by John Fowler
The text identified the creature as Cricetomys gambianus, and described it as being up to eighteen inches long and weighing up to two pounds. The field guide provided other insight: “The Giant Rat often lives in cultivated areas and in gardens, though it rarely enters houses.” Except mine, I thought. “Mostly nocturnal . . . Very docile and becoming tame in captivity, the Giant Rat makes a charming pet. It is much prized as food by Africans.” Ugh! As a child, I had a rat as a pet, but just a fraction of the size, and they didn’t repulse me, but I couldn’t imagine eating one, even though this rat had finished off most of the little bit of food I had left to survive on.
It was porter day, and my first chance to order provisions. I counted out the correct amount of Rwandan francs to cover the cost of the items I had written on my shopping list, and stuffed them into an envelope. I also wanted to get a quick letter written to Terry Maple and one to my parents in Virginia. It was my first chance to let people back home know I had arrived at Karisoke.
At last, I had someone I could vent my frustrations to. I was uncertain about how much I should tell my parents for fear that my mom would worry about me, so I wrote to Terry first. On a piece of camp-issue typing paper I quickly wrote him a letter describing my relationship with Dian to date:
Dian is every bit the tough cookie people say she is. She’s really miserable and likes to make those around her miserable also. Everyone seems to think she’s particularly miserable because she has to leave. Dian just can’t handle hectic situations no matter how minor. I really don’t see how she’s going to cope with teaching a class back in the states. She’s really been pampered up here at the Research Centre and does things her way.
We really have to humor her and pamper her, especially at night when we go to her cabin for meals. Everyone has to act busy or she gets really P-Oed. Peter and I in particular share the brunt of her wrath. I don’t know what I did to make her feel this way, but she has told me that I am very selfish and care only about my belly! Just about everything I say is shot down by her and when she speaks to me she’s very condescending. She also says I am young and stupid like Peter was when he came . . .
She hasn’t said anything about your letter and [research] proposal, and one does not ask, especially me. But the mother-infant [study] opportunity is up for grabs and Dian has acquired a ~33-month-old infant from poachers. Carolyn will be studying the infant and I will probably be studying Nunkie’s Group with about 6 infants, and we will compare data and alternate duties occasionally. I hope that sounds satisfactory. Well, I’ve got to go now. This morning I’m going to make a long hike with Peter to see Group 5.
Peter had stopped at my cabin and was waiting at my doorway as I stamped and addressed the envelope to Dr. Maple’s office at Georgia Tech. I would have to write to my parents later and send it out on the next porter day. Peter handed me an altimeter and a panga he had managed to get from Dian, and gave me a crash course on using them. The altimeter was made of gray plastic and about the size of a cigarette pack with a dial and needle that pointed to numbered graduated lines: nine thousand, ten thousand, eleven thousand—standing in my cabin’s doorway, the needle read ten thousand feet. Noticing the way Peter wore his, I hung my altimeter around my neck. I gathered my compass, clipboard, and waterproof paper and stuffed them in my backpack.
“Oh, should I bring my camera?” I asked.
“Uh, no . . . you won’t need it,” Peter responded. “Better just leave it here.”
I had meant to put my camera in my backpack already, but at Peter’s response I didn’t retrieve it.
“Baraqueza!” Peter called out to one of the men sitting around their fire in front of Stuart’s end of the cabin.
“Eh, tugende?” Baraqueza asked.
“Ndio tugende.” Peter said, and Baraqueza joined us with his characteristic goofy grin. It was 8:30, and with the swish-swish sound of our plastic rain pants, the three of us trod down the path away from camp to look for Group 5 on Mount Visoke. The chilly morning mists were lifting and the warm sun was beginning to shine through.
The climb up Visoke was as arduous as the day before, but not having to carry luggage to the bottom first, I had a little more energy to make the climb up Visoke from the small meadow on the tourist trail. Perhaps I was adjusting to the high altitude oxygen levels too. Although Baraqueza and Peter led the way, I used my new panga to cut through the dense vegetation on the mountain slope. Before long, I grew accustomed to the sting of nettles, that is until I had my first brush with the much more potent elephant nettle.
With one inattentive swing of my panga, I slammed my right hand straight into the needle-laden stem and leaves of one of the menacing plants.
“Owww . . . SHIT!” It felt like a cluster of bee stings. Small bumps instantly rose from the red rash forming on the back of my right hand. Instinctively, I sucked on the welts, but it made no difference. The tall elephant nettle toggled mockingly back and forth, a thousand fluid-filled spines on each large heart-shaped leaf. I hacked at it vengefully and it sliced in half. Its top portion fell against my other hand in one last attack. Shit! More stinging bumps and a red rash on my left hand too. I would later learn that these were the nettles Dian used to torture captured poachers in what she called her “nettle lashing routines,” slapping their bare testicles with the needle-covered stalks. Peter and Baraqueza stopped and looked back to see if I was okay before we continued on. As they did so, I tried to stifle my gasping for air at such altitude.
Group 5 had moved a great distance from where Peter had left them the day before, so we had to trudge in a wide arc across the side of the mountain in our attempt to relocate the gorillas. I tripped and stumbled to keep up with my cohorts who moved nimbly over the undergrowth.
After traveling up and across slope for nearly three hours, Baraqueza spotted Group 5’s trail. He and Peter studied the crushed vegetation and dry gorilla dung. Each lobe was desiccated but not too decomposed and the once white vernonia sap of the nesting material was brown, but not too dark. This was yesterday’s trail. Peter noted the altitude at which we found it, and I did the same—10,600 feet above sea level. From this vantage point we could see east across Rwanda and the three volcanoes, Sabinio, Gahinga, and Muhavura, that ran along the border of Uganda. A series of small cone-shaped volcanoes linked these mountains to the base of Visoke. The velvety forest that covered the mountains shone emerald green in the bright clean sunlight and the clear high-altitude air.
The gorilla trail led us downslope into a ravine Dian had named “Chimo ya Kukutana,” or “Meeting Ravine.” Peter explained that over the years, Dian had named various landmarks like ravines, ridges and trails with a mixture of her best efforts at Swahili combined with English. “Shimo” is actually the Swahili word for “hole” but Dian’s interpretations and spellings held as Karisoke vernacular, and in addition to kukutana (to meet) there was a Chimo ya Chui (leopard) and Chimo ya Plastiki (Swahili-English for “plastic raincoat”) and there were many other named shimos scattered around the study range. I would later learn that chimo was actually the Swahili word for “sin.”
Peter and I followed Baraqueza along the bottom of the ravine as its green walls rose up around us. Black volcanic boulders jutted from the crevasse at its upper edges. Willowy hypericum trees hung into the gorge, their airy limbs draped in gray moss drooping and swaying in an intermittent breeze. We traveled downward inside this ravine along its center and were heading up and out of its downslope end when we suddenly heard the deep rumbling vocalization of a silverback gorilla, “huh-hmmm.” It came from straight ahead south of the ravine, and sounded like Josephine only ten times bigger. More a loud purr than a growl, the deep rumbling sound moved through my body and made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
“Eht mwah,” Peter gave his own version of a Fossey-style belch vocalization, and crouching down he waved his hand toward the ground instructing me to do the same. I complied as the pungent herbal body-odor smell of gorillas filled my
nostrils.
“That was Beethoven,” Peter said, as he made a note of it and a similar sound came from off to the left. “That one’s Icarus, the other silverback.” Peter noted this on his clipboard, and I did the same, noting the time and altitude of contact. We were now at 10,480 feet and it was 11:38 A.M. Having taken three hours to get to Group 5, we were making contact relatively late.
Baraqueza had disappeared into the foliage behind us, crouching down and dropping back when Beethoven first made a sound. Peter explained that Dian did not allow the trackers to be seen by the gorillas for fear that the gentle apes would become habituated to people who resembled poachers. The poachers were African and she felt that the gorillas would be sitting ducks if they lost their fear of men with black skin.
From our vantage point at the edge of the ravine, Peter and I could see the tops of nettles and thistles jostling as the gorillas, still hidden from view, moved downhill. As we drew closer, I could hear the snapping and tearing of vegetation mixed with loud chewing noises, belches, and flatulence. Peter and I sat in the thick undergrowth that obscured our view of the gorillas. For over forty minutes I could only see an occasional patch of black fur as the group continued feeding noisily and slowly moving away from us downhill. My notepaper remained mostly blank as Peter periodically made notations on his. By listening to vocalizations and catching glimpses, he knew which gorilla was where at all times. I didn’t know who was who.
“Stuart told me that Dian said you take some of the best notes of any student in camp.” I said.
“Oh yeah . . . ?” Peter asked, beaming. “Fossey said that, huh?”
“That’s what Stuart said.”
“Ha! Way to go Fossey!”
“What does she like about your notes?”
“Basically she wants to know everything the gorillas do during the day. I’m doing a study on cyclicity, so I need to know what females are cycling and when they copulate and who copulates with them, but Dian wants to know that and everything else, like what they’re eating, where they are, who’s playing with who, who’s sleeping with who.”
I envisioned Dian back in her cabin, no longer making the daily treks to sit with gorillas. The students had to bring the gorillas to her, at least in words. Again, scientific data was the justification for a research camp, but what Dian really wanted was the ability to be, if only vicariously, with the gorillas. Also, National Geographic expected another article from her, and she was writing a book about her life among the gorillas all these years. No one really knew that she no longer went out in the field.
“Ha!” Peter laughed again as he recalled something. “One time I got really graphic about a copulation between Icarus and Puck. I wrote things like ‘Puck waited with her hot thighs spread wide open and Icarus shoved it to her . . .’ and Fossey loved it.”
“What did she say?” I asked, a little stunned.
“The next morning, she told me how much she enjoyed reading those notes.”
My understanding of Dian was becoming more complicated than I could have imagined. I was sure I would have been chewed up and spit out by Fossey for writing notes like that.
“She likes trashy novels,” Peter continued. “One time I was up at her cabin and she said, ‘Peter you’ve got to read this book,’ and she handed me this paperback called Something Nasty in the Woodshed. She acted like it was some great piece of literature.”
Laughing, I practically choked trying to repeat that title, “Something . . . Nasty . . . in the Woodshed? What’s that about?”
“I don’t know.” Peter said, derisively. “Do you think I read it? It’s still up on the bookcase in her cabin if you want to read it yourself.”
Peter’s reaction just made me laugh even more. The silverback gorilla, Icarus, roused himself, hoisting his girth upright onto his rump. At that, I brought myself into check, and dutifully made a note of it.
While Group 5 dispersed and fed just downhill from where Peter and I sat and observed them, I queried my fellow student on his relationship with our mercurial leader.
“Believe it or not, Dian can sometimes be a lot of fun,” Peter said.
“Really?” I was as intrigued as I was stunned.
“Yeah . . . Ha!” I could see from Peter’s amused open-mouthed grin, he was recalling something.
“How so?”
“When it was just me and her here for Halloween, she invited me for dinner,” he reminisced. “I dressed as a pirate and she was a hooker.”
I’m astonished to hear about this other Dian.
“Yeah, Mademoiselli can be a lot of fun,” he added, “but watch out if she ever says your hands are cold, and then tries to shove them up the front of her sweater!” He paused for a second as I laughed, then added, “Her tits are real small.”
I just couldn’t envision any levity from Dian, and certainly not flirtatiousness based on the woman I knew so far.
“When the ABC film crew was here last month, it was just about the best time I’ve had here.”
The actor, Earl Holliman, with a film entourage had been to Karisoke, just weeks earlier, to film a special on Dian and the gorillas for ABC Sports. Peter went on to explain how the attention Dian received during that time had buoyed her spirits, and she got on great with everyone. As the only student in camp at the time, she needed Peter to help with the event and treated him well. Of course, she couldn’t portray negativity with her own student with cameras around. Peter had obviously reveled in the social atmosphere of the time, with camp filled with creative people, and Dian on her best behavior. She was at the center of attention, and in the lens of the camera, in all her glory among the mountain gorillas.
I found it all so confusing. Dian who at that time depended on Peter, had now suddenly cast him off as a mere stepping stone to the next fresh batch of students, with Stuart as her new golden boy.
While the gorillas roused from their rest to resume feeding, Peter and I shifted to a new spot to keep up with their activities. Peter scribbled busily on his notepad. When I realized he was noting the new locations and proximities of each gorilla, I tried to do the same.
Icarus looked at me.
I averted my eyes.
Hmwaaah . . . I uttered almost involuntarily, painfully aware of his intimidating mass. Still, I furtively stole glances at this behemoth. As he chewed, I could see his great teeth, were stained black from plant tars in the vegetation he ate, just as I had read about in Schaller’s book. From his high pointed crest to the broad, white-draped shoulders and back, Icarus was superb, majestic. For some moments, he held his glance on me as if pondering who this new guy was, his jaw set, eyes dark and broody under the shadow of his thick brow—a no-nonsense kind of face. What a photo that would make, I thought, crouching lower, and edging a little closer to Peter. Then I recalled Peter’s negative reaction to my wanting to bring a camera earlier.
“Do you have some good pictures of gorillas?” I asked, reintroducing the topic.
“Yeah, I’ve taken quite a few. . . .” Peter paused, “The reason I said not to bring your camera today, is because Dian gets really pissed when students take a lot of pictures right after getting here.”
“Ah . . . thanks for the warning.” I said, with a sense of relief. “I don’t need to give her a reason to bitch at me.”
“Just wait till you’ve been here a while, or . . . you know, after Dian leaves. Then you can start taking some pictures. In fact, you should write to NG for film. They send me all the 200 ASA I need, and you just send the exposed film back to them for processing at their expense.”
“Really?”
“Who knows—you might even end up with one of your photos in a Dian Fossey article in National Geographic.”
“That’s awesome!”
“Just don’t leave your exposed film sitting out in your cabin.”
“Why?”
“Dian’s stolen mine.”
“What?”
“She just took it and sent it to NG as her own.�
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“You’re kidding! She goes in your cabin while you’re out with the gorillas?”
“Either that, or she has a houseboy do it when he goes in to clean the cabins. Mine was taken when Basili was in camp, and I’ve never trusted him since.”
“I guess if she’s not going out to the gorillas anymore, she’s not getting any photos of her own.”
“Nah, she’s not very good with a camera. She asked me to take her to Group 5 one day to take some pictures of her with the gorillas. But they were pretty much ignoring her. Ha! Then she pulls out all this candy from her backpack. You know, those Crystal Bonbons she has at her cabin, the ones she gives the baby. And . . . well . . . as researchers, you know, we’re not supposed to deliberately interact with the gorillas, let alone feed them, especially candy, but she wanted more of those photos of herself surrounded by them. When she pulled out the candy, they stopped ignoring her, and went for the bonbons. She got what she wanted.” Peter smiled, staring into the distance in fond reminiscence. “I did get a bunch of great pictures of her, though, surrounded by gorillas.” His amused smile faded. “After that, the roll of film disappeared from my cabin. A day when Basili was in camp.”
“Kinda creepy, to think someone’s going through our stuff while we’re out here.”
“Yeah . . . I confronted her about it, but of course, she denies it.” Peter paused for a second before continuing. “Be careful what you write in your letters, too, because she goes through our mail.”
“What . . . ? But the porters pick up the mail for us.”
“Yeah and good ol’ Gwehandegaza takes it right up to Fossey’s cabin so she can go through it first.”
