Kindred Beings

by Sheri Speede

  Minta had no phone lines, so we took a chance that the D.O. would be there, and we got lucky. We found Mr. Ndang Ndang Albert, a stocky, slightly balding man in his midthirties, in his home just behind his office. His house was made of plastered concrete blocks and was cool and comfortable inside. In the living room, where he received us, the maroon-colored concrete floor was partially covered by a large, pretty Asian-style rug, which was a subdued hue of dark blue with swirls of small multicolored flowers. He invited us to sit on an upholstered brown couch, while he sat kitty-corner to us on a chair covered with the same fabric. I imagined the effort he, or someone, had expended to get the furniture and rug to Minta. He offered us Cokes, which were room temperature and still tasted like nectar of the gods to us. In a meeting that lasted no more than half an hour, he promised that he would welcome our sanctuary as a form of development in his impoverished rural district.

  Happy with our accomplishment, Estelle and I headed toward Yaoundé under clear, blue skies. We had found our sanctuary site.

  Six

  Shackled

  En route from the Mbargue Forest, we decided to make a stop at Luna Park Hotel in the town of Obala, just an hour outside of Yaoundé. Karl Ammann had told us that two adult female chimpanzees were held on chains there. It was shortly before dusk when we crept up the long dirt driveway of the hotel in the 1990 blue Pajero, which in spite of its age would have been shiny and pretty without the thick coating of dried red-brown mud that clung to the lower half, and the same-colored dust that coated the rest. We stared out in wide-eyed anticipation through the half circles that had been cleaned by recently replaced windshield wipers and most of a reservoir of wiper fluid.

  “Can you see them?” I asked Estelle. As I drove toward the cluster of buildings at the end of the driveway, Estelle scanned the landscaped lawn for two chimpanzees.

  “There’s a big baboon on a chain,” Estelle answered. Then, moments later, “There’s one of the chimpanzees! A big adult.” Estelle looked to the right through a place she had cleaned on her window. “And there’s another smaller chimp behind her.”

  As I steered the slow-rolling Pajero, I took a quick look. The two chimpanzees, chained in the shadows, were separated from each other by an expanse of grass. They were much too far apart to touch each other.

  Fifty yards ahead I parked the Pajero in the gravel parking area to the right of the driveway, and we walked across the driveway to the hotel office to rent a room. Adjoining the office was an open-air restaurant, and on the opposite side of the restaurant was a covered sunken veranda. As we approached the office, we veered casually toward the veranda to count seven skinny juvenile monkeys of several species tied by short ropes around their waists to the vertical supporting columns of the veranda’s roof. Diners in the restaurant could look down to see the monkeys, and the monkeys could see them eating. As we watched, some monkeys sat despondent and others darted about anxiously in all directions as far as their ropes would allow.

  Luna Park Hotel was the only visitor attraction in the small town of Obala. We had learned that a Senegalese family owned the hotel, and that it had been a popular destination for well-to-do Cameroonians for decades. On weekends, wealthy politicians and businessmen brought wives and children to have lunch, fish in the small river that ran through the center of the vast, manicured hotel grounds, and laugh at the monkeys. Most people didn’t distinguish between monkeys and chimpanzees, although the contrast was stark. As tailless great apes, chimpanzees are much closer to humans than they are to monkeys.

  We rented a room and found our number on a door in the long, narrow, single-story building. The room was starkly furnished with two single beds, two wooden bedside tables, and a simple wooden wardrobe for clothes. The baby-blue walls were bare of anything but a few dirt smudges, and the only light came from a single bulb in the center of the ceiling. The bedding looked clean, and the bathroom had cold running water and a flushing toilet. I hated cold showers, but any running water seemed a luxury, and it was enough to satisfy us. We dropped our backpacks on the beds and rushed back out, eager to see the chimpanzees.

  We hurried back to the Pajero to pick up two big plastic shopping bags of bananas and papayas, and another of unshelled peanuts, all of which we had bought from several small villages en route from Minta. With our heavy loads of fruit and peanuts distributed between us, we walked back down the driveway of the Luna Park Hotel to meet the two chimpanzees before dark.

  We walked toward the bigger chimpanzee, closest to the driveway, depositing the bags in the grass before going as close as we dared. The chimpanzee was overweight and sat almost motionless within the barren circle of dirt, where no grass would grow, at the base of a big moabi tree. In the dusk, it was hard to see her dark face clearly, and my eyes were drawn to the heavy-gauge chain with its oversize padlock shining in the twilight against the black hair of her neck. The chain led from her neck to the trunk of the tree, the end looped around the tree and linked back to itself with another padlock.

  I tried to guess the length of the chain from the coil on the dirt, wanting to get as close as possible without going within her reach. We didn’t know her temperament.

  “I’m guessing about three yards of chain,” I said to Estelle. She nodded and we walked a few steps closer before we squatted about four yards from the chimpanzee. We could confirm that she was female, and we could make out the features of her face. Her fully alert brown eyes met mine and held them. Her long black face was beautiful.

  “Hey, girl. We’re here to help you,” I called to her.

  Estelle panted softly in greeting, and the chimp’s gaze shifted to her. She was curious, but she didn’t move. She didn’t seem to expect much good to come her way from us, but after a few moments she looked away from Estelle’s face and cocked her head to look directly at the plastic bags in the grass two yards behind where we now squatted.

  “What’s in the bags?” the chimpanzee seemed to ask. Her meaning was obvious.

  Estelle walked back to retrieve a bag of bananas. When she pulled out several, the chimpanzee moved quickly toward us, causing us to jump back reflexively, although we were already out of her reach. Standing upright on her two legs, she looked even bigger than before. She grimaced in excitement, baring her teeth, as her high-pitched, pleading vocalizations stuck wet and garbled in her throat, almost like she was choking. She reached out both arms toward the bananas, but before Estelle had time to give them to her, she pulled her hands back in close to her chest and began flopping them rapidly up and down. Chimpanzees can be quite melodramatic in their expressions of need and frustration, but there was a quality of hysteria and desperation in this chimpanzee that was heart wrenching and scary at the same time. It spoke of needs unmet for far too long. Estelle tossed her the first banana, which she caught easily in her right hand. Immediately silent, she held out her left hand to catch another that Estelle threw. It was a practiced skill. As she sat down to peel the first banana quite delicately and deliberately, in stark contrast to her urgent, frenetic appeal just moments before, her sweet grunts of contentment relaxed and delighted Estelle and me. When she was eating her second banana, Estelle walked closer, stretching out her arm to offer her two more. Without getting up, momentarily holding the banana she was eating between her lips, she used both her hands to gently accept the bananas from Estelle’s hand.

  From the time we arrived with the bags of fruit, I was aware of the other, smaller chimpanzee moving left and right, back and forth close to the brick wall that bordered the hotel, about twenty yards from where we were standing. I noticed that a few pieces of zinc roofing material extended from the brick wall over her head to provide some minimal shelter from the sun and rain. As I approached the chimpanzee with four bananas connected by a single stalk, she stretched her shackle to its limit, holding out one begging hand toward me, while the fingers of her other hand encircled the loop of chain around her neck to relieve the pressure. The chain, only about four feet long, tether
ed her to a two-foot-diameter concrete slab, level with the dirt in which it was anchored. Staying out of her reach, I held out the bananas. She snatched them from my hand and retreated slightly to gain some slack in the chain before sitting and peeling one. While she ate, I walked a little closer and squatted to get my head on a level with hers and get a better look. I saw that this chimpanzee was an adult, too, but she was tiny compared to the first—small of stature and painfully thin, with grayish hair. After she devoured the first two bananas, she paused for a second or two to look at me. Her bottom lip hung open, revealing pale gums, and brown, stained teeth. It was clear that she was anemic and malnourished. The light was dim, but I could see what appeared to be diarrhea smeared across the concrete and in the surrounding wet dirt. There was no food debris, which made me suspect she was given very little to eat.

  Walking back to the bags for more fruit, I saw the big chimp politely take half of a big papaya from Estelle’s hand and place it neatly beside the small banana pile in front of her—grunting and smacking happily as she peeled and ate another banana.

  I took four more bananas and the other half of the papaya and returned to the small girl. She sat with her knees bent, her feet pidgin-toed and flat on the ground, chewing on the last of the four bananas. When I approached her with the additional fruit, she placed a protective hand over the banana peels she had collected in a pile close to her outer thigh. She must have been saving them for later. Without getting up, she reached out her bony arm three times in quick succession to twice take two bananas and then the papaya as I held them out for her. She placed the bananas in the protected small space between her feet while she started on the papaya—my first indication that papaya was her favorite.

  Finally, Estelle and I put neat piles of peanuts within reach of each chimp, careful not to scatter them, since the rapidly approaching darkness would make foraging difficult.

  We had saved bananas, a papaya, and some peanuts for all the monkeys. Estelle took food to the skinny adult baboon, whom we could see pacing frantically on his chain closer to the driveway entrance, and I took some back to all the small monkeys tied on the veranda.

  The monkeys, who were all too thin, snatched the fruit I held out for them as though I might change my mind about giving it to them. As they gobbled the fruit, they used their small hands and feet to protect the peanuts I placed in front of them. I so wished we could get these monkeys out of here, too, but I knew that none of their species were considered to be in danger of extinction and that laws protecting them were much more lax. Although there had been little enforcement, it was illegal under Cameroon law for private individuals or businesses to keep endangered species, including chimpanzees, in captivity. On the other hand, it was legal for them to keep these monkeys as long as they bought permits. As sad as the plights of these monkeys were, we were building a chimpanzee sanctuary, and we would focus on rescuing the chimpanzees. At least for now.

  After all the food was distributed, I hurried into the bar of the hotel to buy two bottles of water, because the chimps didn’t have water containers near them and it was too dark for us to search about for any. After pouring a small amount of water into a chewed-up plastic bowl Estelle had found for the adult baboon, and a small amount into seven bowls I found scattered around the veranda for the small monkeys, we gave one half-full bottle to each chimpanzee. They both lifted the bottles and drank eagerly.

  By this time, it was too dark to see without our flashlights. Dusk in this part of the world is short, and night comes quickly. Cameroon is located just north of the equator, which means we have close to twelve hours and thirty minutes of light every day, with little variation. Estelle and I were exhausted and hungry. I sensed, rather than actually saw, the chimpanzees watching us as we walked along the dimly lit driveway toward the hotel restaurant. For the first of many times to come, I felt an aching pang of guilt in my freedom to walk away and leave them.

  At the restaurant Estelle and I split a big, slightly chilled bottle of 33 Export, one of the heavily advertised beers brewed by a company owned in part by Cameroon’s president, and ate spaghetti omelets and French fries. We learned from the waiter that the bigger chimpanzee was Dorothy, and the small one Nama. He told us the manager of the hotel, who was one of the sons of the owner, would be there the next morning.

  We ate fast and went to our room. Estelle braved a cold shower, but I decided to skip it and go straight to bed, despite feeling dirty from the long drive. I was exhausted. Being prone, even on the worn, lumpy foam mattress, was a relief, although sleep didn’t come to me until hours later. I obsessed about Dorothy and Nama sleeping on the hard dirt outside. Would we manage to take them away from here? We hadn’t even built the sanctuary yet, and I didn’t know how long it would take. Could we move quickly enough to save Nama, who was obviously sick? Could I help her with medical treatment even before we would be able to move her? Would this Senegalese family that was actively collecting primates agree to let us take the chimpanzees from here? What kind of struggle could we face with these hotel owners? Would the Ministry of the Environment and Forestry be willing and able to stand up to them? The patriarch of the family had ties to Cameroon’s former head of state and was considered politically powerful. However, I thought with a glimmer of optimism, the former head of state died in exile after the current president took power. I wondered if the family was connected in any way to the present administration. On and on my thoughts ran, until sometime after two o’clock I finally fell asleep.

  Estelle woke me early. We dressed quickly, grabbed bottles of Coke from the restaurant because we didn’t want to take the time for coffee—we knew the restaurant wouldn’t have paper to-go cups—and said a quick hello to Dorothy and Nama before rushing to the market in Obala to buy food for them. Someone had given them each a pile of palm nuts, which are high in saturated fat and therefore not good for them. Dorothy’s pile was much bigger than Nama’s, but neither chimp ate them with much relish.

  Obala’s open-air market was about three-quarters of a mile from the turnoff to the Luna Park Hotel driveway and only a block from the paved road that led to Yaoundé. Its façade was a row of ten gray ancient-looking wooden stalls perched side by side on packed brown dirt. Each was crammed with a variety of colorful fresh produce, hawked by cheerful, mostly female vendors. Behind the first row of stalls were several additional rows of tables, made of the same worn gray wood, but without walls. A patched, rusting corrugated zinc roof hung over the tables, with gaping open spaces that let in light. Estelle haggled in French over the prices of fruit with the women along the first row, and since my presence was providing no benefit to the process, I wandered through the back alleys of the market.

  The back rows had less of the fresh fruits and vegetables and more dried foods—big metal basins of corn for grinding into flour, shelled peanuts (called groundnuts in Cameroon), red beans, white beans, soybeans, and melon seeds. Table after table had the same things. Laid out beside the basins on some of the tables was an assortment of dried spices I hadn’t seen outside of Africa and didn’t have any idea how to use. Most of the women spoke to me as I browsed their tables, trying to convince me I needed to buy one thing or another. “No, merci. Je ne parle pas français.” No, thank you. I don’t speak French. Accompanied by a smile, it was my standard response. However, I had practiced this one phrase enough that it sounded like I really did know how to speak a little French, so people kept talking to me. “Je ne comprende pas!” I don’t understand! It was my other practiced phrase.

  The last row of Obala’s market was dedicated to meat. Several tables were covered with the smelly fly-covered flesh and bone of domestic animals. A table on the end had stacks of smoked bushmeat—blackened body parts of various forest animals, many unrecognizable. Perusing the table, I identified several limbs of small monkeys, but nothing that looked like chimpanzee or gorilla parts. On the dirt beside this table was the freshly killed bushmeat. Laid out on their sides were two putty-nosed monkey
s—sweet-looking little guenons with gray-black hair and brightly contrasting white noses—who had been shot and probably died quickly. Beside the monkeys was the body of a small dark-gray antelope called a blue duiker, who had suffered long—one delicate leg, broken and twisted, told the story of his panicked, futile thrashing in a trap. And beside the duiker was the freshest bushmeat of all. A juvenile dwarf crocodile, slightly more than a yard long with his short front legs tied tightly behind his back, was still breathing. His legs were already swollen and purplish from lack of circulation. As I squatted beside him, he opened his eyes slightly wider, and I was careful not to get close to his mouth. I wanted to help him, but how? Even if I could free him, he would lose his legs. He could not survive now. I could buy him and show him the mercy of a quick death, but I didn’t really know how to kill a crocodile. I remembered the machete in the truck, but I wasn’t even sure where to hit him. The underside of the neck would be best, I supposed, but how many strikes would it take? I surely didn’t trust my aim with a machete, and while my intention would be to end the crocodile’s suffering, I might end up causing him more. Also, I knew very well that it wasn’t wise to reinforce the hunting trade by purchasing bushmeat. Stand up and walk away, I willed myself. In the United States, most animal cruelty was hidden from public view behind locked doors. In this country, where it was overt and ubiquitous, I needed discipline and a more callous heart to stay focused on my mission. Wishing him a fast death and reassuring myself that his brain was very small, I left the crocodile to whatever his fate would be.

  Since I had taken the keys with me, Estelle was forced to wait for me outside the Pajero. “What the hell were you doing? It’s hot out here,” she complained loudly and legitimately. She couldn’t come find me, carrying all the heavy fruit she had bought.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. Sorry for keeping her waiting in the heat. Sorry for leaving the crocodile to a slow death, choosing the easy route for myself.