“There they are!” exclaimed Howard G. Buffett, the Illinois corn farmer, philanthropist and down-home son of one of the world’s richest men, as he steered his dusty Toyota Land Cruiser toward a pair of nature’s fastest and most majestic creatures.
Orion and Titan — cheetahs bought at US$2,000 apiece for the cheetah conservation reserve Buffett established here — sat smack in the middle of the dirt road. They licked each other’s faces and ambled languorously into the bush. Then one of them scented prey. His elegant body elongated into a tensile creep, the tip of his tail twitching.
“He’s on to something,” Buffett whispered. “Look how he’s moving.”
The cheetah’s crouch became a lope, but he pulled up suddenly at an electrified fence that keeps him from straying onto the adjoining game hunting farm. The ungainly ostrich he was stalking stood on the other side, blinking stolidly at the bewildered cat.
“You idiot!” Buffett said with a hearty guffaw. “You thought you could get that!”
Despite his affection for Orion and Titan, Buffett’s recent drive through the Jubatus Cheetah Reserve is likely to be among his last. He has decided to sell the 2,428-hectare of bush in Limpopo province, along with the rhinos, giraffes and zebras that ramble through it. He will try to relocate the cheetahs.
The reserve was his original philanthropic stake in Africa and his most sizable commitment to animal conservation. Once it is gone, he will complete his evolution from a man galvanized by an enthusiasm for cheetahs, polar bears and mountain gorillas to one consumed by a desire to help the poorest people: African farm families, starving children and victims of conflict.
The making of this accidental philanthropist — the accidental part being his birth as the son of the legendary investor Warren E. Buffett — is an American tale of wealth and conscience passed on to a second generation. The elder Buffett, 79, did not believe in giving his money to his children to spend on themselves, but decades ago he did begin preparing them to give some of it away.
When Buffett, now 54, was in his early 30s, his father set up a foundation so each of his children could give away US$100,000 a year. Howard, who grew up watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, now calls this “the small money” — he used it to support a bear rehabilitation center and mountain lion research, among other things.
Then a decade ago, as the family sat around a Christmas tree, Warren and Susan Buffett told their children they were giving each of them US$35 million to donate to the causes of their choice. “Go and do good things,” Howard recalls his father telling them. The son said his father had gently challenged him at times about his focus on conservation, but never told him how to spend the money.
It was not until 2006, after his wife’s death in 2004, that the elder Buffett announced that he was giving away the bulk of his fortune, US$31 billion, to the foundation set up by Bill and Melinda Gates. But he also committed about US$1 billion worth of stock to each of his children for charitable giving.
Asked if he resented the huge gift to the Gates foundation, Buffett said, “I’m not going down that road,” and let loose with a belly laugh.
Buffett’s engagement with Africa began serendipitously in the late 1990s, when he began coming to South Africa on business as a partner in a company that sold grain silos. Back home, flipping through television channels, he caught a program on cheetahs. “I’m watching the credits and I see it’s in South Africa,” he said.
He then embarked on a decade of work to build a reserve that aimed to be a center of cheetah research and conservation, but said the results had been disappointing. He said he had hoped to establish that cheetahs could thrive on small private reserves without depleting expensive game stocks. But he found that the cats killed for sport, even when they were so stuffed from feasting on prey that they practically waddled. And the research did not take off. A state-of-the-art laboratory on the reserve sits unused.
“There are a lot of politics, a lot of turf, a lot of egos, and I think also part of it was that I’m an outsider,” he said.
But Buffett’s connection to the dun-and-olive landscape of Limpopo has become part of the campaign against hunger his foundation is engaged in across Africa. It has paid for 3,723 hectares of farmland not far from the cheetah reserve. Plant researchers there are now developing drought-tolerant varieties of maize.
And Buffett, who spends so much time in South Africa that he has permanent residency, is driving one of those auto-steer tractors he loves into the fields, planting crops that he hopes will yield improved seeds for African farmers.
A Republican and a farmer, he has a maverick take on the continent’s agricultural challenges — for example, he is a skeptic about subsidies for seed and fertilizer. In recent years, his foundation, which accepts no unsolicited proposals, has added ambitious projects related to clean water and increased farm productivity.
But so far Buffett’s approach has not reached a broad audience. His foundation has no Web site and a staff of only eight. And he does not go to conferences where experts debate policy.
“I don’t see him and his ideas out there very much,” said Julie Howard, executive director of the Washington-based Partnership to Cut Hunger and Poverty in Africa. “He’s not reclusive, but he’s a kind of to-the-ground person.”
That US assistance was a model for Taiwan’s spectacular development success was early recognized by policymakers and analysts. In a report to the US Congress for the fiscal year 1962, former President John F. Kennedy noted Taiwan’s “rapid economic growth,” was “producing a substantial net gain in living.” Kennedy had a stake in Taiwan’s achievements and the US’ official development assistance (ODA) in general: In September 1961, his entreaty to make the 1960s a “decade of development,” and an accompanying proposal for dedicated legislation to this end, had been formalized by congressional passage of the Foreign Assistance Act. Two
Despite the intense sunshine, we were hardly breaking a sweat as we cruised along the flat, dedicated bike lane, well protected from the heat by a canopy of trees. The electric assist on the bikes likely made a difference, too. Far removed from the bustle and noise of the Taichung traffic, we admired the serene rural scenery, making our way over rivers, alongside rice paddies and through pear orchards. Our route for the day covered two bike paths that connect in Fengyuan District (豐原) and are best done together. The Hou-Feng Bike Path (后豐鐵馬道) runs southward from Houli District (后里) while the
March 31 to April 6 On May 13, 1950, National Taiwan University Hospital otolaryngologist Su You-peng (蘇友鵬) was summoned to the director’s office. He thought someone had complained about him practicing the violin at night, but when he entered the room, he knew something was terribly wrong. He saw several burly men who appeared to be government secret agents, and three other resident doctors: internist Hsu Chiang (許強), dermatologist Hu Pao-chen (胡寶珍) and ophthalmologist Hu Hsin-lin (胡鑫麟). They were handcuffed, herded onto two jeeps and taken to the Secrecy Bureau (保密局) for questioning. Su was still in his doctor’s robes at
Mirror mirror on the wall, what’s the fairest Disney live-action remake of them all? Wait, mirror. Hold on a second. Maybe choosing from the likes of Alice in Wonderland (2010), Mulan (2020) and The Lion King (2019) isn’t such a good idea. Mirror, on second thought, what’s on Netflix? Even the most devoted fans would have to acknowledge that these have not been the most illustrious illustrations of Disney magic. At their best (Pete’s Dragon? Cinderella?) they breathe life into old classics that could use a little updating. At their worst, well, blue Will Smith. Given the rapacious rate of remakes in modern
RSS