Chapter 22: A new beginning


Mayafudi had a full programme for the new day. The first task was not pleasant. He had to walk the Skukuza road along the route followed by his herd when they fled the fire. There where two of his children were burnt to death.

As he ambled along he was again reminded of the healing gum of nature. His last memory of the area was one of gigantic flames and scorched earth, dense smoke, glowing embers and ash. Now the lush vegetation had been restored. Trees, shrubs, grasses swayed in the breeze. But here and there an indelible wound remained – the remains of a large leadwood, with arms akimbo of dried branches stretching heavenward in vain.

At a tiny mound of bones he stopped. A shadow moved across his mind as he remembered the shocking scenes of the night of disaster. In his nostrils lingered not the pleasant aroma of oranges, but a stifling draught of stinking smoke.

Near the bones a stack of stones were neatly piled. A primitive memorial. A feeling of gratitude towards his herd took possession of Mayafudi. They did not forget – and in the best elephant tradition came to pay their last respects.

He then lumbered along the tarred road towards the Kruger Gate. For people who had recently come through the gate his presence presented the first exciting event of their game park holidays. He walked purposefully through the gate and stopped next to the entrance notice. He recalled how visitors used to make a huge fuss when he used to pose trunk-aloft, solely for their pleasure. Why not again?

This time their reaction was not different. People suddenly appeared from nowhere. From a safe distance they captured the moment with anything from aim and press boxes to sophisticated long lens, digital and expensive video cameras.

The gathering of photographers hastily retreated when the large elephant started his slow ambling in the direction of Paul Kruger’s statue. At a safe distance, however, they trotted along behind. Mayafudi, habitually, could not resist the temptation to show off. He struck a pose of lifting his trunk as if in salute to the old granite president. Then the cameras all clicked.

The next stop was the picnic spot of Sabiepark. To reach it he had to cross the river obliquely. The water, however, was not deep. His stomach barely touched the surface whilst crossing the river. He suddenly recalled with great, awful clarity, the churning mass of water on that unforgettable morning in February. He remembered the tremendous force and the extensive damage. He saw how an iron hand levelled off two broad bands of green, both sides of the river.

When he reached the sand bed near the picnic spot, he was astonished to notice the open vista, swept bare by the floods. A Natal mahogany had withstood the onslaught. Next to it were also a jackalberry, a formidable weeping boer-bean and an equally giant sausage tree. These four sentinels still guarded the large green area of the picnic spot.

Everywhere new brick braai-areas and tables were built. An enormous wooden bridge spanned a ravine. The people of Sabiepark could cross here to reach a man-made dune with decks, which served as look-out platforms. From these decks the picnickers had an unimpeded view of the surroundings.

Mayafudi was impressed. Their powerful binoculars could surely identify him as he posed next to a sycamore fig on the opposite bank. They would also be able to spot little buck emerging from the dense bushes and even lion stalking their prey.

Mayafudi walked past the platform in the direction of the hiking trail along the river bank. On one side one could see some of the largest and most beautiful thatched-roof houses of Sabiepark. This was the place where Ukuthula’s herd used to visit when they were young.

He missed the old wealth of trees. Tens of evergreen sycamore figs, Natal mahogany,
jackalberry, water pear, common spike-thorn, river nuxia and matumi trees were missing. Especially the decidious trees such as weeping boer-bean, weeping wattle, mitzeerie, indaba trees, buffalo thorn, river bushwillow and jackalberry could not withstand the anger of the floods.

He remembered how riverborne trees and driftwood piled up against the Kruger bridge. The natural bank blocked the waters. A huge dam was formed in this way. Houses then disappeared under the water surface like sinking ships.

Days later, when the water receded, all that was left of the magnificent river walk was a stark moon surface – a mud bath flecked with trees, rocks and massive bundles of driftwood. Also brick and tough timber sleepers from the picnic spot. There he searched for days to find the carcass of his father, Moholoholo – but in vain.

After all these years the signs of devastation had now been obliterated. People could again walk along shaded hiker trail while young trees fought their way to the top; river bushwillow and jackalberry and water pear and river nuxia and mitzeerie. A few lush thorn trees (especially splendid acacia and the usual common spike-thorn) were sharply etched against the blue sky.

Mayafudi was clearly aware of the symbolism. It hit him like a thorn of an umbrella tree underfoot. Disasters would always occur, he thought. But it was never the end of everything. Life goes on. New grass spring out of the arid earth after droughts. New treelets arise after a flood. In the same way hope emerges after despair and new joy out of a broken heart.

Movement drew his attention to the bridge. Everywhere hither and thither he saw cars parked.

Dozens of humans occupied the railings. Excitedly they gestured to one another. Those who had cameras trotted this way and that way to find the perfect angle in the golden glow of the late afternoon sky.

Then he saw them. A large herd of elephant on the other side – the first he had seen since his homecoming. Some were still emerging from the trees, adults and babies. In a row they waddled towards the river. Some had already entered the water. Playfully they shot their “water canons” at one another. They “ducked” one another. Rolled in the mud. They trumpeted with glee.

Mayafudi splashed in and swam – trotted through the Sabie to make his acquaintance with the newcomers. On an island stood a young bull, a bold specimen with impressive trunks, a broad back and a solid neck. Mayafudi moved closer. He started a conversation. He told the young bull of his long pilgrimage and how pleased he was to see other elephants for a change.

“What is your name, young man?” he asked.

“Mafunyane.”

“Mafunyane?”

Mayafudi mouthed the name. His enormous ears could hardly credit what they heard.

“Yes, Mafunyane”, the young bull re-iterated proudly. “Mafunyane, the Angry One. I bear the name of my great grandfather. That one whose tusks touched the ground. That Mafunyane was the sire of my grandmother Ukuthula and the grandfather of Mayafudi, my sire, who went north, many years ago, after a huge fire.”

Ukuthula, Mayafudi …

Tears welled up in Mayafudi’s elephant-eyes. A sob of joy shook his large body.

“My son,” he said softly. His trunk embraced the young body of the amazed son of whom he was unaware. Probably he was procreated the night before the fire.

“Your son?” The young Mafunyane’s voice was husky with uncertainty.

Mayafudi’s emotions soared like a grand flight of the fish eagle.

Tourists aimed their long lenses at the two bulls embracing one another. They rubbed tusks and flapped their ears. Liquid streamed from the glands near their temples. Soon their faces were wet with tears. Their stomachs rumbled audibly above the rustle of the water over the stones.

The spectators could not hear the voices of sire and son as the frequency of elephant communication is too low for human hearing. But all the other signs of great joy were contagious. Even though the spectators could not fully fathom the meaning of what they observed, the intimate episode made them contented.

Only the aged Mayafudi and the youthful Mafunyane were fully aware of the golden moment of their reunion. Only the two of them realised the enormity of the drama unfolding in the fading light, next to the Sabie River.

Mafunyane, the son, who had found a lost father.

And Mayafudi, the sire, who came to find a peaceful end. For him, a new beginning had dawned.