Jaguars, caimans and cowboys in the tropical wetlands of Brazil

As a child he was in love with the sunlight that glittered on the backs of caimans, and the giant anteaters that sashayed between the termite mounds. So, eventually, when he inherited a portion of that land, inspired by leopard safaris he had experienced in South Africa, he decided to focus on ecotourism. He invited in conservation organisations, including the Hyacinth Macaw Institute, which set up field offices. By 2011 things had started to gather speed. Klabin’s friend, Brazilian racing driver Mario Haberfeld, made a serious move into wildlife conservation. Impelled by a love of South African safaris, he was already promoting conservation NGOs on his helmets – so he launched Onçafari, headquartered on Klabin’s land, with the goal of studying, protecting and promoting the jaguar population.

Swimming with freshwater fish at Recanto Ecológico Rio da PrataGraeme Purdy

Jaguars were still a rare sighting in the Pantanal in 2011. In the 1960s, more than 10,000 jaguars were killed for their pelts every year in South America. “When we began the project, there was a small chance of seeing a jaguar at Caiman,” says Klabin. “Now it’s more than 90 per cent.” Estimates of the number of wild jaguars globally can vary greatly, from 15,000 to 173,000, but it’s believed that more than half of them live in Brazil. The Pantanal, through the efforts of Onçafari and other trailblazing organisations, has become the easiest place to spot them. The cats are habituated to the sounds of vehicles, and some are collared and tracked, meaning their life stories unfold for researchers. Onçafari has expanded to include other species, including the rare maned wolf. It now has two more reserves: São Francisco do Perigara, where the Amazon and the Pantanal meet, and Santa Sofia Reserve, which has plans afoot for tourism in the future.

One morning I throw on leather half-chaps and swing atop a palomino mare named Paloma to ride across the grasslands to join the cattle ranchers alongside Gabriel Salvador, a guide in his 20s. My eyes scan the horizon for a legendary cowboy and his lasso: Zé do Brejo – his name crudely translates to Joe of the Marsh – is a 76-year-old fourth-generation cattle rancher who still rises at the break of dawn to herd livestock. The Pantaneiros who ride beside me, berrante cow horns slung across their backs, know that the clop of our horses’ hooves will keep jaguars at a distance. Then I see Zé cracking a whip through the air, moving with a forcefulness that belies his age. For generations, his way of life has made use of a landscape that is naturally suited for cattle to roam and graze. It’s easy to question how humans, to blame for endangering natural environments, can be part of the solution, but the presence of Zé and his children on their horses is crucial. The cattle have an impact on the terrain, but they also offer motivation to leave spaces wide and open. For lodges such as Caiman, the aim is to coexist with cattle ranchers, but convince them to stop enlisting illegal jaguar hunters to protect their herd. Preserving the jaguars as apex predators safeguards the whole food chain and ecosystem. Salvador looks wistfully at the scene, and tells me that he worries that the ravages of climate change will have altered this landscape within 15 years.