cranes, pelicans, ducks, marsh harriers, bee-eaters and
kingfishers were all around, so close he didn’t even need
his binoculars.
Shoebill Island Camp stands on a rare patch of dry
ground. A deck and dining area look out on a wide lagoon;
behind them is a line of simple, yet comfortable tents.
Paths lead away into the swamps and marshes. The
sensation of space and scale gave me a feeling of
euphoria, of extraordinary fortune at being as far away
from the familiar world as it is possible to be. We were the
first guests. I envy all who come after us.
“This is one of the last wild places left where humans
and animals live together,” Rod said. “I knew you’d love
it.” I did love Bangweulu, utterly, from the first moment.
I loved the meditative peace of the place, the state of
primordial simplicity it put me in. I loved the volleys of
birds that busy the air and the outlines of the fishermen
punting their canoes. From across the reedbeds, I caught
the cries of waterfowl and the distant voices of fishermen,
women, and children (many of whom, I was told, have
never seen a motorized vehicle).
“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Stuart Slabbert, the
commercial development manager for African Parks, who
had flown from South Africa to welcome us. Stuart is
a soft-spoken evangelist for the organization, which uses
donor funds to resuscitate failing or abandoned wildlife
parks throughout the continent. It works like this:
African Parks signs an agreement with a government totake on management of a park for 20 to 30
years. Where states are weak, African Parks
effectively takes on the role of a regional
government, establishing security, managing
the local economy, promoting education and
health care, and working with the community
to minimize human-animal conflict. Luangwa
is the best functioning example of the old model,
a state-controlled park that benefits from
engaged private partners; African Parks, a
privately funded organization that manages
reserves on behalf of state governments,
represents a complete inversion of that
structure—and a possible paradigm for the
future of conservation.
More than 100,000 square kilometers in
Africa, from Mozambique to Benin, now fall
under the organization’s control. It has had
some huge successes. Akagera National Park in
Rwanda has been entirely transformed since
2010, when African Parks took over
management, improving security and
reintroducing key species. The park has since
experienced a 150 percent increase in visitors.
Malawi’s Majete Wildlife Reserve was once
devoid of wildlife; now there are lions, leopards,
elephants and rhinos. In 2017, the reserve
generated more than half a million U.S. dollars
in tourist revenue. African Parks is responsible
for similar triumphs in Chad—where it has
opened schools for 1,500 children and
counting—the Republic of Congo and the
Central African Republic.
I asked why African Parks had chosen
Bangweulu. “We wanted an example of every
biome,’” Stuart said. When they took over 10
years ago, fish stocks were in crisis and the
population of black lechwe, a type of cream-
and-black antelope endemic to Bangweulu, was
tumbling. “We instituted a fishing ban during
the spawning season, from December to
March,” Stuart explained. “We protected the
lechwe, guarded the shoebill nests and started
tra ining people to do com mercia l bee-keeping.
The fish stocks are recovering, and lechwe are
up to 50,000 animals.”
The lechwe graze in the dry areas and buck
through local waters in surging parties. “It
sounds like it’s raining all night,” Stuart told
me. “But it’s lechwe. You will see them
jumping at sunrise.”FOR THE REST OF THE DAY we
explored the area around the lodge, readying
ourselves for our quest for the shoebill the next
day. From the waving tips of the tall
phragmites, which are pale bronze reeds,
tubed and feathered like bamboo, to the
fl icking hops of tiny frogs, t he wetlands are aA male lion, as seen on a nighttime drive in South Luangwa National Park.
OPPOSITE: In the Bangweulu Wetlands, fishing communities live
cheek-by-jowl with endangered species.