantation. I stood by, hoping like hell she would finish soon.
‘It’s gone,’ she said after a few minutes, obviously pleased with herself.
As we were about to walk off, she turned and pointed to the sky.
‘See those clouds? They’re not clouds at all. They’re spaceships carrying evil aliens who are preventing the elephants from returning home.’
All I could see was some cotton-puffs of cumulus. She must have noticed my scepticism.
‘I should know,’ she said, patting her ample bosom and leaning in close. ‘I have travelled in them.’
The next day she walked into the kitchen to order her staple diet of peanut-butter sandwiches. But this time her instructions were that our ranger David must deliver the meal to her room.
The sandwiches were made to her specification: loaded with peanut butter and placed on a tray. As directed, David took the food and knocked on the door. It swung open and there in front of him was the psychic. She was stark naked.
David put the tray down and muttered, ‘Your sandwiches, ma’am.’ Then he turned and fled, his face the colour of beetroot.
Finally something real happened. KZN Wildlife phoned to say the herd would be delivered the following day.
Elephant capture is done throughout South Africa, but
not in KwaZulu-Natal. In fact the team at Umfolozi, who had famously pioneered capturing white rhino, saving the species from extinction, did not have the heavy equipment required for loading family groups, elephant herds, which comprise only adult females and their young. Babies are never separated during capture. Adult bulls are always transported individually. However, a new dual-purpose heavy trailer designed for transporting both giraffe and elephant had recently been purchased and now was
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