SIMPLE, IT'S ABOUT SURVIVING.
Carolyn and I had arrived at our hunting concession, Coutada 5, in central Mozambique on the Indian Ocean, at the end of the monsoon season. The drive from the capital of Maputo had taken two and a half nightmarish rainy days and three of my four spare tires. The road is narrow and filled with rim splitting potholes. We were exhausted, but our Land Rover was packed and stacked with supplies that had to be unloaded and our camp set up on the bank of the Muari river, with some degree of order before we could get any sleep.
The next morning the rains had stopped. As we went through the supplies we discovered the case of twenty-four rolls of toilet paper were soaked. In fact, everything made of paper or cardboard was soaked. What a mess we faced. Life in the bush had different priorities than city life. Going to the "toilet" became an experience in botany as we learned which leaves to use.
As I said, our campsite was about fifty yards from the Muari river. I selected a spot under a large mopane tree to set up our tent. Next to it was an old termite mound, about the size of a double garage. It was covered with thick vegetation and several large trees making it impenetrable, except for the monkeys and mambas. Behind us, the other side of the mopane tree was a small depression. This was to be our garden. Or rather I should say, the baboons garden. There were also marula trees around us that produce edible fruit. The baboons made their home in them. Since one of my jobs was wildlife conservation we were supposed to live in harmony with them. Not! People and animals, even the plants, do what they have to do to survive. Here folks killed, caught, grew or bartered for the essentials of life. Sometimes it's unpleasant, sometimes illegal and sometimes ugly.
Our first order of survival was to salvage as much as we could of our supplies. Rolls of toilet paper festooned the trees around us. This even made us laugh, but the baboons really got a kick out of tearing them apart. Everything we left sitting in the sun to dry had to be guarded. We soon discovered that, whether baboon or person, to them, stealing was just shopping. If you weren't guarding it you obviously didn't want it. Once our solar panel was stolen. The thief sold it to someone in the village of Zimwalla for one million meticais, about $20. He then told me he would tell me where it was for one million meticais. I went to get it and had to pay the people he sold it to one million meticais to get it back. The irony is the person I had originally bought it from had stolen it from someone else.
On another occasion, we had gone to the town of Beira for supplies. It is a hard seven-hour drive up the coast from our home in the bush. While there someone stole my toolbox out of the back of our Land Rover. I went to the huge outdoor market on the edge of town to replace the lost tools. As I walked along the row of vendors, to my astonishment, I came upon my toolbox. Nothing was missing and I was able to buy it back at a good price.
The camp consisted of our sleeping tent, storage tent, and gazebo, which served as kitchen, dining, office, and ammo reloading area. After getting it set up I began interviewing and hiring workers. I hired some for construction of the needed facilities and some to help me in my job of wildlife conservation and anti-poaching. As Coutada 5 covered over a million acres it was a formidable job.
The construction workers dug a well, built a shower stall, outhouse, a large thatched roof structure for us to gather under and other things like cooking area, tables, chairs, etc. Everything was made with local materials. All this to try and make life as comfortable as possible for us. Meanwhile, they slept on the ground wrapped in ragged blankets under a leadwood tree. Cooked their mealie mais in one old pot and bathed in the river with the hippos and crocs.
Once things got organized I started patrolling. I appointed Armando as chief ranger because he had some coveralls and a pair of black rubber boots. Everyone else wore shower shoes, worn shorts, and ragged tee shirts. Thus equipped we headed out looking for snares, traps and deadfalls of the poachers. I was the only one armed as it was illegal for them to have a firearm. I also carried my GPS navigator. I never left camp without it. It and my .375 H&H rifle and a pistol were my constant companions.
On one occasion I had driven several miles, parked the Land Rover and we headed out on foot to search an area I decided on. As the sun got low on the horizon I told the men it was time to head back to the Land Rover. While I turned on my GPS they, as one, turned and started off together in the same direction. I told them to wait a minute while I get a fix on the truck. They said "Why? The Land Rover is over there." I was completely lost, but they knew exactly where we were. It was always like that no matter how far we went or how long we were out.
I admit I was naive when I started sending them out on patrol while I stayed in camp. It was only after I began to speak their language that I realized they were playing me for the fool. In this case, it was survival of the wittiest. It turns out they were all poachers. They would go on patrol and check their snares, traps, and deadfalls. Then steal the snares of their competitors and bring them back to me.
An informant blew the whistle on them, so I rounded them all up for a pow-wow. I explained they had two choices. 1) Stop poaching and work for me or 2) Keep poaching, get fired and maybe go to jail if I caught them. All but one elected to stay with me. In the end, they became loyal trustworthy employees. I didn't hesitate to go off and leave Carolyn alone with any of them to guard her against predators, animal or man.
There were many battles I lost, but the only one I gave up fighting was the illegal making and selling of sura. Sura is a delightfully tasty, zesty, knock-you-on-your-butt, an alcoholic drink made from the common nyalla palm. It is made by cutting the stalk and draining the greenish-yellow liquid into a container. Then allowing it to ferment a few days to the desired potency. Of course, you have to skim off the bugs and whatever as you drink it. Nearly everyone made it, drank it and sold it to townspeople. Trucks would come out from the towns to collection points along highway 1 and buy it by the truckload. I've spent many a night sitting around their cooking fires with a gourd of sura laughing and talking about the day's adventures.
As it turned out just about everyone I knew was, is or would be a poacher. They can grow all they need, but protein is in short supply. They needed meat. I did arrest a few, but in the long run, my sympathy was with their need to feed their families. I would travel to their villages and m'shambas giving lectures on the importance of wildlife conservation. Then gather the men together and tell them "Don't be stupid and set your snares where I can find them." I also told them to check their snares regularly and move them often. Before going on patrol I would be sure someone knew where I was going. The bush telegraph may not travel at the speed of light, but it sure was faster than my Land Rover.
I had finally learned what they have always known. Life is simple. It's about surviving.
Marshall Warren
