Wild Wetlands

Travel writer Sarah Marshall tracks jaguars in the Brazilian wetlands, the Pantanal, and learns how the area hopes to mimic a South African safari and conservation experience.

Mewing frogs whine like Formula 1 racing cars, as a setting Brazilian sun threatens to scupper our own desperate charge for the finish line. Nine-banded armadillos scurry through tangerine-tinged dust clouds kicked up by our 4WD and roly-poly capybaras sensibly waddle into the swamps, gazing curiously at our urgency.

On any other occasion, sightings of these creatures would justify a stop, some observation and considered discussion, but right now we have only one mammal in mind – the jaguar.

The Pantanal, a sprawling wetland in the heart of South America, straddling Brazil, Bolivia and Paraguay, is one of the best places to see these elusive cats. Traditionally, the predators are observed along riverbanks, where they come to hunt or cool off in the water. But at Caiman Ecological Refuge in the Brazilian state of Mato Grosso do Sul, things are done a little differently.

Similar to an African safari, guests go searching for the cats on game drives and viewings are largely on land. The high-end eco-lodge also has the benefit of an on-site research team, Onçafari, who have a pioneering approach to ecotourism.

Lead field biologists, Lilian Rampin and her husband Leo, have alerted us to a sighting of Esperança and her two cubs Cema and Suricata. They’ve been spotted at a kill and we’re hoping they’ll stick around long enough for us to get a good look. Lili’s team of five biologists have been monitoring the cattle carcass for several days with the aid of a camera trap, using an iron stake to prevent the jaguars from dragging it to a secluded spot.

We arrive to find the giant-jawed cats taking it in surprisingly courteous turns to tear ravenously at the flesh. Bellies inflated like balloons, they eventually topple over in ecstasy and exhaustion. Every so often we edge closer, first coughing to make the animals aware of our presence and then switching on the vehicle ignition. After an hour, we’re just 30 metres away – so close, I can even hear bones crunching as they polish off their family meal.

The carefully orchestrated approach is part of Onçafari’s jaguar habituation process.

The Brazilian wetlands, otherwise known as the Pantanal.

“We never come at them directly or shine lights in their faces,” explains Lili, who works tirelessly day and night to take care of her cats and still manages to smile effusively in between.

“It can take several generations to gain the animal’s confidence, but it does work. We just need them to get used to the vehicles,” she tells me as we drive back to the lodge in a darkness illuminated by nocturnal eyes dancing in the headlights. “Funnily enough, the big males are often the easiest to habituate because they’re already too confident!”

Onçafari’s founder, Mario Haberfeld, an environmentalist and retired Formula 3 racing champion who was part of Jackie Stewart’s team, came up with the idea after seeing a similar strategy successfully used with leopards in South Africa’s Londolozi Private Game Reserve.

One of the photographic safari vehicles at Caiman.

A jaguar peers through the vegetation.

“I always knew that when I retired from racing I wanted to work in conservation,” says Mario, who admits he’d only been to the Pantanal once (and not seen a jaguar) before starting the project in 2011. “Being Brazilian, I felt I needed to help our native wildlife.”

His strategy is clearly working. Several years ago, only 20% of guests saw a jaguar; in 2015, that figure rose to 60% and last year sightings became even more reliable. Anyone staying at Caiman can book one to three days in the field with Onçafari; choose the longer package and Lili guarantees a jaguar sighting. When I first arrive, after a three-and-a-half-hour drive from Campo Grande airport, our vehicle startles two jaguars on the driveway – that’s even before I’ve unpacked my bags.

Caiman’s owner, Brazilian paper baron Roberto Klabin, started his ecotourism venture on family land 30 years ago and provides free research space and accommodation for Onçafari. There are two main high-end lodges and one private villa on the 53,000-hectare ranch, and even at full capacity, less than 35 guests are on site at any one time.

I stay in the six-room Baiazinha Lodge, shaped like a bird with open wings and embracing a lake stuffed with snorting caimans camouflaged beneath a tangle of water hyacinth. Nimble jacanas flit like fairies across the unpredictable surface, too fast to risk any danger, although it’s entertaining to anticipate where the next burst of reptilian frustration might erupt.

In between activities, which normally begin after breakfast (around 8am), with a long break for lunch (depending on the heat), I spend hours sat on the decking behind the communal dining area. At dusk, roosting snowy egrets dress a strangler fig tree bridal-white, stripping away at dawn in a shower of celebratory confetti as the sky roars rapturously red. The habitual display becomes a welcome bookend to my day.

One of both Caiman’s and Onçafari’s primary aims is to prove jaguar – and indeed all wildlife tourism – can be a profitable business in the Pantanal. Conflict between cattle farmers (pantaneiros) and jaguars is an ongoing problem, with an alarming number of cats shot in retribution or simply out of fear. What was once revered by ancient civilisations as a creature of great power and stature is now a source of revulsion. According to camera-trap observations by global wild cat conservation organisation, Panthera, the Pantanal has a density of eight jaguars every 100 kilometre-squared. But with 90% of that land belonging to private farms, such a high concentration poses huge challenges.

Lili gives presentations to farmers to explain the economic potential of jaguar tourism. “It’s sad to reduce a jaguar to a number, but we have to prove to people how much they’re worth,” she insists. “We won’t win this battle with love alone.”

One of Onçafari’s collared jaguars.

Interestingly, Roberto also rents part of his estate to a cattle rancher, yet remarkably only 1% of the 36,000 cattle is lost to jaguar predation. It’s a shining example of how wildlife conflict can be avoided with proper farm management.

In another move to earn support from the community, many former pantaneiros are employed as naturalists and guides at Caiman.

Selmo, a former cowboy who wears a gleaming gold belt buckle and a grin from ear to ear, guides me on a morning walk through the cordilheira forest (tree clusters on ground high enough to avoid flooding). I discover the cooked wax tree, so-called because its ‘melting bark’ acts as a natural fire guard, and learn how to curl a bromeliad leaf into a piece of cutlery.

“This is Esperança’s favourite tree,” says Selmo, pointing to the pliable bark shredded by cat talons. Nearby, a camera trap with a flash and motion sensor has been set up. The custom-made kit belongs to National Geographic photographer Steve Winter who’s positioned several cameras around the estate as part of a much larger project on the Pantanal.

Capybaras wading through the waterhole.

Along the way, we meet shy toucans whose curved bills droop like bananas from the higher canopy, and not-so-shy chaco chachalaca birds whose onomatopoeic name is irritatingly catchy. Two sapphire-blue hyacinth macaws peer from a wooden nest box, beneficiaries of a 20-year conservation project at Caiman designed to save a species decimated by an illegal exotic pet trade.

More animal encounters are in store on a night drive around the estate. Our red flashlight captures several giant anteaters with obedient young draped across their backs like saddles, and an abundant mango harvest has attracted dozens of tapirs, tickling the air with long, leathery tongues to find their way.

And, of course, there’s always the chance of running into a jaguar.

In the last five years, Onçafari have registered 65 jaguars in the area, although currently only around 20 are monitored. Some are collared and can be tracked using a telemetry device – although even with sophisticated technology, the animals can be hard to find.

One cat close to Lili’s heart is Issa, an orphaned cub rescued with her sister, Fera, and brought to Caiman. Over the course of a year, the team helped rewild the cats, teaching them to hunt live prey from the safety of a one-hectare enclosure and monitoring their development until they were ready to roam free.

After hearing about the project, British producer Joe Stevens came to film the story for the BBC Natural World documentary, Super Cats. Sir David Attenborough even enthusiastically agreed to narrate the programme after learning about the important work being done by Caiman and Onçafari.

Lili has big ambitions and hopes the techniques her team have been employing will eventually be rolled out not only in other areas of the Pantanal, but also with different endangered species.

“Caiman is like a giant laboratory where we’re testing ideas,” she says, admitting she often draws on experience gained from her previous employment at Sao Paulo Zoo.

For now, jaguar numbers are stable, but the race is on to safeguard Brazil’s poster boy species for years to come. Lili is acutely aware that there is still so much work to be done – and that the finish line is far from sight.

Chilling out on the deck.

The yellow-billed cardinal, one of the Pantanal’s bird species.

An aerial view of Caiman Ecological Refuge.