CHIREDZI, Zimbabwe (AP) — Tembanechako Mastick and a group of men scanned bushes near their village in southeast Zimbabwe, on the hunt for the den of hyenas that had recently attacked livestock. Scattered fragments of goat bones showed the way, and Mastick peeped cautiously into a deep hole in the earth.

“They are probably gone from here, but not far because they see plenty of food in this area,” Mastick said. Some of his companions suggested sealing the hole, while others argued for trying to burn out any animals inside.

In the past, Mastick, 47, might have been willing. He grew up hunting in his community's tradition, and though he grew crops and raised livestock in later years, turned to poaching when recurring droughts made farming less viable. But then he was caught late last year taking small game in the nearby Save Valley Conservancy, one of the largest private game reserves in Africa, and spent nearly three months in jail, where he said a program aimed at turning poachers into conservationists changed his outlook.

At the hyena den, Mastick warned the others against killing animals, whether for meat or revenge. It's a message he's been giving since he was freed, urging his fellow villagers to rely on crops and livestock instead for food and income.

“I began to realize that animals are for the benefit of the entire community, so poaching is a selfish act," Mastick said in an interview. “I can kill a zebra today and eat it or sell the meat, but I am the only one who benefits. But if tourists come to view that same zebra, it is the entire community that benefits from the income.”

It's not an easy message to give. Across the southern African country, conflicts between humans and animals are increasing as wildlife habitat gets squeezed by repeated droughts, illegal hunting and tree-cutting, and conversion of forested areas into farmland.

In response, elephants raid and graze vegetable gardens irrigated from scarce well water. Lions, hyenas, wild dogs and jackals target cattle and goats — people’s only safeguard against hunger and extreme poverty after an El Nino-induced drought that withered corn and sorghum crops. Donkeys that are crucial for labor and public transport aren't safe from attacks, either.

Fencing for livestock is rudimentary, typically made from tree branches or sometimes thorny bushes. Villagers try to ward off animals by banging pots, beating drums or burning old tires or a foul-smelling “cake” made from dried cow dung, ground chiles and used oil.

The country's parks agency said it has gotten between 3,000 and 4,000 distress calls from communities battling nuisance animals in the past three years, which works out to an annual average that's up from 900 calls in 2018. The conflicts are likely to intensify as the country heads toward drier months ahead, said Tinashe Farawo, a spokesman for the Zimbabwe National Parks and Wildlife Management Authority.

It hasn’t always been like this.

Mastick recalls good times — bountiful harvests of corn, millet and cotton putting money in the pocket. Wild animals stayed in the forests.

“The only animals we encountered were the ones we hunted for meat. I grew up a hunter, I would set up a snare and in no time I would be collecting,” he recalled, holding the skull of a donkey in his hand, the only body part hyenas left behind after eating the animal.

He said problems started when the country embarked on a haphazard land reform program in 2000 that saw people settling in wildlife territory, including setting up farming plots inside the conservancy. Save Valley Conservancy, named for the river it borders, says it has lost more than 30 percent of the wildlife habitat on its 750,000 acres (303,514 hectares). Meanwhile, droughts devastated the grasslands and forests around Mastick's village.

“Before that we barely had altercations with lions. It was taboo because wildlife was abundant. But due to the famine, lions began targeting our livestock. Elephants also became a problem, hyenas too,” he said.

Grazing land for livestock became inadequate. People from neighboring villages now routinely cross the shallow and largely sandy bed of the once-roaring Save River with donkey-drawn carts carrying wood illegally logged from the conservancy, further depleting wildlife habitat.

Dingani Masuku, the community liaison manager for Save Valley Conservancy said “there is a link” with climate change, noting that the area is one of the country’s driest and hardest-hit regions.

“All resources are scarce. So we have to compete (with animals) for those resources. We are competing for everything actually,” he said. “The resources are getting leaner and leaner … the animals have to get where there are people and they look for survival in there.”

In Chiredzi, a semi-arid area about 500 kilometers from the capital of Harare, Mastick often has to calm infuriated villagers.

Mastick understands the pain of losing livestock. He starts each day by counting his own cattle, goats and donkeys. He once had 45 goats; now he has only 10, the rest eaten by wild animals. Some of his surviving animals bear the marks of attacks. Mastick does, too — his body is riddled with animal bites, including lacerations from a leopard attack he encountered while on an illegal hunt.

“Without crop harvests we have to turn to livestock to raise money for school fees, food and other necessities so people are justified to be angry," he said at his homestead – a few mud houses whose grass thatching is falling off. “But I help them understand that killing the animals is not a solution.”

Part of his message is that jail is difficult. Mastick said his family suffered greatly while he was behind bars since he was the only breadwinner; some of his 20 children stopped going to school.

But he learned new skills while in jail, including carpentry, which now provides his living. At his workshop, he uses tree branches and dry palm tree leaves to make chairs and tables that are a hit with tourists and locals. The workshop is often a hive of activity with men milling around, some learning the trade so they can try to eke out their own living. Mastick uses the platform to spread awareness. He also speaks at village gatherings such as funerals and community meetings.

There's no hard data on poaching in the region, but Mastick said the number of men poaching from his village has fallen since he began his efforts.

Masuku said Mastick's past gives him credibility.

“People know that he has been through it, he has been there and that poaching does not pay and that is why he is reforming,” Masuku said. “His new line of work as a carpenter is also helping inspire others that they can lean on something other than poaching to survive.”

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