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  What started as a vision about the Olifants River Game Reserve has become the story of a game ranger’s life. With a naturalist’s eye for detail as well as the bigger picture of managing a fragile ecosystem through years of drought and plenty, Mario Cesare brings a storyteller’s delight – and a dash of Italian passion – to sharing his world.

  Life-and-death encounters with lion, elephant and buffalo are balanced by rescues and interventions as these giants of the lowveld suffer the effects of human interference in their ecosystem. There are problems with poachers and with rapacious neighbours; then the delights of success – and in the case of the elephant population, the conundrums of too much success.

  Mario Cesare’s career has taken him from Timbavati and Mala Mala to Olifants River and beyond – and he delights in sharing his good fortune. His latest task: to develop and nurture the Olifants River Game Reserve as the fences of the Greater Kruger National Park area fall, undoing generations of damage. Man-eaters, Mambas and Marula Madness: A Game Rangers Life in the Lowveld provides a wealth of lessons on conservation as well as stories of life in the bush as it is enjoyed only by those fortunate enough to live on a ‘Big Five’ reserve.

  Man-eaters, mambas and marula madness

  A game ranger’s life in the lowveld

  Mario Cesare

  JONATHAN BALL PUBLISHERS

  JOHANNESBURG & CAPE TOWN

  For my wife Meagan, whose patience and support, despite being severely tested at times, is unwavering.

  Reserve HQ co-ordinates: 24° 07’ 12. 23’S 31º 01’ 50.43’E

  Foreword

  I get the feeling that a deep fascination for the African bush and its wildlife is something universal, something tightly wrapped in the DNA of all mankind. Or is this just the cloistered view of a South African who can’t remember better times than his visits to the Kruger National Park, or the Timbavati, and who holds the belief that a bushveld experience seems always to be the highlight for any of our foreign visitors lucky enough to get there?

  The question to ask, I guess, is why this is so.

  Is it the silence, the tranquillity, the sense of something unspoiled, the excitement of being privy to the unexpected, to the sudden and often explosive raw rhythms of nature? I suspect we could come up with a heap of theories that tie back to the mainstream of man’s primitive origins, our disenchantment with the concrete sprawl of our modern cities, the ugliness of the relentless development we see around us and the crowded tempo of modern life.

  And it would all be unimportant.

  The fact remains. The bushveld is a place where I, and most people I know, are most at peace and very happy to be in.

  The bushveld is also where I first met Mario Cesare, under a Mopane tree, where we tested fly rods and compared casting styles, somewhere back in the 1980s. But that day is a convoluted story all on its own. The important thing is that we still share a friendship and a few common passions – fly fishing, the bushveld and wildlife. So we have been in each other’s company fairly often since we first met, always in remote places, either viewing wild life or fly fishing. And I was quick to understand that Mario’s passion for wildlife is underpinned by a deep empathy for it and an incredible understanding of its many huge machinations and its tiniest intricate nuances. It’s an understanding the likes of which I have not encountered to the same level in anyone else. I’m tempted to think there are ‘naturals’ at this sort of thing, just as we know there are naturals in sport, and that Mario is a natural conservationist. I get the sense that a lot of what happens in his head happens naturally, was just fed empirically along the way in his many years deep in the bush aided by his keen powers of observation.

  Not that I should even hint that I’m an expert judge of the qualities of conservationists and naturalists. I am working on a hunch here, but it’s a hunch backed by my own observations during the many hours I have spent in Mario’s company. More importantly, it’s backed by the testimony of many people who are knowledgeable about these things and who happen also to know Mario well. I have been alongside Mario on many rivers and streams and if there’s one thing I am sure about, it’s that I can tell a lot about a person by just quietly watching how they approach a testy fly stream. Mario’s approach is studied, observant and skilled. I would guess he’s the same in the bushveld around big game as he is in fly streams around trout.

  Man-eaters, Mambas and Marula Madness is more than a series of stories about one of the most successful private game reserves in South Africa. It is that in large part, but in many ways it is also the story of Mario’s life, as a family man, as a manager with high responsibility, as a committed diplomat and negotiator for the rights of wild animals and as a humble, compassionate and celebrated conservationist. It is a book richly woven with the tapestry of his life experiences, with charming bushveld vignettes from mambas to man-eaters, with humour (conservationists are paid not so much in currency as in sunsets), with wonderfully fresh insights into the intriguing ways of wildlife (you will never forget his touching story of the brotherhood among buffalo bulls), with accounts of the threats posed by fences and poachers, and with his few encounters with the prospect of sudden death.

  This is also a book I have long hoped Mario would write. His head is too filled with the mysteries and intricate workings of this aspect of the natural world to let him slip quietly away one day without leaving us – and the generations to come – with a record of his experiences and insights. Fortunately, Mario has always been a committed note keeper and now at last we have much of that in book form. But as good as this book is, I hope there is more Cesare writing to come. Man-eaters, Mambas and Marula Madness has left me, as I suspect it will leave you, with precisely that sentiment.

  Tom Sutcliffe

  April 2010

  Introduction

  Dr Ian Player, one of the world’s most respected conservationists, addressing a gathering of the Game Rangers Association of Africa, once said, ‘Keep records of your experiences … write, write, write!’ His advice could not have found a more eager audience than Mario Cesare. Thoroughly inspired and motivated by his words, I have taken notes and documented my observations for as long as I can remember – and finally, I have compiled my thoughts into some semblance of order.

  Which brings us to the here and now.

  Olifants River Game Reserve, ‘Olifants’ from here on, is a privately owned Big Five game reserve, unique among lowveld reserves in that it has a perennial river running through it. Over the years I have done my best to keep the shareholders up to date with the happenings in this fascinating place, in their piece of real Africa, and this ongoing task has proved to be as rewarding as it has been challenging. Through the production of regular newsletters, initially with ballpoint and notepaper, then with typewriters and latterly with laptops and PCs, I have been successful to some degree in bringing the Bush they’re so passionate about into their offices and homes.

  I have never been asked by a secretary or personal assistant to call back later. No matter the profile of the captain of industry, the workload of the busiest professional or the time constraints of a packed commercial or personal schedule, if the shareholders of Olifants just can’t take my call at that moment, they will tell me personally. Invariably, this courtesy then includes a brief enquiry as to how things are on the reserve. The shareholders, the ‘family’ of Olifants, always want to know the latest news from the reserve and I always want to share it with them.

  This book is a synthesis of my experiences and this reserve’s growth over the years and is peppered with selected features from the newsletters produced from 1993 to 2009. It is presented in no particular order or sequence. It is designed to be picked up and opened on any page at any time and to strike a chord or re-ignite a memory. The topics range f
rom the earliest recollections of my interest in wildlife through a broad spectrum of nature conservation and environmental issues, to tales of my interaction with the bush and its inhabitants mostly viewed from the reserve’s perspective. Both the content and the intent range from conventional to controversial. In some cases, I may disturb some of the dust that has gathered on traditional thinking and may seem insensitive on sensitive matters. The intention is not to be provocative, however, but rather to question history, the status quo and alternative futures with an open mind, very much coloured by the realities and the challenges of life on Olifants.

  Of course, there are personal and anecdotal recollections of some days in my life as a game ranger, and the nuts and bolts of practical conservation work. I hope these will offer some respite from the more serious moments and will help create a greater awareness of this wonderful reserve and the pivotal role it plays in a greater conservation system.

  We know that conservation ecology is not an exact science. Broadly speaking, the basics can be and are successfully practised by some of the most primitive peoples on earth. There is no magic formula, it is practical common sense and the dependence on and respect for the environment that is the key. Nature is patient and forgiving, she will tolerate honest mistakes with remarkable resilience, and providing that we learn from them, we stand to benefit and prosper.

  I am the first to admit I am not a scientist. However, of necessity, a smidgen of technical stuff weaves its way in and out of the meandering road map of this book. I have attempted to make this of interest to those of you who do not wear white dustcoats and thick bifocals. Equally, I am not a seasoned author, so although the words that have emerged as this publication may have been typed by my fingers, they come from the heart often with the emotional content unedited and loosely structured. In the end, though, it is my innate desire to share my experiences that has motivated the production of this book.

  I have drawn on some 32 years in the bush, including the years spent beyond the borders of this reserve before my arrival in the embryonic Olifants River Game Reserve. I have also drawn on the experiences of many shareholders, and have named them and their individual lodges or reserves and acknowledged their contributions. At the same time, there has been no selection process for inclusion and there are no favourites, no inner circle.

  Kobie Krüger coined the apt saying that ‘Game Rangers get paid in Sunsets’ and I am sure she would agree that these rewards are so often worth sharing. So it was, earlier this year, when I crested one of the higher ridges on Olifants in order to get an uninterrupted view of a particular sunset. It was one of those events which, given my limited vocabulary, frustratingly defied description.

  Utterly humbled by the magnificent sight before me, all I could do was grab the radio microphone and blurt out to whoever was out there listening …

  ‘How’s that sunset?’

  I hope that as you travel though these pages you may get to see and share what I have seen. I hope that you will be with me in spirit when I once again blurt out ‘How’s that sunset?’ and you will share, through my eyes, all that is Olifants River Game Reserve.

  From the ‘Magdalena Method’ to the Alliance with Olifants North

  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 wartho
gs 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.