AUGUST 2001
February 1993 was one of the hottest months we’d known in the last decade that we had worked in the Timbavati bush. The lowveld region had experienced a couple of years of severe drought, yet despite the onset of summer rains with the associated humidity, the vegetation was slow to respond. It appeared to be cautious and lethargic in recovering, as if it didn’t want to expose any fragile new growth to the heat, in case it didn’t rain again. The reality was, I suspect, that this demonstrated the degree of dehydration experienced in the preceding drought and, in particular, how much soil moisture had been lost.
Meagan had recently given birth to our son Dino, and my daughter Eleana, who was only two years old at the time, had already carved a place deep in her father’s heart. Another love of my life, the country of South Africa, was undergoing considerable political change and the sensitive situation that prevailed did very little for the international tourism market. It became extremely difficult to operate an up-market game lodge, which depended almost entirely on this fickle market. So, yet another love of my life, the bush, was offering no more than an uncertain future, apart from the effects of the drought as already mentioned. This was a major motivating factor in our decision to change careers for one less reliant on foreign tourism.
At that point, I seriously considered opting for the perceived job satisfaction and certain job security of a career with Natal Parks Board. This branch of South African National Parks was streets ahead in conservation innovation; they were progressive … right up my alley, I thought. I duly applied and went through the lengthy interviewing and selection process. One month later, I was offered a post at Cape Vidal, arguably one of the most spectacular of the Park’s reserves.
Situated on the north coast, in the heart of Zululand, the reserve boasts a wide range of habitat types, including a marine reserve with some of the best bill fishing on the Northern Natal coastline. Despite the attractions, I had to turn it down for one very practical reason. The salary offered at that level, at that time, meant that Meagan and my dog would both have to go out and find full-time jobs to keep us alive, while I ‘researched’ the deep sea fishing potential of this magnificent coastal reserve. Not that I would have been able to afford the expensive fishing tackle needed to facilitate this research.
There is a saying, I think in the advertising industry, that ‘emotion decides, while reason but censors and hides’. Well, we needed to listen to reason, not to our emotions. We needed to make a ‘head’ decision. As difficult as it was, we accepted that this was not the time to allow our hearts to rule. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, all I can say is, thank goodness we didn’t listen to our hearts. Realising that a post with a state department would mean slow starvation, this avenue was abandoned.
So, after nine happy years in the Timbavati, we changed career direction, and made the decision to move to Olifants River Game Reserve, taking up the position as General Manager/Warden. This was very much a husband & wife position, and formally, we became ‘the management couple’.
Moving home is never easy and getting to the reserve with all our belongings proved to be no exception. The organisers of the Roof of Africa Rally could have learned many a lesson from the reserve’s access roads. The physical challenges of the road that took us to our new home proved stressful indeed, with the driver (me) and the navigator (Meagan) having to co-operate to negotiate the route and get through with all of our furniture and the necessities of life intact … breastfeeding Dino en route was completely out of the question. I remember it took us an hour-and-a-half to drive the 30 kilometres from Hoedspruit to the reserve’s office. This same trip now takes only 40 minutes, which includes having to slow down for the 100 or so speed bumps I have since built. Prior to the era of bumps, incidentally, in a particular emergency, I did it in under 30 minutes!
We arrived at noon, and except for the shrill, high-pitched buzz of cicadas, there wasn’t a sound or sign of life. The air was thick with that oppressive mood imparted in the movies, when they portray some rundown, deserted, mid-western USA town complete with the shimmering heat making the corrugated iron roofs go ‘tick, tick, tick’ as they cooled when the sun slipped behind a cloud. All we needed to complete the scene was for a chain saw to suddenly start up! Eventually, I detected movement near the workshop area and found someone ‘alive’ who explained that everyone was on a lunch break until 2 pm. Nevertheless, he was kind enough to show us to the ‘office’.
The ‘office’ was an old building with as little charm as an old Pofadder railway station house. We learned later that it doubled as a clubhouse, but we learned immediately that it boasted other inhabitants! The pungent smell of bat urine and droppings which had saturated the gypsum ceiling was almost unbearable. A family of warthogs had dug themselves a cool hollow in the only remaining two square metres of lawn under a baboon-ravaged guava tree, and the soil that was meant to support a lawn now transferred dust with each gust of wind into the office and a murky over-chlorinated swimming pool. After cursory introductions and small talk we were told that our accommodation was not ready yet, and we were asked to settle in elsewhere temporarily.
Depressed doesn’t begin to describe how we felt at the time; it was the closest we came to turning around and leaving. The temporary quarters, which must have been a product of the same uninspired architect who had given birth to the office, were a nightmare. High ambient temperatures and humidity made living under the corrugated iron roof of these temporary quarters extremely uncomfortable, particularly at night. There were a couple of groaning fans to help add some sluggish movement to the air, but no air conditioning. Apparently no one had told the previous management that this technology was available.
In our temporary ‘home’ we couldn’t unpack properly, which meant we were going to be living out of boxes for a while, not a happy situation for Meagan at all. Then, in my haste to make things comfortable, I forgot to switch our portable colour TV from 12 to 220 volts. When I plugged it into the wall socket, the acrid smoke and burnt plastic smell left me in no doubt that I’d blown it. To further improve our stress levels, the outgoing management were totally uncooperative. They did everything they could to undermine us. At first it was subtle, but as they neared the end of their notice period, it became blatant and obvious. Nevertheless, being made of sterner stuff, we gritted our teeth and eventually overcame the hurdles that were shoved in front of us.
The reality of settling into the routine of a new job and the sudden change of environment, with its associated challenges, was rather harder on Meagan than it was on me. Much of the disruption to my life was cushioned, as I was out in the bush most of the time, learning new boundaries, roads and water points. Despite the maze of the road network, I began to get my bearings and started to feel more settled. At that point, getting to know the reserve in relation to its neighbouring land owners was made a priority.
The inescapable politics of the area and their effect on the reserve were depressingly apparent. The poaching threat, particularly from the smaller properties across the river, was relentless. In the first month alone, we arrested two men armed with a .303 calibre rifle, poaching warthogs and giraffe on the reserve. Their brazen arrogance was evidenced by the fact that even though one particular warthog they shot ran over 200 metres into our property before dying, they followed it in, cut its throat, and bled it out as they dragged it back to their side of the river. There was absolutely no attempt made to conceal the blood trail, which led right up to the point where the carcass was loaded into a waiting car.
I take some satisfaction in reporting that they don’t have that rifle any longer and they’re a few thousand rand poorer. Oh yes, and perhaps just a teeny bit less arrogant.
In a widely publicised case, another of our neighbours, a man of the cloth, purposely and with the intention to hunt, lured five lions across from our side of the river onto his congregation’s worshipping area. He had slaughtered a cow and then, sitting over the bait the carcass provided, systematically shot three of the lions.
Worse was to come …
During my familiarisation, I was taken to a high point on the reserve to orientate me in relation to our northern neighbour, the farm Magdalena. Lodge 82, with its elevated position and commanding view, was chosen. I remember mentally comparing the view with that of M’bali camp in the Timbavati, from where Meagan and I had recently moved, and there was no comparison. The Olifants River, with its associated riparian trees and the seemingly unspoilt bush to the north, was spectacular. What also made an impression on me was the lack of power lines, telephone lines and railway tracks. And yet, all was not as pristine as it seemed.
From this vantage point, I was shown the extent of the river frontage that Magdalena shared with Olifants. Despite the thick riverine vegetation that straddled both banks of the river, I could see giraffe on the narrow flood plain, as well as what I thought was a small herd of waterbuck near the water’s edge. (The floods of 1996 subsequently had a devastating impact on the ecology of this landscape. Most of the huge, magnificent trees that grew on the banks of the Olifants River were washed away. Where they once stood, the river has deposited silt loads up to two metres deep, creating an enormous floodplain habitat.) Returning to the tale at hand, and with Carl Zeiss’s assistance, I was able to bring the small herd ten times closer and determine that the ‘waterbuck’ were in fact donkeys!
Worse still, as they moved about, bells on their necks made a tinkling sound. It was reminiscent of a Swiss chocolate advertisement and I half expected to hear distant strains of Julie Andrews. Another movement close to them revealed a number of scrawny cattle, which appeared to be of Afrikaner-cross-Brahman strain. I turned to the outgoing manager and asked what these domestic animals were doing in a game reserve area.
He explained that the owner of Magdalena, a well-known homeopath, ran a combined cattle and game farm, and added that all the wildebeest across the river had been shot because the cattle would be susceptible to ‘snot siekte’ which is carried by them. When I asked about the donkeys, I was told that they were used as bait to lure lions across from Olifants whereupon the lions would be shot. This doctor took the concept of prevention being better than cure to new extremes.
The more I learned, the more ruthless the ‘Magdalena method’ was revealed to be. Any threat to their sable antelope ‘breeding programme’ was eliminated. Leopard were trapped in cages strategically placed around the 300-hectare sable camp. They were then shot. Hyaenas were also trapped and shot. Wild dog and cheetah were shot on sight without the preamble of trapping. Magdalena’s manager at that time, apparently an ex-Nature Conservation official, had been tasked by the reserve’s owner with implementing a campaign against Olifants. The apparent reason for this feud was that the developers had promised not to build in front of the Magdalena camp, but went back on their word and did just that. War was then declared. However understandable the reasons for his anger may have been, venting his emotions by taking revenge on innocent animals was cowardly and shameful.
Incidentally, this vendetta was not only aimed at the larger predators. There was apparently no regard for any animals emanating from Olifants. Nyala, which are as beautiful as they’re innocent, were among the known casualties of this campaign. Initially I thought this extremely negative picture was being painted by the outgoing manager as a result of sour grapes. I was about to find out how wrong I was.
A few weeks later, I was called to a sighting of 13 lion at Wild Dog Pan. Among them were two beautiful full-maned males, the dominant males of our resident pride. Later that evening the pride moved down to the Olifants River and crossed into Magdalena near Fig Tree Grove. That was to be the last time I’d ever see them.
The following night, seven lions were shot out of this pride, and to add insult to injury, the whole ‘hunt’ was videotaped prior to the actual shooting. This smacks of the same subhuman mentality evidenced by terrorists in the mould of Al Qaeda when they videotape their innocent victims before and during their execution. The lions were filmed drinking at the cattle troughs, with the cattle clearly visible in the background. A further three must have been shot later, because only three lions returned the following day, one young male and two pregnant females.
The ‘Magdalena method’ impacted not only on the area’s wildlife and its human population, but also on the topography of the land itself. A few months later, not too far from Magdalena’s main camp, an airstrip was bulldozed in an ecologically sensitive area. It was in full view of lodges on Olifants (Environmental Impact Assessments and the Green Scorpions were not an issue in those days). Not only was the airstrip totally useless, due to its limited length and steep slope, but the scar it left on the landscape will take hundreds of years to heal. The stated purpose of this airstrip was to fly hunting clients directly in and out of Magdalena as it was going to be hunted commercially. They knew this would upset the majority of the shareholders on Olifants and the so-called airstrip was an ever-present reminder of the underlying threat.
One morning a couple of months later, I received a call from one of our guards, who reported that domestic dogs had crossed the river from the north and were chasing waterbuck on our side of the river. Immediately, I jumped into my vehicle and was off to investigate. Upon arrival at the point where the dogs were alleged to have crossed the river, I unexpectedly came face to face with the Magdalena manager for the first time. He was standing on the opposite riverbank, with his hands on his ample hips, and when he saw me, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, ‘Goeie môre!’ above the roar of the rapids. I reciprocated. After introducing himself, he went on to say that the two Rottweilers responsible for chasing the waterbuck were his and that should I come across the dogs, I was to shoot them if I wanted to.
I told him I didn’t think that would be necessary. I felt like telling him who was actually at fault, and who I thought should be shot, but managed to override the surge of my simmering Italian blood and maintained decorum. Thankfully, the dogs returned of their own accord shortly afterwards.
In the ensuing cordial conversation, on a quieter section on the river, I learnt that his boss had given him a list of things to do that would hurt Olifants. However, he said he could see I was a person with whom he could communicate and that perhaps we should bury the hatchet, at least on a managerial level. The only thing I knew for sure at that stage, was where the hatchet should be buried, but I kept that to myself.
What glimmer of hope there may have been was soon snuffed out. A few days later I heard that a large nyala bull, one of only 18 individuals on Olifants at the time, had crossed over from our area near lodge 30 and had been shot. Later, its mounted head was to adorn the manager’s house and stay there until he left.
These few examples I have shared with you represent the tip of a destructive iceberg the real magnitude of which we will never know. Thanks to the dedication and commitment of the Olifants shareholders, this untenable situation was eventually resolved. Although Magdalena wasn’t needed as a property acquisition, it was purchased for another reason – peace of mind. The then Magdalena is now known as Olifants North, and it and its wildlife population are now in safe hands. We can all rest easy when we see the odd vehicle movement or spotlight on the other side of the river, knowing there’s no hunter’s rifle behind the light. Best of all, no one is going to miss the domestic stock that used to summon in our beautiful bushveld mornings with moos and heehaws. And, when our lions cross over for a visit, we know there’s a good chance they will soon be back, and if not, it will be of their choosing.
It goes without saying that, ecologically, the two areas cannot be and should never be separated. An African ecosystem cannot be defined and demarcated completely and utterly.
There can never be ‘big enough’ in Africa. African mammals need lebensraum. Even the Kruger Park’s two million hectares are proving ‘too small’. The very nature and dynamism of African ecosystems, particularly when tested under drought conditions, demonstrate how precious every hectare is, and to have control over only one bank of a perennial river is in my opinion, no control at all.
Ecological management is now scientifically based and co-ordinated. Co-operation between north and south, especially where game management is concerned, is excellent. Many species share this combined area, with nyala, waterbuck and hippo being but a few examples of how co-operation is vital for management purposes. At present Olifants North boasts four waterbuck to every one south of the river, and therefore, what may seem to be an over-population in their area when looked at in isolation, is in fact high density due to this species favouring the habitat over there. They simply prefer the North, and the game census records over the years show that this has always been the case. Take the two areas as a whole, however, and combine the waterbuck numbers, and a more realistic picture emerges, upon which management decisions can be made. (This is discussed in a little more detail later under the heading ‘Management of game populations’.)
This link is just one more in the chain that gives the combined area strength and makes it the paradise it is and the envy of all. It is also no secret that Olifants North comprises habitat that is more suited to black rhino than it is to their white cousins. Considering the excellent holding pens and infrastructure already in place for the introduction of rhino, we will take advantage of this and consider introducing black rhino in the near future. A visit in 2006 by conservationist and author Ron Thompson confirmed the viability of this concept. As controversial as he may be on some conservation management issues, conversely he is an authority on others, and one of these is black rhino.
Ron studied these animals extensively in Zimbabwe, and after having visited our area on a number of occasions, he is convinced that the Commiphora woodland and hill country of Olifants North, Ukhozi and Olifants West, is very suitable black rhino habitat.
Unbeknown to Ron was the fact that in the last 16 years on this reserve I have never seen or received any report of a white rhino in the area or habitat he describes as suited to black rhino. With no obstacle whatsoever to limit their access, white rhino have not been recorded in this hilly habitat near the Olifants River flood plain or the river itself on the reserve. Despite the worst of droughts, during which many species under resource stress frequently roamed areas they normally wouldn’t in search of food and water, the white rhinos would not cross the ‘Commiphora curtain’. This line can be identified as the ecotone between the relatively flat bushwillow, marula and knobthorn veld, and the hilly rocky Commiphora woodland which characterises the majority of the topography and vegetation type that the Olifants River meanders through. It is quite incredible to see how the white rhino regard this habitat demarcation zone as if it were a fence-line, a solid barrier, which confirms Ron’s observation regarding suitable habitat for black rhino.
And so it is in this particular piece of Africa, that over time, natural cycles are played out, no matter the schemes of man. Perhaps we did not know it at the time, but the madness that was Magdalena was to cause the birth of Olifants North as a co-operative and like-thinking neighbour.
And, as if to confirm this, whilst the scar of Magdalena’s ‘airstrip’ is still visible, it fades faster than we might have expected, as have the memories of the bad old days.
