rhino summit

27 January 2012

I wake up, shocked to find it’s already 04.25. I was supposed to leave at 03.00! Maputo is still a long drive away and the meeting starts at nine!

The morning light is rising as I pass Massingir and head for Chokwe on badly worn tar interspersed with gravel stretches where repairs had been made after the floods of 2000. Beyond Chokwe, still heading east to Macia on a tar road riddled with craters, there’s angry whipped-up cloud ahead and a spirited wind blowing from the side. It’s the outermost edge of the great spinning wheel of deadly cyclone Funso that’s heading down the Mozambique channel after lashing Quelimane further north.

At Macia I join the coastal road that is Mozambique’s main artery and I step on the pedal until I enter the capital two hours later. Here I get bogged down in traffic that leaves me twenty minutes late when I finally pull in under the porte cochére of the Polana Hotel. Fortunately for me the key delegates from SA are also late after one of the private planes bringing them developed a technical glitch. The gathered suits and TV crew wait patiently until the meeting finally starts at eleven. It’s an important one. 

Present are Dr Mabunda, CEO of SA’s National Parks, various generals and high ranking officials of the Mozambican government, and also the investors in a number of private game reserves that border the Kruger National Park on its Mozambican flank. On the table is a desperate bid to prevent these conservation areas from being isolated after the shock news that Kruger plans to erect an impenetrable border fence as a drastic measure to curb the poaching of its rhinos by criminals operating out of Mozambique.

There is tension in the air: Nobody knows what message Dr Mabunda is bringing today. Will a Berlin wall go up, thereby killing the viability of the conservation effort that has been made on the Mozambican side, or is SA still open to the idea of a connected buffer zone, such as the one on Kruger’s western boundary where Sabie Sands and other reserves have proved the success of private ecotourism ventures in providing security by bringing benefits to hungry local communities? Perhaps more importantly; will Kruger’s expanding animal populations get the chance to move into the vacant bush next door where their kin once roamed, or will they be locked in for immediate protection?

The investors state their case: Much has been done on their side already; electric fencing, anti-poaching squads, investments in community projects, etc, etc. All the plans have been put into action for a recognized long term solution to poaching, but things are dragging because of official bureaucracy. They need help; from Kruger in the form of operational backup in the war on poaching, and from the Mozambican government by allowing it, as well as by speeding up land issues and getting tight on legislation, prosecution and corruption. Their plan is a good one, they say, the two governments just need to roll up their sleeves and get involved.

Next it’s Dr Mabunda’s turn. The SA government has a gun to it’s head, he tells the meeting. People from all over the world are furious about the rhino slaughter. They’re demanding action. A new border fence – instead of the further removal of the old one – has been mooted as a solution and a decision must be taken soon. But first prize, he concedes, would rather be an efficient cross-border buffer zone that can expand the area available for Kruger’s animals and solve the human conflict in a way that is more beneficial in all aspects, as has been thoroughly proved. However, for this to be an option the Mozambican side will have to commit itself speedily to a memorandum of understanding that will lead to actively addressing the current problems, he says.

For the private conservationists who have been fighting both poachers and bureaucracy his message is a welcome one. The Mozambican government delegation on the other hand, find themselves caught in the harsh beam of the searchlight. A Berlin wall will be a symbol of their lack of capacity, their ambassador to SA admits. Something better must be done.

When I leave the meeting it is with the hope that today may prove to have been a turning point in the rhino war. An estimated 60% plus of the slaughter in Kruger (that totalled 244 last year) springs from Mozambique through the area under discussion. Will the Mozambican government, despite the challenges it still faces on many fronts after a disastrous civil war, now rise to its duty?

comings and goings

26 January 2012

My normally lonely camp in the bundu has been a busy place lately.

The group of wise men who came to visit spiced things up with their conversation and general good company, but on Sunday it was time for them to go their various ways again, one of them as far as Tanzania. Some were flying out by helicopter, the others would go with the plane.

Early in the morning I went to drop off the pilot to pre-flight his plane (when Stef stepped out in his crisp white shirt and epaulettes the herd of impala on the airstrip bolted!). At the same time I collected the guards who’d been left overnight to stop elephant from toying with the aircraft. Then I shuttled the passengers, their gear was loaded and the props started turning. The plane soon followed the helicopter that had already banked away towards Maputo and, as the sound of spinning blades and engines faded into the distance, birdsong ruled the bush again.

Back at camp I packed the necessary and then set out east with the Nissan. The shipwrecked Cruiser and its crew were still camped on the bank of the Limpopo and had to be rescued.

They were really glad to see us when Man Friday and I finally arrived there. A strong rope was hitched and we started the slow, laborious tow of nearly 70km. It wasn’t easy. What passes for a road out of the Limpopo valley is really just a strip of alternating ruts, mud, washaways and sand, and the load I was pulling was a heavy one. Only eight km’s into the tow the Nissan’s heat guage started creeping up to the red. When I stopped, the radiator was already gurgling steam and there was a smell of burning coming off the clutch.

I couldn’t risk losing my only means of transport in this vast million hectares, so I had no choice but to abandon the effort. After waiting for things to cool down, I towed the Cruiser to a nearby rangers’ post where we left the vehicle and two guards. W and the other guy on his crew found seats in my vehicle and we returned to camp without further mishap.

I was also expecting artist Keith Joubert and his friends for a visit on Monday but by Sunday night I’d still had no news of the condition of the road they would have to use. The Canadian researchers who left camp last Wednesday had been turned back by the floods and departed again on Friday. They’d been spotted from the air where they were parked before the flooded Shingwedzi crossing but I’d had no word of their fortunes since. Had they managed to get through? Would Keith make it in?

I was disappointed when a message arrived to say he’d decided against risking it, but I quite understood. His overseas guests might miss their flights if the journey here turned out to be too much of an adventure.

On a more positive note: W’s misfortune with the Cruiser turned out to be a blessing for me. Stranded here for three days until help would come from the south, he and his righthand man kept themselves busy around camp. The broken spring mounting on my trailer was repaired, staff matters were dealt with and an inquest was held into the theft of my solar panels. It was quite a relief to be able to try and catch up with writing without having to concern myself with other issues.

Stolen solar panels – the chastised culprits

Then, yesterday, A arrived from the south to come and salvage the Cruiser and its crew. He’s an old salt of the bush, with a well-equipped truck and good savvy. His wife M loves it out in the sticks as well and goes everywhere with him. The road was usable, they reported. Two wet river crossings and some mud and washaways, but otherwise OK. After a quick bite to eat they all departed the other way to try and haul the Cruiser in with the steel towing bar A had brought along for the purpose. When they returned in the late afternoon, it was with the crippled vehicle in tow. Six days after it had left Massingir, 125km away, my supplies finally arrived in camp.

This morning all the visitors departed, leaving the drowned Cruiser behind. It would have been too difficult to tow, given the conditions of the road, and will somehow have to be fixed here.

Later in the day I too head south. There’s an important meeting in Maputo tomorrow that I must attend, even though it’s a long drive. I drive as far as Massingir and then decide to overnight there and get off to an early start tomorrow.

going after colonel kurtz

21 January 2012

Back at camp the assembled wise men are already waiting with their hiking boots on. An area further down the river caught their interest when they flew over it, now they want to go and see what natural secrets it holds.

We follow the river, flying low with red cliffs towering alongside. It’s a wild, wild feeling to travel so free through a valley so ruggedly beautiful and untouched by man.

How to recognise an experienced bush pilot.

Every turn of the snaking waterway reveals an ancient new postcard. Crocodiles splash under as we pass over them, leggy storks take to the wing, hippo stare at us and antelope of all sorts flit into the leafy shadows. From the flanks dark rock chutes add their contribution to the main stream, sometimes sending their waters tumbling down in bright, lively cascades. And inevitably, like sentinels on the banks, all along there are the majestic, pale yellow fever trees.

Inside the helicopter the intercom is unusually quiet. Only the muted whine of the jet turbine filters through the headsets. What else is there to say when the spirit is conversing directly with the soul?

Our landing on a sandbank along a section of the river lined with high forest is straight out of Apocalypse Now. The chopper drops us off and we set out into the forest in single file .

It’s another fantastic realm we enter here. Giant nyala berries and other trees have their roots deep in the fertile soil of an ancient alluvial terrace. Their canopies cast shade over thigh high buffalo grass and shrubs. We wade reverently through the green underworld, ducking past orb spiders patiently guarding their food nets, and pause often to observe the rich life of it all.

 Surely no man has set foot in this wild, pristine place before, I decide, except maybe Adam or Colonel Kurtz. Then we pick up a primitive, vulture-feathered arrow lost by some indigenous hunter. OK – maybe a few cannibals have been here as well. The forest has a strange effect on the wise men too. Every now and then one of them picks a leaf or a little seed and then they all start speaking Latin suddenly. It really is a magical place..

By late afternoon, when the chopper has ferried us all back to camp, there’s a sleek plane parked on my airstrip. The ground has dried off sufficiently and the pilot had done a few practice runs before slipping in over the tops of the mopanes and setting his machine down. Pencele Baloi Airport (which I named after the old man who once lived next to what is now the runway, and who lies buried under the floor of his hut) is in business!

search, but no party

21 January 2012

It’s a pleasant, cool morning on the Shingwedzi when day breaks. Still no sign of the missing Landcruiser and crew with the supplies, however. What could have happened to them? Most likely they arrived at the Limpopo too late to catch the ferrymen, and then had to camp on the far bank for the night. If that’s the case, they should arrive here by 10 a.m. If they don’t, we’ll mount a search, we decide.

Ten o’ clock comes and goes. At 10.30 four of us lift off in the chopper to search for them, starting with the road to Mapai.  We fly low, following the two wheelruts that snake through the trees below us, all eyes alert for a vehicle or a messenger on foot. On all sides the virgin bush of the almost flat plains of Mozambique stretches away to a hazy horizon. This is big, empty country; it looks almost hostile from the air.

Sixty km later we haven’t spotted even a vehicle spoor on the red, rainswept sand of the track. Animals yes, but nothing human other than the meandering trail and the rusty remnants of an old car wreck.

As we drop down into the valley of Kipling’s great grey-green, greasy Limpopo we pass over huts and cornfield shambas where goats, cattle and chickens scatter and children run to catch a better glimpse of the machine. Our shadow chases us across a rough floodplain, then there are the sands that line the great artery, four boats drawn up on the west bank and.. there! The Landcruiser!

The dragonfly sends up a sandstorm as it settles on the beach. The four guys below are happy to see us, but they’re somewhat shaken.

They’d reached the river at 6pm the previous evening and signalled across the 150m wide stream for the ferry to come and fetch them. Three men duly poled the pontoon across and assured them the load was no problem. Off they went, until, in the middle of the stream, the craft began to rock. It listed one way, then the other, and then suddenly capsized and dumped the whole lot in the river!

As it went over everyone leapt into the water, except the driver who was caught in the cab. Fortunately the river was only over a meter deep and the vehicle came to rest on its side, entangled in the railings of the upended boat.

Adrenaline overruled any fear of crocodiles for a while and there was a mad scramble to recover floating pillows, cooler boxes and the like, and to dive for all that had spilt and gone down. The current took its share, but somehow the guys managed to wade ashore with most of what had been lost. To add to their woes they then had to fend off some locals who started looting the pile!

In darkness by now, they set about extricating the truck. It meant having to saw through the metal railings underwater, but they somehow rolled the vehicle on its wheels again and, thanks to it being a diesel equipped with a snorkel, even drove it out!

Close to three in the morning, with wet clothes on their bodies, they finally curled up in the sand around a fire to get some rest.

Daylight revealed the full extent of the damage. GPS, iPod, two-way radio, cellphones, documents, even a R20 000 satellite phone: all had gone under, some of it for hours. The Cruiser’s left side was dinged from front to back, the headlight was full of water, personal gear was soaked, keys were lost. All the new linen for my camp, the table cloths, pillows, lamps, shelves and even toilet seats lay wet and muddy in a heap next to two drums of helicopter fuel and cases of sodden food.

At five the weary crew rose to complete their mission. They started the vehicle, moved it closer and set about loading the whole lot again. Then, when they were finally ready to roll, the engine wouldn’t start again. And so it remained: Dead.

Quite ironically, the ferry (seen in the background) had to be towed ashore by the Landcruiser it had been carrying!

It’s a tired and dejected lot we find on the hot sands of the Limpopo, but we can do little more than try to bolster their morale. Despite our efforts with the contents of the toolbox, the diesel pump of the big V8 just won’t deliver.                                                            Everything is taken off the truck again so that we can get to the drums to refuel the chopper, then we load some essentials, reassure the shipwrecked crew that help will be coming tomorrow, and fly back to camp.

after cyclone Dando

20 January 2012

Cyclone Dando may have spent its rage, but out here we’re still dealing with its aftermath. The only road to the south is still no-go.

A NASA image of subtropical depression Dando approaching the Mozambican coast. Note the thing's evil eye.

Yesterday a racey Piper Aerostar twin made a low overpass when it came to check out the route and the state of things, but my strip was still too wet for it to land. The expected guests will be choppered in today, an e-mail informs me.

The truck with supplies that should have preceded them left by road at four this morning, taking the long way round. It’s first heading east to Chokwe, then north to Mapai, then west to where it can cross the Limpopo by ferry and subsequently on to camp. It’s expected to arrive at about 7pm after a fifteen hour journey, whilst a crow would have had to fly only a hundred km to get here.

Shortly before ten a.m. I hear the chatter of rotor blades. A yellow chopper drops in over the river and settles squarely onto the H in a clearing next to camp. It drops two pax and a pile of bags, then hurries off to Massingir again. An hour later it’s back again and six more guys disembark as the blades wind down.

OK: Here I am with two pilots and the virtual who’s who of wilderness experts in my camp, and not much to offer them until that supply truck arrives. On it is food, bedding and a whole lot else that’s needed to host these folks in some semblance of hospitality. But they’re a good bunch, so we manage to hustle up something to eat from my rations in the meantime, before they go exploring. The rest of the day is taken up by aerial and 4×4 sorties until we all gather by the campfire at nightfall. The truck should be here any minute.

Later, when the jokes start turning into yawns, there’s still no sign or word of the truck, even though the driver has a satphone. My esteemed guests have to settle for yellowed, moth-eaten linen and jazzed-up mieliepap. To their credit, they don’t complain. Rather we’re all concerned about the candy van and its crew of four that’s unaccounted for. Where are they?

hurrah: land’s been sighted!

19 January 2012

When morning broke after 225mm of rain it wasn’t a clear one, but at least it was dry. The river had subsided during the night and things are beginning to return to normal. Being on sloping ground (the east side of the Lebombo hills), and thanks to the storm water trenches we constructed in November, the camp wasn’t flooded and fortunately suffered no damage.

The surrounding areas weren’t so lucky, according to the news. Kruger National Park, my neighbour less than three km to the west, took a huge hit in places and Hoedspruit, where I landed four days ago, saw people being airlifted off roofs and out of trees. South of here in Mozambique the raging Olifants river is still piling into the huge Massingir dam with the level rising dangerously despite all floodgates jetting water at full volume.

I’ve also learned that the beast has a name: Dando tropical depression, wayward child of tempestuous la Nina. (Not that the SA Weather Service would know that of course, otherwise they would have issued a warning.)

Good news is that the guy who was on his way here with a supply truck managed to turn back to Massingir safely after being halted by the flooded Madonse river. Another effort will be made to get through with supplies tomorrow and the expected guests will then be shuttled in by chopper.

Through all this the bush has been strangely quiet. The resident baboon troop didn’t make a sound and even the normally raucous birds have been subdued. I suppose one doesn’t really have much inclination for singing after sitting it out in so much rain.

wet, wet, wet

18 January 2012

Rain. Lots of it. All day yesterday, throughout the night, and still it’s pouring down. More than 200mm so far, with plenty more to come by the looks of it. This is the big one that the whole Shingwedzi valley system has been thirstily waiting for. The pools are overflowing and have joined up to become a wide stream where the crocs can swim at will again and meet up with old friends and family. Hippo, fish and all things aquatic are having their world restored and now enter a new cycle of life.

On the human side things are a lot less rosy. With my fire rained out there’s no hot water and no way to cook a meal or even make coffee. Water is streaming through camp on all sides and the river is rising alarmingly. No plane can land on the swamped airstrip and I’m sure the road will be quite impassable due to flooded river crossings and miles and miles of mud.

I got my internet going again and on the news it says neighbouring Kruger Park has closed some gates (including Giriyondo where I passed through the day before yesterday) and is in the process of evacuating people in some places.

The Shingwedzi river in front of camp this morning.

Twenty minutes later.

And another twenty minutes later.

What about the group of ecologists and other guests who would have flown here from Massingir tomorrow? Communication has been difficult and erratic but last I heard, after I’d sent a warning that the runway is down and that flooding’s underway, was that they would still be arriving, presumably by road or helicopter. Well, I have a helipad cleared and marked for them (even though the ash with which I’d chalked out the big H has probably washed away by now) but the road most definitely won’t be an option.

More worrying is the short text message I received that said the advance supplies that would have been flown in yesterday were sent ahead by road this morning to reach my camp later today. If that is indeed the case it would mean that somewhere out there on that lonely track somebody with a heavily loaded vehicle may be in trouble right now.

As I sit here amongst the buckets in my leaky kitchen shack with incessant rain sheeting down and thunder booming through the gloom, I can’t help being worried about him.

View from my cooking lapa this morning.

Same scene, some time later.

back to the bush

17 January 2012

Back in the bush again! Three weeks of summer sun and shenanigans in Helen Zille’s Land of Plenty left me refreshed, but ultimately also a little bored.

At first there was the novelty of having everything so easy and aplenty. Even the little things that people probably don’t even think about, like switching on a light, pulling into a service station whenever you need petrol, or ordering a pizza, never mind having it delivered. And of course ice cream. Especially ice cream!

Music was a treat too. I don’t have any in camp, not even a radio, so guitar god Albert Frost really lit me up when I went to a blues jol to Saronsberg near Tulbagh one day. Inevitably the night ended with good wine and hard rock on a stoep back in the home valley. Led Zeppelin, the assembled afficionados decided, after giving a number of rock greats the volume button, still rules!

Then the days settled into a summer routine and before long it was time to say goodbye to my sons, my dog and all the good friends again and saddle up the jet. Civilization may have its perks but somehow the elusive meaning of life seems harder to find under fluorescent lighting.

The lowveld was kind when I landed in Hoedspruit. Cool and verdant and resounding with birdsong, unlike the parched and fire-ravaged Boland I’d left behind.

The private hilltop lodge where I stayed in the Selati reserve nestles amongst huge granite boulders.

I spent the night in the Selati reserve where my wheels were waiting and passed through Phalaborwa yesterday morning to stock up. The trip across northern Kruger National Park was the usual slow, somewhat tedious one, but for a change the border formalities where I crossed into Mozambique didn’t take forever.

Things had changed a bit while I was gone. The almost blinding

Impala lambs born in November have grown into sturdy youngsters.

green of fresh summer growth had seeded into thigh high gold but the big summer rains were still holding off. An overcast sky and a cool wind spelt promise though. The little maize fields of the villages I passed through looked decidedly strained and the children who ran up to shout at my passing were kicking up dust. I made the run along the tortuous bush track to my camp in about three and a half hours and arrived last night just as darkness was settling in.

It turned out all is not well in paradise. Christmas spirit had got the better of Man Friday and he’d not only ignored the tasks he and the other guys had been given, but he’d also taken leave at will, leaving the camp unguarded. This resulted in two of my three treasured solar panels being stolen and the landing strip, where regrowth was to have been cleared, standing knee-high in grass. And that with a supply plane due today and twelve VIP guests on their way in two days’ time!

To add to my problems the internet system is not working and it started raining this morning, with no sign of letting up soon. Through the emergency sattelite phone I manage to get word out to hold the plane while I set about trying to get everything fixed that should have been done while I was away.

About the only good news is that the stolen panels were recovered in Makandazul village by two of my guys who heard about the theft when they returned from leave and then went there in search of the culprits. They caught the two tsotsi’s, tied their wrists and then marched them one and a half hours back to camp. After keeping them captive for two days and not really knowing what to do with them, they then marched them back again! To complicate matters further, the third member of my crew had in the meantime been stabbed by a buddy of the two thieves. He arrived back at camp two days later with a hole in his back plugged with wet cow dung.

Yep, I’m back in the bush. And certainly not bored. In fact, it’s taken me less than a day to forget all about ice cream and pizza and lazy days on the beach..