Tsitsikamma National Park on the Garden Route is the oldest protected area of its kind in Africa, but behind the idyllic image is a complicated reality.
For decades this marine protected area has been the centre of a policy battle: how to balance protection of its biodiversity with the survival of those who live off the sea.
Edward Bernardo, 72, has lived there all his life and is part of the Tsitsikamma Angling Forum. For about 40 years, he has fished the waters under shifting rules and restrictions. “I must go to sea because I must feed my family,” he says. “If SANParks [South African National Parks] opens more safe areas for us, young and old can fish and live, instead of sitting at home with no work.”
The protected area was declared in 1964, the first in Africa. In its early years, says SANParks scientist Kyle Smith, the philosophy was bluntly preservationist, “rooted in the idea that ecosystems could only be protected if people were locked out”. By the late 1970s, fishing was reduced to a single area. In 1978, protest letters began landing on official desks — the start of what would become a cycle of petitions, rejections and resentment.
Democracy in 1994 promised change, but little shifted. “Tsitsikamma is a case study of how policy failure accumulates,” Smith says. “Each ignored request eroded trust. By the 2000s, there was a substantial breakdown between conservation authorities and local communities.”
For those catching the fish, the politics translated into hunger. Park manager Pat Bopape acknowledges the social consequences of blanket bans. “When access was closed, some young people, because they had nothing else to do, turned to drugs and crime,” she says.
After years of petitions, a ministerial team in 2014 reopened the debate. By 2016, new regulations allowed limited fishing in three zones covering about 20% of the protected area. Access was controlled: only registered residents of Kou-Kamma municipality with permits could fish, under strict species, bag and time restrictions. Between 2016 and mid-2025, 601 anglers registered, though fewer than 200 signed up in any one year. Fishing was low: most anglers fished fewer than five times a year, mainly on weekends, with just under 4,000 fishing trips logged in eight years.
Catches were dominated by small-bodied species such as blacktail and strepie — less vulnerable to overfishing than slow-growing reef species such as red roman. “The fishery is dynamic and still maturing,” Smith says. “But compliance is high. Our patrols show lower illegal fishing rates inside the protected area than outside. That’s encouraging.”
Effectiveness must be measured not only by ecological gains but also by whether communities see benefits and accept the rules Kyle Smith
— Kyle Smith
For decades, the protected areas were justified on ecological grounds: more fish, bigger fish, greater diversity inside boundaries, with spillover to adjacent areas. But Smith says the human dimensions — equity, rights, governance and livelihoods — are equally critical. “If the protected areas are implemented inequitably, they can encounter resistance and lead to social injustice,” he says. “Effectiveness must be measured not only by ecological gains but also by whether communities see benefits and accept the rules.”
The principle of “inclusive conservation” has become central to SANParks’s strategy. According to Bopape, 85% of Tsitsikamma’s staff come from local communities, with about 300 temporary workers and 50 monitors employed through public works and biodiversity programmes. Tourism remains the park’s economic backbone, with 300,000 visitors annually.
SANParks is giving 22 young people fishing instruction, gear worth R90,000 procured, and mentoring from older anglers provided. Another 10 are being trained for skipper’s licences. “It’s about keeping traditional knowledge alive while creating pathways into the blue economy,” said Phokela Lebea of SANParks.
Yet trust remains fragile. Smith notes that community petitions have become more frequent, reflecting impatience with slow policy shifts. Youth participation in fishing remains low, and frustration over limited access lingers. Lebea says SANParks is embedding safeguards: “Private-sector partnerships in tourism or fisheries must have transparent benefit-sharing models. Inclusive conservation means jobs, equity and resilience — not only biodiversity.”
Tsitsikamma’s experiment is being watched. For the government, it aligns with Operation Phakisa, the national plan to unlock the ocean economy. For conservationists, it is a test of whether South Africa can move beyond fortress-style protection towards models that blend ecology with livelihoods. For fishermen like Bernardo, the equation is simpler: “If I can catch fish and feed my family, life is better; if I can’t, people struggle.”
Between the science, the policies and the protests, Tsitsikamma remains a blueprint, however fragile, for the protection of the oceans and the people who depend on them.
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