DISPOSITIVOS Y CIFRAS DEL REGRESO

Once it seemed Africa had outdone itself at Gorongosa with its riots of wildlife.

It was known as the place where Noah left his ark, an African paradise teeming with amazing creatures. Years of war took a toll here. Now, new Noahs with new arks are fighting to bring back the magnificent titans of Gorogosa. The plan: To reinvigorate the genetic pools and populations of all of Gorongosa’s major species. They're not hoping to save just a few animals here. They’re embarking on perhaps the most ambitious park restoration ever attempted – to save Africa's Lost Eden.

- Trailer for Africa’s Lost Eden, National Geographic, 2010 By the mid-1990s, much of Mozambique’s wildlife population had been destroyed.

Forces on both sides of the armed conflict had used the country’s protected areas as repositories for animal products, supplying meat to soldiers and ivory, horns, and tusks to foreign entities in exchange for arms and assistance.¹ During the armed conflict, which lasted from 1977 to 1992, the area around Gorongosa had become the headquarters for RENAMO, and Mount Gorongosa, in particular, became a key symbolic and political site of power contestation. Southern

Mozambique, including the area around the Maputo Special Reserve, was largely depopulated during the 1980s as people sought refuge across the South African border. As the conflict escalated, the administration of these areas also fled to safety, leaving these territories open to plunder.² Amidst weak state governance and increasing foreign intervention after the armed conflict ended, the Mozambican government sought support for wildlife conservation programs from external parties. Seeking to develop a thriving post-colonial and post-conflict economy in the mid-1990s, the government prioritized tourism as a potentially profitable industry and hoped protected areas would help to entice foreign currency. International organizations and foreign individuals were key in forging this link between economic development and wildlife

conservation. In attempting to develop the country’s protected areas as attractive destinations, protected areas were marketed as “lost Edens,” saved by foreign benefactors and ripe for tourist

1 See Chapter 2.

2 However, many game guards, or scouts, stayed in the vicinity throughout the armed conflict. Due to the nature of their conflict, their focus was more on their own survival than safeguarding species. Pereira Charles, for example, began working in Gorongosa National Park in 1972 and remained throughout the armed conflict (and afterwards). Pereira Araujo Charles, interviewed by the author, Gorongosa National Park, 30 July 2010.

167 exploration. As indicated in the quote above, these Edens were resurrected through restoration projects seeking to overturn the devastation wrought by years of war. These initiatives

demonstrated contestations not only over land, but also landscape, as divergent visions of these territories and what belonged in them materialized.

Much of the recent literature on conservation has critiqued this field as being embedded in capitalist or neoliberal processes. Where once colonial forces were driving resource

management agendas, these authors argue it is now foreign capital, market forces, profit incentives, and celebrities.³ Richard Grove located the origins of conservationist imperatives in the early expansion of European colonization, where the opening of territory and trade routes to capital accumulation coincided with exposure to threats to environmental security and the survival of species.⁴ Since that time, capitalist agendas have been intricately entwined with conservation initiatives, including the development of protected areas.⁵ Furthermore, the spread of neoliberal policies, generally aimed at limiting the reach of the state and facilitating economic liberalization, which gained traction in the 1980s, correlated with a distinct increase in the designation of protected areas around the world, which peaked between 1985 and 1995.⁶ Tourism represents a clear juncture between the agendas of capitalism and conservation and “is often identified as a potential solution to the problem of how to achieve economic development whilst conserving the environment.”⁷ The commodification of wildlife and protected areas for tourist consumption is posed as a resolution to the challenge of maintaining economic growth whilst managing finite natural resources.⁸ Tourism, and ecotourism in particular, has been posed as a means of deriving value from species and ecosystems for the benefit not only of the state but also

3 James Igoe and Dan Brockington, “Neoliberal Conservation: A Brief Introduction,” Conservation and Society 5, no. 4 (2007): 432-449; Bram Büscher, Wolfram Dressler, and Robert Fletcher, eds. Nature™ Inc.

Environmental Conservation in the Neoliberal Age (Tuscon: University of Arizona Press, 2014); Dan Brockington, Rosaleen Duffy and Jim Igoe, Nature Unbound. Conservation, Capitalism and the Future of Protected Areas (London: Earthscan, 2008); and Dan Brockington, Celebrity and the Environment: Fame, Wealth and Power in Conservation (London: Zed Books, 2009).

4 Richard H. Grove, Green Imperialism: Colonial Expansion, Tropical Island Edens and the Origins of Environmentalism, 1600-1860 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995).

5 Brockington et al., Nature Unbound.

6 Ibid., 1.

7 Ibid., 134.

8 Rosaleen Duffy, “Nature-based Tourism and Neoliberalism: Concealing Contradictions,” Tourism Geographies (2015).

168 local communities.⁹ Furthermore, nature-based tourism attributes value to wildlife by reproducing colonial tropes of exploration of conquest, creating opportunities for tourists to discover and save African Edens.¹⁰

In this chapter, I look at two restoration projects in Mozambique spearheaded a decade apart by two different American investors. The first, led by James Blanchard in the area around and including the Maputo Special Reserve, aimed to “revitalize” this protected area in order to stimulate foreign tourism. The second, directed by Greg Carr in Gorongosa National Park, proposed a full ecosystem restoration that would expand the boundaries of the protected area, reviving ecologist Ken Tinley’s pre-conflict plans to incorporate Mount Gorongosa into the park.¹¹ Each project sought to remake these places according to particular visions of what these areas should include and what they should exclude. Each ostensibly aimed at some level to promote community involvement or ownership, though these intentions were realized with varying degrees of success. Each also sought to not only refashion these landscapes for the benefit of local people, or even the nation, but also with the aim of luring foreign tourists. In projecting their respective versions of the landscape that each protected area should be restored to, Carr and Blanchard selectively engaged with these areas’ histories, rewriting their pasts in an effort to influence their futures.

In claiming and remaking these protected areas, both Blanchard and Carr relied to some extent on a perception of these places as terra nullius, unmade during the civil conflict and open for development. Centuries earlier, white settlers and colonial powers had used variations of this

“empty land” myth to legitimate claims to territory in South Africa and the rest of the continent.¹² In her analysis of Kruger National Park as a heritage site, Lynn Meskell describes how the privileging of “biodiversity” over human histories has revived this myth:

9 Martha Honey, Ecotourism and Sustainable Development: Who Owns Paradise? 2^nd ed. (Washington D.C.: Island Press, 2008) and Anna Spenceley, ed., Responsible Tourism: Critical Issues for Conservation and Development (London: Earthscan, 2008).

10 Elizabeth Garland, “The Elephant in the Room: Confronting the Colonial Character of Wildlife Conservation in Africa,” African Studies Review 51, no. 3 (2008): 51-74.

11 These are outlined in Chapter 1.

12 Shula Marks, “South Africa: ‘The Myth of the Empty Land,’” History Today 20, no. 1 (1980): 7-12;

Clifton Crais, “The Vacant Land: The Mythology of British Expansion in the Eastern Cape, South Africa,”

Journal of Social History 25, no. 2 (1991): 255-275; Jörg Fisch, “Africa as terra nullius: The Berlin Conference and International Law,” in Bismarck, Europe and Africa: The Berlin Africa Conference 1884-1885 and the Onset of Partition, ed. Stig Förster, Wolfgang Justin Mommsen, Ronald Edward Robinson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 347-375.

169 The now discredited discourse has become sutured to the celebratory discourses

of conservation and biodiversity: both pertain to global desires for pristine wilderness, minimal human intensification, the erasure of anthropogenic landscapes, the primacy of non-human species, sustainability and so on.¹³

She goes on to argue that this privileging of flora and fauna resonates with the visions and agendas of international conservation organizations and serves to displace the interests of people as much as it does their histories. Fairhead and Leach have echoed similar sentiments,

illuminating the risks of “misreading the landscape” by excluding local voices in investigating an area’s past and relying instead upon long held assumptions about human-induced environmental degradation.¹⁴ With so many different and often competing visions of protected areas’ pasts, in his dissertation on the restoration of Gorongosa, Todd French rightly asked “to what past condition is the landscape to be restored.”¹⁵

Historian Peter Alagona and others have pointed out that “conservation almost always involves nostalgic claims about the past—along with calls to return to that past or recapture some aspect of it.”¹⁶ While historical targets are necessary for ecosystem restoration, it is also necessary to interrogate how those targets were determined and the circumstances surrounding the historical record on which they are based in order to assess their merit and utility.¹⁷ Furthermore, because ecosystems are in constant flux, choosing a single moment in time as a target for restoration is not only difficult but also incredibly fraught, as one must not only take into account the ecosystem’s inevitable future mutability but also the full spectrum of historical change.¹⁸ Selecting baselines for ecological restoration is thus a value-laden process in which particular versions of the past are prioritized over others. Protected areas are not and never were timeless Edens; before and after these areas received special status and were geographically bound, they were, and continue to be,

“constantly changing kaleidoscope[s] of…physical and living components in different

13 Lynn Meskell, “The Nature of Culture in Kruger National Park,” in Cosmopolitan Archaeologies, ed.

Lynn Meskell (Durham: Duke University Press, 2009), 89-90.

14 James Fairhead and Melissa Leach, Misreading the African Landscape: Society and Ecology in a Forest-savanna Mosaic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

15 Todd French, ‘“Like Leaves Fallen by Wind”: Resilience, Remembrance, and the Restoration of Landscapes in Central Mozambique,’ (PhD diss., Boston University, 2009), 12.

16 Peter Alagona, Yolanda F. Wiersma, and John Sandlos, “Past Imperfect: Using Historical Ecology and Baseline Data for Conservation and Restoration Projects in North America,” Environmental Philosophy 9, no. 1 (2012): 49.

17 Ibid., 65.

18 Ibid., 50.

170 rhythms…,”¹⁹ impacted by dynamic economic, political, environmental, and cultural

circumstances.

In this chapter I argue that through their restoration initiatives Carr and Blanchard promoted selective versions of the past for revival in post-conflict Mozambique. Furthermore, their projects demonstrate how ecological restoration depends upon a notion of temporal belonging, tied to geographical belonging, wielded in different ways in different political circumstances. The ability of American philanthropists to claim so much power in directing the restoration of an area to a particular past (sometimes one that most certainly never existed) was a product of a particular political context, as contingent on temporally-bound conditions as the landscapes they wished to restore. Furthermore, in directing the revival of historical landscapes, each “gardener of Eden” reflects shifting ownership of these territories from the independent Mozambican state to global conservation entities, bodies, and interests. In both initiatives, tourism was a critical driver of remaking territory as Carr and Blanchard sought to sustain their conservation initiatives through tourism revenue. As such, these areas were packaged not only as emblems of the Mozambique but as harbingers of global heritage.

Revitalizing the Maputo Special Reserve: James Blanchard and the TFCA When Mozambique’s armed conflict ended in the early 1990s, there was a growing sentiment that southern Mozambique was “up for grabs.”²⁰ When the conflict escalated in the early to mid-1980s, several residents of the territory south of Maputo had fled further south to KwaZulu Natal, drastically depopulating the area on the northern side of the border.²¹ After the peace accord was signed in 1992, the government began granting agricultural concessions on the east bank of the Maputo River and concessions for holiday homes and ecotourism ventures along

19 Ken Tinley’s phrase. From Kenneth Tinley, “Framework of the Gorongosa Ecosystem” (PhD diss., University of Pretoria, 1977), 183. Tinley presents this kaleidoscope under the constant influence of the ecosystem’s edaphic [soil] properties, but I use this kaleidoscope metaphor more broadly.

20 J.C. Hatton et al., “A Status Quo Assessment of the Maputo TFCA,” Report to DNFFB. January 1995, xiii. IUCN Library, Maputo.

21 Roelof Kloppers, “Chapter 4: Desperate Crossings” in “Border Crossings: Life in the Mozambique/South Africa Borderland” (PhD Diss. University of Pretoria, 2004), 68-87.

171 the coast, some to South Africans.²² Thus, many refugees returned home to find these concessions on the land they previously occupied.²³

Just as the armed conflict had left tracks of land open to procurement from foreign entities, a lack of institutional and financial capacity in the state left many public functions open to operation by private individuals and international donor organizations.²⁴ One of these was the conservation of Mozambique’s natural resources. At the time, the country had been identified as the world’s poorest, and both the government and international organizations saw tourism as one of the best industries to support economic growth. The development of transfrontier conservation areas (TFCAs) linking Mozambique with South Africa was seen as part of this economic goal, which might link “biodiversity conservation and sustainable development” through the tourism industry and also act “as a testing ground for collaboration between the private sector,

communities, NGOs and the Government at all levels.”²⁵

In 1990, Anton Rupert, president of the Southern African Nature Foundation (which would become WWF South Africa), business leader, and patriarch of one of Africa’s wealthiest families,²⁶ met with Mozambique’s President Joachim Chissano regarding the creation of permanent links between protected areas on either side of the South Africa/Mozambique border, specifically focusing on the area adjoining South Africa’s Kruger National Park.²⁷ As a result of this meeting, Rupert’s foundation commissioned Ken Tinley and Willem van Riet to write a feasibility study the following year.²⁸ The idea of a transfrontier park joining South Africa’s Kruger National Park with land across the border in Mozambique was officially broached in

22 Hatten et al., “Status Quo Assessment,” xii-xiii.

23 Judy Oglethorpe (British ecologist who worked in Gorongosa in the early 1980s and also worked for the DNFFB after independence), interview by the author, Skype, 6 May 2013.

24 David N. Plank, “Aid, Debt, and the End of Sovereignty: Mozambique and Its Donors,” The Journal of Modern African Studies 31, no. 3 (1991): 407-430. On Mozambique’s transition from interventionism to privatization see M. Anne Pitcher, Transforming Mozambique: The Politics of Privatization, 1975-2000 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002).

25 Global Environment Facility (GEF), Mozambique: Transfrontier Conservation Areas Pilot and

Institutional Strengthening Project. Report No. 15534. World Bank, December 1996, 3 and Appendix 6-1.

http://documents.worldbank.org/curated/en/1996/12/695082/mozambique-transfrontier-conservation-areas-pilot-institutional-strengthening-project.

26 Ebbe Dommise, Anton Rupert: A Biography (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2005).

27 Ross Douglas, “Parks, Peace and Prosperity,” Africa – Environment & Wildlife 5, no. 4 (1997): 31.

28 K. L. Tinley and W. F. van Riet, “Conceptual Proposals for Kruger/Banhine: A Transfrontier Natural Resource Area” (1991); “Origins,” Peace Parks Foundation.

http://www.peaceparks.org/story.php?pid=1&mid=2 and “First Map Ever of Great Limpopo Transfrontier Park,” Peace Parks Foundation. http://www.peaceparks.org/news.php?pid=1093&mid=598.

172 discussion between President Chissano and South Africa’s President de Klerk in 1991, leading the Government of Mozambique to request the assistance of the World Bank’s Global

Environment Facility (GEF) in undertaking preparatory work for the project.²⁹ The GEF’s first Preparatory Mission for the “Transfrontier National Parks and Institution Strengthening Project”

identified three potential transfrontier areas crossing South Africa and Mozambique’s borders:

Kruger Park/Gazaland, Chimanimani, and Maputo – Tembe/Ndumo.³⁰

The Maputo – Tembe/Ndumo TFCA was envisioned as a territory that would join the Maputo Special Reserve with Tembe Elephant Park and Ndumo Game Reserve via an elephant corridor along the Futi River, reestablishing the migratory routes of these and other large mammals.³¹ The second GEF preparatory mission reported upon in January 1994 led to the revision of transfrontier spaces from “national parks” to “conservation areas,” with greater emphasis placed on resource access and management by local communities.³² By the following year, this corridor was not only seen as a wildlife thoroughfare but also as a tool for integrating benefits to local communities within this conservation project.³³ In January 1995, southern Africa’s IUCN office, funded by the World Bank, reported to Mozambique’s Direcção Nacional de Florestas e Fauna Bravia (National Directorate of Forests and Wildlife – hereafter DNFFB) on the status quo of the Maputo TFCA.³⁴ The team recommended securing the Futi elephant corridor with a core protection area and a buffer zone where some farming activities would be permitted.

They went on to imply that the freedom to implement this project was under pressure, and action must be taken quickly. “Since the East bank of the Maputo River is becoming progressively and rapidly occupied [by agricultural concessions] this option may soon be foreclosed thereby reducing the chance of creating an Elephant corridor along the Futi valley.”³⁵ In their report on the feasibility of the Futi Corridor completed in October of 1995, Ed Ostrosky and Wayne Matthews of the KwaZulu Bureau of Natural Resources remarked, “It is clear that any moves to

29 GEF, Mozambique: Transfrontier Conservation Areas Pilot and Institutional Strengthening Project, 5.

30 J. C. Hatton et al., “A Status Quo Assessment of the Maputo TFCA.”

31 Ibid., xi.

32 Ibid., x.

33 Ibid., xi.

34 Ibid.

35 Ibid., 23.

173 create additional conservation areas without the problems associated with massive removals or re-locations is rapidly slipping away.”³⁶ This empty land was filling up fast.

36 E. W. Ostrosky and W. S. Matthews, The Transfrontier Conservation Initiatives in Southern Maputo Province, Mozambique, Comments on Feasibility of the Futi Corridor. Prepared for DNFFB. October 1995. IUCN Library, Maputo.

Figure 23. The Masterplan: The development proposed by Blanchard Mozambique Enterprises for the southern Mozambique Coast. From Edie Koch, “US millionaire plans Indian Ocean dreampark,” Mail & Guardian, January 19 to 25, 1996, p. 20.

174 In February of 1995, James Ulysses Blanchard III, a gold dealer from New Orleans, had met with President Chissano regarding the possible development of the Machangulo Peninsula, the tract of land north of the Maputo Special Reserve. As a result of this meeting, the Governor of the Maputo province “froze” all other tourism developments on those 16,000 hectares pending a proposal from Blanchard’s team.³⁷ Blanchard had been a backer of RENAMO during the armed conflict, reportedly contributing as much as $75,000 between 1986 and 1988 alone.³⁸ According to Blanchard’s project manager, John Perrott, Blanchard’s desire to invest in a FRELIMO-governed Mozambique rested on the shift of the party away from its Marxist principles.³⁹ Described by Perrott as “a true Africa aficionado,” who is “especially in love with wildlife,”

Blanchard sought to create “a WORLD CLASS [sic] tourist destination stretching from Inhaca to Ponta Do Ouro with the heart of the tourist draw being the expanded Elephant Reserve, along the lines of the Trans Frontier Conservation Area philosophy and more.”⁴⁰ His addendums to the TFCA plans would incite criticism from some potential supporters. However, before he could pitch them properly, he had to compete with other entities vying for territory in the region.

In addition to other tourism concessions, Blanchard took on the South African Pulp and Paper Industry (Sappi), which had initiated an agreement for the tenure of land south-west of the Maputo Special Reserve, stretching to the South African border, in 1987.⁴¹ At the time,

FRELIMO had provisionally approved Sappi’s development of 32,000 hectares of eucalyptus forest as a means of opposing RENAMO’s influence in the region by supporting South Africa private investment.⁴² The armed conflict had stalled the project until 1994 when the cabinet

FRELIMO had provisionally approved Sappi’s development of 32,000 hectares of eucalyptus forest as a means of opposing RENAMO’s influence in the region by supporting South Africa private investment.⁴² The armed conflict had stalled the project until 1994 when the cabinet