One Man and His Search for Wildebeest by Adrian Mourby

Imagine: hundreds of wildebeest launching themselves into the Grumeti river as hungry crocodiles snap and twist. Survivors struggle heroically through the spray to the far shore while behind them more and more wildebeest cannonade into the narrow crossing point. That’s how a Great Migration should look according to the National Geographics I read at school.

But here I am, camera in hand, flying up from Arusha and the scene is tranquil. The plains to the north of the river crossing are littered with grazing stragglers who should have left here months ago while the vanguard is 200km to the north munching its way heading towards the Kenyan border. The first thing I realise is that the Great Migration is not some great four legged juggernaut flattening all before it. Yes, there are well over a million wildebeest who take part in this annual amble round the Serengeti but they do so in small groups like companies of soldiers, wandering off at tangents when they find something really good to chew.

“They are so stupid!” laughs Ally my driver. Ally it is who picks me up from Kleins' airstrip and brings me north to the Mara river where the herds are now crossing. As we drive over the low concrete bridge I notice a large contingent of wildebeest balefully trying to decide whether to enter the fast-flowing river below us. To be honest “baleful” seems to be the only expression a wildebeest can muster. They have the longest faces I have ever seen. Imagine the love child of Celine Dion and Will Self on four spindly legs.

But even the zebra, who accompany the wildebeest in small detachments and who are generally regarded as the brains of the operation, don’t use concrete bridges. “They watch the first wildebeest,” says Ally. “If he gets across they follow. But the rest of the wildebeest! They don’t wait! Soon as one jumps in they all follow. They break their legs, or they drown or the crocs get them.”

Like ghouls waiting for a car crash to occur, Ally and I set up our picnic table behind a bush on the far side. Ally serves breakfast. I get my camera out. We wait an hour, munching on toast, but the wildebeest only to stare at the water. No National Geographic moment today. Once the coffee is gone we load up and head north.

Our route follows the path of the herds through an acacia forest that has recently been trashed by elephants. “Some of them do love smashing up trees!” shouts Ally from the driver’s seat at which point we nearly run slap bang into about ten of the huge dusty behemoths looking very guilty about a bush they’ve just ripped to shreds. A young male elephant trumpets and swings round to have a go at us. Ally begins to reverse discreetly but suddenly the delinquent backs off. “The older elephants told him to leave it,” said Ally. “They talk to each other all the time.”

We emerge on to a wide expanse of bright grassland and for the first time I see the Migration en masse. I get out my camera again. They look like troops, still in their companies, waiting to be evacuated.

Several miles further north we find the pioneers crossing a ditch at the bottom of which runs a shallow stream. Everyone is queuing up in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Ally takes a detour over another small concrete bridge so we can watch the wildebeest emerging on the far side. I get some good video footage from the top of Landcruiser but I want to see what’s going on down in the ditch. Quietly we step out and stalk on all fours to some cover. Down below I can see about twenty wildebeest picking their unsteady way through the water. I lift my camera and immediately total panic breaks out below, wildebeest colliding and then scattering to all points on the compass. I get one blurred shot of total chaos and they are gone.

“They will be back,” says Ally. “They have short memories.”

Not these wildebeest. Thirty minutes of cramp later we decide to continue north, crossing the plains that lead to the Isuria escarpment. By now the herds don’t have any more water to ford, so they are splitting up into small family groups , and the midday sun is driving them under trees. No majestic gallop across the plains today, so we find a tree ourselves and have lunch.

Our Landcruiser comes complete with a fridge so I console myself with chilled South African wine while Ally suggests we return to the Mara river to see if the dumb creatures we saw waiting to cross three hours ago are up for it yet.

Of course when we get there we find those dumb creatures weren’t so dumb after all. They crossed while we were further north and stare at us mournfully before suddenly bolting. There is a small contingent of zebra on the far shore so Ally and I agree we’ll cross south over the Mara and try and creep up on those.

Half an hour later I have a great photo of stripy round zebra bottoms disappearing at speed in all directions. Maybe I’m just not the stuff that wildlife photographers are made of.

That night I don’t sleep well. Wind blowing across the Serengeti flaps the edges of my tent and in my dreams I can still hear the wildebeest calling gloomily to each other “gnu-gnu”. At 4am I wake up and look out of my tent. Suddenly there they all are in the moonlight , over a thousand, possibly twice that, just standing there fifty yards away from the camp gazing at me, regiments of black dots filling the horizon. They’ve obviously wandered up in the night. It’s a truly amazing sight but far too dark for me get a photo.

Never mind. Finally I’ve seen something that looks like a Great Migration ought to look.