Based on a September 1997 newsletter
In the days when Jim Corbett ‘brought ’em back alive’, he captured wild animals from India and Africa, crated them and shipped them to zoos all over the world. Due to the methods of capture and the subsequent stress, mortality rates were horrific. However, because the supply of wildlife appeared abundant, even unlimited, and there were no chemical capture options at the time, the dangers and tragedies were an acceptable part of the process, calculated risks that ‘came with the territory’. Things have changed. Capture and translocation have become technically advanced sciences and the loss of an animal today is a rare occurrence.
Our dominant rhino bull was reported to be on Umhlametsi, a reserve south of the Balule boundary line. Apparently one of their cows was in oestrus and had lured him and their resident bull into conflict for her favours.
The dispute happened to occur right on the fence line. The contest, with a combined mass of over five tons of rhino smashing repeatedly into the fence, resulted in the support pole snapping like a toothpick. The wire parted to open a gaping hole through which our bull went and then he proceeded to chase the Umhlametsi bull to the far corner of his erstwhile territory. With the competition now safely out of the way, our hero then moved into courtship mode and spent a few happy days in the company of the rhino cow and her young calf.
Although our system is an open one, this occurrence was on our extreme southern boundary, which effectively took the animal out of our area. This meant that unless ‘ownership’ could be proved, the rhino would be lost to us. Under normal circumstances, unless historical factors had to be considered, I would not have given this crime of passion a second thought. After all, this is a natural process that these animals have always followed and will continue to follow.
Present boundary constraints, however, coupled with the fact that our bull had a ‘criminal record’ earned by killing a bull from the Klaserie a couple of years ago in a similar territorial dispute, meant we were obliged to take remedial action. We had to remove, or at least make a concerted attempt to remove, our rhino from the neighbouring area to prevent or minimise the possibility of there being the further loss of another valuable animal.
Despite repeated efforts at enticing the rhino with bales of fresh lucerne, he refused to come back through the gap in the fence; he was in love and would not leave his new-found mate and her youngster. I knew the manager of Umhlametsi well, and with his co-operation we were able to look at alternative means of getting our rhino back, alive. Not able to contract a capture company at such short notice, we decided to go ahead with the equipment and manpower available.
Early one cool morning in September, I had our CAT 966C front-end loader move into position on the boundary in the vicinity of the area we knew the rhino to frequent. We then sent our trackers in to physically track down and find our bull, with instructions that when they located him, they were to radio in and gave us his exact position, and then to stay with him.
Meanwhile, in Boy Scout mode, I had packed everything I thought could possibly be needed to move this huge animal, including rope, water, conveyor belting and other paraphernalia. I then proceeded to the airstrip and picked up Dr Gerrit Scheepers, our local veterinarian who had succumbed to my wheedling and flown in from Phalaborwa.
After a few final checks that we really did have everything necessary for the operation, we climbed into the Land Cruiser and drove to our fence line, the border with Umhlametsi.
To keep noise levels down we kept the darting team to an absolute minimum of just the vet, a tracker and myself. It’s one thing to track a rhino and get a glimpse of it, but to get into position and correctly place an immobilising dart required a greater degree of stealth – and more feet means more twigs to snap.
It wasn’t long before we located our bull resting in the shade, about 20 metres away from the cow and her half-grown calf, both of whom were also in the mood for a siesta. The only movement discernible was the constant flicking and periscope-type twisting movement of their ears, on the alert for any unnatural sound, and in response to the persistent and irritating flies. Despite a careful and stealthy approach, we were caught out by a shift in wind direction which presented them with the faintest whiff of man. That was enough to get them on their feet and moving off at a slow trot into thicker bush.
Which was exactly what we didn’t need.
Persisting, we followed them, keeping a low profile by half crouching and half hobbling through the bush. At times we were reduced to leopard crawl. This uncomfortable approach paid off and Gerrit was able to get a dart into the bull, without him knowing where it came from. Nine minutes later, the 3 mg of M99 gently put him down, not two metres from where he was darted.
‘Just think,’ Gerrit said with a smile. ‘We’re getting paid to do this.’
I was about to give him one of my dissertations on quantity versus quality and conservationists’ remuneration, but decided the time wasn’t right. By now the vehicle had arrived, bringing along the water we needed for cooling the rhino as well as the cooler boxes containing refreshment for us humans and the veterinary medicines respectively. I covered the rhino’s eyes with a towel after smearing an antibiotic lubricating ointment onto its eyeballs. Some blood pressure muti was injected, the dart removed and an antibiotic sprayed into the needle wound. We also took this opportunity to microchip and ear notch him.
Gerrit was quite taken with the rhino, and said that in all his years of working with rhino, he had never seen such a magnificent specimen. Msimbi, which means ‘iron’ in Zulu, was clearly the largest-bodied bull rhino he had ever worked on. I felt a sense of pride and was happy that in a relatively short space of time, Msimbi would be physically back home while Gerrit would be winging his way back to where he belonged.
As a matter of interest, where the distance you need to move a white rhino is relatively short, you can ‘walk’ it from point A to point B. This is done by reversing the effect of the original full knockdown dose of M99 with M50/50 and then administering a new, very much lower and critically judged active dose of M99. In this condition, the rhino will still be groggy, but stable enough to stay on its feet and allow itself to be ‘walked’. It’s a fine balance to keep the rhino tranquillised enough to allow itself to be manipulated and directed without too much stress, with professional manpower using blindfolds and padded rope leashes to lead the animal gently to its destination. It’s surprising just how far you can ‘walk’ a rhino, but in our case the distance was just too great, so an alternative travel plan was devised.
Forty minutes had ticked by since the rhino went down, and as it was getting hotter, we kept him wet and cool while we waited for the front end loader to arrive. Once there, the loader operator, Phillip Mathebula, skilfully manoeuvred the bucket into position. With the combined efforts of us pushing the rhino over whilst the bucket dug underneath and scooped up some six inches of soil to help cushion him, he was gently cradled in the bucket with rubber matting strategically placed to prevent any risk of chafing. After a few quick checks to see that he was relatively comfortable and secure for his journey back to Olifants, we moved off in the direction of the boundary fence.
It wasn’t long before we reached the fence line, and a pair of sturdy side-cutters quickly took care of the wire barrier. Driving through the gap, we then selected a soft, sandy spot in a small riverbed a couple of hundred metres or so into the reserve, and as gently as we could, we laid the rhino down back on his own turf.
Gerrit now administered the antidote, known as Narcan, or M50/50, which, I’m told, is the same stuff they use to neutralise the effects of opiate derivatives like heroin and morphine in human drug addiction. M99, incidentally, is a powerful synthetic morphine, literally hundreds of times more concentrated than the stuff humans use, so strong that a scratch from a dart needle can kill a man. Consequently, whenever Gerrit goes to work on Olifants using M99, the antidote M50/50 is always at the ready in my top shirt pocket and there’s always some M50/50 in the fridge down at the office. This extremely powerful substance is classified as a schedule seven drug, therefore you won’t find a trace of M99 anywhere except under the strictest professional supervision, for obvious reasons.
While the antidote was weaving its magic, Gerrit whispered something in the rhino’s ear, something only he and the rhino will ever know. He does this every time, saying it’s his special time with the animal. Within a brief 30 seconds the indignant bull was up on his feet and on his way. He knew exactly where he was and slowly headed back to his old familiar territory. We then repaired the fence, breathed a sigh of relief that all had gone well and headed back along the railway line road. A movement in one of the drainage dips caught my eye, so, slowing down and peering into the dark culvert, we saw three male lions just lying there in the perfect spot to avoid the midday sun.
This sighting rounded things off nicely, a fitting end to a productive morning in anybody’s book, including this one. This incident happened nearly ten years ago. According to everything I’ve read on white rhino, dominant bulls can expect to maintain their position for six to eight years. Maybe the Zulus could recognise his potential when they named him, because he certainly lives up to it. He was the dominant bull when I arrived at Olifants 16 years ago, and apparently he still is! He is living proof that size counts.