After hours of leisurely inactivity, we were suddenly catapulted into a frenzy of action. The hugely experienced capture team who, moments before, had been laughing and joking without a care in the world, were now focused and determined, but discernibly anxious. No two captures were ever the same and so much could go wrong in the space of seconds. Everyone knew that the slightest mistake could be fatal to the giraffe or result in serious injury to one of the team. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I had never felt an adrenaline surge like it.
The bakkie’s engine kicked into life without warning and we accelerated off towards the helicopter, trailing a cloud of dusty African soil. Perched on the back, we instinctively knew we had to hold on for dear life. There were no niceties now: engage your brain, anticipate, or one way or another get hurt!
We did one final check to make sure that we had the required drugs – the reversal, Diprenorophine, was the most essential and several of us carried it, so whoever reached the giraffe first could immediately inject it into his jugular vein. Once the animal was down, we only had seconds before the respiratory depressive effects of the Etorphine and Thiofentanyl could prove fatal. There was also an antibiotic injection for the dart wound, anti-inflammatories and a multivitamin injection to help prevent any muscle damage.
The capture team readied themselves with the ropes, blindfolds, earplugs, gaffer tape and the halter. At the first sign of the animal’s unsteadiness on his feet, two of the team would jump from the bakkie in pursuit. It was their job to intercept the giraffe, throw a rope around his chest and then use this to stall the giraffe and control his fall. All this was usually done while the giraffe was still in full flight, albeit in a slightly drunken state. The theory was great, but in practice, if the leap and chase from the bakkie was timed too soon, they could be chasing the giraffe for a mile, and if too late, the giraffe might crash to the ground unassisted and severely injure himself. And even if they successfully roped the giraffe’s chest, attempting to break a 1,500-kg giraffe travelling at 30 mph through the African bush was obviously fraught with danger, to both man and beast.
We came to a clearing, the helicopter hovering 400 metres ahead of us. It was then that we got our first sighting. Our quarry was still moving at a fair pace, but there were unmistakable signs that the drug was taking effect. Two minutes and ten seconds had passed. Bjorn shouted for his men to disembark, but they hadn’t needed telling. By the time the order came through they were already a good 10 metres clear of the bakkie and in full pursuit, having bailed out while we were still travelling at speed across the unforgiving terrain. The rest of the team were throwing themselves from the truck as Bjorn brought it to an abrupt stop. Seconds later, it stood abandoned, the engine still running and its doors open. We were focused on one thing, and one thing only: the swaying animal skyscraper a few hundred metres ahead of us.
With the Thiofentanyl rapidly taking effect, the giraffe was now unaware of the direction he was heading. Stumbling and swaying, he was travelling at reduced speed, but nevertheless he still easily outpaced us as we struggled to negotiate the hostile terrain. With a sudden change in the giraffe’s direction, the urgency to catch him escalated: he was now heading straight for the perimeter fence, which, at 6 metres high, and with copious amounts of barbed wire, would spell complete disaster.
Less than 100 metres from the fence, the capture team were now rapidly gaining on the giraffe, but were still too far away to secure him. Bjorn, still sprinting, was frantically gesticulating to his team to try to influence his direction of travel, but the giraffe wasn’t able to process the human deterrents and his course persisted unaltered, despite the best attempts of the helicopter pilot overhead. The impending impact with the fence seemed inevitable. I could see the panic on Bjorn’s face, helpless despite all his best efforts to control the uncontrollable. In the wildlife-capture business, skill and expertise are vital, but luck counts for a hell of a lot, too.
With 60 metres to go, we suddenly got our luck. As the giraffe broke through the bush onto one of the dusty tracks, he lost his footing, slipped and fell, and within seconds the capture team were on him. Working slickly and efficiently, they had already fixed a blindfold, earplug and head collar on him by the time we arrived only moments later. Three of the team saddled his neck to prevent any attempt by the giraffe to stand. For any animal lying on their side, the neck is the point of leverage to sitting up and then standing; immobilize the neck and the animal is effectively immobilized. By now the effects of the Thiofentanyl had been fully realized and he was unable to struggle against the hive of activity that surrounded him. His breathing and heart rate were stable at this initial stage, but until he had been given the partial reversal, the Diprenorphine, his life was on a knife edge: he could stop breathing at any moment.
The ability to be able to reverse any of the anaesthetic drugs used when dealing with wild animals is crucial. Partial reversal not only stabilizes the cardiorespiratory effects of the drug, but also enables an animal to be moved, manipulated, loaded and transported with minimal stress. A full reversal is essential before release into the natural environment, since a sedated animal wouldn’t survive an hour in such a fiercely competitive environment, where rivals or predators would ruthlessly seize any opportunity to take advantage of their weakness.
It was actually Derik who, having jumped from the hovering helicopter as soon as the giraffe had gone down, was first on hand to administer the reversal. With the giraffe secured, stabilized, and with no obvious injuries, I could briefly relax, leaving it to others to variously remove the dart, inject a long-acting antibiotic into the associated wound, administer a multivitamin shot and anti-inflammatory injection, and monitor the animal’s heart rate and breathing. Meanwhile, the transport trailer was brought within 20 metres of the patient, the ramp lowered and preparations made for loading him.
With all necessary procedures completed, Bjorn took the lead rope, and the rest of the capture team assigned themselves to the array of other ropes that to my untrained eye resembled a tangled mess on the floor. The three team-members holding down the neck now removed themselves in a single, swift movement and within moments the giraffe was once again towering above us. As the assembly of rope holders took up their positions, the previously confusing tangle of rope unfurled into an organized arrangement, with two ropes looped round the giraffe’s neck and passed behind each forelimb. Bjorn had the lead rope and a final rope passed high up behind the back legs. With this set-up, even the most stubborn giraffe could be encouraged to move forward, one step at a time, as the team worked together, first pulling on the left foreleg, then the right, while the two on the rear rope goaded from behind. Fortunately, this giraffe was very amenable, and within minutes he had been safely led onto the trailer, where another flurry of activity secured his position with a series of metal bars that were fed along the two sides to form a wedge. The tailgate was lifted – and there was a palpable release of tension in the air, as backslaps, high-fives and general congratulations were exchanged. We had safely caught one giraffe. Only two more to go, then …
As Moses, a member of the capture team, was making his final adjustments to a metal bar on the truck, we were all given a stark reminder of the power of this animal. Objecting to his temporary incarceration, the giraffe lashed out with a hind leg in the direction of the noise and Moses suddenly found himself eyeballing the splintered remains of one of the truck’s wooden panels, now complete with a hoof-shaped hole in it. My mind went back to my first trip to Africa. We had come across a male lion on a game drive whose lower jaw no longer occluded with his upper jaw and one canine tooth protruded at an obtuse angle through his cheek. Our guide informed us that a female giraffe had inflicted the injury with a kick in defence of her calf. Giraffes are generally perceived as graceful, elegant and gentle animals, but that day had reminded me of the danger they can pose. In fact, these wooden panels were deliberately designed to minimize injury to the giraffe – better that they splinter than the giraffe’s
leg – and it wasn’t unusual to find several such hoof-prints after a relocation exercise. The vital thing to remember was that the safety zone was not the trailer itself, but the giraffe’s extended kicking range.
We spent a few moments gathering together the strewn ropes and other remaining debris, and then Derik returned to the helicopter and we climbed into the bakkie we had abandoned barely twenty minutes before. As the chopper once again disappeared into the cerulean African sky, the ground crew reassembled in a clearing that gave us a good vantage point to observe the pilot’s progress. While preparations were made for the second giraffe’s capture, the air was thick with feverish accounts of the first. Then Derik’s voice crackled across on the radio.
‘We’ve located a small bachelor herd, we’re attempting to separate them and decide on which one to dart.’
Even this decision was complicated. Judging the size, age and health of a giraffe from 50 metres above it, and when travelling at 30 mph, took immense experience, and though the dart gun would be preloaded with a standard dose, it was up to Derik to decide which animal in the group was most suitable for it.
There were four in the herd, and as they made their bid to escape from the chopper, one giraffe was soon lagging behind the others. He might have seemed the obvious choice for darting, but in fact he was probably ailing and therefore a poor candidate. Attention turned to the remaining three. One was noticeably smaller than the other two; a standard adult dose might be excessive for him, so he too was ruled out. That left two suitable animals so now the choice was based on which would make the easiest shot. Prompted by a mixture of intuition and experience, Derik made his decision, then stuck to the cardinal rule: Never change your mind. He pointed out his quarry to the pilot, who immediately manouevred the aircraft to the optimum position, and moments later Derik pulled the trigger – a perfect shot with the dart embedding into the left gluteal muscles. The giraffe responded by breaking left, away from the rest of the group. The pilot managed to broaden the split and it wasn’t long before the other three were distant spots among the acacia trees far behind the helicopter. All this had happened within seconds of the herd being located.
Once again the confirmation of a successful darting was immediately relayed to the ground crew and we set off in the direction of the hovering chopper. Luck seemed to be on our side.
The preliminary gallop with which he took off after being darted slowed into a trot and then an amble as the Thiofentanyl dispersed through his body, reaching the opioid receptors in the brain and central nervous system where its effect was realized. Having initially been immersed in dense bush, his drug-induced disorientation fortuitously brought him to a halt in a clearing, close to one of the primary tracks through the reserve. So a mere two minutes and forty-five seconds after Derik had pulled the trigger on his specialist darting rifle, we had disembarked from the trucks and were just reaching the giraffe. In his confused state he stood his ground as we entered the clearing, trying to focus on what was unfolding around him, and this was the ideal scenario for the capture team, who quickly immobilized him with their ropes and successfully brought him to the ground.
Following the standard protocol, blindfolds, ear plugs, halter and ropes were all applied. This time Bjorn administered the reversal and I found myself monitoring his breathing. Things had gone well, I reflected, as I stood there watching the chest wall gently and rhythmically move up and out, and down and in, about eight times a minute. After the first animal, this one had been a piece of cake. He seemed perfectly stable, and the Diprenorphine would soon partially displace the Thiofentanyl, and the respiratory and cardiovascular effects would ease. ‘They can stop breathing at any moment,’ Bjorn had warned. Not this boy, though, I thought. He’s stable.
I turned to talk to Bjorn and for a split second was distracted by two of the capture team who were busily trying to untangle one of the ropes that had been caught in a bush as the giraffe had gone down. Turning back to the giraffe, it took me a moment to refocus on his breathing. As I stared at his chest time seemed to slow down – but there was no movement. I must have missed it, I thought. I carried on staring – nothing. On reflection, I suppose it must have been shock and disbelief, but for some bizarre reason the words just wouldn’t come out. And as familiar as I was with cardiopulmonary resuscitation in dogs and cats, I was suddenly acutely aware that I was way out of my depth here. Theory was great, but this was no drill – the giraffe had stopped breathing and every second counted.
People do often experience slow motion perception when caught up in extreme and unexpected events. I remember clearly feeling it when I was involved in a car crash at the age of eighteen. Despite braking frantically, the car wasn’t going to stop in time and that instant before impact felt like a lifetime. And now here I was once again, experiencing the same phenomenon. I stood up, mute, and turned to Bjorn. The confused alarm on my face immediately alerted him that all was not as it should be. He sharply asked me the respiratory rate, but all I could muster was a shake of the head. For Bjorn that was enough. In an instant he pushed me aside and, using one of the capture team for support, started repeatedly jumping up and down on the giraffe’s chest with as much force as he could manage. I had once attempted resuscitation on a cow by repeatedly and forcefully kneeling on it, but even to me this was a new approach. After five or six sizeable chest compressions, Bjorn stopped and evaluated progress. Nothing. He repeated the procedure, but still to no avail. My heart sank. Bjorn started up again, jumping up and down with such vigour that at one point he lost balance and came crashing down on the giraffe’s chest. Unfazed, he was back up immediately, continuing with his unconventional resuscitation technique.
After the fourth cycle, the giraffe finally took a short shallow breath – just one, but a breath nonetheless. We all stood around, our eyes fixed on the animal’s chest, praying and hoping. Another breath came, and then another, a bit deeper this time; and then another … He was breathing again, and the relief on everyone’s faces was clear to see. His respiratory rate soon returned to a healthy 8 breaths a minute.
With this drama now behind us, everyone once again busied themselves in preparing to stand and load the giraffe. The trailer was backed into the clearing, and slowly but surely he was led towards the trailer. This time the giraffe was quite clumsy on his feet and so every step had to be slowly and methodically controlled. Things progressed well until he reached the ramp to the trailer, where the concept of having to lift his feet high enough to follow the inclined gradient was simply too much. Attempting his first step onto the ramp, he buckled, lost balance and fell sideways off the trailer. Immediately Bjorn and the rest of the capture team were on hand, pulling the giraffe away from the trailer, giving him the space to stand again. Once up, he was led away from the trailer, turned round and a second attempt was made to load him. This time he made it halfway up the ramp, only to lose his balance again, now falling backwards into a sitting position. The force of the impact alarmed the first giraffe, who kicked out in disgust, inserting several more holes in the trailer’s side panels. Taking hold of the lead rope, one of the capture team climbed up to the front of the trailer to pull on the giraffe’s head while Bjorn and Derik pushed him from behind – a very dangerous tactic, because just as the giraffe found his feet, he lashed them out in remonstration. Fortunately, both Bjorn and Derik had anticipated the reaction, and just managed to retreat from the firing line in time. With that, the giraffe then stepped up and into the trailer and the tailgate was quickly closed behind him. We had now caught two giraffes.
By comparison, the third giraffe proved to be a very straightforward and uneventful affair. Returning to the skies, the helicopter pilot quickly relocated the bachelor herd and Derik darted another one of them with ease. As luck would have it, the capture team was able to bring him down on one of the tracks so we were all quickly on hand to administer the Diprenorphine, and soon had him loaded onto another trailer.
‘That’s how easy they can be,’
Bjorn commented as we strolled back to the trailer, jubilant with our success. ‘But they seldom are. We’ve been lucky today, very lucky. But a successful day is still a great day. It’s time to celebrate, time for a beer!’
As I sat there quaffing my Black Label, I reflected on the day’s events. It had gone well; incredibly well, in fact and, despite the odd tricky moment, we had all got through it unscathed. I cast my eyes across the Afrikaner contingent. I could see the delight and relief on the team’s faces as they gulped down their liquid reward. What was this life that they had signed up to? The barometer of success was gauged by the human and animal participants having survived the ordeal; completing the job was an added bonus. If everyone was safe, then ‘Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may die!’ If not … well, you just had to hope for a better day tomorrow. Fearless positivity was the formula.
I silently gazed into my beer speculating on the experiences that made up their portfolio of capture tales, suddenly envious of their adventurous lives, where the conservation and protection of a species was top of the agenda, far away from selfishly climbing the ladder of self-importance. There is a beauty to working with animals that humbles even the most arrogant of men and nowhere is this truer than when dealing with wildlife. These were Afrikaner men in every sense of the stereotype, and yet there was a gentleness, a compassion, a real humility to them. They were passionate about their Africa and their animals, but they knew that the very animals they strove to protect could tomorrow bring about their downfall. Their life might seem glamorous for a month or two, but the reality was a tough, tiring, unpredictable and physically demanding existence that very few were cut out for.
I felt privileged to have briefly shared that life, but I knew I couldn’t sustain it for very long, and my respect for them grew all the stronger for it.
Giraffes: fast facts
The Travelling Vet Page 4