Nature’s Defenders

[Lisbeth]

A conversation with the Leopard Lady — tracing a winding journey from planes and rhinos to big cats

By Don Pinnock - 28 Jul 2024

Helen Turnbull is CEO of the Cape Leopard Trust and her job is to navigate the organisation that helps to protect the province’s wild and free-roaming leopards. Over coffee she explained how she came to be a leopard protector.
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Helen Turnbull has a sunny warmth that would gain a leopard’s trust or charm a farmer itching to shoot one. There’s an urgent need for that second skill, especially on farms where dumb domestic animals are easy meat.

She wants to talk about snaring, but I need to first know about the road that led to Helen heading up a highly successful conservation NGO. It turns out to be a long and winding one.

Helen explains that she went to an Afrikaans school in the small Northern Cape town of Kathu, which is surprising given her plummy BBC accent, then casually drops in that as a child, she and her father, with a bunch of volunteers, renovated a steam engine. It seemed to her a natural progression to enjoy tinkering with cars. And from there to learn to work with and occasionally fly aeroplanes.


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Helen: I guess I learnt to do more boy things when I was small. When I started to drive, I was curious to understand the car’s engine and how to fix it.

Don: What did your father do that had him renovating trains?

Helen: My father was always passionate about trains. He started his career at 16 as a fireman during the steam era and went on to work for British Rail as a driver. We moved to South Africa when I was in my early teens when there was an opportunity to work with Iscor on the project to develop the Sishen to Saldanha.

We first lived in Vredenburg on the West Coast, but after a year or so a few families were asked to move to the other end of the line in the Northern Cape. At that time Kathu was a new town, with little more than a water tower as a landmark.


Helen in the Cederberg, helping with cedar tree planting. (Photo: Alicia Erasmus, Cederberg ClickClick)


Leopards mating. (Photo: Don Pinnock)

Don: So, where did you go to school?

Helen: In Kathu, in an Afrikaans first-language school where I completed my matric. There was no money for university though, and my father felt I’d be better off back in England. Very reluctantly I went back to the UK and wanted to join the Royal Air Force as an air traffic controller, but I didn’t make the cut. At the time they said I could potentially be a threat to national security because I’d grown up in South Africa.

Looking back, I think it was because the profession was male dominated. I didn’t give up on aviation though, motivated primarily by the idea that I would have access to my beloved South Africa for visits.

Don: So, what were your options – flight attendant?

Helen: I thought about being a flight attendant, but I finally got a job on the ground working for Lufthansa, first in reservations and later in flight operations using my German and Afrikaans. I considered becoming a pilot and took lessons up to solo level. I love flying small planes because you’re responsible for yourself, you’re accountable. Today’s passenger planes are different animals and, in some ways, remove the pure joy of flying.

Don: Somewhere along the line you met your husband, yes?

Helen: Jim’s a family doctor. I met him in the UK. When my son was six months old I left Lufthansa and took on contract work for Air Mauritius, Czech Airlines and Malaysia Airlines. After a 25-year career in medicine, running his own practice, Jim decided he’d had enough of being a GP and we decided to relocate to Cape Town.

Don: It seems a big jump from there to conservation.

Helen: Once back in South Africa, I set up my own company, Serendipity Africa. “Serendipity” is such a great word because its definition is discovering something wonderful by accident. The aim of the company was to enable tourism to be more sustainable, by contributing positively to community development and the environment.


(Photo: Don Pinnock)

I had the privilege of working with some of tourism’s passionate personalities such as Michael Lutzeyer at Grootbos, Wilfred Chivell of the Dyer Island Conservation Trust, Maarten Groos of Farm 215 and the South African Reforestation Trust.

It was while I was working with the Fowlds family who own Amakhala Game Reserve in the Eastern Cape at a time that rhino poaching suddenly spiked. M99, a veterinary anaesthetic drug, was being used instead of bullets. The rhinos that didn’t die would wake up with terrible injuries, it was heartbreaking.

Amakhala co-owner and wildlife vet Dr Will Fowlds set up a rescue team to treat rhinos found alive after a poaching incident and I assisted him. I would coordinate the logistics and help fundraise.

We’d get an emergency response team to game reserves across the country as quickly and as cheaply as possible, to offer the rhinos and their owners appropriate medical assistance based on the injuries of their rhinos.

Don: How did you get from rhinos to leopards?


A leopard has brilliant eyesight and can see (and see you) in one-sixth of the light required by humans. (Photo: Don Pinnock)

Helen: Quinton Martins had set up the Cape Leopard Trust in 2004 and on a few occasions I’d helped raise money for their work through an annual tourism industry fundraiser event. I could see he needed help, but at the time there was no money available.

Then in 2011 a position was advertised for a project assistant. I applied but wasn’t successful. However, a year later, Quinton invited me to join the team full time, so my consulting work came to an end. I hadn’t been there long when Quinton left to join the Snow Leopard Trust in the US.

A replacement CEO was appointed but didn’t work out, and after lengthy discussions – and despite my hesitations – the trustees persuaded me to take the job. I joined as CEO full time in 2016.

Looking back over my 11 years with the trust, I guess it’s a significant achievement, as conservation leadership has been primarily male dominated. The Cape Leopard Trust celebrates its 20th anniversary this year and I’m extremely proud of the incredibly passionate and committed team that drives the work we continue to do. DM

International Leopard Day, 3 May, is a permanent place on the global wildlife calendar, encouraging enthusiasts to promote and celebrate leopards worldwide. Find more information here.

[Lisbeth]

Tusk Wildlife Ranger Award

Birds call him friend: Claver Ntoyinkima, a passionate and dedicated ranger from Nyungwe National Park, is this year’s recipient of the Tusk Wildlife Ranger Award. Claver’s work in conservation, particularly in anti-poaching and driving community involvement in the protection of the environment, has earned him this international recognition. (04:30)

[Richprins]

Clayton!

[Lisbeth]

The making of an eco-warrior and the struggle to give a community a voice


Nonhle Mbuthuma is a fierce defender of the Pondoland Wild Coast. (Photo: Goldman Environmental Prize)

By Anneliese Burgess | 16 Mar 2025

Nonhle Mbuthuma’s voice resonates beyond South Africa’s Wild Coast. Her struggle reminds us that true sustainability isn’t just about preserving natural resources — it’s about protecting the human relationships with those resources that have sustained communities for generations.
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In the rolling hills of South Africa’s Eastern Cape, where the Wild Coast meets the Indian Ocean, Nonhle Mbuthuma’s story begins.

As spokesperson of the Amadiba Crisis Committee, she has emerged as one of South Africa’s most formidable environmental defenders. Her journey from a young girl collecting medicinal plants with her grandfather to a leader fighting multinational corporations reveals a personal evolution and a profound philosophy about the relationship between people, development and the land they call home.

Lessons from the land

“My grandfather was a person who loved nature,” Mbuthuma recalls, her voice softening with the memory. “He would always take me with him when he went out to collect traditional medicine.”

These weren’t mere foraging trips; they were lessons in stewardship that would shape her worldview. “He taught me that if you want to preserve traditional medicine or the plants for the next generation, there is a way to harvest. You can’t simply take everything. You need to ensure there’s enough left for the next generation.”

She grew up in the Amadiba community, and her grandparents helped raise her — a cultural practice for firstborn children — so nature was not separate from humanity; it was divinity itself.

“My grandfather loved nature so much that he said nature is God,” she explains. “He said there is no god you’ll ever see other than nature. Because if we don’t care for nature, it means we are not taking care of ourselves.”

This philosophy extended beyond mere appreciation; it was a way of life that recognised the sacred in the everyday: “The guava tree grows in my garden. Now I can eat and thank God. This type of tree flourishes in my yard — I have shelter and shade. We must be thankful for those things, not always yearning for vast wealth and grand possessions.”

The ocean as ancestor

For coastal communities such as Amadiba, the connection to the environment reaches out into the sea. The ocean is not merely a resource — it’s an essential part of their cultural and spiritual identity.

“The ocean sustains us. The ocean restores us. It forms an essential part of our healing environment and heritage,” Mbuthuma explains. “As people in Africa, we hold the belief that many of our ancestors dwell within the ocean.”

This connection isn’t metaphorical — it’s literal and alive in daily practice: “That is why, during difficult times, we go to the ocean. The rivers flow to the ocean. That’s where even the waterfalls end — they enter the ocean.”

Community members often sit by the sea not as tourists, but to connect with their ancestors. Traditional healers incorporate ocean elements in their practices. It’s a relationship so fundamental that it defines identity itself.

“You cannot just come and say people are not connected with the ocean,” Mbuthuma insists. “The ocean doesn’t exist by itself. As human beings, we are connected with the ocean in many ways.”

Community as home

The expansive definition of home marked Mbuthuma’s childhood in Amadiba. Although walking 12km to school and back might seem arduous, she remembers it differently.

“I didn’t feel it was too long because life in our community was very good,” she recalls. “When we walked, it wasn’t just about your home; every home was ours.”

This communal care was practical and nurturing: “When you came from school, you’d pass by somebody’s house, and they’d see you walking and share food with you — sweet potatoes — because they knew you were coming from school and were hungry.”


Nonhle Mbuthuma, spokesperson for the Amadiba Crisis Committee, is campaigning for preserving a way of life, a relationship with the land and an understanding of home that defies commodification. (Photo: Lucas Ledwaba / Mukurukuru Media)

This understanding of home transcends Western concepts of property. “Home for me is a place that cannot be exchanged for money,” Mbuthuma explains. “Home is a place you transfer to another person, not sell it.”

The spiritual connection runs deeper: “Home is where your umbilical cord is buried, connecting you and the land. That’s what’s called home.”

The birth of resistance

When an Australian mining company discovered titanium in the ancestral lands of the Amadiba people in the early 2000s, Mbuthuma and others recognised a fundamental threat to their existence. This discovery catalysed the formation of the Amadiba Crisis Committee in 2007.

“We realised that no matter what we said to this mining company, it made no difference,” she recalls. “We kept informing them that we did not want this type of development, while the government and the Australian company continued to push, telling us that this development was beneficial for us.”

Their organisation proved effective. They took the Department of Mineral Resources to court in an attempt to get a declaratory order that would prevent proposed titanium mining from taking place on their land and ultimately won a judgment affirming their right to free, prior, informed consent before any mining activities could proceed. Yet victory remains precarious. Years later, the Department of Minerals and Energy filed a notice to appeal, but has yet to present arguments, creating a limbo that prevents other community development.

“I realised that being organised assists communities in defeating the enemy,” Mbuthuma reflects. “When you’re disorganised, they can easily take advantage.”

Redefining development

At the heart of Amadiba’s struggle is a fundamental question: What constitutes real development? The proposed N2 toll highway through Amadiba lands has become the latest flashpoint in this debate.

In addition to environmental concerns, there is suspicion and worry within the community that the road has been deliberately routed in such a way as to make the coastal areas accessible for mining activities. Many believe that a fresh onslaught to mine the dunes will inevitably be made again, this time with a road that makes access to the area easy.

“I’m not against the road,” Mbuthuma clarifies. “I do support building it because our communities need to be accessible. The difference is that I don’t want the road built in a critical biodiversity area.”

For Mbuthuma, development isn’t about imposing external projects on communities. “If development is to develop people, then people must be part of the decision-making. They must participate in the process, not just be told what to do.”

She questions projects labelled as “development” that undermine local livelihoods: “This highway — we’re not going to benefit from it at all. Instead, we will lose our local economy because we need to clear space for the toll road. The gardens where we farm will be lost.”

The personal cost of resistance


Murdered activist Sikhosiphi ‘Bazooka’ Radebe addresses a gathering in 2015. (Photo: Supplied)

Standing against powerful interests comes with grave personal risk. In 2016, Sikhosiphi “Bazooka” Radebe, a leader of the ACC, was gunned down outside his home in front of his teenage son. His killers have never been brought to book.

Today, nine years later, Mbuthuma lives with bodyguards.

“I’ve received death threats directed at me through SMS. There are still verbal death threats,” she says matter-of-factly. “To protect our wild coast, we realised the best way is to have bodyguards because we don’t feel safe.”

Justice remains elusive for those who have been killed. Yet the struggle continues: “What else can we do? It’s better to protect those who are still alive to continue the struggle.”

A simple message, a profound challenge

After years of battling mining companies, government departments and road agencies, Mbuthuma’s message remains strikingly simple: “Just listen to us. Allow our voice to be heard.”

“We are the people they are here to develop,” she says, “but they can’t talk about development without us. And they can’t plan about us without us.”

This seemingly straightforward request requires a fundamental shift in how governments and corporations approach development — from top-down impositions to genuine dialogue with communities.

For Mbuthuma, this isn’t just about one mine or one road. It’s about preserving a way of life, a relationship with the land and an understanding of home that defies commodification. It’s about ensuring that when development comes, it respects not just the physical environment but also the cultural and spiritual connections that give life meaning.

“We will continue with this battle,” she vows, “as long as we still breathe.”

In a world increasingly recognising the wisdom of Indigenous approaches to environmental stewardship, Nonhle Mbuthuma’s voice resonates beyond South Africa’s Wild Coast. Her struggle reminds us that true sustainability isn’t just about preserving natural resources — it’s about protecting the human relationships with those resources that have sustained communities for generations. DM

Anneliese Burgess is an independent journalist. She assists the Amadiba Crisis Committee with media training.

[Richprins]

We need so many of these!

[Lisbeth]

There will never be enough!