Due to some serious financial mismanagement, Mokolodi Game Reserve has decided to sell off some of our game for a quick infusion of cash. Of course, the reason proffered to the staff for this drastic action was that our creditors were delinquent with our accts receivables. In actuality, inept “managers” (another grossly distorted term) are running this operation into the ground. The new park manager here is, by trade, an auto mechanic who bootlicked his way to the top. His skin is the right color (a creamy alabaster) and he’s an evil racist who has somehow managed to convince the Board of Directors that he’s their saving grace. All of his decisions are made in a vacuum and none of them have been based on fact finding or due diligence after consultation with our trained conservation team (local blacks of course). His management style (although he’s too ignorant to be aware of such a term so lets just call it his attitude) is based on fear and intimidation. He routinely fires anyone who he feels is a threat or who might expose his incompetence. Ive never met someone so utterly consumed with their own misery that, if looking closely enough, you can see its vapors trailing off behind him in his wake. If he had a personality, it would be best described as a glum manipulative tyrant who doles out petty punishments to his staff. His talent is in delivering it subtly so it becomes an oblique slur that masks the overt racism. He is universally hated here at Mokolodi and his house here on park property has been robbed 6x, all of which were most likely inside jobs. Aside from that, he’s wonderful.
I see right through his black little soul and he knows it. He’s polite and professional with me. I stay on his good side and lead him to believe that I actually like him. But if he ever pulls that condescending white colonial master and servant routine near me, I’ll be sure to humiliate him in front of his own black staff.
So he came to our place the other day to invite me to his birthday party, which his wife was hosting at their house on the ridgetop overlooking the reserve. It put me in a tough spot. I really didn’t want to go. If I accepted the invite, I risked damaging my friendship with my housemates since it would make me look like a union scab crossing the strike line and siding with management. If I declined, it might be perceived as an insult to the park manager. I went reluctantly and arrived to discover a torch lit patio with a fire blazing, a fancy appetizer spread, a full bar with top shelf spirits, and some good eats being prepared on some odd contraption, something between a bbq grill and an Asian wok. It had the makings of a good party but something felt wrong that I couldn’t pinpoint. And then it dawned on me as I sat there talking with Eva, the only other Western volunteer at Mokolodi. I looked around the fire and saw nothing but creamy alabaster. There was not one black person at the party, not even one staff member of the reserve. So I quickly gorged myself on all the fine food & drink, stuffed two extra slabs of prime steak in my pocket, and cut out.
I have noticed that all positions of authority or management here in Botswana are held by white South Africans and most of the business owners are Indian. Resentment runs high among locals and the racism (both ways) is tangible, although harmless. Two beers deep, and my housemates Thabo & Mothusi will begin railing on all the shmucks keeping them down. They speak passionately about it, but in a human rights vein, not a nationalistic pride trip. I try to suggest organizing a walk-out or a planned strike, get them to be more actively confrontational, stick it to The Man. But they never step up. Been pumped with too much fear. I get so frustrated at their reluctance to take matters a step further that I want to slap the kink out of their ‘fro (ok actually there are no afro’s, Mothusi is bald and Thabo has dreads).
So, in fine dysfunctional form of Mokolodi meathead management, they brought in the game capture team. Rather than post a tender and have competing companies bid for the job, the manager just took the first farmer’s offer to come along. Which, not surprisingly, was a fellow Boer tribesman who owns a hunting ranch. These animals which Mokolodi (a conservation based nature reserve) was selling were destined to be shot. [The Boers are a tribe of Afrikaans people, white South African descendents of Dutch settlers originating in the early 19th century with a violent history and ultra-nationalistic right wing dogma. The Afrikaaner Broederbond (Brotherhood) was established and became the influential force behind the National Party, which won the 1948 election on the platform of apartheid. At the extreme right, the Ossewa Brandwag (Sentinels of the Ox Wagon) evolved into a military branch with Third Reich aspirations. The Nazi’s of South Africa. Boers translates to ‘farmer’ in Afrikaans language and they are the hillbillies of this region. Not just toothless inbred drunk rural harmless folks that comprise our proud American breed. Add white supremist to that mix and you begin to get an idea of how evil these mothertruckers are. Alabama in the 60’s was harmony compared to South Africa under apartheid.] A helicopter was trucked into the reserve, followed by several huge flatbed trucks. The capture team began constructing a series of shade cloth walls (boma) inside the reserve in order to herd the animals into the waiting trucks. The chopper took flight and began flying low transect patterns to herd the game towards the boma. The first day he captured some Kudu, the second some Wildebeest, and the third day it was Zebras. While in the truck, one of the zebra’s hit its head on a steel bar trying to jump out to escape. It died on the spot. The entire operation was a total nightmare. The prick running the show didn’t give a rats ass about the welfare of the animals. And he treated his labor crew (poor rural villagers he brought with him, like day laborers) even worse. After hearing several complaints from people at the reserve about the capture, the conservation team, rangers, and myself drove out to check on the operation. It was pretty shocking. I’ve seen better conditions at Kosovo refugee camps. His workers were not given food nor shelter. It happened to be a nasty cold spell with temps in the 40’s and heavy rain. They were out there at night wet and shivering huddled around a small fire. Brought them back to our house, gave them blankets and a warm meal. Called the police and reported the circumstances. The next morning, the police and the Labor Dept reps were here confronting the capture pilot. Ultimately, the operation was shut down and they were asked to leave the property, even though they hadn’t yet captured all the game which they already paid for.
This incident was the beginning of the end for my time at Mokolodi. Every institution or organization has its share of dirty laundry to tolerate but this was too much to bear. I won’t work for a company who preaches conservation on the outside and promotes hunting on the inside. It’s been nice but time to look for greener savannahs.
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