The human victims in the fight over rhino poaching in Africa

Ken Maggs, who heads the environmental crimes unit at South Africa National Parks, known as SANParks, says that while South Africa had always experienced poaching, including rhinos, the current spate began after 2007. In that year, 12 rhinos were poached. In 2008 the number leaped to 83.

“For us at the time, it was fairly dramatic, going from losing one animal a month to two or three a month,” Maggs says.

But worse was to come, with rhino poaching increasing exponentially. In 2013 just over a thousand rhinos were killed, and 2014 was expected to be even bloodier.

Maggs has worked on the problems of poaching at Kruger National Park since 1994. There was poaching then, but a ranger’s job entailed mostly aiding conservation and dealing with errant tourists. Today most of the ranger’s efforts are spent in military-style anti-poaching efforts.

More poachers and their unrelenting butchery of the rhinos has changed the nature of a ranger’s work. “It’s escalated to a point where we are spending 80 percent of our time in a pure, almost military-style law enforcement role,” he says.

Despite the demands of the job, few rangers have quit. Maggs is frank about why most stay on: “Employment.”

In the 20 years since the end of apartheid, South Africa has struggled with creating jobs, and the official unemployment rate stands at 25.5 percent. This means that many people struggle to find work and that those who succeed are often supporting several dependents.

“You’ll get some individuals that are really heart and soul conservationists, but generally speaking, it is a job, and jobs are not easy to come by,” says Maggs, “To have a job is really important.”

Thomas Shitlhabani knows this. He’s been a ranger for the past eight years, joining up not long after his father died and he needed to find a way to support his family. With his modest salary as a ranger, he provides not only for his wife and small son but also for seven siblings.

He is a member of SANParks’ special operations team, which means he and his partner, Amos Mzimba, often lead the pursuit of poachers. The job is dangerous, as the bush provides cover for poachers who are armed.

“It worries me a lot. If something happens in the bush,” says Shitlhabani, trailing off as he lets out a heavy breath. “You know I fear for my family. It’s stressful. I’m a breadwinner. There’s no one else to support the family. Once I die, it’s over.”

Maggs says rangers like Shitlhabani might have three or four encounters a month, including firefights, with poachers.

“There are some days we will have three contacts or firefights with poaching groups. The poaching groups are relentless. Day or night, it doesn’t stop,” Maggs says. “We are concerned. This intensity, the number of firefights, poachers wounded, poachers killed, near misses are having a psychological impact on not only rangers but their families.”

Maggs says SANParks has contracted with a psychologist to provide its rangers with counseling, which they receive after any contact with poachers. Earlier this year, for the first time, families of rangers received group therapy with a counselor.

After poachers are arrested, they end up in a courtroom in Skukuza, a small town inside the park. The courtroom can seat fewer than 40 people and is in session only one day a week, Wednesday, when the judge, prosecutor and public defenders commute from as far as three hours away.

The bulk of the cases are related to poaching. As court begins, the suspected poachers are led from their cells in groups, usually in threes. Poaching gangs usually work in threes: one to track, one to carry supplies and one to shoot. If they’re successful, the porter will get more than $4,000. The shooter, whose skills are more specialized, will probably make closer to $9,000.

The men standing in front of the judge one recent Wednesday weren’t so lucky. They don’t look like the menacing veterans of Africa’s liberation wars, images held in popular myth. They don’t look old enough. Most are in their 20s, and the oldest is probably in his early 30s. They also look as if they just walked out of the house. Instead of the khaki of a military bush uniform, they wear blue jeans and collared shirts. A couple wear soccer jerseys.

Most are indigent and will be represented by a public defender, but a few have managed a private lawyer, the same lawyer who represents several suspected poachers and who is guarded about how their families are paying his fees.

Gen. Johan Jooste, head of Kruger’s anti-poaching efforts, says close to 80 percent of the poachers who strike Kruger come from Mozambique. All are poor.

“These are destitute poor people that are recruited to do this by crime networks who make the real money,” Jooste says.

Vusi Nyathi was only in his 20s when he was killed. His nephew Julio Mabuya didn’t know him that well, but in a few days he’ll be hacking down thorn trees in the bush to clear a path toward Nyathi’s grave.

“The field rangers shot him in the leg and here in his face with bullets,” Mabuya says, moving his hand on the side of his own face. “It feels wrong. I’m angry, but there’s nothing to do, because my uncle is dead.”

Mabuya used to travel to South Africa as a migrant laborer but stopped after his last trip ended without his finding work. Though he has little money, he would never go to the bush to poach, for fear of his life, his wife’s and his baby son’s.

Still, he knows the danger won’t deter others. “The money is there. That’s why you’re forced to go there,” he says.

Meanwhile, Nyathi’s grave is only about a meter deep and is lined with cinderblocks. A few dozen villagers have gathered around it as the workman lays the last three bricks near where his head was laid. These three bricks form a small pyramid without embellishment or adornment. This will be the only headstone he will get.

As the first shovels of dirt hit the thick black plastic, his widow begins to cry out, and she collapses at the gravesite. She is led away by some of the men as shovels of dirt continue to fall in the grave. Halfway through, broken plates and clothes are thrown into the grave, actions prescribed by a local healer or "sangoma.''

More women begin to shout and wail as the men take turns with the shovel, continuing to fill the grave in silence.