Mhudi

by Sol T Plaatje

  The Klaserie fence remained while the Kruger Park’s was dismantled, and our neighbours gloated. Undaunted by this, Olifants River Game Reserve was driven then, as it is now, by its enthusiastic shareholders who took the initiative and began to play a leading role in the area. In terms of commitment to conservation and practical wildlife management in particular, we took the lead in Balule, and in relation to other reserves in the lowveld, we were up there with the best.

  As a consequence of the Kruger Park removing its fence with neighbouring private reserves, the APNR was formed. Amongst other functions, this body regulates conservation activities within the member reserves. The APNR management plan, which is modelled on the Kruger National Park’s master plan, is now regarded as its broad conservation policy document.

  I began attending the APNR meetings early in 1993, mostly to stay in the loop, and at the invitation of the Chairman, Mr Paul Geiger, a former senior colleague who was also chairman of the Timbavati Private Nature Reserve at the time. By late 1993, Balule began to attend in an official capacity, yet only as an associate member … although this proved interesting at times, it was mostly a frustrating relationship. We knew this marriage was celibate and could never be consummated while the fence remained.

  In October 1993, Olifants River Nature Reserve was officially proclaimed a Nature Reserve. This achievement owes a debt of thanks to the fortitude and foresight of Theunis Kotzee, then Chairman. Not only did he champion the cause of Olifants, he looked beyond our boundaries and envisaged the inclusion of the surrounding areas to form one large reserve. These areas have since been brought together in a loose-knit federation of independent reserves, collectively known as the Balule Nature Reserve.

  Due to some properties within the Balule area being reluctant to remove fences initially, the Olifants region and the rest of Balule at that stage were, for all practical purposes, separate ecological units and were managed independently. However, the Klaserie fence, which proved an effective barrier to game movement, was not going to discourage Olifants from moving forward. Not being full members of the APNR instilled in our reserve a feisty independence. We didn’t just lie down and cry ‘foul’; we were obliged to manage our reserve intensively. We persevered and although Olifants went on to become one of the most respected examples of conservation in the area, our sights were always on being part of the greater KNP … the bigger picture!

  Andy Dott was chairman of the Balule Nature Reserve committee at the time and except for a couple of years, has kept the chair ever since. He was, and still is, loyally supported by Steven Hearne, another man with vision and selfless commitment. Andy took up where Theunis left off, sunk his teeth in, and persisted, not letting go for one minute. Although Andy had his own unconventional style and a structurally different approach to things, the common goal remained the same – full membership of the APNR and getting the Klaserie fence down. The challenge lay in creating an ecologically and administratively acceptable reserve, which would fit the criteria for inclusion as a full member of the APNR.

  Structurally, the Reserve developed as follows:

  Balule Nature Reserve comprises six independently-run regions, which collectively cover an area of nearly 40 000 hectares.

  Each region employs a warden, and has its own regional constitution and committee, which in turn subscribes to the overriding Balule constitution and Balule committee.

  The APNR committee requires that a warden from each of the four private reserves, namely Balule, Klaserie, Timbavati and Umbabat, attend meetings at that level. In 2002, I was elected to represent Balule Nature Reserve as warden, and also chaired the Balule Wardens Committee, to which I was re-elected each year for the next six years.

  Despite the foregoing emphasis on structure, fragmentation was, and always will be, Balule’s greatest threat. To overcome this inherent negative, everyone concerned worked on the co-ordination and co-operation of activities between the regions through their wardens. The holistic approach to conservation was becoming a reality and Balule was growing. The Balule Wardens Committee played a huge role maintaining the unity between the regions, which required focused effort on my part. My workload was increasing to the point where I had to divide my time between broader Balule issues and the pressing obligations on Olifants, so I opted to hand the reins over to my successor in January 2008.

  I still sit on the Wardens Committee where I represent our region, namely Olifants River Conservancy (ORC). The ORC is the largest of the six regions, covering 16 500 hectares, which comprises well over 40 per cent of the total area of Balule.

  Essentially, my work was done. I had been a catalyst in the formation of the Balule Wardens Committee, which is now a widely respected body dealing with coalface conservation issues affecting Balule. In my opinion, however, the most important achievement of this committee, besides its all-important unifying role, is its reputation for credibility, its level of commitment and the image it projects of the reserve. Balule had proved to the ‘big boys’ of the APNR that we were more than worthy of membership. Not only was our house in order, but in terms of diversity of habitat and balanced game numbers, we were a show house with plenty to bring to the table.

  All this despite us having a skeleton or two in a cupboard or two. But then, who hasn’t?

  The combination of Tim Ham’s idea, Theunis Kotzee’s procedural and formal methods and Andy Dott’s zealous ‘I also want to play in the team’ approaches culminated in the slow but sure erosion of resistance to the removal of the fence. Ultimately it was Olifants’ chairman and the newly elected chairman of Balule PNR, Quentin Sussman, who had enough of the ‘happy to be along for the ride’ complacency and tackled the issue directly. Determined to get unambiguous answers to simple questions, he persisted until there could be only one answer.

  On 22 January 2005, the Klaserie Private Nature Reserve called a special meeting of its members to vote on the removal of the fence. The resulting vote in favour of its removal was a resounding 90 per cent. This, I’m sure, was thanks to the recognition of Balule’s efforts by the Klaserie’s Chairman at the time, Mike Myers, who is a progressive thinker, a man who calls a spade a spade. Without his practical, fair and down-to-earth approach, this might have dragged on for quite a while longer. Even though it had taken 18 years to get to this point, there was no turning back.

  And just like the Berlin Wall, the Klaserie Fence came down. No one regrets its passing.

  Nothing Achieved … I’m Happy to Report

  June 2005

  Ever had the desire to go and look at nothing, to actually go on a drive with no other purpose than to see for yourself that where there used to be something, there is now nothing? Then, having done that surreptitiously for the third or fourth time by yourself, you find excuses to do it a few more times with those with whom you wish to share the experience.

  More than 18 years of persistent persuasion and single-minded focus had gone into this project. Finally, after 20 pairs of leather gloves, approximately 80 000 individual wire cuts, many, many days of hard work and being spurred on by a lot of enthusiasm … ‘Nothing’ was achieved, definitively and finally.

  The warden of the Klaserie Game Reserve and his team, assisted by an equally committed Olifants team, took just over eight days to remove over 20 kilometres of fencing. Another day or two were needed to remove all signs of there ever having been a fence and to neaten things up. I don’t know which of the two teams was more eager, but on the day we were meant to start with the dismantling, I rushed to the fence first thing, hoping to beat their team to the post (no pun intended), only to find some 300 metres of fencing had already been removed. Whether they snuck out at 3.00 am or burned midnight oil wasn’t important, the message was clear – let’s get this dammed thing dismantled and rolled up before anybody changes their minds or finds another reason to procrastinate.

  I drove up to the fence line on the last day intending to tidy up, to make sure we had picked up all the fencing debris, bits of wire,
the odd dropper and any related sort of stuff, and at the same time collect any tools that had been left behind. Although the bulk of the wire and fence poles had already been removed, I knew that in a task involving so much material, there would always be something that had been overlooked.

  In an ironic twist, and despite there being not a strand of fencing left standing for some 23 kilometres, I arrived to find an impala ram thrashing around in a cloud of dust. He had managed to tangle his horns in the only piece of rolled-up fence wire that had been missed the previous day. Of course, we had him out of his predicament in a few seconds.

  The fence had made its ‘final strand’.

  This piece of wire wouldn’t give up and performed its function to the bitter end, demonstrating one final time what it was that made conservationists hate it so vehemently. In recognition of its ‘roll’ in history, this particular roll was finally cut into memento-sized pieces which would forever symbolise mankind’s ill-conceived and selfish approach to wildlife management. Packaged in small clear plastic sheaths, these were made available for shareholders to display as conversation-about-conservation pieces.

  At a modest, informal celebration to mark the occasion, the wardens from the various reserves and regions concerned, as well as representatives of the Limpopo province’s Department of Environmental Affairs and Tourism, got together. The venue was a quiet site on the southern bank of the Olifants River. The ‘manne’ met a few metres inside the Klaserie Nature Reserve, close to where the old fence between the two reserves used to end. Moving out of the midday sun, we gathered in the generous shade of an enormous acacia overlooking the water. A pod of curious hippo had gathered a little closer to check out the intrusion that was about to disturb their siesta. Across on the northern bank, a couple of elephant bulls had come down to the river, their wet bodies still charcoal grey from their recent bath. Only the tops of their backs and flapping ears were visible as they grazed on the tender shoots of the tall reeds.

  The fire that had been prepared earlier soon burned down to glowing coals, signifying it was time to braai. A chop or two along with some boerewors was thrown on the hot grid, and while these spat and sizzled, a few beers slid out of the cooler and were downed in easy conversation. A happy, jovial atmosphere prevailed, as the informal yet delicious meal that followed was thoroughly enjoyed. (For salad, the guys just had another beer.)

  It was only once the food began to settle, that the men became quieter, and their expressions began to take on that faraway look. This soon gave way to a pensive and contemplative mood as the subsequent ceremonial drive along the entire length of this ‘nothing’ came to an end on the Olifants Game Reserve’s southern boundary line, 23 kilometres later. We eased to a stop, and turned the two Land Cruisers to face the way we’d come, then everyone quietly and deliberately climbed down. One of the wardens, a particularly large, burly individual, broke the ice by admitting that the last time he had felt so emotional, was when he held his firstborn son. Another remarked that, in his opinion, this was one of the most positive steps taken in conservation in this area for the last 20 years.

  Not able at the time to think of anything appropriately clever or philosophical to say, I just stood there, humbled in quiet understanding of what had been said, while looking at where conservation’s equivalent of the Berlin Wall once divided this beautiful environment. Moreover, I was overwhelmed by the sense of relief that game could now move freely in search of grazing and that the system could now function more naturally. Amongst all of us there it was clearly evident that the far-reaching ecological significance of what had been achieved was sinking in. Although the modest ceremony did not reflect the enormity of the achievement, it took nothing away from those of us who were there … we knew.

  At this point, the autumn sun was beginning to sink behind the Drakensberg, the beer supply had dwindled, and it was apparent that the dust in the air had begun to irritate a few eyes. So, it was time to break up and go home before somebody opened their 4x4’s cubbyhole, reached in past the bullets and binoculars, hauled out the Kleenex and openly started doing what cowboys aren’t supposed to.

  Who would have thought it? These supposedly rugged, tough men of the bush, actually admitting that they were so emotionally moved … by ‘nothing’.

  Real Big Game Country

  A while back … in the 1990s

  In the early 1990s, on a beautiful estate overlooking Karkloof Valley in KwaZulu-Natal, Meagan and I had lunch in the magnificent, lush surrounds with an acquaintance and his son, one of the founders of the Phinda Resource Reserve.

  At the time, Phinda was in the initial stages of its development. Strategic chunks of land had yet to be incorporated and consolidated into the proposed reserve. People needed to be moved and relocated, boundaries determined, and big game introduced and established – all in all, a very exciting and challenging project.

  Our host’s son’s enthusiasm centred on the wide variety of habitat types found within the area, from sand forest woodland and wetlands to inland lake systems. He expanded by giving an account of the diversity of species that these unique ecosystems already supported and what they could potentially support. It seemed awesome. I listened intently, not wanting to miss a thing. His knowledge of the area was impressive and I couldn’t help feeling a touch envious of this wildlife paradise being so vividly described. Then he said something that changed the mood, something which I felt couldn’t go unchallenged, or left hanging in the air.

  He maintained that the lowveld reserves, when compared with the proposed Phinda area, particularly the mopane and bushwillow of the northern regions, were little more than semi-deserts. He saw them as environments with relatively low carrying capacities and monotonous vegetation. I didn’t argue on that point, even though deep down he must have known he was missing something vital in his comparison. Yet, he made no attempt to hide the arrogance of his stated and disparaging position with even a modicum of concession.

  Despite all my efforts at restraint, some physical evidence of my need to respond, however imperceptible, must have caught Meagan’s eye. Her subtle way of saying ‘leave it’ was to deliver a sharp kick to my ankle under the table. But I ignored it, giving way to my urge to elucidate and create a fairer comparative insight that would put things in perspective. However, before embarking on this mission, I pulled up both my feet and placed them out of harm’s way under my chair.

  Without appearing defensive, I explained that the lowveld, particularly the drier mopane veld of the northern lowveld, is ‘Big Game Country’ and that elephant, for example, are endemic to the region. They occur in healthy viable populations and the areas in which they roam, although relatively dry, are comparatively large and unspoilt. I also told him that from a practical management point of view, the advantage of having endemic big game was invaluable.

  I went on to point out that the other side of the coin was typified by the problems being experienced by Pilanesberg and other areas in the North West where closed systems, fences and geographic isolation amongst other factors brought their own headaches. Incidentally, the failed Knysna elephant re-introduction project had not been planned at that time, but ultimately similar problems would be encountered.

  I observed that Phinda was surrounded by a human population dependent on subsistence agriculture. Furthermore, I reminded him that having elephant break out of a reserve surrounded by farmland could have serious consequences. These enormous and dangerous animals wreak havoc in crop fields and attempts by farmers to chase them usually ends in tragedy.

  On the other hand, the lowveld had a relatively minor and manageable problem in this regard. If, for example, lion moved out of a fenced reserve in the lowveld, they would almost certainly be shot, as would those that escaped from Phinda. The advantage in our situation however, would be that the lowveld lions that were lost would soon be replaced by other wild lions moving in from Kruger, thereby filling the vacuum. We wouldn’t need to source semi-tame, badly adjusted cast-offs f
rom breeding projects or safari parks. Far from it, our lions are homogeneous, arrive without any baggage, and are born in an environment where nature had already selected the fittest and strongest for us. The same recruitment process would apply with regard to elephant that break out and get shot.

  These examples were but a couple of attributes that I felt made a strong case for comparative values between the regions, albeit without attempting to give an edge to the lowveld ‘semi-desert’ so disparaged by our lunch partner.

  ‘You need to look beyond the romantic honeymoon,’ I said. ‘Running a reserve surrounded by poor farmers is going to require a tremendous amount of PR and intensive administration, so, from a practical conservation management perspective, I’m happy I am where I am.’

  This thought, that two totally different reserves with two totally different sets of strengths can appeal to different people, may be demonstrated by using any number of comparative examples. From my experience, one particular example springs to mind, Welgevonden as compared to Olifants. Welgevonden, a game reserve situated in the beautiful Waterberg of Limpopo Province, is composed of reclaimed farmland cohesively re-formed to create a ‘Big Five’ game reserve. It took a tremendous amount of perseverance and commitment to get to that point, yet today it is a significant conservation success story. It is intensively well managed and supported by a solid base of like-minded shareholders.

  Species of larger game are well represented to the point that they boast more variety of larger herbivores than the Big Five private reserves adjoining the Kruger Park. The introduction of game and associated teething problems have largely been ironed out. Despite the reserve encompassing a relatively large area, it is still bounded by a fence and surrounded by stock farmers and smaller fenced game farmers. This means there will always be the inevitable ecological problems associated with a closed system. Nonetheless, these problems are being constantly monitored and well managed.