The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild Read Online Free

‘expert’ opinions.
    ‘They will eat our crops,’ said one, ‘and then what will we do?’
    ‘What about the safety of our women when they fetch water?’ another asked.
    ‘We’re worried about the children,’ said a third, referring to the young herd boys who do a man’s work looking after cattle alone. ‘They do not know elephant.’
    ‘I heard they taste good,’ piped up another. ‘An elephant can feed all the village.’
    OK, that was not quite the reaction I wanted. But generally the amakhosi seemed well disposed to the project.
    Except one. I was away for a day and asked one of my rangers to discuss the issue with an interim chief. Sadly all he succeeded in doing was antagonizing the man. The chief kept repeating ‘these are not my elephant; I know nothing about this’ to anything said.
    Fortunately Françoise was there and took over. She did so reluctantly as rural Zulu society is polygamous and uncompromisingly masculine. No man wants to be seen listening to a woman.
    Chauvinism? Sure, but that’s the way it is out in the sticks. It took skill and charm for Françoise to hold her ground. Eventually the chief relented, admitting he had no real concerns.
    With approval from the amakhosi secured, we selected seventy of the fittest-looking recruits and in record time were up and running. Singing ancient martial songs, the Zulu gangs started work and despite the impossible deadline, as the fence slowly crept across the countryside, I began to breathe easier.
    Then just as we started to see progress we ran up against a wall.
    David came sprinting into the office. ‘Bad news, boss. Workers on the western boundary have downed tools. They say they’re being shot at. Everyone’s too scared to work.’
    I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean? Why would anyone shoot at a gang of labourers?
    David shrugged. ‘I dunno, boss. Sounds like it has to be a cover for something else, perhaps a strike for more money …’
    I doubted that, as the workers were paid a decent rate already. The reason for the strike was more likely to be muthi , or witchcraft.
    In rural Zululand belief in the supernatural is as common
as breathing, and muthi is all-powerful. It can either be benevolent or malevolent, just as sangomas – witchdoctors – can be both good and evil. To resist bad muthi you need to get a benign sangoma to cast a more potent counter spell. Sangomas charge for their services, of course, and sometimes initiate stories of malevolent muthi for exactly that purpose – and that’s what could be happening here.
    ‘What do we do, boss?’
    ‘Let’s try and find out what’s going on. In the meantime we don’t have much choice. Pay off those too spooked to work and let’s get replacements. We’ve got to keep moving.’
    I also gave instructions for a group of security guards to be placed on standby to protect the remaining labourers.
    The next morning David once more came running into the office.
    ‘Man, we’ve got real problems,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘They’re shooting again and one of the workers is down.’
    I grabbed my old Lee – Enfield .303 rifle and the two of us sped to the fence in the Land Rover. Most of the labourers were crouching behind trees while a couple tended to their bleeding colleague. He had been hit in the face by heavy shotgun pellets.
    After checking that the injury was not life-threatening, we started criss-crossing the bush until we picked up the tracks – or spoor as it is called in Africa. It belonged to a single gunman – not a group, as we had initially feared. I called Bheki and my security induna Ngwenya, whose name means crocodile in Zulu, two of our best and toughest Zulu rangers. Bheki is the hardest man I have ever met, slim with quiet eyes and a disarmingly innocent face, while Ngwenya, thickset and muscular, had an aura of quiet authority about him which influenced the rest of the rangers in his team.
    ‘You two go ahead and track the