But lowland gorillas don’t live on this side of the river, and that can only mean a predator of a different sort is nearby.
I stay low, out of sight. Matthieu hears it, too. His body tenses, his eyes dart from side to side. Kibibi and Odette appear oblivious. Four men come into sight, and the bonobos skitter off into the forest. I fight the urge to join them.
Two of the men appear to be from a nearby village. Guides, I’m guessing. They are young, barely in their teens and wary looking. They know they aren’t supposed to be here.
The other two men, dressed in what look to be brand-new, expensive outdoor gear, whisper to each other in French. I can’t catch what they are saying, but they don’t look happy.
The reserve isn’t supposed to be open to visitors, and my first thought is they are up to no good. They could be big-game hunters or mixed up in the illegal wildlife trade.
I hear the metallic click of a gun being cocked. Through a wall of lacy leaves I see the gun being raised and pressed to the temple of one of the young guides. His friend begins to protest but is met with a backhanded crack to the cheek.
Suddenly, a loud pop fills the air, rousing a flock of rosy bee-eaters, their scarlet breasts bared as if in warning. One of the guides crumples to the ground, and the other cowers in terror. I stifle a scream. Smoke curls from the barrel of the gun.
It’s barely 10 a.m., and little sunlight reaches my skin through the thick foliage, so I pray I’m invisible to the men. But even in the shade of towering African oaks, red cedar, and mahogany trees, the heat presses down on me. Sweat rolls down my temple and tickles my ear. The vegetation is thick and dense, and umbrella trees loom over me like thousands of lurking beasts.
The man with the gun yanks the surviving guide to his feet, and they move more deeply along the path into the forest. The man on the ground is still.
As a doctor of anthropology, specifically a primatologist, I’ve dedicated my life to watching, observing, recording the movements of bonobos. For science, I’ve given up my home country, romantic relationships, and motherhood. But recently I’ve grown weary of my research. Something else is calling to me, and though I’m not sure exactly what that is, I’ve decided to go back to home to the Midwest and teach anthropology to idealistic young scientists until I figure it out. I hope I make it back home. I have no doubt that the man with the gun would dispose of me just as easily as he did the young guide.
I want to go back to where the four seasons mark the passing of time. In the fall I want to walk through piles of crisp jewel-colored leaves, and in the winter I want to wake up to a world enveloped in pristine white snow and a few months later wake up to robins on the lawn and crocuses peeking up through the newly thawed earth.
Today I’m supposed to be tracking Matthieu, a silly eight-year-old male who flirts unabashedly with the females in the reserve. My job is to observe and record what I see. Bonobos are known as the hippies of the primate world, living by the mantra of “make love, not war” and all that jazz. Unlike their close cousins, chimps and humans, bonobos do not kill their own.
As an infant, Matthieu was orphaned after his mother was killed for bushmeat and was found half-dead from starvation and grief. Matthieu was brought to Bone River Sanctuary, and he was lovingly nursed back to health by one of the Mamas, local women who become surrogate mothers to the orphans. Matthieu is one of our greatest success stories to date and one of our first bonobos released to live in the wildlife reserve not far from the sanctuary.
Of course I’ve seen the brutal, cruelty of nature. I have seen violent fights among the wildlife. But I’ve never witnessed anything as cold and calm as the way that man executed the young guide. This outright murder has made me sad and angry and even more ready to return home.
The men move slowly in my direction, and as they draw closer I can see that one of them looks vaguely familiar. He is barrel-chested, and his belly strains against the buttons of his khaki shirt. Wiry gray hair pokes out beneath his cap. His face is tanned and deeply creased, making it difficult to determine his age. I know I’ve seen him before, but I can’t put my finger on who he is. The other man isn’t familiar to me. He is tall, appears to be in his thirties, has a sharply angled face and close-set piercing eyes. Mean eyes. I would know if I’d ever seen those eyes before.
I lift the thirty-two-millimeter camera hanging around my neck and quickly snap several pictures of the men’s faces. The click of the camera catches the younger man’s attention, and his head jerks toward my hiding spot. I freeze. His mean eyes skim past me, and they start walking again.
I need to get to Dr. Ibori, the founder and director of Bone River. Dr. Ibori is the most intelligent man I’ve ever met and not just because he graduated from Université de Lubumbashi with a degree in psychology and then earned a doctorate in veterinary medicine from Iowa State University and a second doctorate in anthropology from Oxford. Kendi Ibori understands people. A rare combination that I admire enormously—a scientific mind and an empathetic one, too. And he has tried to teach me all he could. I’ve learned so much about the care of bonobos from him, but I continue to struggle to learn all he knows about understanding people, as well.
I tuck my field notebook into my rucksack and begin the five-kilometer hike back to Bone River. I move slowly and quietly, keeping an ear out for any sound of the men. Though I’ve worked and lived in the Congo for going on ten years now and am ready to leave, I never tire of the beauty of its flora: bauhinia galpinii with its schoolhouse brick-red blooms, feathery meadows of echinochloa, bright green tufts of papyrus, medicinal alchornea berries drooping in graceful bunches.
Two kilometers in, my attention is drawn to a soft mewling sound, and I step off the well-worn path that takes me back to the sanctuary. Lying among rotting leaves and feathery ferns is the crumpled form of an adult female bonobo. She is lying in a fetal position, her arms protectively covering her chest. At first I think she’s just resting, but as I look more carefully I see that her shoulders are rising and falling laboriously as if she’s in respiratory distress.
I take a few steps closer to get a better look at her face. Typical of most bonobos, her black face is framed by a generous head of hair parted down the middle. Her wide nostrils and thin pink lips open and close as if trying to gather air.
What is not normal are the large patches of hair that are missing from her body. I don’t recognize this bonobo. In fact, I know that I’ve never seen her in the reserve before. She blinks open her eyes and looks at me helplessly, her startlingly amber-colored eyes filled with pain.
It seems counterintuitive, I know, but I don’t go to assist her. The reserve is intended to be a safe place, free of poachers and hunters, for the bonobos to live as natural a life in the wild as possible. It does the species no good to have humans jumping in every time there is an injury or illness.
With great effort the bonobo shifts her body slightly, and to my surprise I see that her breasts are heavy with milk. But the bigger shock is the infant next to her who looks to be less than a year old. I can’t imagine how they could have appeared in the reserve with no fanfare. I guess the two could have wandered into the reserve on their own, but in all my time here that hasn’t happened. Bonobos have moved away from this small colony, but none have emigrated in. Perhaps this is a sign that the Bone River project has succeeded, with the bonobos thriving and eager to search out new environments. Still, I have my doubts.
The infant complicates things, but only a little bit. I still don’t believe I should intervene, but once I get back to the sanctuary and report the murder I will also tell Dr. Ibori about the ill bonobo. Perhaps he will dispatch a veterinarian to the site. I begin my retreat when the infant makes another desperate sound. I pause only momentarily and keep walking.
Again, a squawk. I turn back. The infant, a female, has ventured a few feet from her mother’s arms. She’s a tiny little thing and, like her mother, has
bald patches covering her body. Strange. She reaches her long, narrow fingers out toward me as if beckoning me to come pick her up. She’s not afraid of me, which could mean one of two things: She’s never encountered a human before and doesn’t know to be afraid, or she was rescued and has had consistent human contact.
The adult bonobo looks at me as I imagine only a frantic mother would. Pleading, begging. But for what? She gives her infant a feeble nudge toward me, but the baby scrambles back to the safety of her mother. Again she pushes the infant toward me. This time with more force. Is she asking me to take her baby? Remarkable.
I have to make a decision. The men could step into view any second now. I drop to my knees and hold out my arms. “Come here,” I whisper in English. The infant looks back at her mother, who bares her teeth at her little one as if saying, “Don’t you dare come back this way.”
There’s no more time. The men’s voices are now coming back around and closer. I hesitate. I shouldn’t intervene. It’s not nature’s way. Survival of the fittest and so on. I just need to get back to Bone River and alert the others to the situation.
I turn to leave when once again I hear male voices. “They went this way, I’m sure of it.” The adult bonobo moans in what I can only describe as fear. I don’t know what to do. They are coming closer.
“I know they were brought here,” the other male voice says. “I’ll be damned if she gets away with this.”
Without thinking, I sweep the infant into my arms and run.
“Hey!” a voice shouts. I’ve been seen. The infant clasps her thin arms around my neck and presses her nose against my throat. Her breath grazes against my skin in soft warm puffs.
“Hold on,” I whisper into the curve of her ear. I make an immediate decision and veer off the well-trodden path that will take us back to Bone River. The older man doesn’t look to be in the best of shape, and if I can get a good enough head start I can take the more direct, quicker route home.
I keep a protective hand on the infant’s head, blocking the sharp branches that strike us as I push past them, the thorny limbs lashing at my arms. I don’t dare waste time looking behind me. By taking this way, I’m shaving off about a kilometer, but I suddenly realize the futility of my plan. Of course, the remaining guide will know I’m from Bone River. Where else would a lone woman with a camera and a rucksack out in the middle of nowhere be from?
The closest village is more than fifteen kilometers away, and at any given time, the sanctuary serves as home to about a dozen scientists and researchers, and the guide would know this. Even if I get to the safety of the sanctuary ahead of them, they’ll know where to find me. I glance down at the infant, who smiles up at me. I know this isn’t a sign that she’s enjoying our little trek, but rather the grin, grimace really, is an indication that she is anxious. I frown back down at her. I know how she feels.
Bone River doesn’t have much in the way of security, a few guards who intermittently walk the perimeter of the thirty-square-kilometer facility, a few tree cameras mounted here and there, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually attacking any of the scientists or staff. Something very bad is going on in the reserve.
Though I’m in good physical shape, the afternoon heat and the uneven landscape are making my leg muscles burn. Sweat soaks my skin, making my grip on the infant precarious. I slow to a trot and turn and look back from where I’ve come. I don’t see anyone. Hopefully they’re long gone.
Breathing heavily, I bend at the waist, supporting the infant, who still has her arms around my neck in a death grip when the unmistakable crack of gunfire explodes in my ears. I start running again, this time zigzagging between trees in case they still have me in their gun sights. My mind scrambles to come up with a hiding place. There are all kinds of nooks and crannies in the forest. Gutted-out tree trunks I could climb into, a fallen tree I could crawl beneath, pulling mammoth leaves over the top of us. I’m too afraid to stop, though. If I can only get to Bone River, we’ll be safe.
Another gunshot echoes through the trees, this time not so close. I gradually slow my pace, trying to catch my breath. If they aren’t shooting at me, who are they shooting at? The remaining guide? The bonobos? My legs feel rubbery, and despite the lightness of the infant, my arms ache, but this isn’t the time to stop running for long.
————
By the time I make it to the gates of Bone River Sanctuary, my clothing is soaked in sweat, I’ve lost my hat along the way, and my hair is plastered to my skull. With dismay, I realize that I’ve also lost my rucksack with my field notes and my camera. Ngondu, the program manager who oversees the day-to-day operations of the sanctuary, stands at the gate. He squints into the intense sunlight as if trying to confirm what he is seeing. I must be a fright to look at. My arms and legs are dotted with blood where thorns and sharp branches have pierced my clothing and skin, I’m breathing heavily, and I look like I’ve taken a swim in the Monku’wa Mai. Then there’s the infant bonobo I’m clutching to my breast.
“Dr. Jensen?” Ngondu asks with concern as he unlatches the gate. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“A murder, in the reserve,” I manage to say through hitching breaths. “Poachers, maybe,” I say. “I don’t know.”
My appearance has alerted others. Several Mamas, the women who care for the rescued infant bonobos, rush out to join us. They each have at least one infant attached to a hip.
Delu, the Mama who has been here the longest, orders one of the newer caretakers to go and get me some water. Delu has told us she is in her eighties, but she looks much younger. She is lithe and has a serene presence that calms bonobos and humans alike. She, too, is holding an infant bonobo in her arms––Masikio, a year-old male with comically large ears, which is what his name means in Congolese.
Someone presses a cup of water into my hands, but I can’t drink. Not yet.
“Go inside,” I plead. “It’s not safe out here. Take the infants and go inside.”
Ngondu speaks French, one of the official languages of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, into his walkie-talkie. He is ordering patrols to begin their rounds. Armed.
“Where is Dr. Ibori?” I ask, looking around helplessly. “I need to talk to Dr. Ibori.”
Delu tells the other Mamas to return to the nursery. To me she says, “Come, let’s go to the infirmary. Get the little one checked out.” She nods at the infant, who, now that we’ve stopped moving, is shaking, her little limbs trembling with fright.
In a daze, I walk with her toward the infirmary, a concrete-block building where all the newly arrived bonobos are given a thorough exam and where all the ill primates receive medical care.
“I don’t know her,” Delu says. “She’s not one of ours.”
“I had to leave her mother in the forest. She’s injured or sick. Had missing patches of fur. Just like this one.”
“They wandered into the sanctuary?” Delu asks then shrugs. “Not totally unheard of, I guess. Female bonobos emigrate to find new troops, new homes.” Delu is right. To avoid inbreeding, females often travel and join new groups of bonobos to mate and begin their families.
“Where is Dr. Ibori?” I ask again. “Is someone calling him? Telling him what’s going on?”
“Ngondu will take care of it. Don’t worry,” Delu soothes.
Masikio twists in Delu’s arms to get a better look at the infant in mine. The infant, traumatized by the morning’s events, flinches and tries to make herself as small as possible. One of the staff veterinarians, Dr. VanHorn, a large imposing man in a white coat, approaches. The infant begins to squawk, and I can feel her heartbeat increase––a frantic tattoo thumping against my skin.
“Do you think it’s the white coat?” Dr. VanHorn asks.
“That or because you’re a man,” Delu says. “I’ve seen it before.” The vet wiggles out of his white jacket and tosses it aside and steps closer.
The infant screams in protest.
“She’s going to have a heart attack,” I say, gently rubbing her back. I whisper into her ear, “It’s going to be okay.”
“I’ll go get Dr. Jakande,” Dr. VanHorn says with resignation.
“You’re thinking that she and her mother are victims of animal trading?” I ask Delu.
“Maybe that’s why she’s afraid of Dr. VanHorn,” Delu muses. “She had a bad experience with human males.” I try to reconcile this with what I saw in the forest. We’d both seen it many times. Bonobos rescued from some animal trade network and brought to Bone River or another sanctuary to recover and to hopefully be released back into the wild. Animal trading is a big-money business, so it’s not hard to comprehend that it could lead to murder.
Masikio is getting restless and shimmies down Delu’s torso and to the ground and begins to wander around the infirmary in search of something to play with. His eyes land on the shiny chest piece of a stethoscope lying over the back of a chair. He picks it up and cautiously puts it to his lips.
“No, no, Masikio,” Delu says, holding out her hand, and Masikio reluctantly hands the stethoscope to her as Dr. Jakande steps into the room.
“What do you have here?” she asks, peering at the infant. This time the infant doesn’t cry out in fear but snuggles in closer to me and regards Dr. Jakande warily.
“I found her in the forest,” I say and again tell my story about the murder, about finding the infant and her mother, the gunshots and racing back here. “I feel like I’ve seen one of the men before. But I’ve never seen this bonobo before, or her mother. Could they have been released into the sanctuary by another rescue organization?” I ask.
Dr. Jakande shakes her head. “Not without my knowledge. All rescues must go through an isolation period to ensure they carry no communicable diseases.” She lays a hand on Masikio’s head; he is now rifling through Dr. Jakande’s examination coat pocket in search of the treats she keeps there for the young bonobos. “In fact, you should really take Masikio out of here. No need to take any chances.”
A Thousand Doors Page 18
