The NS Interview: Jane Goodall, primatologist

“My mother never laughed at my dream of Africa”

You've been working in Tanzania for 50 years now. Does it feel as long as that?
In some ways. The whole world has changed. But when I'm there, I climb up to the peaks where I used to sit and I can recapture exactly the way I felt back then.

How has your scientific field changed?
The data is still collected crawling about in the field with pencils and paper. But there's GPS technology, and DNA profiling means we can study stress, hormones - things like that.

Does Tanzania feel like home now?
When I'm in the forest with a chimp, yes - but when I first went in 1960, there was chimp habitat everywhere. Today, it's barren hillsides.

Are you concerned about climate change?
Absolutely. Recently I went to Greenland and saw huge slabs of ice falling from an ice cliff. The Inuit elders said that 15 years ago, even in summer, there was no melting. That's seeing with your own eyes what is happening.

What is predicted for Tanzania?
The droughts and flooding will get worse. And massive deforestation leads to soil erosion and biodiversity loss.

Can the situation be salvaged?
Well, you can't expect people who are starving to respect the boundaries of a park. So, at the institute, we began working with local villagers. Now people have set land aside to form a buffer around Gombe. You can actually see little green corridors growing out to other remnant forests.

What's the hope for Gombe's future?
Eight years ago, there were only about a hundred chimps, and no way for them to increase their gene pool. Now, they can use these corridors.

Where do you draw the line between chimpanzees and human beings?
There is no sharp line, but we are different. I believe it may be a result of developing the ability to communicate, to plan for the distant future, to learn from the distant past.

Has your work affected your view of humans?
I learned from my dog long before I went to Gombe that we weren't the only beings with personalities. What the chimps did was help me to persuade others.

You've said your field, ethology, is not a hard science. What do you mean by that?
When I began in 1960, individuality wasn't an accepted thing to look for; it was about species-specific behaviour. But animal behaviour is not hard science. There's room for intuition.

Going to Tanzania as you did was an unusual move for a woman at that time.
My family has very strong women. My mother never laughed at my dream of Africa, even though everyone else did because we didn't have any money, because Africa was the "dark continent", and because I was a girl.

How important was her support?
Well, the British authorities refused to allow me to go to what was then Tanganyika on my own. So the volunteer who came with me for four months was my mother.

Do you feel you were treated differently from male colleagues as a young ethologist?
National Geographic cover girl, that was what I was. Science could take everything I said with a pinch of salt.

What lies ahead for women in science?
Women tend to be more intuitive, or to admit to being intuitive, and maybe the hard science approach isn't so attractive. The way that science is taught is very cold. I would never have become a scientist if I had been taught like that.

Do you vote?
I haven't voted, I'm afraid, for a while. I should, but I'm never there.

Do you consider yourself a political person?
I'm highly political. I spend an awful lot of time in the US trying to influence decision-makers. But I don't feel in tune with British politics.

Is there a plan?
Maybe somebody else had a plan. I didn't.

What would you like to forget?
Divorcing my first husband; the death of my second husband; the Holocaust. But if you forget, you're not as energetic about change.

Who are your heroes?
My mother and my grandmother were certainly inspirational. Muhammad Yunus, who came up with microfinance, is an all-time hero.

No scientists?
I never wanted to be a scientist, you see! But I would pick Linnaeus and Darwin.

Are we all doomed?
Yes, if we don't take action soon. We've got to stop sitting on our bottoms and leaving it up to everybody else to make the changes we want.

Defining Moments

1934 Born in London
1957 Becomes assistant to the naturalist and palaeontologist Louis Leakey
1960 Arrives at Gombe park. Travels back to England, wins funding, returns to Gombe
1965 Gains ethology PhD from Cambridge
1971 In the Shadow of Man, the best-known of more than 20 books, is published
1977 Founds the Jane Goodall Institute
1995 Awarded CBE. Made a dame in 2004
2010 Marks 50 years at Gombe

This article first appeared in the 12 July 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Behind the mask

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The war on poaching

More than 1,100 rhinos were killed for their horns in Africa in 2016. Quasi-military conservation units are trying to stop the slaughter.

The Savé Valley Conservancy, 900 square miles of pristine wilderness in the Lowveld of south-eastern Zimbabwe, seems like a paradise.

Drive along its dirt tracks, past flat-topped acacias and vast-trunked baobab trees, and you scatter zebras and warthogs, impalas and wildebeest, kudus and waterbuck. Elephants lumber through the bush, leaving destruction in their wake. Giraffes placidly return your stares. Baboons cavort in the trees. A crowned eagle flies overhead with a rock rabbit in its talons. A pack of exquisitely patterned wild dogs lie on the warm red earth. There are lions and leopards, too, but out of sight.

My guide and I meet Bryce Clemence, the stocky, bearded outdoorsman who heads the conservancy’s Special Species Protection Unit (SSPU), by a muddy waterhole so that he can show us the most special of those species. He and a couple of his armed men lead us a few hundred yards into the bush before silently motioning us to stop. We wait, move on, stop again. Clemence points. Thirty yards away stands a two-tonne rhinoceros, a 15-year-old bull. It cannot see us, for rhinos have poor eyesight. It cannot smell us because we are downwind. But it senses our presence. Its ears revolve like miniature satellite dishes.

As we study this magnificent, primeval beast through our binoculars, one thing quickly becomes apparent. It has no horns. Normally it would have two, weighing seven kilos or more, but they have been removed in an effort to protect it. Rhino horn fetches around $60,000 a kilo in China and other east Asian countries, where it is considered an aphrodisiac and a cure for diverse ailments. This animal’s horns would have been worth more than $400,000 – a fortune in Zimbabwe, where the average household income is $62 a month and unemployment exceeds 90 per cent.

Sadly, not even de-horning works. Poachers will kill de-horned rhinos for any residual horn. In February 2015 they shot a six-month-old calf for just 30 grams of horn, Clemence tells me.

Savé Valley may look idyllic, but it is a front line in a war against rhino-poaching. More than 1,100 of the animals were killed across Africa in 2016, leaving barely 20,000 white rhinos, classified as “near threatened” by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, and 5,000 “critically endangered” black rhinos. What distinguishes Savé Valley is that it has begun to turn the tide, but only because it has access to the sort of funding that most African national parks can only dream of.

Clemence’s quasi-military operation consists of 35 highly trained men, all expert trackers, supremely fit and equipped with semi-automatic rifles and radios. Working in pairs, they do ten-day stints in the bush, monitoring the conservancy’s 168 rhinos from dawn to dark and endlessly searching for human tracks – or “spoor”.

They are supported by a canine unit whose two Belgian Malinois dogs can track at night and over rocks; a substantial network of paid informants in the surrounding communities and beyond; four 4x4 vehicles and 12 motorbikes; and nearly 100 armed scouts employed by the two-dozen private ranches that make up the conservancy.

Even that force is insufficient, Clemence says. The poaching gangs are growing more sophisticated. They now use high-powered hunting rifles with silencers to shoot the rhinos, and AK-47s to ward off the rangers. Sometimes the poachers use AK-47s against rhinos too: in 2014 one was hit 23 times.

They have begun using poison. One poacher was caught after laying oranges and cabbages laced with the pesticide Temik in the path of a rhino – Temik is nicknamed “Two-step” because that is how many steps an animal takes before dying. Another poacher planned to poison a waterhole, but was thwarted by an informer. “Poisoning is disgusting because it’s totally indiscriminate and has the potential to do massive harm,” Clemence says.

He has also caught poachers preparing to use the sedatives ketamine and xylazine. Having darted a rhino, they would then hack off its horns before it woke. They once hacked off the horns of a rhino that had been knocked out by a bullet and it woke with half its head missing. The creature survived for a week before Clemence’s unit found it. Vets had to put it down. “When you catch a poacher you want to beat him to death with a pick handle and very slowly break his bones, but you have to be professional,” says David Goosen, manager of the 230-square-mile Sango ranch, which forms part of the conservancy.

The odds are stacked against the SSPU in other ways, too. The poachers are paid well by the syndicates that run them – perhaps $5,000 each for a kilo of rhino horn. And even if caught, their chances of escaping punishment are high. Thanks to bribery or incompetence, just 3 per cent of prosecutions for rhino poaching in Zimbabwe end in convictions.

“You have to virtually catch them in the field red-handed, and even then they often get away with it,” Goosen says. “As soon as they get to the police station, a well-connected lawyer turns up, which means someone higher up is looking after their interests.” The maximum sentence for intent to kill a rhino is nine years for a first offence – less than for stealing cattle.

The SSPU is prevailing nonetheless. In the first three months of 2012, when Clemence arrived, the conservancy lost 14 rhinos. In 2015 it lost 12, last year three. It has also defeated Zimbabwe’s most notorious rhino-poaching gang.

Tavengwa Mazhongwe learned his craft from his older brother, “Big Sam”, who was killed poaching in 2009. Mazhongwe was responsible for at least 150 rhino killings, including many in Savé Valley. In December 2015 Clemence learned he was planning another attack and put his rangers on alert.

They found the gang’s spoor at 6.30 one morning, and tracked the four armed men in intense heat for nine hours. The gang took great care to cover their tracks, but late in the afternoon the rangers found them resting in a river bed. The rangers opened fire, killing one and seriously wounding a second. Mazhongwe and one other man escaped, but he was arrested near Harare two weeks later and given a record 35-year sentence for multiple offences. A judge had to acquit an officer in Zimbabwe’s Central Intelligence Organisation who drove the gang to the conservancy in a government vehicle because, he complained, the police did not dare investigate govenment officials. The rangers recovered an AK-47, a Mauser rifle with silencer, an axe, rubber gloves, a medical kit, tinned food and a phone-charger pack.

“You’ll never get to where you say ‘we’ve won’, but we have won in the sense that we’ve brought poaching down to a manageable level,” Clemence says. “We’ve taken out some of the most notorious syndicates. Victory will simply be breeding more than we’re losing and having sustainable numbers to pass to the next generation.” He hopes that the conservancy’s rhino population will reach 200 within two years, enabling it to relocate some animals to other parts of Zimbabwe where the battle is going less well.

The SSPU’s success comes down to skill, motivation, organisation and – above all – resources. The unit costs $400,000 a year, and is funded mainly by foreign NGOs such as Britain’s Tusk Trust. It receives practical support from the conservancy’s private ranches, some of whom – given the dearth of tourism – have to generate the necessary funds by permitting limited elephant and lion hunting for $20,000 an animal.

Zimbabwe’s national parks have no such resources. That is why private conservancies have 80 per cent of the country’s rhinos but 1.5 per cent of its land, while the parks have 15 per cent of the land but 20 per cent of the rhinos. Within a few years most of those parks will have no rhinos at all.

Martin Fletcher’s assignment in Zimbabwe was financed by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting

This article first appeared in the 12 July 2010 issue of the New Statesman, Behind the mask