by Mireya Mayor
The halls of National Geographic headquarters are filled with energy. At any moment, you might expect showgirls to burst from the cubicles and go right into a full-blown routine on creativity and adventure. These are no ordinary office workers. The corridor walls are lined with nameplates that read like a who’s who of the explorers, filmmakers, and photographers who made National Geographic the most recognizable name in exploration and adventure. But sometimes those walls come alive. Bumping into one of the legendary Cousteaus, Leakeys, or Jouberts in the hallway reminds you that this isn’t regional dinner theater, it’s the Broadway of exploration. Then again, standing in front of the bathroom mirror retouching my lipstick alongside renowned oceanographer Sylvia Earle has also reminded me that my heroes are human, just like me.
Only days before a giraffe nearly kicked me in the ribs, I was looking out my office window over M Street in Washington, D.C., wondering just how it was I had gotten so lucky. On my office walls were masks from different parts of the world I had traveled to and a map reminding me of all the places I had yet to go. Second only to the African skies and stars, it was under this roof that I had come to feel most inspired and humbled.
It was also under this roof that I first met filmmaker Eric Cochran. More than a cameraman, Eric looked part bodybuilder, part surfer. Blond, fit, tan, and a native Californian, that description was no stretch. But he was also a well-seasoned shooter-producer, which meant that besides producing films, he was an accomplished cinematographer. He had spent years working in Africa and was back at headquarters to pitch a story I immediately wanted to be a part of. He was working on a project in Namibia involving wildebeests, giraffes, and leopards. It was a project so alluring that I was soon packing my bags and heading back to the African continent. Namibia would be the next stamp on my passport.
A country in southern Africa as big as Texas and Louisiana combined, Namibia has a population of about 1.8 million, making it one of the least densely populated countries on Earth. Dominated by the inhospitable Kalahari and Namib Deserts, it is also one of the most arid. Cars are few and far between on its smooth, tabletop roads, one of the happier results of brutal German colonialism and apartheid-era South African control, the latter of which ended with independence in 1990. German influence may also explain Namibia’s relatively superb infrastructure compared to other African countries. If there’s one thing Germans can do, it’s organize. I should know, I’m married to one, and I envy his side of the closet.
In Namibia we were to meet up with Ulf Tubbesing, a pioneer veterinarian who works with wild animals. When I first met Ulf, he was stepping off a helicopter toting a rifle on his shoulder and trailed by a bevy of German beauties. Who is this character? I thought. He was not your typical lab coat–wearing vet, but the babes were his students. You might say he was the James Bond of the veterinary world. He makes “house calls” from his Namibian clinic, tending to the needs of the continent’s wildest animals, facing danger every time. When Ulf makes a house call, the patient isn’t usually cooperative, and the location is almost never a house. He might be responding to a report of a baboon wreaking havoc in Windhoek, Namibia’s capital, or tracking and tranquilizing a leopard that’s raiding a farmer’s crops. The animals often need medical attention, as well. We hadn’t been in Namibia very long when he got a call requesting him to tend to a wild cheetah that had been attacked by a leopard. His work can make a real impact on seriously depleted animal populations like that of the cheetah—and every animal counts.
The wild animals Ulf treats are in trouble less because they’ve been attacked by other animals than because they’ve come into contact with humans. Namibia has very little habitable land, which poses a dilemma for both animals and people. What little there is is fenced in, so many of the nation’s leopards and cheetahs are forced to live on farmland. Those predators see a free meal and go for it, killing livestock and creating an economic problem for landowners. In light of that, Ulf spread the word among farmers that he was prepared to remove animals that ignored their “No trespassing” signs. Whereas previously ranchers and farmers would shoot to kill, now many of them called Ulf to move the animals off their land.
Treating and working with wildlife or, more specifically, problem animals is incredibly challenging. Five minutes with Ulf, and you know he’s doing it for love. But he told me that as a fifth-generation Namibian, he learned his marksmanship by watching wildlife through a scope. In Namibia love of wildlife usually coincides with hunting.
But Ulf was now a changed man, trying to save Namibia’s heritage. Against the odds, he was fighting to give the wild animals a sanctuary where they could recover and roam free. He and some partners had recently established a 10,000-hectare (25,000-acre) preserve, whose goal is to restore the thriving ecosystem that once existed here but was hunted out. He was just beginning to relocate many of his patients to the area. He called it the Ongos Project. Because of several close shaves I had while there, I called it the End of Me.
There is no instruction manual on how to convert barren African land into a perfectly balanced wildlife preserve. But even without an exact blueprint, you know that the land must sustain predator and prey. A little leopard with some wildebeest sprinkled in would be a good start. How hard could it be?
So first on our agenda was to get us some wildebeests. The wildebeest is a mammal whose name comes from the South African (Afrikaans) word for “wild animal.” It has a large, box-shaped head; sharp, curved horns; shaggy hair around the neck; and a pointed beard. Wildebeests are typically gray or dark brown with black stripes, tails, manes, and faces. Although heavily built in the front of their bodies, they support their weight on long, thin legs like their gazelle relatives. They are members of the antelope family, but they look more like oxen or bison than they do a springbok. Measured against the rest of the animal kingdom, they’re not the most attractive. But don’t tell them I said that.
Wildebeests have been the subject of many wildlife documentaries and are well known for their annual migrations to new pastures. It is an epic spectacle in which vast numbers of wildebeests cross rivers, such as the Mara, and die by the dozens as they attempt to reach the other side. Many are eaten by crocodiles, and others simply drown. That was the extent of my wildebeest knowledge. I didn’t have the first clue how you might go about herding them, but I imagined myself riding horseback old-fashioned cowboy style.
No cowboy hats. No horses. No lassos. Modern-day wildebeest herding is done with helicopters.
But this wasn’t your ordinary, run-of-the-mill helicopter. This helicopter looked like a death trap. Small and light, it could maneuver lower and faster than any other type of aircraft. My fear was that it didn’t look strong enough to sustain heavy winds. Eric didn’t seem upset that there were only two seats, none for him. I introduced myself to the pilot, certain he would offer me some reassurance. He didn’t. On the contrary, he said he was nervous. What? You can’t begin to imagine how nerve-racking it is when you’re about to put your life in the hands of a pilot who tells you he’s nervous. According to him, wildebeest herding is one of the most dangerous jobs in existence. Much to my horror, he confided that in trying to beat the odds, he herds only a few times a year. All I could think was that when the pilot tells you he’s scared, there’s probably a good reason for it.
Before I could change my mind, we were in the air. We flew high and then dangerously low above the Namibian desert. Then we began trailing wildebeests at a relatively comfortable distance. Once the helicopter’s noise got them moving, we started diving at the ground, herding them into an enclosed area with a police siren. From the sky, the glossy backs of the wildebeests spread out, stampeding in every direction.
It felt like we were doing air gymnastics, or riding a roller coaster without tracks. It was intense and exhilarating. As we flew right over the trees, it struck me that one slight mistake could end in disaster. The pilot was so strongly focused on the animals that it was a wonder he didn’t brush the tre
etops. Airborne, herding wildebeests, there is absolutely no room for error. In this profession, crash and burn is not a figure of speech. On the bright side, if we did take a nose dive, the helicopter’s glass front would enable me to watch every harrowing second of my earthbound plummet.
The siren continued to blast across the desert, and the herd obediently thundered into the trailer that was being manned below. All wildebeests inside, my feet finally back on land, I was very proud not to have puked on the pilot. We drove four hours to Ulf’s land, where we opened the back of the trailer, and one by one the large creatures ran past us without looking back. Ulf’s dream of creating a safe haven for these animals was slowly being realized. The release was a beautiful sight.
No question, the wildebeest mission was a wild chase. Now that I had helped with one capture, it was time for another. Giraffes were next on the agenda. I was really excited about this for two reasons. The first was that giraffes are some of my favorite animals on Earth. With their sleek, long necks and spotted patterns like a leopard’s, I also think they are some of the most beautiful. A giraffe is conspicuous like no other animal—long in the extreme, from its legs to its neck and head, from its tail hairs to its eyelashes. Standing between 16 and 18 feet, a giraffe could go eyeball to eyeball with a second-story window. They tower proudly over the dry savanna and thorny thickets. Nothing compares to seeing a giraffe in its natural habitat. But truth be told, the main reason I was happy about the giraffe capture was that you don’t herd giraffes. No death-defying helicopters. What I didn’t realize was that it would not be any less stressful, or dangerous.
It was painful to know that these giraffes could have been fated to die at the hands of hunters. Giraffes are hunted for their tails, hides, and meat. The tails are used as good luck charms, thread, and flyswatters. But it wasn’t poachers who would kill these giraffes if we didn’t get them out. The fatal bullets would be wholly legal, delivered by paying customers who had bought tickets to take aim at these incredible creatures. We had come to a game reserve that had more giraffes than it could possibly support. Hunting is actually a conservation measure to ensure healthy and genetically balanced herds. Regardless, if Ulf didn’t shoot them with a tranquilizer gun and transfer them to his preserve, it would be a hunting gun that took aim at them.
In the midday sun, the giraffes waited anxiously for a turn to quench their thirst at the watering hole. We in turn were in the back of a pickup truck waiting anxiously to dart the giraffes. We trailed them nearly an hour waiting for the right moment for Ulf to shoot. Tension ran high.
A lone giraffe bull stood at the edge of the scrubby bush forest that opened onto a grassland. The grasses were yellowed and brittle. We approached to within 150 yards of the animal. It didn’t seem bothered by our presence. Ulf adjusted the air rifle and tweaked the scope to get it into sharp focus. Sweat streamed down his face. Neither excited nor aggressive, the giraffe watched us calmly from its haughty perch, brown eyes bulging. We could see the fine, curving eyelashes framing its attentive eyes.
Ulf took a shot. He missed. The giraffe ran off and rejoined the herd, making it hard to get another clear shot. We kept after the giraffes as they ran, sun glowing on their backs. Giraffes have an unusual gait, in which the front and back legs on one side move forward together, then the two legs on the other side move forward. Because the animals are so large, the motion of their legs seemed almost in slow motion. With their center of gravity so high, they seemed to sweep along, hardly touching the earth. They were virtually floating. It was breathtaking to watch.
With a bang, my romanticized moment out on the African plains ended. Ulf had taken a shot and this time hit his target. This is the point when things can get hairy. The gunshot sent the animals running, and giraffes are extremely fast, capable of speeds between 30 and 50 miles an hour. Ready to jump into action, we had to wait until the sedative kicked in before going after the animal but not a moment longer. The drug was so strong that Ulf had to counteract it with a second drug. He had only minutes to inject the antidote before the giraffe would die.
A rhythmic dance ensued, animals and truck constantly starting and stopping. It was more mosh pit than samba. I was crammed into the back of the small truck with eight other people, trying to stay upright and slamming into every bump in the Namibian desert. Within minutes, the giraffe was showing signs of the drug. Its run was becoming sluggish, its head beginning to sway. We had to get to it immediately. We managed to get closer and Ulf, some of his assistants, and I jumped off the back of the truck carrying a coiled 100-foot rope. I was running at full speed. This was the most dangerous part of the capture for both us and the giraffe. Two of us extended the rope in front of its legs to slow it down and then trip it so the antidote could be administered.
Watching this soaring creature fall to the ground was not a pretty sight. It was like watching nature’s version of the Eiffel Tower crumble. The giraffe looked nothing like the picture of grace it had embodied only minutes before. But there was no time to pause. Hearts pounding and completely out of breath from the chase, we had to quickly elevate the animal’s head, or it would choke to death. It took all eight of us to lift the 6-foot neck, which alone weighed about 600 pounds. That’s more than two linebackers.
Ulf prepared the drug, while I covered the giraffe’s eyes and someone else inserted earplugs. Covering his eyes and reducing the noise would help calm him when he regained consciousness. Each person had a job to do, monitoring the animal’s breathing, heart rate, temperature, and respiratory oxygen. After taking blood, Ulf injected the antidote, reversing the immobilizer drug and bringing the animal back to consciousness. It was difficult for me to take in the scene. There I was holding a rope attached to a giraffe wearing earplugs and a blindfold. That had to be about as surreal as it gets.
We caught our breath and let our adrenaline settle, allowing the giraffe to rest until ready to stand up on his own. That process was not pretty, either. A giraffe can’t simply hop to its feet. It is entirely reliant on its head and neck to get up from a prone position. As I held the rope and watched, the giraffe began to throw his head and neck toward his back legs in an effort to rise onto his stomach. Frighteningly, it looked as though the 1,800-pound animal was having a seizure. But finally he made it into a sort of crouch. Another throw of his head and neck toward his tail gave him momentum to stand. Holding the makeshift leash around his neck, I looked up in awe at this amazing beast.
For the next hour I walked my giraffe. That’s right. I walked him like I was cooling down a racehorse 18 feet tall. Our next task was to walk him into the trailer. This was not as easy as it may sound and should come with the disclaimer, “Lead the giraffe at your own risk.” We began wrangling him and quickly realized this giraffe had a lot of attitude. Leaning his long body way back, he resisted mightily. We finally got him in, and I went to close the back gate. As if in retaliation, the giraffe kicked back, nearly hitting my rib cage. I jumped out of his way in the nick of time, relieved it was only a near miss. I wasn’t impervious to the fact that a giraffe’s kick can kill a lion.
One giraffe down, we still had one to go. It was a daunting thought, an intoxicating mix of excitement and danger. We needed a female if there was to be any chance of reproduction. By the end of the second capture I was exhausted, as were the giraffes we had set off running. The entire process of capturing and moving them to the new preserve had been even more intense than I’d anticipated, but the result would be worth it: the gradual rebirth of one of the planet’s great natural environments. A giraffe couple stood in the back of the truck, and it was time to take them to their new stomping grounds.
Wildebeests and giraffes in place, Ulf’s preserve was almost complete, but it lacked predators. In the natural world, every form of life is food for another. Most predators have special adaptations to catch and kill food. These may include good vision, a keen sense of smell, or strong legs for running. Leopards have all of those. They are capable of running just under
40 miles per hour and can easily jump 22 feet horizontally and 10 feet vertically. They have four-inch, razor-sharp teeth and claws as thick as rifle slugs. They have a terrible beauty. They’re like an automatic weapon with the safety latch off.
Ulf had a couple of these potential killing machines at his farm (located not far from the preserve). They were orphan cubs brought to him by a local farmer. They were still too young to survive on their own, so Ulf had adopted them. He had always been crazy about leopards, and it was remarkable to watch them interact. He called them the “ultimate beasts” and described them as very moody. They were sometimes extremely cuddly and affectionate, but their behavior could change to vicious in a second. Though Ulf never forgot that these leopards were capable of inflicting serious injury, there was a bond there akin to father and sons. Unquestionably, these leopards saw Ulf as Dad.
One day we were cruising along with the leopards in the car and Ulf driving, when one of them decided to ride shotgun. From the backseat, it jumped onto my lap and reached to the left placing its large paw on the steering wheel. It was like having an extremely large house cat on my lap. In fact, other than being able to eat you, leopards really aren’t very different from house cats.
Walking around the preserve, Ulf told me this was not the first time he had cared for leopards. It turns out that these cubs were members of a leopard family with a brain disorder that Ulf had been trying to help for years. It all started in 1999 when a farmer knocked on his door carrying a female leopard and said, “There’s your leopard. Do with it what you want and then kill it.” Cats are traditionally admired for their graceful movement, speed, and agility. This leopard cub could barely walk.
It seems safe to assume that most people would have put the cat down. But something about this particular cub made it impossible for Ulf to consider such a thing. She couldn’t run or climb and fell over all the time just trying to walk. Ulf worked tirelessly doing all he could do to improve her quality of life. But nothing worked.