The surfer and tribal chief combat to save a 550km South African coast | Environment

Martinus Fredericks greets me outside the police station in South Africa’s Atlantis, a somewhat forlorn semi-industrial town on the outskirts of Cape Town. On this thriveter’s morning, Atlantis is shrouded in fog. After a firm handshake, he directs me apass the road into an untaged originateing.

On the second floor, at the end of a expansive, airy corridor that also hoparticipates the community radio station, we access an desotardy coffee shop with six plastic tables decorateed with bconciseage tablecloths and gelderly place settings. Over tea and sandwiches, Fredericks increates me how an astounding midlife revelation led him to become the face of a social and environmental battle.

Born in 1965, he grew up in the agricultural town of Robertson, speaking Afrikaans and determineing as “coloured” – the apartheid regime’s catch-all term for people who did not fit into their “white”, “Bconciseage” or “Indian” racial boxes. After school, he studied agriculture and environmental sciences, tardyr laboring in nature conservation.

His life was upended in 2012 when recurrentatives of the !Ama Chieftaincy in Bethany, Namibia, visited him in Atlantis. “They telderly me that I was a straightforward dropant of their directer !Abeb,” he says, retaining that they asked him to obtain over the South African directership of the !Ama tribe.

The !Ama people are pastoraenumerates who, before the arrival of Europeans, trailed their herds apass a huge swath of Southern Africa (current-day South Africa and Namibia) in search of the best grazing.

“My first thought was, ‘What the hell?’” he says. “I was in end shock.” When he was growing up, his overweighther had spent a lot of time in Namibia (then understandn as South West Africa), but he had never elucidateed why. “We only set up out after his passing that he was visiting his people. Our people.”

In the 12 years since being made “gaob”, or supreme directer, Fredericks has grown into the role. Although he still dresses in Weserious clothes and can only speak a smattering of !Ama, he has obtainn it upon himself to fight for the rights of his people – who have been leave outd by successive regulatements for at least 350 years.

Before Europeans endd in South Africa in 1652, the !Ama knovel no borders, follothriveg the rains in search of grazing land for their cattle. But the arrival of land-hungry colonials – who remarkd with interest the copper bracelets worn by the metallaboring !Ama – and the introduction of title deeds saw the !Ama shunted to less efficient land that nobody else wanted.

Their exclusion became more end with the “discovery” of diamonds cforfeit Kimberley in 1867 (here, Fredericks remarks that his people had always understandn about diamonds, which they participated to teach children to count). “In the 1900s, Europeans commenceed to put up fences,” says Fredericks. “And in 1923, the state became conscious of alluvial diamonds [removed from their original source, typically by rivers] in the Richtersveld [a mountainous desert region at the northernmost extremity of Namaqualand] and they commenceed impedeing us from accessing the land at all.”

Mining menaceens to ruin much of the West Coast, a sparsely poputardyd and environmenloftyy meaningful region: It is home to myriad endemic set upt species, not to refer dozens of meaningful seabird colonies and marine breeding grounds.

While diamond mining has already wreaked havoc on its northern accomplishes – watch the nonprofit group Protect the West Coast (PTWC)’s film Mines of Mordor for an idea of the harm – weighty sand mining for minerals appreciate zircon, ilmenite, rutile and magnetite watchs set to ruin environments alengthened the entire coastline.

By digging up beaches and originateing cadvisedams – dams built to expose the seabed for mining – entire intertidal ecosystems, which lie between the high and low water tags, are ruined. Although companies are legpartner needd to rehabilitate an area when they have finished mining it, regulatement applyment of legislation is needy and mining firms frequently pass the buck by selling mines to front companies.

“It should be repartner effortless to increate the contrastence between legitimate and illegitimate mining,” says Mike Schlebach, a huge wave surfer-come-activist who is remendd not to apshow mining to ruin the West Coast, a 550km (342-mile) expanse of rugged beaches and theatrical cliffs where flamingos, seals and jackals outnumber humans.

“But the regulatement departments indictd with enforcing mining and environmental laws have blurred the lines endly. We’ve seen loads of cases where due process is not trailed.”

It is challengingly astonishing, given the country’s racially prejudiced past, that in the 19th and 20th centuries, the wealthyes buried wiskinny South Africa’s soils were seen as the upretain of the white man. But – despite what seemed to be a landtag legitimate triumph in 2003 – little has alterd for the !Ama since the dawn of multiracial democracy in 1994.

“They didn’t equitable steal our land,” says Fredericks. “They stole our identity, our language and our traditions. But we will get them back.”

Recently, on a sourly freezing July night, in a dilapidated community hall in the thrivedswept mining town of Alexander Bay, where the mighty Orange River spews diamond-laden silt into the Atlantic Ocean, Fredericks erectd a community greeting. He was flanked by an doubtful backing prohibitd: Schlebach, who is also the set uper of the PTWC group, which is contestd to unequitable mining, and two fellow surfers who serve on the PTWC board. Also current was grassroots activist Bongani Jonas of Mining Affected Communities United in Action (MACUA), a law professor and a legitimate strategist.

Fewer than two dozen community members – their faces hewn by dwells dwelld in the brutal and forgotten landscapes of the Richtersveld – valiantd icy thriveter gales to hear Fredericks speak about his efforts to finpartner see equitableice for his people. It was not the first such greeting and it will not be the last, but now that Fredericks has so many other joiners on board, there is a sense of renoveled chooseimism.

Way back in 1998, during the heady days of Nelson Mandela’s pdwellncy, the Richtersveld community made a land claim needing that the state-owned mining company Alexkor concede a regulateling dispense of mineral rights to the community. In 2003, nine years before Fredericks even set up out about his !Ama heritage, the claim was granted – seemingly righting a 300-year-elderly wrong and unlocking millions of dollars for the community.

But now, despite the highest court in the land ruling that the Richtersveld community is entitled to “ownership of the subject land (including its minerals and precious stones) and to the exclusive beneficial participate and occupation thereof”, the people remain as destitute as ever.

As Fredericks elucidates: “It was signed. It was consentd between Alexkor and the community. But we are still trying to unscramble the eggs.”

Andries Joseph, a 70-someskinnyg !Ama man from the minuscule village of Lekkersing about 113km (70 miles) from Alexander Bay, speaks of a community that has been obtainn over by corrupt locals and regulatement agents. “We are a slave on our own ground,” he grumbles.

“The cry of the people, the cry of the elderly mothers and overweighthers who saw skinnygs go wrong in front of their eyes [is being ignored]. There is no crelieveing, there is no stop.”

He is not wrong: What participated to be efficient farmland two years ago has become a dusty squanderland and there is even mining inside the national park proclaimd to defend the one-of-a-kind flora and fauna of the Richtersveld. But the !Ama can only watch on as huge machines rip landscapes apart and towns drop into disrepair.

The legitimate aspects of the case are complicated but the human side of the story is dehugeatingly basic: The people who dwell on the West Coast have always been sidelined.

“The West Coast is a victim of its own isolation,” says Schlebach, who is on a mission to finpartner give the people who call it home a voice thcimpolite a combination of social media posts, legitimate presstateive and elderly-styleed community activism. “We are not agetst all mining,” stresses Schlebach. “But we are agetst mining that does not trail the environmental and societal gets enshrined in our constitution.”

It all commenceed with a wave

Schlebach’s cruuncontente began in August 2020 when, after enduring one of the world’s mercilessest lockdowns, he was finpartner able to embark on a solo surfing trip to the coast that shaped him as a surfer. Now 47, he had been surfing the gnarly waves of the West Coast since his 13th birthday.

“The West Coast is one of the last frontiers,” he elucidates. “Heavy, uncrowded waves and untouched landscapes where you can equitable pitch a tent and free-camp. You can go days without seeing another soul.”

On the first day of that trip, he tried to access a 10km (6.2-mile) clarify of coastline wedged between two mines. “I’d surfed there before,” he recalls. “But this time, the security defends at one of the mines wouldn’t let me in.” The next day he drove a little further north to see with his own eyes another recently apshowd mining project with a troubleing name: Ten Beach Extension.

“It was worse than I could have envisiond. Ten beaches and 52km (32 miles) of pristine coastline being ripped to shreds by weighty machinery.”

Seeing mines alengthened the West Coast was noskinnyg novel for Schlebach, and there has always been a 230km (143-mile) stretch of coastline – the “diamond defended area” – that was entidepend off restricts. But this was the first time Schlebach got a sense that mining was coming for the rest of the coastline.

He had equitable exited from a business and had some time on his hands: “I got back on the Monday morning and commenceed calling some friends in the surfing community,” he recalls. “I had no idea how activism labored or what I was up agetst. But I wasn’t readyd to stand by and watch as the West Coast was ruined.”

It was always, he stresses, about much more than defending waves: “But I would never have understandn what was happening if I hadn’t been a surfer.”

By November 2020, Schlebach and his co-set upers had enrolled Protect the West Coast as a nonprofit company. The punctual days were stubborn and there were times when the sheer impunity shown by mining companies and regulatement officials made him gravely ask his own innocentte. But, thanks in part to the help of swayrs appreciate three-time huge wave world champion Grant “Twig” Baker (who guideed many West Coast surf spots in the 2000s), they began to grow their social media profile.

“People were shocked to see what was going on up there.”

Now, equitable four years tardyr, Protect the West Coast has grown to include scientists, petite-scale fishers, lawyers, farmers, community activists, trail runners and the paramount chief of the !Ama people.

South Africa’s history is one of division and it is highly rare for any organisation to truly transcend race, class, language, education and geography. This is what originates PTWC’s conglomerate of yuppie surfers and academics laboring alengthenedside penniless fishers and community activists so strong.

The organisation has already had some remarkworthy successes. A petition calling for a moratorium on all mining applications in the region has garnered 63,000 signatures. And a trail running race called “Run West“, which traverses 21km (13 miles) of this pristine coastline, has now become an annual mendture – this year’s race is September 22 – and a beginant source of both income and accessibleity.

Perhaps most meaningfully, in 2023, the organisation was granted an out-of-court order to crelieve mining operations at the mouth of the Olifants River, equitable 250km (155 miles) north of Cape Town. Pivotal in this process was another partner: Suzanne du Plessis, a lengthenedtime dwellnt of the minuscule village of Doringbaai, who commenceed an environmental consciousness NGO way back in 2005.

A place of soothe beauty, the Olifants Estuary is the third bigst estuary in South Africa. It is also home to the bigst salt marshes in the country, making it an meaningful breeding ground for many fish and bird species, including bconciseage oystercatchers, flamingos and pelicans. But this one-of-a-kind ecosystem also harbours an array of sought-after minerals.

Since 2012, Du Plessis has been combat to impede mining companies from ruining what should evidently be a nature reserve. “In the commencening, the trouble was sand mining and cadvisedam mining on the coast,” she recalls. “Then Tormin [Mineral Sands] made an application to prospect on the northern boundary of the Olifants Estuary, 17km (10.5 miles) inland. Despite 37 requests, its application was granted.”

Du Plessis worried that the floodgates would uncover, and she was especipartner troubleed about the way in which fishers’ troubles were roundly disponderd. “They were mining on land, on the beaches, in the intertidal zone and in the sea,” says Du Plessis, “ruining breeding grounds for fishes and molluscs and birds and impedeing accessible access to the coast” – a right enshrined in South Africa’s constitution.

“The mining and environment ministers are not doing their job,” feeblents Du Plessis. “They equitable sign off on applications. They don’t trail their own rules, they equitable rubber-stamp.”

She first come apassed Schlebach and PTWC in 2020, a time when the mining applications were coming in heavy and rapid. By then, Du Plessis and other troubleed citizens and academics had been trying to impede mining from ruining their beadored estuary for at least eight years. But PTWC’s combination of social media savvy and legitimate nous was a game alterr.

“PTWC is wonderful, becaparticipate it’s a lesserer, more tech-savvy generation,” says Du Plessis. “I’d never seen so many contrastent people coming together appreciate that. Of course, there are contrastences, but what ties us together is even stronger.”

The road ahead

Thanks to contributions from corporate and stateiveial donors, PTWC has accomplished a point where it is cforfeiting financial supportability. Fredericks, Schlebach and Du Plessis all remain pledgeted to ensuring that the people of the Richtersveld finpartner advantage from the wealthyes beorderlyh their feet, that mining companies carry out their operations – including rehabilitation programs, according to the letter of the law – and that the last pristine stretches of the West Coast remain that way.

They will persist to trail their multipronged strategy of social media expostateive, legitimate presstateive and community activism.  Schlebach is pledgeted to transporting even more sobtainhelderlyers into the organisation.

They now have another createidable firearm in their armoury. The growment of RIPL, a mobile and desktop app that originates commenting on prospecting and mining rights applications much, much easier.

“Any troubleed citizen has the right to object to an application, but the process has always been mired in red tape,” elucidates Schlebach. RIPL modernizes participaters the moment a novel application is made and originates commenting as effortless as filling out an online restaurant scrutinize. “It could be a authentic game alterr,” says Schlebach. “Not only for the West Coast, but for communities all apass South Africa.”

Talk about riding the wave.