Elephant Song - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью без .TXT) 📗

As warden of Chiwewe, he is responsible for one of the largest and healthiest elephant herds that still flourish in the African wilderness. Tell us, Warden, how many tusks do you have in this store room here at Chiwewe National Park?  There are almost five hundred tusks in store at present four hundred and eighty-six to be exact, with an average weight of seven kilos.  On the international market ivory is worth three hundred dollars a kilo, Daniel cut in, so that is well over a million dollars.  Where does it all come from?  Well, some of the tusks are pick-ups, ivory from elephant found dead in the Park, and some is illegal ivory that my rangers have confiscated from poachers.

But the great majority of tusks are from the culling operations that my department is forced to undertake.  The two of them paused at the far end of the go down and turned back to face the camera.  We will discuss the culling programme later, Warden.  But first can you tell us a little more about poaching activity in Chiwewe.  How bad is it?  It is getting worse every day.  Johnny shook his head sadly.  As the elephant in Kenya and Tanzania and Zambia are wiped out, so the professionals are turning their attention to our healthy elephant herds further south.  Zambia is just across the Zambezi river, and the poachers that come across this side are organised and better armed than we are.  They shoot to kill men as well as elephant and rhino.  We have been forced to do the same.  If we run into a band of poachers, we shoot first.

All for these.  . . Daniel laid his hand on the nearest pile of tusks.

No two of the ivory shafts were the same; each curve was unique. Some were almost straight, long and thin as knittingneedles; others were bent like a drawn longbow.  Some were sharptipped as javelins; others were squat and blunt.  There were pearly shafts, and others were of buttery alabaster tone; still others were stained dark with vegetable juices, and scarred and worn with age.

Most of the ivory was female or immature; a few tusks were no longer than a man's forearm, taken from small calves.  A very few were great curved imperial shafts, the heavy mature ivory of old bulls.

Daniel stroked one of these, and his expression was not simply for the camera.  Once again, he felt the full weight of the melancholy that had first caused him to write about the passing and destruction of the old Africa and its enchanted animal kingdom.  A sage and magnificent beast has been reduced to this, his voice sank to a whisper.  Even if it is unavoidable, we cannot escape the inherently tragic nature of the changes that are sweeping through this continent.  Is the African elephant symbolic of the land?  The elephant is dying.  Is Africa dying?

His sincerity was absolute.  The camera recorded it faithfully.

It was the most compelling reason for the enormous appeal of his television programmes around the world.

Now Daniel roused himself with an obvious effort, and turned back to Johnny Nzou.  Tell us, Warden, is the elephant doomed?

How many of these marvelous animals do you have in Zimbabwe and how many of those are in Chiwewe National Park?  There are an estimated fifty-two thousand elephant in Zimbabwe, and our figures for Chiwewe are even more accurate.  Only three months ago, we were able to conduct an aerial survey of the Park sponsored by the international Union for the Conservation of Nature.  The entire area of the Park was photographed, and the animals counted from the high-resolution prints.

How many?

Daniel asked.  In Chiwewe alone, eighteen thousand elephant.  That's a huge population, something approaching a third of all the remaining animals in the country, all in this area.  Daniel raised an eyebrow.

In the climate of gloom and pessimism that prevails, this must give you a great deal of encouragement?

Johnny Nzou frowned.  On the contrary, Doctor Armstrong, we are extremely concerned by these numbers.  Can you explain that please, Warden?  It's simple, Doctor.  We cannot support that many elephant.

We estimate that thirty thousand elephant would be an ideal population for Zimbabwe.  A single beast requires up to a ton of vegetable matter each day, and he will push over trees that have taken many hundreds of years to grow, even trees with trunks four feet in diameter, to obtain that food.  What will happen if you allow that huge herd to flourish and to breed?  Quite simply, in a very short period they will reduce this park to a dust bowl, and when that happens the elephant population will collapse.  We will be left with nothing, no trees, no park, no elephant.

Daniel nodded encouragement.  When the film was edited he would cut in at this point a series of shots he had taken some years previously in Kenya's Amboseli Park.  These were haunting vistas of devastation, of bare red earth and dead black trees stripped of bark and leaves holding up their naked branches in agonized supplication to a hard blue African sky, while the desiccated carcasses of the great animals lay like discarded leather bags where famine and poachers had destroyed them.

Do you have a solution, Warden?  Daniel asked softly.  A drastic one, I'm afraid.  Will you show us what it is?  Johnny Nzou shrugged.  It is not very pretty to watch, but, yes, you may witness what has to be done.

Daniel woke twenty minutes before sunrise.

Even the intervening years spent in cities out of Africa, and the passage of so many other dawns in northern climes, or in the fluid time zones of jet aircraft travel, had not dulled the habit that he had first acquired in this valley.  Of course, the habit had been reinforced during the years of that terrible Rhodesian bush war, when he had been called up to serve in the security forces.

For Daniel the dawn was the most magical time of each day, and especially so in this valley.  He rolled out of his sleepingbag and reached for his boots.  He and his men had slept fully clothed on the sun-baked earth, with the embers of the campfire in the centre of the huddle of their prostrate forms.  They had not built a boma of thorn branches to protect themselves, although at intervals during the night lions had grunted and roared along the escarpment.

Daniel laced up his boots and slipped quietly out of the circle of sleeping men.  The dew that hung like seed pearls upon the grass stems soaked his trouser legs to the knees as he moved out to the promontory of rock at the head of the cliff.  He found a seat on the rough grey granite knoll and huddled into his anorak.

The dawn came on with stealthy and deceptive speed and painted the clouds above the great river in subtle talcum shades of pink and grey.

Over the Zambezi's dark green waters the river mist undulated and pulsed like ghostly ectoplasm and the dawn flights of duck were very dark and crisp against the pale background, their formations precise and their wingbeats flickering quick as knife-blades in the uncertain light.

A lion roared, near at hand, abrupt gales of sound that died away in a descending series of moaning grunts.  Daniel shivered with the thrill of that sound.  Though he had heard it countless times, it always had the same effect upon him.  There was no other like it in all the world.

For him it was the veritable voice of Africa.

Then he picked out the great cat shape below him at the edge of the swamp.  Full-bellied, dark-maned, it carried its massive head low and swung it from side to side to the rhythm of its stately arrogant walk.

Its mouth was half open and its fangs glinted behind thin black lips.

He watched it vanish into the dense riverine bush and sighed with the pleasure it had given him There was a small sound close behind him.  As he started up, Johnny Nzou touched his shoulder to restrain him and settled down on the granite slab beside him.