Chasing Giraffes, Part II: In Which Our Heroine Actually Chases Giraffes

When last we spoke of South Africa, our plucky travelers had been challenged to a foot race to determine who was the speediest among them. Alas--but not surprisingly--I finished dead last. Track star, I am not.

The need for all this speed?* Our first hands-on wildlife capture with Andre, game capture specialist and our tour leader/instructor.

First on the schedule for that day: observing a rhino capture. The rhino, a pregnant female, was to be transported to Moholoholo, a wildlife sanctuary and rehab center. Now, one does not simply walk up to a two-ton animal with a wicked horn and tendency to charge and ask her to pretty please get in a trailer...that is, assuming one can even find her. This is where modern technology comes in:

Once the rhino was spotted by helicopter, a veterinarian on board darted her with tranquilizers from the air.

Rhino down. That's Andre on the left. In front is our own intrepid Margot, taking a respiratory rate to be sure sleepy mama is doing OK. Just after this, her beautiful horn was sawed off, leaving only a stump. (Rhino horn has no nerves; the sawing was painless.) Rhinos are killed by poachers for their horns. The hope is that if the horn is removed, then any poachers who find her will let her live.

This strategy doesn't always work, Andre told us. A poacher who has spent three days tracking a rhino--only to find out that the rhino is hornless, and thus (to him) worthless--may kill the animal anyway. That way he won't waste more time tracking the same animal. And perhaps retaliation, too: the horn was stolen from the poacher, and so the poacher will steal the animal from the world.

Horn off, next came the tricky bit: the veterinarian partially reversed the sedation, enough so that the rhino could stand. Then the game capture crew--all experts, no amateur types like us--liked arms around the blindfolded, groggy creature and guided her onto the trailer. We crossed our fingers for her and her baby. And then we headed to our own adventure: the capture of three adult giraffes.

Our crew from left: Lindsey (veterinary student and Andre's intern), Brent, Kevin, Margot, Mitch (aka sweetheart), Tanya, and Ferris. (Our friend Dave isn't in this pic.) The adorable little truck is Andre's bucky.

Andre loading darts with etorphine, an extremely powerful narcotic sedative.

Giraffes spotted from the helicopter. (We didn't get to go aloft, alas. At this point, the eight of us are squished in the back of the bucky, awaiting directions.) For each capture, Andre darted one giraffe, had the pilot land the helicopter, hopped in the bucky, and drove us like mad over the veldt after the target. Contrary to popular belief and Hollywood movies, tranquilizer darts take several minutes to take effect; animals can run a looong way in that time.

Once we got close to the staggery giraffe, we leaped out of the bucky and started running. The footrace winners, armed with ropes, halter, and blindfold, took the lead. The rest of us followed in a mad dash, dodging acacia bushes, holes, and other hazards, while trying not to drop our own equipment. By the time we caught up, the giraffe was safely down.

Here Mitch is supporting the sedated giraffe's head. (Brent provides a sympathy tongue loll.) Meanwhile, under Andre's direction, I was pulling up the dose of drug that would partly reverse the sedation. I may not be fast on my feet, but...

...I can hit a giraffe jugular with the best of `em.

Once the giraffe was up and walking, people took turns leading it the quarter mile to the parked trailer. Here Andre is guiding it up the ramp.
These three hours are among the most intense and surreal of my life. Looking back, what I remember best is the excitement. And the fear. Vaulting out of the bucky, my feet pounding across hard uneven ground. Concentrating, trying to block out everything else, as I pulled up drug doses and gave injections. Relief at the sight of blood curling into my syringe, the easy slip of drug into veins. The smooth dusty feel of giraffe hide under my fingers. The whole time, afraid that I'd mess up somehow. Let down the animal. Let down the rest of the crew. That fear kept me from taking a turn on the giraffe lead rope. I should have done it anyway.

And the others? If you've ever traveled, you know that in a strange country, in unfamiliar situations, people (ourselves included, let us be honest) are not always at their shiny happy best. But we didn't have time to be strangers looking askance. No time for ego or self-absorption. We pulled together as a team and got the job done. Three giraffes. Three smooth and successful captures. Nobody hurt.

We did almost lose Mitch once, when the bucky hit a particularly sharp bump and he bounced off the tailgate. He was literally in mid-air when quick-witted and quick-handed Ferris grabbed him and yanked him back into the truck bed. (Thanks, Ferris! I like my sweetie in one piece.) And I sliced my finger open on an acacia thorn. Acacias do not kid around.

The worst casualty was Mitch's photo card. Popped out of his camera while running through the bush. It's still on the veldt somewhere.

That night, back at the game lodge, sitting around the fire after dinner, listening to Andre tell wildlife stories...surreal, still, and perfect. The eight of us, most of us newly met, but already with stories of our own that bound us together.

And more to come...


*Apologies to Top Gun

Chasing Giraffes, Part I: In Which Our Heroine Sets Off on an Adventure

We are sitting in a small conference room with brick walls, blinds closed against the bright South African sun, listening as nurse Gillian Thompson describes all the possible ways we might vrek once we go out into the bush:

Puff adder bite (tissue death and gangrene).

Black mamba bite (respiratory paralysis).

Accidental exposure to etorphine, a large animal sedative (respiratory and cardiac arrest).

Animal attack (massive internal trauma).

If you've guessed that in South Africa, to vrek means to die, award yourself fifty smart points.

My first clue that this wasn't going to be your standard relaxing vacation had come months earlier, when my sweetheart sent me an email about a South African ecotourism trip. At the word ecotourism, I'd immediately pictured one of those safaris you read about in magazines: khaki-clad tourists snapping photos of wildlife from a rugged jeep, then toasting the day's sightings with champagne and chocolate eclairs. I eagerly skimmed the description:

"If you are physically fit, enjoy strenuous outdoor work and a high level of adrenaline, this is the course for you!"

Hm. Actually, I prefer lying on the couch with a glass of wine and a Jane Austen novel. Still, I kept reading.

"For safety sake, you are expected to be able to sprint short distances (100meters), run medium distances (200 meters), climb over 2 meter (6 ft.) fences, and have a great deal of endurance!"

Wait a minute. What about the jeep? The photograph-snapping? Exactly what kind of ecotourism are we talking about here?

"Depending on what captures are available...your experience may range from a nighttime lion capture to catching several hundred antelope in a day. Your participation in captures will be as extensive as possible...We will work with very dangerous wild animals in free-ranging situations."

The sprint-and-climb-fences thing was now starting to make a horrible kind of sense. But...surely there would be chocolate eclairs?

"You must be prepared to be up very early, working outside, in the sun, doing physical work most of the day. And you will have the time of your life!"

I'm going to shamelessly give myself credit here. To my sweetie's emailed question: What do you think? I did NOT shoot back, Have you EVER met me?

Next thing I knew we were in Hoedspruit, South Africa, about to embark on an intense, hands-on, 9-day course in wild animal capture. Our leader: Andre Pienaar, founder of Parawild, specialist in game management and conservation. Our companions: two friends, Dave (zookeeper) and Margot (zoo veterinary technician); Kevin (4th-year veterinary student); Brent (wildlife major and self-described professional river rat); Tanya (2nd-year veterinary student); and her boyfriend, Ferris (computer specialist).

Andre's original plan was to have us rough it in tents on the open veldt. Thanks to logistical difficulties, however, we ended up at Landela Lodge, a game ranch with private rooms, en suite baths and beautifully prepared South African cuisine. Here I am devastated at the unexpected change:

You may have noticed the decor. Something you should know about game ranches: While they welcome ecotourists, like us, their main business is providing hunters with animals to shoot.

More about that later.

We may have escaped roughing it in tents, but rising early was still part of the program. Most mornings we got up and breakfasted on the Landela patio while it was still dark, in order to be ready for a game walk at dawn.

Those were the days we got to sleep in. Otherwise, when we had someplace to be, we were up and on the road even earlier.

On our game walks we mostly saw animal tracks, which Andre taught us how to identify.

We also saw a lot of scat, which is either a style of jazz singing or wildlife poop. Ella Fitzgerald wasn't on the trip, so you can guess which one I mean.

Actual creatures spotted ranged from the very large...

...to the very, very small. These are pants. Each teeny, tiny little dot on the pants is a pepper tick. Thankfully, these are not MY pants.

After the game walks, refreshed, wide awake, and de-vermined, we headed inside for coffee and education. Before we got the chance to round up wild creatures, we had some larnin' to do. Over the first two days, Andre taught us about the history of game management and wildlife conservation in South Africa, as well as the physiology, pharmacology, and techniques of game capture.

Then came Gillian Thompson, explaining in her pleasant, lilting voice the many ways in which we might vrek. There's no LifeFlight in the South African bush; if something went wrong, all we could rely on was each other. Under Gilly's cheerful supervision, we practiced CPR and setting IV catheters in each other. Note Margot smiling as I stab her wrist vein. Margot can smile through almost anything. Plus she's a whiz with a hypodermic. If you are going on a trip in which you might vrek, these are qualities you want in a traveling companion.

After catheter practice, Andre organized a footrace to see which of us was fastest. Brent and Kevin, the top two finishers, were awarded a massively long rope. Then they got to run some more, chasing after Andre in a kind of dress rehearsal:

The rest of us were given our assignments, and Andre led us through the plan. Our time had come: the next morning, we would be assisting in the capture and transport of three full-grown giraffes.

Coming soon, Part II: In Which Our Heroine Discovers that Acacia Bushes are Sharp & Giraffe Hide is Tough, and Her Sweetheart Almost Fricks Off the Back of a Leaping Bucky.