Then we were off, with our trailer taking the lead, but almost instantly disaster nearly struck. A hundred metres or so from the clearing, we had to negotiate a gateway that took us into the first of the three fields. As the trailer bounced over the ruts and potholes that marked the entranceway one of the elephant’s feet slipped forward, hanging off the edge of the trailer, as we approached the gate. The gap was so tight between the edge of the trailer and the gatepost that the leg was now in imminent danger of getting wedged between the two, with catastrophic consequences. Fortunately, we spotted the problem seconds before impact and frantically hammered on the driver’s back window. His response was instantaneous, and the danger avoided. My heart was pounding; I had imagined all manner of things that could go wrong, but something as simple as negotiating a gatepost was not one of them. I felt my whole body tense. It was exhilarating to be so actively involved in the operation, but everything had to go smoothly, and to plan, for me to enjoy the experience rather than endure the strain that I was now feeling.
With the legs safely repositioned we continued at a crawl. The other two vehicles, cautious after our close encounter, successfully negotiated the gateway. As we made it into the open fields, I became aware of the true beauty of our surroundings, as though seeing it for the first time: the majestic mountain range in the background starkly highlighted against the pastel blue sky, the dense African bush with the acacia trees forming its canopy, and in the foreground our convoy of vehicles negotiating their way across the copper red soil through the tobacco plantation. As I stood wedged between the tusks of this 3.5-tonne elephant, his rhythmic snores audible above the grumble of the truck’s engine, I once again contemplated this incredible experience.
The trucks trundled on, but we soon noticed that we had pulled ahead of the second truck, and it became apparent something was amiss. Lyle brought the convoy to a halt and went back to see the cause of the hold-up. The truck’s back right wheel had slipped into the furrow bordering the edge of the muddy road, causing the trailer to tilt at a dangerous angle. If the elephant should slide, he would topple the trailer and potentially take the truck with it. I couldn’t help remembering the final scene in The Italian Job: things were just as precariously balanced when Lyle arrived. Fortunately, the elephant remained securely positioned and with all the passengers moving to the left side of the truck to counterbalance the weight, the driver was able to correct the error and another disaster was safely averted.
The remaining journey through the fields, onto the farm track and to the farm entrance went to plan. We paused to recheck the elephants’ positions and the strapping. It was also now time to top up the elephants with Azaperone, a drug that counteracts the hypertensive effects of Etorphine. The drug had been part of the original cocktail Ben had used to dart them, but after a couple of hours, the network of blood vessels in the elephants’ ears were all much more prominent: a sure sign that their blood pressure had increased because the Azaperone was wearing off.
This done, we pulled out onto the main road, a convoy of about ten vehicles in total. From here on, we would be on public highways until we reached the game reserve in about an hour’s time. Any problems now would become harder to correct and potentially catastrophic. The change in speed was noticeable and with nothing but the elephant to hold on to, I found myself taking up a fairly undignified position around the trunk and tusks to secure myself, but it did at least free up my hands to monitor his pulse rate and administer the Etorphine when required.
With the elephants lying on the trailers, we were each wider than a normal load, which meant that our escort at the head of the convoy had to warn oncoming vehicles of the danger ahead and get them to pull off the road to avoid us. Mindful of the crazy accidents that occur on African roads, it was unnerving to have to rely on the common sense of other drivers for our own safety, but the journey proceeded safely. As we slowly approached the roadside stalls, the proprietors and customers looked on in bewilderment, but this rapidly turned to a feverish excitement when they identified our cargo. Whoops, claps and waves of approval were showered in our direction, creating a ripple effect as they passed down the line of stalls and then died away as our surroundings turned to forests, fields or game reserves. The reactions were even more exaggerated as we passed through Hoedspruit. Even for a town in a central game reserve region, this was clearly an unusual sight. The delighted surprise was replicated on the faces of the drivers that pulled up next to us at traffic lights, the pedestrians walking the streets, restaurant diners enjoying a quiet lunch, the shoppers leaving the supermarket or those filling up with petrol at the garage. It was all a weird if temporary form of eminence that once again brought home how privileged I was to be a part of it.
Leaving Hoedspruit, we turned onto the R40 for the final leg of the journey before arriving at the reserve. This wide, open road is the main artery from north to south on the west side of Kruger, but fortunately we were travelling on it at a quiet time and despite the occasional car whistling past us at 70 mph, the road was fairly deserted. And so at last, at 12.30 p.m., after six hours of hard and dangerous work, we turned off the R40 into the Balule Nature Reserve, immensely relieved that the journey had nearly reached its conclusion and we were off the highways. An expectant crowd had gathered at the park’s entrance to cheer us in. These three escapee elephants were very popular within the reserve and had been sorely missed, and as the weeks had turned into months, concern was growing that they might never be safely returned.
Silke’s voice came across the radio. ‘All OK with your elephant?’ she asked. ‘Apparently it’s fifteen minutes to the airstrip where we unload them.’
‘Great, thanks, and yes he’s all fine.’
‘Good job.’
A long, straight, undulating, dusty road lay ahead, flanked by the perimeter fence on our right and the bush to our left. The sun, now high in the sky, gave the road a golden colour, and with the full entourage stretched out in front and behind us, we looked like an important military convoy on the move. However intimidating we might have looked to human eyes, a female lioness basking by the side of the road barely acknowledged our presence. Up and down we went – this final stretch of road seemed interminable – but then suddenly Lyle turned onto the airstrip, a large expanse that opened to our right and the journey was complete: all three elephants, Wayne, Derek and Lotter, had safely arrived, still asleep and completely oblivious to the epic journey they had been on. One by one the crane unloaded them. The crowd probably numbered a hundred now. Admiring their size and beauty, people feverishly bustled around them for a last picture, a final touch of a tusk, or a feel of their skin, and then it was time to wake them up.
Lyle, Johan and Michelle took charge to evacuate people and vehicles to a safe distance, about 100 metres behind us, with the elephants facing the opposite direction. It was more than likely they would just wake up and head into the bush, but the possibility that one might turn and charge could not be overlooked.
Laura, Silke, Ben and myself were all who remained to wake them up. Determining the total amount of Etorphine our elephants had received allowed us to calculate the amount of Naltrexone we each needed to administer. This drug begins to take full effect within about a minute, so it was critical that we injected our respective elephants at exactly the same time to ensure that none of our patients woke up before we had all safely vacated the area.
‘Everyone ready?’ Silke enquired as the three of us stood poised over our elephants, loaded syringe at the ready.
‘Yup,’ Ben and I replied in unison.
‘OK, find your vein.’
‘I’m in,’ Ben replied moments later.
‘So am I,’ I followed.
‘OK, inject.’
I depressed the plunger and 12 ml of Naltrexone entered Lotter’s ear vein to flood his system. Each molecule of the drug would start displacing Etorphine molecules that occupied the opioid receptors throughout the brain and spinal cord and with that he would regain
full consciousness. It was time to head to the safety of the vehicles.
Moments later they started to stir. Wayne was the first to raise his head, and quickly rocked himself onto his chest and then his feet; Derek and Lotter were slightly slower, taking several attempts to sit up. Concerned for his friends, Wayne wandered over to Lotter to help him up, and in the meantime Derek staggered up. The three of them took a moment to steady themselves, and then nonchalantly headed into the bush and out of sight as though the last four hours had never happened. As we turned to congratulate each other, I felt a tear roll down my cheek. That moving interaction between those three elephants as they woke up had been a special finale to what had been an astounding and unforgettable experience.
Elephants: fast facts
Loxodonta africana: The African elephant
Distribution: The largest of the three extant species, it is scattered across sub-Saharan Africa, with the greatest populations in the south and east of the continent. The other two species are the African forest elephant (found in the Congo Basin) and the Asian elephant (found in South and South-East Asia).
Names: The male is called a ‘bull’, the female a ‘cow’, and their young a ‘calf’. A group of elephants is called a ‘parade’ or ‘memory’.
Life span: About 60–70 years.
Habitat: Elephants live in a diversity of habitats, from dry savannahs, deserts, marshes and lake shores, to mountain areas above the snowline.
Diet: As predominantly browsing herbivores, they eat leaves, twigs, fruit and bark, but will also eat grass and roots, consuming as much as 150 kg of food and 40 litres of water a day.
Gestation: 22 months, with a calf being born every 3–5 years. Sexually mature males up to 25 years old enter ‘musth’, a state of increased testosterone around mating, which can last up to 4 months at a time, when a fluid is secreted from their temporal glands down their face and they become noticeably aggressive. The female’s cycle lasts 16 weeks, during which time a male will follow and guard her until she is in oestrus. A female reaches sexual maturity at 12–16 years, her fertility decreasing from aged 45 years.
Size and weight: A calf is about 120 kg at birth, growing to about 6,000 kg as an adult.
Growth: Weaning at 5–10 years old, they are fully grown by their late twenties.
Body temperature: 36.5 °C.
Anatomy: An elephant’s trunk is a muscular proboscis formed from a fusion between the nose and upper lip, connected to a bony opening in the skull. It is their most versatile appendage, allowing them to breathe, smell, touch and produce sound. It is capable of lifting a weight up to 350 kg, acts as a snorkel in water, allows them to reach heights of about 7 metres, as well as the ability to perform very delicate tasks such as cracking a peanut, as well as less subtle ones like uprooting small trees. Like horses, they are hindgut fermenters, their intestines measuring about 35 metres. The male’s testes are located internally near the kidneys, making surgical castration a very complicated procedure. Tusks are modifications of the second incisor teeth of the upper jaw, and ivory is the dentine layer that remains when the enamel wears off. Just like our teeth, the majority of the tusk has a nerve supply, and the pulp extends about a third of the way down the trunk. Removing the tusks is therefore as painful as extracting teeth. The poaching of elephants for their ivory has already led to the extinction of the genetic pool of so-called ‘large tuskers’: at the turn of the twentieth century it was common for tusks to weigh in excess of 90 kg, but now most are no more than 45 kg.
Interesting fact: Elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump.
Conservation: The IUCN lists African elephants as ‘vulnerable’: their 1979 population was estimated to be anything from 1.3 to 3 million; in 2012, this number had reduced to a mere 440,000 individuals – a decrease in the continental population of 66–85 per cent. Sadly, this decline shows no sign of stopping, with an estimated 100 elephants being slaughtered every day in Africa by poachers. At this rate, elephants will be extinct on that continent in just twelve years. Although populations are unsustainably diminishing in East Africa, in South Africa excessive numbers are leading to an increase in human–animal conflicts and habitat destruction for other wildlife. The charity Elephants Alive continues to do vital work in Southern Africa, striving to ensure the survival of elephants and their habitats, and to promote harmonious co-existence between man and elephants. For further information, and for ways to help the conservation of the African elephant, please visit www.elephantsalive.org.
7
CHICKEN
‘The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it.’
Arnold H. Glasow
When we first meet someone, so the theory goes, we only have a seven-second window to make a first impression. Given that we only get one chance at this self-portrayal, it is only natural that we desire to promote ourselves in such a way that those we meet recollect that first encounter with warmth and affection. If, for whatever reason, we fail at this, a lot of time and effort is required to alter a person’s initial perception of us. As a vet, to whom people entrust their animals, be they domestic or wild, pet or farmed, it is of the greatest importance to convey a responsible, knowledgeable and friendly professionalism from the very start.
No matter how hard we try, however, there are inevitably days when things conspire against us. The little girl’s hamster bites you as you carefully pick it up; the horse bolts past you when you open its stable; the farmer’s dog savages your leg as you get out of the car; the sat nav takes you to the wrong farm on the other side of the valley. Usually when this happens, you muddle through the awkward consultation, relieved when it is over, or jump back into the car and speed away at the first available opportunity. On occasion, though, the consultation or visit is more protracted, and then you sometimes have to steel yourself to endure one of the most awkward days of your life …
It was often said to me by older, wiser vets that farmers don’t suffer fools gladly – but why should they, when you are dealing with their livelihood? The general consensus within the veterinary profession is that you get one chance with them. If you do well, and the farmer likes you, then generosity will often flow abundantly: a joint of beef, a tray of eggs, a box of apples, home-baked scones, lunch or breakfast after the visit, or even an invitation for a day’s shooting. If it all goes badly, however, then prepare for an ear-bashing and to be rapidly escorted off the farm with the collies baying at your heels and forever after to read in the large appointments book ‘Any vet but Jon’ whenever that farmer requests a visit.
‘Jonny, I’ve booked you Mr Howard’s TB test for 8.30 a.m. on Monday,’ Jackie had said to me before she left work on Friday. ‘It’s a whole herd test so it’ll be about four hundred in total. I don’t think you’ve been there before, but it’s quite easy to find. He’s a lovely chap if he likes you, but can be quite a character if he doesn’t. I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’
It was the usual routine. Jackie would let us know any pre-booked visits for Monday morning in advance so we could either go straight from home or make sure we were in the practice early enough to get organized before the visit. TB was so rife we were inundated with testing, so every vet had at least one large test to do a week, and mine were usually on a Monday. It was very mundane work, but often provided an opportunity to meet and bond with a new client or to find out how things were going with their farm. Having been qualified two years, the TB testing was second nature, so although a boring way to start the week, it wouldn’t require any weekend reading and I wasn’t on call, so I didn’t give the visit a second thought until Sunday night, when I calculated how much time I would need to get there in the morning.
Jackie had reckoned it would take twenty minutes to get to the farm and had given me her usual, precise directions. However, it was the first time I’d visited the farm and so to make sure I wasn’t late I decided to leave the practice by 8 a.m. I arrived at a quarter to, colle
cted my equipment and paperwork and, content I had everything I needed, set off.
Jackie’s directions were, as usual, spot on. They took me straight to the farm without a problem, so with time in hand, I decided to pull into the layby in front of the farm to organize myself in the ten minutes I had before the appointment. Satisfied that I had all my equipment in order, I pulled out, drove the 200 yards to the large tarmacked entrance of Beech Farm, and proceeded down the driveway between the post-and-rail fencing. Jersey cattle grazed in the fields on either side of the driveway, which was about 100 yards long, and flanked by a dozen 20-foot-high leylandii cypress trees, growing in two groups of six, along both sides. They had presumably been planted to afford privacy to the modern red brick farmhouse at the end of the drive.
As I approached the row of evergreens, about 20 yards from the farmhouse, an eclectic flock of about twenty chickens, of all breeds and sizes, were sauntering across the driveway from my right to left, oblivious to my arrival. They were eagerly hunting out worms and grubs, pecking and scratching on the grass border in front of the fence line. Naturally I stopped to allow them time to pass. It seemed to take them an interminable amount of time to amble the short distance, despite my dog Max’s best efforts to hurry them along, barking at them from the passenger seat of my Isuzu Trooper. From my vantage point behind the wheel, my vision was slightly obscured, but at last I could see them all attentively scratching away in the dirt off to my left and so I continued on past the trees and pulled up in front of the house.
The Travelling Vet Page 11
