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.