‘But why can’t you employ
more night watchmen this year?’
It’s 3pm. I’ve been sitting on a hard bench since
11 this morning, without a break for a drink of water, let alone lunch. This particular question has been
worked over for at least 45 minutes, with no end yet in sight, and we haven’t
even touched on what I consider to be the crucial issues facing the assembly. It's going to be a log session...
The village elders are an
interesting bunch: a group of Maasai men, with a smattering of women, for the
most part dressed in red shukas (Maasai
blankets), with lots of stretched earlobes and bright beadwork on show. They are the elected officials of
the village government, the people who decide what can happen in this part of
Maasailand, adjacent to Serengeti National Park.
It can seem pointless and
frustrating at times. I’m a
guide, so I spend most of my time (lucky me!) introducing visitors to the
wonders of the African bush. I
don’t relish the long hours going through the minutiae of village contracts -
always dealing with the same issues, year in and year out.
And yet, these village meetings, where we sit together a few
times a year and talk about all the ‘stuff’ of running a safari camp on
community–owned land can be of great significance to wildlife and conservation. And besides, it’s all part of the job
description.
Across much of Maasailand
(and elsewhere in East Africa) wildlife numbers, which have done remarkably
well over the years, are now in decline – largely due to recent increases in
human and livestock populations.
Predators are routinely killed because they are a threat to cattle and
goats, while vast herds of domestic stock roam across the land, consuming all
the available forage, leaving nothing for wild herbivores.
The Maasai themselves are
struggling: overstocking means that they suffer big losses every time there is
a dry spell. There is much talk
about climate change, but increasingly, people are realising that the land just
can’t support all those cattle, the backbone of their economy for hundreds of
years.
Which all seems terribly
gloomy. But there is a silver
lining: some communities, especially those bordering national parks, are living
on a gold mine, in the form of tourism dollars. But how to unleash that potential?
For a would-be investor, there
is a complicated bureaucratic and political landscape to navigate. Anything to do with land is a potential
minefield, so village leaders are rightly very cautious about any commitments
they sign up to.
Luckily, there is a growing
band of safari operators across the region who believe in community-based
tourism and who are putting in the time to talk to the owners of the land - the local communities - and
are investing.
Success means a win-win-win situation: a great safari experience for
camp owners and visitors; a steady source of precious income for villagers; and
a safe haven for threatened wildlife populations, a precious buffer zone for
beleaguered parks and reserves.
It’s dusk by the time I get
back to camp. A pregnant moon is
hanging low in the east. A herd of
wildebeest is walking across the plain in front of us, their demented grunting
(mooing? honking?) fading to a distant oceanic rumble as they move away. In the distance, a hyena calls.
Later, we're sitting around the campfire enjoying a pre-prandial drink. Jenny, a first-time visitor
to Africa, says: ‘Can’t we cancel the rest of our trip, and just stay here
instead?
Suddenly, the tedium,
the hours in a dusty village office, my aching back, the overly sweet tea – it all
seems hugely worthwhile.
