Luis Arranz arrived in Africa in 1980 with little more than a degree in biology and a determination to work in the field. Without contacts or a clear path, he drove south from Spain in a small Citroën 2CV, crossing the Sahara over several weeks and repairing the car as it failed along the way. The journey is unusual. The work that followed is uncommon in its form and duration: more than four decades spent managing protected areas in Central Africa.
His career has taken him through Equatorial Guinea, Angola, and South America, but it is in Central Africa that it has largely settled. He has led or helped run parks including Monte Alén, Zakouma, Garamba, Dzanga-Sangha, and now Salonga, often remaining in each for extended periods. That continuity has shaped his approach. He tends to describe conservation less in terms of design than of execution—what can be maintained over time, and what cannot.
This perspective runs through a series of conversations that took place in forests, villages, and vehicles across the Central African Republic and the Democratic Republic of Congo in March 2026. Arranz is skeptical of the emphasis placed on planning processes and external analysis. He returns instead to implementation. “We know what we have to do,” he says, referring to the distance between written plans and what can be carried out in practice. Much of the work, in his account, comes down to transport, communication, and maintaining teams across large and difficult terrain. In places like Salonga, where roads are limited and rivers complicate movement, even basic coordination can take days.
The scale of these landscapes sets clear limits. Arranz does not suggest they can be fully controlled. Patrols can cover priority areas, and infrastructure can extend reach, but large gaps remain. The practical aim is to maintain coverage in key areas so that illegal activity is deterred and incidents can be addressed when they occur.
Alongside these constraints, he places consistent emphasis on relationships with local communities. The reasoning is direct. Conservation that does not account for local livelihoods is unlikely to hold. In areas where people depend on the forest for food or income, immediate needs shape decisions. Support tends to follow when protected areas provide tangible benefits—through employment, revenue, or services.
Tourism has been one mechanism for creating that link. In Dzanga-Sangha, a co-management system shares revenue between the park, the government, and local communities. While the scale remains limited, it provides a working example of how conservation can generate local income. Arranz also points to efforts to develop other activities tied to protected areas as part of a broader attempt to reduce reliance on external funding over time.
That reliance remains substantial. Much of the funding for conservation in the region still comes from international donors, particularly in Europe. This creates uncertainty, as funding decisions are made outside the countries where the parks are located. For Arranz, one of the biggest issues is how much support reaches operations on the ground.
The work often unfolds in unstable conditions. Arranz has spent years operating in areas affected by armed groups and organized poaching networks. In Garamba, encounters with the Lord’s Resistance Army had lasting consequences for the park and its staff, including attacks on infrastructure and the loss of friends and colleagues. These experiences shape how he describes conservation in the region: as work carried out within broader security and political constraints, not apart from them.
Rangers are central to this system. They patrol large areas, often with limited equipment, and face risks that are rarely visible outside the region. Arranz returns to them repeatedly over the course of conversations, describing both their role and the losses sustained over time. He speaks of returning their bodies to their families as the most difficult part of the job.
Across the conversation, he does not frame conservation as a problem requiring new theories or tools. His account is more grounded. It centers on maintaining operations over long periods and on how quickly progress can be reversed if support is withdrawn.
After 46 years, he is beginning to step back from day-to-day management, preparing others to take on leadership roles in places like Salonga and Dzanga-Sangha. Succession remains a work in progress. The work requires experience built over many years, and relatively few people choose to remain in the field long enough to acquire it.
His motivation remains consistent. He describes a preference for fieldwork over administration and measures success in simple terms: whether wildlife persists. The objective, as he puts it, is to leave each place in better condition than when he arrived, and to ensure that these landscapes remain intact for those who come after.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
An interview with Luis Arranz
Mongabay: What is your background, and how did you come to work in Central African conservation?
Luis Arranz: When I was very young, I was watching a program about nature on Spanish television, and I decided I wanted to become a biologist and come to Africa to work. I remember at school, someone came to advise us on what we should study. When I finished, I told them, “Sorry, but I want to be a biologist.” There was no way I was going to become something else.
I studied biology in Madrid, and when I finished, I wanted to go to Africa. At that time—around 1980—it was not easy. There was no internet, no way to find a job like that. So I took the car I had and drove. I crossed from Spain to Morocco and then across the Sahara. The car was a Citroën 2CV. It broke down many times—we had to fix it along the way. It took almost two months to arrive.
I started working in Equatorial Guinea, just after the coup, when Spain began to re-engage. I took on different roles there before joining a conservation project supported by Spanish cooperation. From there, I worked in several countries—Bolivia, Brazil, and Angola. Later, I joined the EU-funded ECOFAC project. Over the years, I have managed several national parks: Monte Alén for nine years, Zakouma for seven years, Garamba for seven years, Dzanga-Sangha for eight years, and now Salonga.
So I have been in Africa for more than 40 years. That means I am very old.
But from the beginning, the idea was always the same: to work in conservation, in the field.
Mongabay: To be precise, you’ve spent more than 46 years in the field. How do you think about conservation—what actually works?
Luis Arranz: I think sometimes people say, “We are going to protect this species—the elephant,” for example. But it doesn’t work like that. Everything is connected. You cannot protect the elephant and allow people to kill the bongo or destroy the forest. It’s all one system.
In the end, we already know what needs to be done. The problem is not the strategy. Many people come with big studies, many pages of plans, consultants telling us what to do. But I am the one here. The reality is simple: you have to be in the field.
We need rangers, because we have to protect the area. And at the same time, we have to work with the people. If you try to work against the population, it is impossible. You must manage the park with them, so they understand and support it.
For big animals, especially, you need large spaces. And you have to protect the whole system—forest, wildlife, and people together. If one part fails, everything fails.
So conservation is not about one species or one action. It is about being there, understanding the place, and keeping the whole system working.
Mongabay: Many conservation strategies are developed by external experts and consultants. How do you see the role of that kind of expertise compared to on-the-ground experience?
Luis Arranz: The problem is not that we don’t know what to do. Everyone knows the problem, and more or less, we know the solution. But people prefer to make big studies—hundreds of pages. Consultants come and tell me what I should do. But I am the one who is here.
In reality, it is much simpler than that. You have to be in the field. You have to understand what is happening day to day. Most of the problems are logistical, very practical things—how to move, how to supply the teams, how to maintain a presence.
If you are not there, you don’t see the real situation. You cannot manage a place like this from an office in Europe. You need rangers on the ground, you need to work with the local people, and you need to react to what is actually happening, not what is written in a report.
So for me, conservation is not about producing more documents. It is about being present, solving problems as they come, and making things work in reality.
Mongabay: You’ve emphasized the importance of working with local communities. Why is that so central to conservation success?
Luis Arranz: Because if you work against the population, it is impossible. You have to work with the people. You have to manage the park with them so they understand what you are doing and why.
If you don’t have their trust, they will not support you. When people are angry, they can even attack you, burn your cars, your property—everything. So you have to talk to them, explain, and make them part of it.
At the same time, you have to understand their reality. For many people here, the priority is eating every day. It is difficult to tell someone to protect elephants if they are hungry. But if they see that because the elephants are there, they can have jobs, income, opportunities—then they support conservation.
We have seen this with tourism. The local people go into the forest with visitors, and they see that a live animal has more value than a dead one. A dead elephant gives meat for some days. A live elephant gives benefits for many years.
So the key is that people must feel that the protected area is good for them. If they don’t see that, conservation will not work.
Mongabay: You’ve spoken about the importance of linking conservation to local livelihoods. How do economic incentives shape whether conservation succeeds or fails?
Luis Arranz: That is the key challenge. For the people here, the priority is to eat every day. It is very difficult to speak about protecting elephants or forests if people don’t see how it helps them directly.
So the idea is simple: people must see that conservation brings benefits. If they see that because the park exists they can have jobs, income, or opportunities, then they will support it. If not, they will not.
Tourism is one example. When tourists come, they go into the forest with the Ba’Aka, they hire local guides, they stay in the lodge. Part of the revenue goes back to the community. People see that a live animal has more value than a dead one. A dead elephant gives meat for a short time. A live elephant can provide income for many years.
But tourism is not enough. We are also trying to develop other activities linked to the park. For example, in Salonga, we are working on producing cacao and transforming it into chocolate, then transporting it and selling it. The idea is to manage the whole chain. If people see that because the park exists they can produce something and earn money, they will continue even if we are no longer here.
In the end, conservation cannot depend only on international donors. We have to move toward a system where the park generates value locally. That is the only way it will last.
Mongabay: You’ve described tourism as central to your model. How do you see ecotourism functioning as a driver of conservation?
Luis Arranz: Tourism is one of the most important tools we have, because it connects conservation directly to economic value. When people come here, they don’t just see animals—they create jobs, they bring income, and that supports the whole system.
In Dzanga-Sangha, we have a co-management model with WWF and the government. The revenue is shared—part stays with the park to cover operations, part goes to the government, and part goes to the community. That community share is very important. It goes into local development—salaries, small projects, support for associations. People can see the benefit.
We are still small. We have around 700 or 800 tourists per year, and that brings close to $800,000 or $900,000 in revenue. After costs, maybe $400,000 stays to run the park. It is not enough yet, but it shows what is possible.
The real potential is much bigger. If we reach 3,000 or 4,000 tourists per year, we could generate several million euros. Then we could run the park with much less dependence on donors. That is the objective.
But tourism here will never be like the Serengeti or Masai Mara, with hundreds of cars around one animal. People who come here want something different—they want a real experience, to be alone in the forest, to see gorillas or elephants without crowds.
We also have to think bigger. In Central Africa, you could create a unique journey—what we call the “Big Four”: lowland gorillas, mountain gorillas, bonobos, and chimpanzees, all in one trip. There are people ready to pay for that.
The biggest limitation is not the forest, not the wildlife—it is security and perception. If the country is seen as unsafe, people will not come. But if there is peace, I am sure tourism here could grow a lot.
In the end, tourism helps people understand that the animals are more valuable alive than dead. And when that idea is shared by the community, conservation becomes much stronger.
Mongabay: You’ve worked in some very difficult environments. How do conflict and armed groups shape conservation on the ground?
Luis Arranz: It has a huge impact. In some places, conservation is not only about wildlife—it is also about security. In Garamba, for example, we had the Lord’s Resistance Army around us. At the beginning, we did not have direct conflict with them, but when the Ugandan army, the American army, and the Congolese army attacked their camp, everything changed.
They attacked our headquarters during Christmas. They killed many people and burned our cars, planes, buildings etc. After that, for years, they were moving through the area, kidnapping children from villages. We had many encounters with them—shootouts. Over time, we rescued more than 200 children.
We also lost many people. In Garamba, I lost 37 rangers to the LRA. In other places, it is similar—in Zakouma, I lost 12 rangers to poachers. In Virunga, they lose people regularly. This is part of the reality.
At the same time, you have poachers coming from outside—sometimes from Sudan or other regions—and even traffickers. These are not small-scale activities. They are organized, and they are armed.
Even today, in parts of Central Africa, you have different armed groups, often linked to resources like gold or diamonds. This creates a very complex situation. It is not always direct conflict, but there is constant insecurity.
For conservation, this affects everything. It limits where you can go, where you can patrol, and whether tourists or investors are willing to come. In some parks, you can work relatively safely. In others, it is very dangerous.
So when people think about conservation here, they often imagine animals and forests. But in reality, you are also working in a context of conflict, instability, and competing interests. And you have to adapt to that every day.
Mongabay: You’ve spoken about the dangers rangers face. What does that reality look like, and how do you think about their role?
Luis Arranz: People don’t always understand what it means to be a ranger here. These are people with very small salaries who risk their lives every day. They are the ones in the field, doing the real work.
In many places, we have lost a lot of them. For me, the hardest part of this job is not the logistics or the funding—it is having to take the body of a killed ranger back to his family. That is something you never forget.
At the same time, there is not much recognition for them. People often criticize rangers, but the vast majority are very good, very professional. They are working in very difficult conditions, against armed poachers or even armed groups.
And sometimes we are asked to do this work without the proper tools. When we ask for weapons to protect themselves—some donors say no. But you cannot protect elephants against professional poachers with nothing. If someone tries to steal the Mona Lisa, the police have guns. Why should it be different here?
So for me, the rangers are the key. Without them, there is no conservation. But they need support, they need respect, and they need the means to do their job safely.
Mongabay: You’ve mentioned that many of the challenges you face are logistical. What does operating in a place like Salonga or Dzanga-Sangha actually involve on a day-to-day level?
Luis Arranz: Most of the problems we deal with are logistical. People often think about conservation in terms of animals or science, but here, the reality is how to move, how to supply people, how to stay present in the field.
In Salonga, for example, it is extremely difficult. If you want to go from one place to another there is no road. You go by motorbike, and then you walk for days. The rivers are everywhere, but they run in parallel, so to cross from one side to the other, you may have to go very far around. Everything takes time.
When we arrived, there was almost nothing—no infrastructure, very little equipment, people living in very basic conditions. So we had to build everything. We built bridges, camps, and roads. We moved thousands of cubic meters of earth by hand to create an airstrip. We bought boats, motorbikes, and cars. Now we even have our own mechanics to maintain everything.
But even with all that, it is still very difficult. In Europe, you take a car and everything is easy. Here, everything has to be done manually. Sometimes it can take 15 or 20 days just to get information back from a patrol because of communication limits.
And the scale is huge. Even with more staff, more equipment, and a command center to track patrols, it is impossible to cover the whole park. There are always areas we cannot reach.
So when I say conservation is about being in the field, this is what I mean. It is about building the capacity to stay there—to move, to communicate, to respond. Without that, you cannot protect anything.
Mongabay: Given the sheer size of places like Salonga, is it actually possible to fully protect a park of that scale?
Luis Arranz: No—it is not possible. If you look at a place like Salonga, it is simply too big. Even if you increase the number of rangers, the equipment, the patrols, you cannot cover everything.
We have improved a lot. We now have more staff, more patrols, a command center where we can track movements. We know where people are, and we can respond better. But even with that, there are still large areas we cannot reach. The gaps are too big.
So the idea is not to control everything. It is to be present where it matters most. We focus on the key areas—the zones where there is more pressure, where the animals are, where the risks are highest. We try to build more stations, extend our coverage step by step.
But to say we will cover the entire park… it is a dream. You have to be realistic.
Conservation in a place like this is about prioritizing, about creating enough presence so that illegal activities are reduced, even if you are not everywhere. If people know that rangers can appear, that there is some control, it already makes a difference.
So it is not total control. It is strategic presence.
Mongabay: How important is technology in your work, and what are its limits in places like Salonga or Dzanga-Sangha?
Luis Arranz: Technology helps us, of course. Today we can track patrols, we know where our teams are, and we can analyze data in ways that were not possible before. For example, we use acoustic monitoring to understand where animals like bonobos are—sometimes we can hear them 80 or 90 percent of the days in certain areas. This helps us know where to focus our efforts.
But we have to be realistic about its limits. In a dense forest, technology does not solve everything. A drone, for example, is not very useful under the canopy. You cannot see much. Communication is also a challenge—sometimes it can take many days for information to come back from a patrol because of radio limitations.
In the end, the most important thing is still people on the ground. You need rangers who are present, who know the forest, who can move and react. And you need a good relationship with the local population. If a group of poachers arrives in a village looking for a tracker, someone will inform us. That is how you stop them—before they kill the elephant.
So yes, technology is a tool. It helps us be more efficient, more organized. But it cannot replace presence in the field. Conservation here still depends on human intelligence, on experience, and on trust with the local communities.
Mongabay: You’ve worked under different conservation models over the decades. What’s changed in that time?
Luis Arranz: When I started, the system was very different. Donors would give money directly to the government, and then the government would appoint a director to manage the park. In many cases, it didn’t work. The money did not reach the field, and the park was not properly managed.
Now we use a different model—a partnership between an NGO like WWF and the government. It is what you can call a Public-Private Partnership. We sign an agreement with the Ministry, and the park is managed together. There is a director from WWF and a deputy director from the government. The park warden is a government official, and in each department, you often have one person from the government and one from WWF. So it is shared management.
The important point is that the money does not go into the central treasury. It goes in theory directly into the management of the park. That makes a big difference, because you can actually use the funds for operations—rangers, infrastructure, logistics—everything that is needed on the ground.
You also create more accountability. The government is involved, so there is ownership at the national level, but at the same time, the NGO ensures that the work is actually done in the field. It is a balance.
But the reality is a bit different. We still depend a lot on international funding, especially from the European Union. And I have to be honest— a big part of that money that should go for conservation, stays outside Africa, paying bureaucracy, workshops, big meetings etc. that most of the times, are not very useful, The day that money really arrives in the field, everything will be easier.
But compared to the old system, this is much better. It allows us to operate, to be present, and to maintain the park.
In the end, what matters is not the structure on paper, but whether the system allows you to protect the animals and work with the people. The PPP model, for now, is the best way we have found to do that.
Mongabay: Conservation in Central Africa often depends on external funding. How do you think about that dependency, and what challenges does it create?
Luis Arranz: Right now, most of the funding comes from outside—especially from the European Union and the German cooperation. That support is essential. Without it, many of these parks could not function at all. It pays for the rangers, the operations, the logistics—everything we need to stay in the field.
But at the same time, it creates a dependency. You are relying on decisions made far away, and those decisions can change very quickly. We have seen cases where funding is reduced or stopped, and the impact is immediate. These projects need long-term stability, because conservation is not something you can do for two or three years and then stop.
Another challenge is that not all the funding is used directly in the field. A lot of funds go for planning, or administration. It’s true that it is necessary, but at the end, it looks as if the goal is to do reports, management plans etc. The priority must be to preserve the parks, and then, make the reports of what has been done.
When you are working in a place like this, what really makes the difference is what reaches the ground—support for rangers, infrastructure, and community programs.
So for me, the priority is to ensure that as much support as possible translates into real capacity in the field.
That is also why we are trying to diversify. Tourism is one part of the solution. Developing local economic activities linked to the park is another. The goal is to reduce dependency over time and build a system where conservation can sustain itself more locally.
It will not happen quickly, but it is the direction we have to move in if we want these parks to last.
Mongabay: You’ve spent decades building conservation programs. How do you think about the time horizon of this work, especially given how quickly gains can be lost?
Luis Arranz: Conservation is always long-term. To build something—to recover a population, to establish a system that works—it takes many years, sometimes decades. You have to be patient. You have to stay in the field and continue the work step by step.
But at the same time, everything is very fragile. What you build over 20 years can be destroyed very quickly. I have seen it. In Zakouma, when I left in 2007, there were more than 3,500 elephants. Within one year of the project stopping, poachers killed around 3.000. It takes a long time to build a population, and only a short time to destroy it.
It is the same with the parks themselves. If we left tomorrow, people will take everything—the equipment, the infrastructure—and in six months, there will be nothing left. The pressure is always there.
So you have this contradiction. You need long-term commitment, but you are working in a context where everything can change very fast—funding, security, politics.
That is why continuity is so important. You cannot treat conservation like a short project. It has to be something that stays, that adapts, and that keeps going over time. Otherwise, all the effort can disappear very quickly.
Mongabay: In landscapes where people and wildlife share space, how do you see the limits of coexistence?
Luis Arranz: We have to be realistic. People and wildlife can live together to some extent, but there are limits—especially with large animals.
If you are living in a village and elephants come and destroy your crops, or if there is a lion that can attack your children, you will not accept that situation. For the people here, the priority is survival. So when wildlife creates a direct risk or loss, it changes everything.
We see this more and more. In some areas, people are moving into the forest, and the space available for wildlife becomes smaller. That creates more conflict. It becomes very difficult to manage.
That is why, for big animals, you need large protected areas where they can live without constant pressure. You cannot expect to protect elephants if they are always in contact with farms and villages.
At the same time, you have to work with the communities around those areas—help them find solutions, reduce conflicts where possible, and make sure they see some benefit from conservation. But you cannot ignore the reality.
In the end, coexistence is not unlimited. You have to manage space carefully. If the pressure becomes too high, it will not work—for people or for wildlife.
Mongabay: You’ve mentioned changes within local communities. How do you see traditional knowledge evolving in these landscapes?
Luis Arranz: We are losing a lot of traditional knowledge. In the past, the Ba’Aka knew the forest very well—how to track animals, how to find food, how to live entirely from it. That knowledge is still there, but it is disappearing.
The young people don’t always want that life. They prefer to be in the village, with music, electricity, other opportunities. It is hard work to stay in the forest, and many choose something different.
We are trying to keep some of this knowledge alive. For example, we have programs where elders teach the youth—about the forest, the traditions, the music. But it is not easy.
It is a change you see everywhere, not only here. Like with the Inuit or Native Americans, cultures evolve. But when that knowledge disappears, it also affects conservation, because that understanding of the forest is very important.
Mongabay: Beyond enforcement and ecology, you’ve invested in education, outreach, and social services. Why are those elements important to conservation?
Luis Arranz: Because conservation cannot exist on its own. If you only focus on protecting animals and ignore the people, it will not work. You have to support the communities around the park in a practical way.
We do this in different ways. For example, we have a community radio station that broadcasts over more than 100 kilometers. It’s in local languages and Sango, so people can understand. In the evenings, families sit together and listen. It’s not only for information—it’s also entertainment—but we use it to explain the value of the park, to share messages about conservation, health, and daily life.
We also have a One Health program. A doctor goes to the villages and provides care for free. We support schools, help with roads, and try to improve basic services. These are things that matter to people immediately.
Another important part is the Human Rights Center. If someone from the community—especially the Ba’Aka—is exploited or has a problem, they can come to them [the Human rights center]. They investigate, and if needed, support them legally. This helps build trust, because people see that we are not only there to enforce rules, but also to defend them.
Education is more complicated. Many children start school, but not all continue. Sometimes they have to work, or during certain seasons—like when there are caterpillars in the forest—they leave school to help their families. So we try to adapt, even sending teachers into the forest when possible.
All of this is part of the same idea: if people see that the park brings benefits—not only through tourism, but through services, support, and respect—then they are more likely to support conservation.
It is not separate work. It is part of the system.
Mongabay: You’ve worked in Central Africa for decades. What do you think people outside the region most misunderstand about it?
Luis Arranz: The biggest misunderstanding is that the whole region is dangerous all the time. In Europe or the United States, people often see a map marked in red and think it is like that everywhere.
Of course, there are problems. There are areas with conflict, and there have been very serious events. But that is not the whole reality. There are also places that are stable, where people live and work normally, where conservation is functioning.
The issue is perception. If someone wants to travel here, they check with an embassy or look online, and they see that it is not recommended. Then they decide not to come. It doesn’t matter if the area they would visit is actually safe.
The same applies to investment. People are afraid to build lodges or develop tourism because they think everything is unstable. But in some places, like here, we have had years without major problems.
So the image of constant insecurity becomes a barrier. It affects tourism, funding, and even how people understand the region.
In reality, it is more complex. There are difficult areas, and there are places that are working. But that nuance is often lost.
Mongabay: After decades in the field, how do you see global attention toward conservation? Do you feel the urgency is understood?
Luis Arranz: Honestly, I think many people do not really pay attention. People are more worried about other things—about daily life, about the price of petrol, about football. Conservation is not a priority for most.
There are very serious situations. There has been conflict in places like Congo for many years, and it receives little attention. The same with biodiversity loss. People don’t always see it, or they don’t feel it directly, so it becomes something distant.
At the same time, what we are trying to protect is something that belongs to everyone. The wildlife, the forests—this is part of our shared world. It is like asking why we protect the Mona Lisa or the pyramids. We do it because it has value for all of us.
But that connection is not always clear to people. Until it affects them directly, many do not engage.
Still, I think we have a responsibility. We are all going to leave this world one day, but we don’t have the right to destroy it before we go. The question is whether we can do enough so that in 50 or 100 years, these places still exist, and people can still see elephants, gorillas, all of it.
That is what motivates me, even if the attention is not always there.
Mongabay: After 46 years in conservation, what keeps you motivated, and how do you think about your legacy?
Luis Arranz: For me, it is quite simple. I like it here. I like Africa, I like the forest, I like the wildlife. That is what brought me here in the beginning, and it is still the same.
But now it is also about the future. I have a daughter, and I want her to be able to come here one day with her own children and see these places—to see the bai, to see the gorillas, to experience what we still have today.
When people talk about projects, they often think in terms of reports, objectives, many pages of planning. I don’t see it like that. I am a man of the forest. For me, it is more direct.
If you ask why we protect something like the Mona Lisa, nobody questions it. It is part of our heritage. I see wildlife in the same way. It belongs to everyone, and everyone should have the right to see it.
So my goal has always been the same in every place I have worked: to leave it in better condition than when I arrived. Not because of buildings or infrastructure—that is just money—but because the animals are still there.
If, after all these years, there are still elephants, still gorillas, still life in these forests, then that is enough.
Mongabay: After decades leading conservation programs, how do you think about succession and passing on knowledge to the next generation?
Luis Arranz: It is something I think about more and more now. I am 70, so I cannot plan for the next 40 years. Maybe a few more years, but not forever. So it is important to prepare people to take over.
We are already doing that. In Dzanga-Sangha, there is a new director coming in. In Salonga, I am working with someone who has many years of experience—he worked with gorillas for ten years—and I hope that by the time I leave, he will be ready to take over.
But it is not easy. Many people say they want to do this work, but after a few years, they leave. Life in the forest is hard. People prefer to go to the city, to work for NGOs there, or to have a more comfortable life.
For this kind of work, you need experience, and that takes time. In a place like Salonga, you need many years in the field to really understand how things work. But very few people stay that long.
So we try to train people, to give them responsibility, to involve them in the work. At the same time, we are also trying to pass knowledge to local communities—through programs, through working together—so that what we build does not depend only on one person.
In the end, that is the goal: that the system continues even when you are no longer there.
Credits
This story first appeared on Mongabay
This article is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
You may republish this article, so long as you credit the authors and Mongabay, and do not change the text. Please include a link back to the original article.