The Travelling Vet

20

WILDEBEEST

‘Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.’

Gary Snyder

I was hot, sweaty, hungry and tired, but I couldn’t have been happier. I was back in South Africa again. As I surveyed my surroundings on this 3000-hectare game farm, arid scrubland stretched before me in every direction with just the odd acacia tree to add variety. The only signs of human life were our abandoned vehicles and a group of thirty-odd people busying themselves with khaki tarpaulins and wooden posts. Just twenty-four hours previously this area had been untouched land, but now an enormous v-shaped enclosure stretched out from the bed of a large haulage truck to the brow of a small promontory just visible on the horizon over a kilometre away.

The purpose of this temporary construct was to facilitate the mass capture and relocation of about 400 blue wildebeest. Southern Africa had been in drought for over two years and as such the once-abundant vegetation on which the animals depended for grazing was scarce and waterholes were drying up, critically endangering the wildlife on the reserves. A hundred years ago these animals simply would have migrated to find sustenance, but the continent was different now, the human population having grown exponentially to the detriment of its wildlife. In order to protect that wildlife, animals were no longer free to roam but were instead enclosed within large game reserves, which meant they had nowhere to go when drought struck. As their custodians, the reserve had a duty to intervene so we had been asked to move some of the wildebeest off the farm to other locations where the effects of the drought weren’t as serious – while praying that the rains would eventually come.

This particular area was a ‘big-five’ estate and so home to an abundance of species, many of which also needed their numbers reducing, but today’s task was the relocating of the blue wildebeest. We had found a new place for only about a quarter of the group, which would mean a repeat of today’s complex manoeuvres at a later date. It seemed an inordinate amount of time, effort and manpower for the job involved, but to the capture team and wildlife vets we were working with, this was just another few days at the office; one to load, transport and unload all the kit; another to set up; then probably only a few hours on the actual capture, though that depended on the skill of the helicopter pilot and how far the animals were from this temporary ‘boma’, as these enclosures were called.

The capture technique was a glorified version of sheepdog trialling – herding the animals using a helicopter and boma instead of a dog and pen. The helicopter would round up the animals, coaxing them into the enclosure before sounding a siren signalling to the team on the ground to pull curtains across the entrance to secure the animals within. The helicopter would continue pushing the herd forwards, funnelling the beasts down towards the truck whilst further ground teams ran behind, drawing curtains across the path in their wake to contain the wildebeest in an ever-diminishing area until they reached the truck and had nowhere else to go but on board. Well, that was the theory, at least!

Deciding on where to position the boma, factoring in access, wind direction and camouflage, was the most crucial step in this complicated procedure. It was not unusual to spend a day setting up the large pen, only then to find the animals were spooked at the entrance and would not cross the threshold. When this occurred the whole set-up had to be dismantled, a new location found and the enclosure reconstructed, so mass capture was (and remains) a huge logistical and time-consuming operation.

It was 9 a.m., the temperature was already in the twenties and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, nor was there any shelter to be found. We, the student and vet team, had already been at work for an hour, assisting the capture team in adding the finishing touches to the boma construction. For us it had been a 5.30 a.m. start, but the capture team were already hard at it when we arrived, having camped overnight – seemingly unperturbed by being on a big-five reserve with predators aplenty. I strolled back to the minibus to grab my water bottle, pondering what creatures surrounded me unseen; black mambas, puff adders, cobras and scorpions for sure but doubtless other creatures besides lay hidden in the brush. Was there a lion crouching, invisible and perfectly disguised, studying my every movement? Experience told me it was already too hot for a hunt and such animals would be in the shade somewhere, sleeping soundly, tails gently swatting away any fly that attempted to trouble them, but the mind is a powerful thing and so I felt a surge of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I studied every tree I passed, hoping to spot a leopard tucking into an impala carcass – its usual reward from a successful night’s hunt.

This was a far cry from my recent stint at Pinewood Studios, where I had been working as the veterinary adviser on the set of a Hollywood blockbuster, giving guidance on how to operate on and take blood from dinosaurs – as if that was something I had learned in vet school! It had been the experience I had gained working out here in South Africa previously that had secured that role for me; with some lateral thinking and extrapolation from my own professional experiences I had felt confident about the advice I was able to give. And who wouldn’t have taken that gig? The opportunity to see your work translated onto the big screen for potentially millions of viewers across the globe was too great to pass up. It had been surreal but fascinating, working with the director and actors, seeing the manpower and money involved and watching superbly crafted model dinosaurs being brought to life so convincingly by an exceptional team of puppeteers. I had taken every opportunity to understand and involve myself in a world that previously I had known nothing about – and then walked away from it, content that I had made the right career choice; my heart lay in caring for animals and not in movie-making and box-office ticket sales. It had been an incredible experience and I felt privileged to have had it, but it was time to return from the Jurassic period to present-day veterinary work and conservation – and for that, Africa was the front line. I might be the only person to have stitched up a dinosaur, but as I surveyed my surroundings now, miles away from any signs of human habitation, I knew that this was where I belonged.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the all-too-familiar hum of the R44 helicopter appearing as a white speck on the horizon. Moments later it circled above us, its rotor blades creating a cloud of dust into which it landed. Our ‘sheepdog’ had arrived and the pen was now ready – we just needed to locate the wildebeest.

We congregated on a dirt track for our briefing, giving Bjorn, the leader of the capture team, a canvas on which to illustrate the plan of attack. We were each to be responsible for a curtain within the enclosure, he explained. Our task was simple: to keep out of view until the ground vibrated from the stampeding animals and the helicopter siren could be heard overhead, then, ‘run like hell with your curtain and don’t stop until you’ve reached the other side!’

Bjorn looked up at his audience from where he crouched over his dirt diagram, waving the four-inch twig he’d been using as his marker. The plan brought to mind my previous experience of mass capture with eland, which had felt like a military ambush: stealth and silence followed by a surge of adrenaline as the enormous animals galloped past just feet away from where I stood. I had felt I might be trampled at any moment, but then they were past me, the siren sounded and I sprinted as though my life depended on it across the rugged terrain, towards the opposite canvas wall – and safety.

I surveyed the eager faces of the vet students; they had no idea what they were in for – but neither, as it transpired, did I.

‘If all goes to plan, it will be as smooth as herding sheep, but if the wind gets under the canvas and they see any escape route then chaos will ensue; there will be no stopping them and we’ll never get them near the boma again. If you feel in danger or unsafe then just get out of there,’ Bjorn directed. ‘Remember, you’re all responsible for each other’s and your own safety!’ he added.

The capacity of each truck was about forty animals, which would mean three runs. I knew from experience that the first one would be the slowest, because it could take some time for helicopter pilot Gerry to locate a herd, which could be anywhere within the estate boundaries. After that, though, the process would be faster. The hope was that our early-morning start would ensure the wildebeest were still congregated around one of the waterholes. In a few hours’ time, at the hottest point of the day, they were likely to be elsewhere, seeking the shelter of one of the many dense bushland areas that dotted the farm and moving them then would almost certainly result in some fatalities.

Briefing done, Gerry headed back to his helicopter to commence his search. Moments later the helicopter roared into life, and then it was up and away, disappearing into the pristine blue sky. He had radio communication with us on the ground so would alert us when he located a wildebeest herd, but until then it was the all-too-familiar waiting game.

Bjorn and I turned our attention to trying to hit a bush stump or boulder twenty or thirty metres away with pebbles. It was one of various time-filling games that were a customary part of this sort of work, but I never tired of them; to be out in the African bush again, working with the native wildlife, always gave me a great sense of contentment. It was the complete antithesis of city life, which I had enjoyed as a student but from which I had since fled. Now, any trip for me had to include animals and open spaces.

As the sun approached its highest point, the lack of shelter started to take its toll on us; we were already consuming litres of water and now were forced to retreat to the relative protection of the truck’s shade. An hour went by before Gerry’s voice crackled across the radio confirming he had located a large herd of well over a hundred wildebeest. They were a couple of miles away by a watering hole but were starting to move off, also seeking shade until later in the day.

Gerry would muster the animals slowly, not wanting them to overheat, so guessed they were about fifteen minutes away; it was time for us to take to our stations. For this first run, I was to be at the funnel entrance to the boma, in charge of one of the first crucial curtains; once this was closed, the wildebeest would be contained, provided the tarpaulins held firm as barriers. The ultimate goal of loading the animals onto the truck, though, relied on maintaining the herd’s forward momentum once within the enclosure, which could be difficult; stressed by their confinement their natural instinct was to circle around and double back on themselves in search of any escape route.

With our destination a kilometre from the truck and Gerry’s arrival now imminent, I set off at a brisk pace in the company of Derek, Dumison and Sydney from the capture team. Minutes later we were in position. It was the first time I had seen the entrance to the boma and it was immediately apparent why this hilltop location had been chosen. The direction from which the animals would be approaching meant the vast majority of the enclosure leading down to the truck would be hidden from their view, as would we be thanks to the bushes and trees. The wildebeest would be contained within the boma before they even realized what had happened.

We briefly checked the curtains were drawing smoothly; any snagging could prevent us from being able to close off the entrance, which would hinder our capture efforts.

We were set! In the silence, I was conscious of my own heartbeat. I was by now accustomed to such moments, but never tired of them. While we were surrounded by an expert team of people who had performed these sorts of logistical operations hundreds of times before, we all knew the potential dangers of working with wild animals; catastrophe could be just around the corner.

After a few minutes the hum of the helicopter could be heard, getting ever louder and overpowering the noise of the approaching wildebeest. Uncomfortable as we were, crouched down in our hiding places and being harassed by flies and ants, we remained focused, acutely aware of our responsibility. I felt the ground shake beneath me and suddenly the wildebeest were upon us, the sound of their stampeding hooves deafening, the dust cloud making us cough and splutter – and then they had gone. The helicopter siren broke through the melee – the sprint was on! Disorientated, I used the curtain to guide me as I pulled it across the enclosure while navigating the unforgiving terrain, acutely aware of the implications a fall could have on the capture. But then as I cleared the dust cloud I heard the siren sound again, signalling the animals’ progression: they were now in the second zone and the imminent danger of their escape had passed.

My curtain secured, I headed with Derek and Sydney into the boma towards the truck to assist with the loading. The siren sounded twice more before the drone of the helicopter died away; Gerry had landed and the wildebeest had made it through the final curtain. As we jogged from one section to the next, we were joined by others in the team as they too completed their tasks. This capture seemed to have gone smoothly, but until the doors were closed on the truck, there was no room for complacency.

On reaching the final curtain, I heard a commotion coming from the other side, but my fears were calmed when I peered around the tarpaulin to see the animals being herded in a controlled way onto the trailer. Moments later the truck doors slammed shut, safely containing thirty-eight wildebeest. Several of us clambered up onto the truck roof to administer tranquillizers to each animal, injecting them through the roof hatches with a syringe pole. The drug would keep them quiet and relaxed for the journey ahead.

With the animals so subdued, the truck set off with its cargo for the more secure holding bomas a few miles away, where the wildebeest would be housed for a few days before being transported to their final destination under cooler conditions. A second truck took the place of the first in a seamless transition that reflected the routine nature of this whole operation.

After the first muster Gerry had joined the ground crew; despite over twenty-five years as a pilot, he still loved the other aspects of wildlife work and never wanted to miss out on any of the action. But now it was time for him to return to his primary duty. Knowing there were plenty of people on the ground and that I wouldn’t be missed, I asked if I could join him in his chopper for the second run.

‘Sure, Jono – hop in,’ he responded with his typical friendliness.

As I clambered into the R44 and secured my safety belt and headset, I felt an eager sense of anticipation at the thought of experiencing helicopter mass capture in a way I had previously only witnessed from the ground. This second run was sure to be much less time-consuming than the first, Gerry knowing exactly where the herd was located now, so even if the animals had taken shelter from the midday heat they would be easily extracted. Nevertheless, separating one species from a group and then a specific number from a herd requires an intimate knowledge of the animals involved and instinctive piloting skills. Gerry had both in abundance.

Rising quickly into the sky, Gerry banked over the boma and we were soon heading out across the open plain for the watering hole from where the previous group had come. Travelling at speed we could see the perfect shadow of our helicopter moving over the ground a few hundred feet beneath us. Moments later, the watering hole came into view. Frustrated by the earlier disturbance, the wildebeest had returned to the oasis to rejoin the herd of hartebeest they had left behind, and the two species were once again drinking contentedly, but our approach quickly sent them into a frenzy, conscious now of what the helicopter meant. Bolting into the open plain as a mixed group, it was thanks to Gerry’s skilful aerial manoeuvres as we descended over them that the herding instinct kicked in, causing a natural separation of the two species. Gerry had expected and so immediately exploited this reaction, coming in low and driving the hartebeest away. Rising up again and banking the chopper around we turned back to the wildebeest, which were now heading roughly in the direction of the boma, but the group was far too big for one truckload so needed to be thinned out. Although Gerry could instinctively tell where to divide the herd to split off the forty required animals, they were galloping so closely together that he was forced to come in low to drive them apart; I could almost reach out and touch them. The speed and altitude at which we were flying should have felt terrifying, but was instead thrilling, thanks to his relaxed demeanour.

With the separation complete, I did a head-count: we had a group of thirty-six; Gerry had been impressively accurate in his estimation. He radioed through to Bjorn and the ground crew our ETA; the herd was already on the move at their own speed so Gerry only intervened when they strayed off course, the sheepdog analogy proving accurate. Slowly and steadily we corralled the animals forwards across the open plain, the boma gradually coming into view as we approached the brow of the hill, its entrance shrouded by bushes and trees, once again justifying the location choice. Despite a wild animal’s instinctive sense for danger, the wildebeest were oblivious to the trap into which they were being driven.

After a final push, coaxing the animals into their enclosure, Gerry sounded the siren and curtains appeared seemingly from nowhere, sealing off the entrance. The helicopter continued to drive the group forwards, siren blasts at intervals indicating to the ground crew when to close off the next section. From the air we could see within minutes that the wildebeest had passed the last curtain before the entrance to the truck. Gerry circled the chopper and landed and by the time we reached the vehicle, the animals were safely onboard and simply required tranquillizing.

Two groups successfully contained, we only needed to herd one more today; after the slow start we had made good time.

‘Jono, I need you on the suicide curtain for this final run,’ Bjorn said to me while Gerry refuelled the chopper.

The suicide curtain was the final barrier at the entrance to the truck. It was aptly named. Situated at the narrowest point of the boma, the animals would stampede past just feet away from the curtain operator (or ‘runner’, as they are known) before being tightly confined once their escape route had been sealed off behind them. If they moved straight onto the truck then the danger to this person was minimal but if they stalled and started circling or turning back on themselves then the situation would be entirely different. The procedure required the runner’s conviction that the curtain would hold firm and the animals would just see a barrier, making a charge unlikely – but being confined in a small space with a panicked herd of wild animals, a sheet of tarpaulin providing the only protection, would test the courage of even the bravest.

‘Sure, I’d do that,’ I casually replied to Bjorn, fuelled by the adrenalin surge of the morning’s activities so far and trusting his professional judgement. If he felt confident having me on the suicide curtain then I felt confident I could do the job.

As Gerry took to the air again, I remained with the ground crew, each of us dispersing to our new stations. Fifty yards from the truck there was a slight slacking in the tarpaulin that provided a shortcut into the boma, allowing us to avoid the hike back to the main entrance or having to go through the truck. Ducking between the steel poles that anchored the sheets in place, I entered the boma and headed back towards the suicide curtain while the rest of the team moved along from the outside of the enclosure to their various posts.

My curtain was closed but not sealed, abandoned after the previous capture when the wildebeest were chased straight through and up the ramp into the track; the ideal scenario. As I reached the curtain I wondered if I would have the same luck, but nevertheless rehearsed what I needed to do to secure it shut and then drew it open again, checking it ran smoothly on its runners. Although I knew the funnelling system was designed to ensure the wildebeest would only make it back as far as the penultimate curtain if I didn’t seal mine in time, I was nevertheless nervous.

Happy all my equipment was functioning, I concealed myself behind the crumpled tarpaulin. I had a vivid flashback to childhood days playing hide and seek at my grandparents’ house. Just as then, I knew I had to keep quiet and wait. Gerry had already been gone about five minutes and although I was confident in his ability to gather another group quickly from those we had left at the watering hole, my lack of communication with either him or Bjorn meant my first indication of their arrival would be the siren – and there was no knowing whether that would be in ten minutes or two hours.

The waiting allowed my mind to wander, imagining all the potential hazards that surrounded us. That was the downside, but it had its benefits too; it was a rare opportunity to stop and appreciate the nature we were immersed in. As I waited now, I watched a glossy starling dipping into the boma before quickly flying away, finding nothing to scavenge. A small army of ants busied themselves in the dirt, retrieving leaf fragments or twigs ten times their size. A dung beetle, just feet away from me, crawled past, making for one of the piles of droppings left by the previous group.

Still I waited. I tested the smooth-running of the curtain again in a vain attempt to distract myself. I could see a couple of people poised at the next one, not daring to move, expecting the animals’ arrival at any moment. Then, with its piercing blast, the siren sounded and the beasts were nearly here! I pressed myself against the tarpaulin wall, huddling behind my curtain, gripping it tightly as I readied myself for the imminent stampede. The siren sounded again and then, moments later, for a third time; the animals were close. My heart raced. I felt the ground start to vibrate and peered out from my cover to see the approaching dust cloud. The siren sounded for a fourth time and the animals galloped past, just feet away from me, the noise deafening, the dirt engulfing. The blurring of tails and heads as the beasts thundered by made it impossible to count their number, but I could see a growing mass of horns as they gathered between the truck and the suicide curtain.

The first few wildebeest had abruptly halted at the truck’s ramp; they weren’t going to load themselves without encouragement and in a few moments they would start turning back. I needed to close the curtain to contain them, but I had to wait until the last one had passed me. I tentatively peered out from my hiding place; the last few animals were just feet away from crossing the threshold into my zone but had been slowed to a trot by the obstruction ahead of them; my window of opportunity was rapidly closing.

Luckily, the last animal crossed over before the message to retreat had filtered through to the rest of the herd. Seizing my chance I sprinted, pulling the curtain across the enclosure to seal the escape route. Reaching the far side, I secured the canvas with heavy-duty pins. The wildebeest were contained so I had achieved my objective, but turning around to survey the scene there was little comfort to be gained from my triumph; the herd too were aware of the situation. Moving away from the truck towards their path into the enclosure, they were confronted with yet another barrier: me. Sensing a threat, some scraped the ground with their forefeet as though to charge, in the same menacing way they would ward off an attack from a predator. I was suddenly grateful to be facing wildebeest and not buffalo, which would attack without hesitation. Nevertheless, the situation was intimidating. I tried to conceal myself against the canvas, hoping not to alarm them further.

Although giving me a wide birth, as the animals became increasingly agitated by their confinement and desperate to escape, they brushed up against the tarpaulin enclosure walls; if we didn’t load them soon then undoubtedly destruction and escape would ensue. I was helpless on my own, but all I could do was wait for backup and in the meantime hope that the intermittent ground-pawing didn’t turn into a charge by one of the more confident bulls.

It seemed an eternity before I heard the approach of Bjorn and Sydney at my curtain, though in reality it was only minutes.

‘Jono, you there?’ Bjorn whispered. ‘Have any of them loaded?’

‘No, they’re just circling, suspicious of the ramp and truck,’ I replied.

‘I thought as much. Let us in; we’ve got a tarpaulin we can try to herd them with.’

I felt a huge burden lifted; I was no longer on my own. Tentatively, I unpinned the curtain, careful not to reveal a glimpse of freedom to the wildebeest. Bjorn and Sydney slipped through the narrow gap and moments later had unfurled a large sheet that they spread across the width of the enclosure. The animals reacted with a mixture of fear and aggression, some bunching even closer together, others half-heartedly charging the sheet, catching it with their horns and retreating at the resultant rustling sound.

Bjorn and Sydney took up position at either end of the tarpaulin while I supported it in the middle. Meanwhile, Derek and Dumison had arrived and were now clambering onto either side of the boma wall where it was reinforced. Slowly, with their encouragement, Bjorn, Sydney and I drove the animals forward with the tarpaulin, persuading them onto the truck. It was a huge relief a few minutes later to seal the vehicle doors, finally securing the herd. Job done!

I sat gazing out of the window as we journeyed home. We passed fields of sugar cane, orange groves and banana plantations, fence lines separating them from grazing antelope and zebras, and a small congress of baboons crossing the empty road ahead.

It had been an exhilarating day in the African bush – just another in a fun and varied career to date, and a long way from the dreams of an ambitious six-year-old. It was pretty hard to believe. What adventures lay ahead? With that thought I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Wildebeest: fast facts

Connochaetes taurinus: The blue wildebeest

Distribution: Southern and eastern Africa. There are 5 subspecies.

Names: A male is called a ‘bull’, a female is a ‘cow’, and the young a ‘calf’. A group of wildebeest is called a ‘confusion’.

Life span: 20 years.

Habitat: Short-grass plains on the edge of bush-covered acacia savannahs, migrating to coincide with annual rainfall and grass-growing patterns.

Diet: Wildebeest are herbivorous grazers, primarily eating short grasses.

Gestation: 257 days, usually producing a single calf.

Weight: 20 kg at birth, reaching 260–290 kg as adults.

Growth: A newborn calf will stand within 15 minutes of being born and is capable of keeping up with the herd after a few days. They are weaned at about 4 months, but remain with their mother for the first year, at which point males will leave the herd to form a bachelor group. Females reach sexual maturity at about 2 years old and males between 3–4 years of age. Between 4–5 years of age the males will establish their own territory.

Body temperature: 38–39.2 °C.

Facts: They can reach speeds of up to 50 mph, making them one of the top ten fastest land animals. Calves are born within 2–3 weeks of the rainy season, which allows the lush grasses to provide nutritional support for a cow to feed her calf.

Conservation: In the Bible, humanity is given ‘dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over every living thing that moves on the earth’ (Genesis 1: 28). The Oxford English Dictionary defines ‘dominion’ as an authority to rule. But with that authority comes a responsibility. We all inherently crave leadership that is principled rather than exploitative, and the same should apply to humanity’s relationship with nature.

The seventeenth-century poet John Donne famously claimed that ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’

Maybe ‘man’ should be replaced with ‘species’ in this quotation, for when a species becomes extinct, life on earth as a whole, including humanity, is the worse off for it. An estimated 200 species are going extinct every single day, a rate that is a hundred times faster than what might be considered normal. John Donne’s mourning bell should be ringing round the clock. In the last forty years the number of wild animals on the planet has halved. The majority of these species disappear unnoticed by most of the world, but you just have to consider the popularity of nature or wildlife documentaries, or of zoos and nature reserves, to realize how entwined humanity is with the natural world. The organization United for Wildlife has set out to unite the world’s leading wildlife charities under a common purpose to create a global movement for change (see www.unitedforwildlife.org). What world do we want to leave to our children and our children’s children? We each have a duty and a responsibility in caring for the natural world and we can each do something positive to conserve it. So what will you do?