The surfer and tribal chief battling 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 triumphter’s morning, Atlantis is shrouded in fog. After a firm handshake, he directs me atraverse the road into an untaged originateing.

On the second floor, at the finish of a wide, airy corridor that also hoengages the community radio station, we go in an vacant coffee shop with six plastic tables decorateed with bdeficiency tablecloths and gancigo in 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 acunderstandledgeing as “coloured” – the apartheid regime’s catch-all term for people who did not fit into their “white”, “Bdeficiency” or “Indian” racial boxes. After school, he studied agriculture and environmental sciences, tardyr toiling in nature conservation.

His life was upfinished in 2012 when reconshort-termatives of the !Ama Chieftaincy in Bethany, Namibia, visited him in Atlantis. “They tancigo in me that I was a straightforward descfinishant of their directer !Abeb,” he says, inserting that they asked him to apshow over the South African directership of the !Ama tribe.

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

“My first thought was, ‘What the hell?’” he says. “I was in finish shock.” When he was increaseing 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 increasen into the role. Although he still dresses in Weserious clothes and can only speak a smattering of !Ama, he has apshown it upon himself to fight for the rights of his people – who have been take awayd by successive rulements for at least 350 years.

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

Their exclusion became more finish with the “uncovery” of diamonds cforfeit Kimberley in 1867 (here, Fredericks notices that his people had always understandn about diamonds, which they engaged to direct children to count). “In the 1900s, Europeans begined 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 begined obstructing us from accessing the land at all.”

Mining dangerens to ruin much of the West Coast, a sparsely poputardyd and environmenhighy vital region: It is home to myriad finishemic arranget species, not to allude dozens of meaningful seabird colonies and marine breeding grounds.

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

By digging up beaches and originateing cproposedams – 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 legassociate needd to rehabilitate an area when they have finished mining it, rulement utilizement of legislation is subpar and mining firms standardly pass the buck by selling mines to front companies.

“It should be reassociate modest to increate the contrastence between legitimate and illegitimate mining,” says Mike Schlebach, a huge wave surfer-come-activist who is choosed not to apexhibit 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 rulement departments accused with enforcing mining and environmental laws have blurred the lines finishly. We’ve seen loads of cases where due process is not trailed.”

It is difficultly astonishing, given the country’s racially prejudiced past, that in the 19th and 20th centuries, the wealthyes buried wilean South Africa’s soils were seen as the upgrasp 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 acridly freezing July night, in a dilapidated community hall in the triumphdswept mining town of Alexander Bay, where the mighty Orange River spews diamond-laden silt into the Atlantic Ocean, Fredericks assembled a community greeting. He was flanked by an improbable backing prohibitd: Schlebach, who is also the set uper of the PTWC group, which is resistd to unequitable mining, and two fellow surfers who serve on the PTWC board. Also conshort-term 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 lives lived in the brutal and forgotten landscapes of the Richtersveld – valiantd icy triumphter gales to hear Fredericks speak about his efforts to finassociate 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 carry outers on board, there is a sense of rerecented chooseimism.

Way back in 1998, during the heady days of Nelson Mandela’s plivency, the Richtersveld community made a land claim needing that the state-owned mining company Alexkor concede a handleling separate 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-ancigo in 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 advantageous engage 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-someleang !Ama man from the minuscule village of Lekkersing about 113km (70 miles) from Alexander Bay, speaks of a community that has been apshown over by corrupt locals and rulement agents. “We are a slave on our own ground,” he grumbles.

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

He is not wrong: What engaged to be efficient farmland two years ago has become a dusty misengageland and there is even mining inside the national park proclaimd to protect the exceptional flora and fauna of the Richtersveld. But the !Ama can only watch on as enormous machines rip landscapes apart and towns descfinish into disrepair.

The legitimate aspects of the case are complicated but the human side of the story is dehugeatingly modest: The people who live 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 finassociate give the people who call it home a voice thcimpolite a combination of social media posts, legitimate prescertain and ancigo in-styleed community activism. “We are not agetst all mining,” stresses Schlebach. “But we are agetst mining that does not trail the environmental and societal shieldedprotects enshrined in our constitution.”

It all begined with a wave

Schlebach’s crugrieffule began in August 2020 when, after finishuring one of the world’s disconnecteest lockdowns, he was finassociate 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) naked of coastline wedged between two mines. “I’d surfed there before,” he recalls. “But this time, the security protects 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 stressing 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 burdensome machinery.”

Seeing mines alengthy the West Coast was noleang recent for Schlebach, and there has always been a 230km (143-mile) stretch of coastline – the “diamond protected 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 begined calling some frifinishs in the surfing community,” he recalls. “I had no idea how activism toiled or what I was up agetst. But I wasn’t setd to stand by and watch as the West Coast was ruined.”

It was always, he stresses, about much more than protecting 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 timely days were hard and there were times when the sheer impunity shown by mining companies and rulement officials made him solemnly ask his own innocentte. But, thanks in part to the aid of impactrs enjoy three-time huge wave world champion Grant “Twig” Baker (who directed many West Coast surf spots in the 2000s), they began to increase 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 increasen to include scientists, minuscule-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 atypical for any organisation to truly transcfinish race, class, language, education and geography. This is what originates PTWC’s conglomerate of yuppie surfers and academics toiling alengthyside penniless fishers and community activists so mighty.

The organisation has already had some noticeworthy 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 repairture – this year’s race is September 22 – and a meaningful source of both income and accessibleity.

Perhaps most cruciassociate, in 2023, the organisation was granted an out-of-court order to halt mining operations at the mouth of the Olifants River, equitable 250km (155 miles) north of Cape Town. Pivotal in this process was another associate: Suzanne du Plessis, a lengthytime livent of the minuscule village of Doringbaai, who begined 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 vital breeding ground for many fish and bird species, including bdeficiency oystercatchers, flamingos and pelicans. But this exceptional ecosystem also harbours an array of sought-after minerals.

Since 2012, Du Plessis has been battling to obstruct mining companies from ruining what should evidently be a nature reserve. “In the commencening, the worry was sand mining and cproposedam 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 discdisthink about, and she was especiassociate worryed about the way in which fishers’ worrys were roundly disthink aboutd. “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 obstructing 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 atraverseed Schlebach and PTWC in 2020, a time when the mining applications were coming in dense and speedy. By then, Du Plessis and other worryed citizens and academics had been trying to obstruct mining from ruining their becherishd estuary for at least eight years. But PTWC’s combination of social media savvy and legitimate nous was a game alterr.

“PTWC is wonderful, becaengage it’s a youthfulerer, more tech-savvy generation,” says Du Plessis. “I’d never seen so many contrastent people coming together enjoy that. Of course, there are contrastences, but what guarantees us together is even sturdyer.”

The road ahead

Thanks to contributions from corporate and personal donors, PTWC has achieveed a point where it is cforfeiting financial upgraspability. Fredericks, Schlebach and Du Plessis all remain pledgeted to ensuring that the people of the Richtersveld finassociate profit from the wealthyes betidyh 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 chase their multipronged strategy of social media expocertain, legitimate prescertain and community activism.  Schlebach is pledgeted to transporting even more sapshowhancigo iners into the organisation.

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

“Any worryed citizen has the right to object to an application, but the process has always been mired in red tape,” elucidates Schlebach. RIPL refreshs engagers the moment a recent application is made and originates commenting as modest as filling out an online restaurant study. “It could be a genuine game alterr,” says Schlebach. “Not only for the West Coast, but for communities all atraverse South Africa.”

Talk about riding the wave.