Conservationist walks with lions as wildlife retreats

There is an epic quality to the story of conservationist George Adamson and his assistant Tony Fitzjohn. Against all the odds, the two men fought an extraordinary campaign to reintroduce handreared lions to the African bush during the 1970s and 1980s. With scant resources and minimal support, the two men pursued their dream in Kenya's wilderness.

But it ended tragically with the ousting of Fitzjohn and the murder of Adamson. It is little surprise that their experience has been turned into a film. To Walk with Lions, soon to be released, features Richard Harris as the ageing Adamson and John Michie as his untamed young protege.

Opening with the arrival of Fitzjohn at Kenya's isolated Kora reserve in the early 1970s, it records their pioneering work with lions and closes with the shooting of Adamson by Somali gunmen in 1989. Ten years on, the Adamson legacy survives in the work of Fitzjohn.

Today, the 54-year-old Briton manages Mkomazi game reserve in the wilds of northern Tanzania, where he lives with his wife and two children. He is among the last of a disappearing breed of game wardens in a continent where wildlife is everywhere in retreat.

Fitzjohn grew up a foster child in north London - which might explain his affinity with abandoned animals. After a spell doing a milk round and other dairy jobs, he set off in search of adventure in Africa.

Following work as a nightclub bouncer and truck driver, he was introduced to Adamson and his beloved lions. The lion cub he is rearing in Mkomazi - an orphan found in the bush six months ago - is a symbolic link with his days at Kora. So too are the scars he bears on his upper body . . . like Adamson, Fitzjohn survived a severe mauling by one of the lions.

Having been run out of Kora by bandits and bureaucrats, Fitzjohn accepted the invitation of the Tanzanian authorities to rehabilitate the run-down reserve of Mkomazi. Funded by supporters of the George Adamson Trust in Europe and the US, he continues to work in the spirit of his mentor.

The rifle and dress code were both inherited from Adamson. Like Adamson, Fitzjohn is not without his critics. Even by the internecine standards of east Africa's conservation community, he attracts a surprising amount of bile. One old Africa hand describes him as "arrogant" and "someone who prefers animals to humans".

It was with some anxiety that I accepted Fitzjohn's invitation to visit him in his remote retreat. During the flight from Nairobi by light aircraft and subsequent drive by Land-Rover through the bush, I had ample time to reflect on the warnings received and wonder whether he would live up to his drunken, womanising screen persona. Over tea on the terrace of his cottage - he gave up booze seven years ago - Fitzjohn launched into a passionate plea for wildlife.

"We're the last generation with a chance to save these animals," he said gazing over the reserve towards the flat-topped silhouette of Mount Kilimanjaro.

"There are too many pressures on wildlife . . . disease, lack of management, human greed and a rapidly-expanding human population. We've got to decide what we want. If we do nothing now, then it's all over."

The threat to Africa's wildlife and the means of saving it were themes to which Fitzjohn returned repeatedly during the following days, as we patrolled Mzkomazi in his ex-British army Land-Rover and overflew it in his tiny Cessna aircraft. Game numbers have been reduced drastically in East Africa this century. Strict controls on hunting, coupled with an international ban on trade in ivory and rhino horn, have helped reduce poaching in most countries.

But there is little agreement on how best to reconcile the needs of wildlife with those of farming communities. Some conservationists preach greater community involvement in wildlife management, or argue that limited commercial hunting can finance the protection of game.

For Fitzjohn, there are no concessions to be made. He is convinced that extreme and costly measures are needed to protect endangered species. In what he calls his "zoo speech", he advocates guarding black rhinos night and day in heavily-fortified sanctuaries. And that is precisely what he has done at Mkomazi, putting them behind electrified fences patrolled by armed rangers.

His uncompromising views have earned him enemies, not just sports hunters and commercial poachers, but also members of the local community. Fitzjohn and the Tanzanian wildlife authorities are currently embroiled in a legal dispute with Masai pastoralists claiming ancestral grazing rights at Mkomazi.

"If these people come in and start trashing the place, then we're going to go after them," warns Fitzjohn. "This is a protected area and they have no right to be here. People might think the Masai live in harmony with nature but they don't. They burn the bush, they over-graze the land with their herds and they put down poison carcasses to kill wild animals."

Also in conflict with Fitzjohn are shadowy figures in the Tanzanian government who stand to make fortunes if sports hunting is permitted on the reserve. Unlike neighbouring Kenya, Tanzania allows licensed game hunting.

"There are no ethics left in the hunting business," says Fitzjohn. "And where there's hunting there's corruption. It only takes some fat bastard waving a fistful of money and someone somewhere will bend the rules."

Fitzjohn's sanctuary, the only one in Tanzania, holds four rhinos and more are due to arrive this year.

"I'd love to end my days sitting by the Tana river at Kora, puffing my pipe like George - and making a difference like he did," muses Fitzjohn. "At the end of the day, I'd like to be able to say `thank you, I tried.' "