by John Fowler
Pablo and Poppy pursued with antics of chest beats and strutting, still trying to initiate a response from this gorilla they had never seen before. As if Nani’s bizarre strategy worked, Icarus surprised us all by moving away downhill. Pablo and Poppy closed in where she sat alone, but never reached out to touch the little stranger, despite their obvious curiosity. Two minutes later, Icarus hooted and beat his chest, rushing back uphill to grab Nani again. Nani grunted and screamed while the silverback dragged her brutally back downhill and away from Dian and me.
From where I clung, I could no longer see her. Instead, I tried to read Dian’s face as she craned her neck to view below and behind us. Dian’s gaze was transfixed and tense. The film crew shifted position and aimed their equipment somewhere beyond my view. I watched the movement of Kaji’s camera as it panned in a slow arc back uphill. Finally, Nani reappeared at the base of our tree, and Dian, still near the ground, bent over and grabbed her. I slid down the tree trunk to take Nani back in my arms. Hoisting her to one side, I climbed back up to my original spot.
Nani’s hair was soaked in dense mats. While she clung to me more feebly than before, I needed to support more of her weight. She looked miserable against my cold wet rubber raincoat. Remembering how she liked to put her hands inside my rain gear against the warm cotton of my clothing, I unsnapped my buttons and drew her to my chest. She pig-grunted in discomfort when I moved her, and I saw the injury—a quarter-inch deep laceration stretching from the outer edge of her left hand to the center of her palm. She cradled this hand feebly against her chest, and I adjusted her to accommodate her weakened ability to cling to me. Icarus and Tuck approached the base of our tree and stared upward, as if sizing up their next assault. Dian remained midway down the tree between me and them. The faces of the two gorillas below were ominous.
My coat was large enough to draw around Nani’s back, and I closed her in against the cold and drizzle. One by one I snapped each button, being careful not to jar her hand. Inside my rain gear, Nani was completely concealed from anyone’s view, especially that of Icarus and Tuck. The two assailants still flanked the base of our tree, and peered upward, only now they wore looks of perplexity. Where had the little gorilla gone?
“We’ve got to talk about what we’re going to do,” Dian said, summoning Peter to approach closer. Supporting Nani, I climbed down to Dian’s level on the tree.
“They don’t know where she is now,” I said, feeling the first sense of hope since the onslaught began. “If we can keep her hidden, maybe the others will go away.” Dian, Peter, and I discussed a plan, speculating that if Nani remained quiet and out of sight, perhaps I could eventually just walk out of the area to safe haven. With all in agreement to give this a try, I maneuvered back up to my previous spot in the tree. Tuck and Icarus kept ominous vigil below. I was ready to get Nani and myself out of there, but with the baby now hidden from view, had a renewed sense of composure in my secure position up the tree.
For twenty minutes, Icarus and Tuck peered suspiciously up at me. Although their presence remained ominous in light of what had taken place, their baffled expressions almost gave them a comical air, shifting positions and craning their necks to look for the little gorilla that had disappeared as mysteriously as it had first materialized. To my relief, Nani remained motionless inside my rain gear. Utterly exhausted, she occasionally raised her small leathery face to breathe fresh air through the opening of my collar.
With time, Icarus’s interest began to wane. He began to look up at us less and less, and even ambled away from the base of the tree. Tuck kept her vigil, but I held my breath as the silverback disappeared into the undergrowth in the same direction the other members of Group 5 had moved on to.
“Oh good,” Dian said, in a hushed tone, looking down at Tuck. “We can get rid of her easy.” I laughed for the first time that day, thinking how Dian sounded like a kid up a tree who had just ended a battle with neighborhood bullies.
While I pondered what Dian might be thinking of doing to “get rid” of Tuck, this gorilla finally followed Icarus down the mountainside. This was the break we needed. When Dian climbed down the tree, I followed, supporting Nani, still tucked securely under my raincoat. I didn’t look back as Dian and Peter formed a human screen to block the view of any gorillas that remained within sight of us.
Methodically, I walked past Kaji and Taka . . . and kept going. Up Mount Visoke’s steep embankment, step by step I plodded, not knowing who or what was behind me. As I trudged along the path we had made coming downhill two hours earlier, I envisioned Icarus grabbing my ankles and dragging me backward in search of the phantom gorilla baby that he had last seen climbing back into my arms.
At last, forty meters uphill, I was overjoyed to find Nameye and Baraqueza in the thick weeds where they had waited out the bedlam. Having been well within earshot of all the turmoil and gorilla screams, they looked unsettled and perplexed by the bulge at my belly under my raincoat. The two gorilla trackers relaxed and chuckled when I unsnapped a couple buttons to reveal Nani’s wide-eyed face. Dian and Peter soon joined us, followed by Kaji and Taka, and all their film equipment.
Group 5 had been moving toward the Tourist Trail that we would need to traverse to get off Visoke. Dian sent Nameye ahead of us to make sure that our group did not stumble into the middle of the gorillas again.
By three o’clock, we were back at Dian’s Cabin. Dian, Peter, and I examined the gash on Nani’s left palm. It was obvious to us that Icarus must have done it with one of his massive canines when he grabbed the baby in his mouth. Dian was worried that bones might be broken and articulated Nani’s hand. To this, the baby grunted in pained protest. Satisfied that Nani’s hand was intact, Dian rubbed the little gorilla’s wet fur with a dry towel. To our relief, Nani used her left hand as well as her right as she climbed with renewed vigor back into her old nest box in our boss’s bedroom. Dian had placed extra pieces of pineapple and banana, sprinkled with a few hard candies, on top of the soft bed of leaves that Toni had made for the baby. Nani made soft contented belch vocalizations, hmm waaah, hmm waaah . . . as she snacked blissfully in her cozy bed.
That evening, after Stuart had returned from Group 4, Dian called Stuart, Peter, and me to a meeting about the day’s events. At her cabin, Dian asked Peter and me to reiterate from our notes the sequence of events that had transpired in our attempted release of the baby. Stuart listened, incredulous, hearing horrific details for the first time. After recounting our observations, we discussed the possible reasons that this attempted introduction failed. Dian surmised that unlike Group 4, which was made up of males in the process of rebuilding after the decimation of their group by poachers, Group 5 was stable, content in their makeup, and not seeking new members. As such, Group 5 saw even our benign orphan as an intruder, not needed in their composition. At only three years old, she was far from reproductively viable for the group’s adult males, and to the adult females, she was an unrelated interloping female.
Dian ended the day by retelling the story of the only other known attempt at releasing a baby gorilla back into the wild. This event had taken place in a nearby part of Zaire called Kahuzi-Biéga, where the eastern lowland mountain gorillas live. Like Nani, a baby had been confiscated from poachers, but was a much smaller and younger infant, only a year old, Dian surmised. Dian had seen the film footage of this attempt and described it to us.
“They just flung the baby at the charging silverback and ran,” she said, disdainfully. “They never saw that baby again.”
EIGHTEEN
SIKU YA UHURU!
The filming of the baby’s release attempt behind her, Dian finally focused on her pending departure, which she knew she needed to make soon lest she lose her opportunity to teach at Cornell University. This didn’t stop her from agonizing about leaving. With the fate of the baby still unresolved, Taka and Kaji remained camped at Karisoke, if only in hopes that the story of the little orphan would continue. Dian had gotten their promise of te
n thousand dollars, and a trip to Japan in the works, so she couldn’t just run them off.
As Dian moved forward with departure preparations, the floor of her living and dining areas became strewn with the items she wanted to take home. With so many boxes being filled, it really looked like she was moving permanently. Among the books, notebooks, and suitcases partially filled with clothing, there was an odd assortment of old stuffed animals scattered about. I hadn’t realized she had so many.
“Dian asked me to try to find her gun in the things she’s taking home,” Stuart told me back at our cabin. “She’s leaving two of her guns in camp for the poacher patrol, but smuggling one back to the States with her.”
“Did you find it?” I asked.
“No, but I think she’s taken it apart and sewn the pieces into her collection of stuffed animals.”
As Dian’s departure date drew closer, Stuart bore the brunt of Dian’s vacillating insecurities about leaving. One day she accepted it, the next she wailed in resistance.
“How can I leave here, the way things are?” Dian shouted as Stuart reassured her. “Nobody’s going to run the poacher patrols when I’m gone!”
Stuart tended to her constantly, hearing her out, reassuring her, and assuaging her fears—and there were many. In addition to the plight of the baby, and Nunkie’s group either missing or far into Zaire where poaching was rampant, Dian fretted about leaving her dog Cindy and monkey, Kima. She was embarking on a new career path, and without any real teaching experience would soon be facing so many expectant young students—a daunting task for anyone who hadn’t taught formally before. I wondered too, how much the fear of entering society again played into her worries. The Dian I had met in Kigali, and had come to know on the mountain, would not be an easy fit for a return to civilization. There was also a new worry brewing, a big one for Dian. Her former student, Sandy Harcourt, was successfully jockeying for permission—via the Rwandan park officials, outside of Dian’s authority—to return to Karisoke. This time, to take charge of the place with Dian gone. Originally Dian had, albeit grudgingly, sanctioned this change of command as the only option, but as Sandy’s influence grew and the time drew nearer, she back-pedaled and resisted.
“He is NOT to be believed,” she protested ambiguously, with a phrase she used to complain about those she didn’t like, such as Bill and Amy, or Benda Lema. “Really and truly, they are ALL not to be believed!”
We were caught up in this dramatic turmoil. Throwing us newcomers into the mix while grooming Stuart as her Acting Director only confounded the plans she had been instrumental in creating. Dian latched onto this turn of events as well as all her other fears. In this case, her lack of cooperation put her at a loss of control of the fate of Karisoke, and lack of control and sharing the stage were among her worst fears.
Stuart’s careful doting gave Dian just enough reassurance to stay on track, comforted in the knowledge that he will remain as her handpicked agent in camp, carrying out her directives and enforcing her mandates from stateside, diluting Sandy Harcourt’s position of power. Stuart and Dian had long heart-to-heart conversations, during which Dian increasingly opened up and confided in Stuart.
“Dian’s father committed suicide,” Stuart explained to me back at our cabin. “Dian says she’s even had suicidal thoughts of her own.” Stuart showed a genuine sympathy for Dian at this hectic crossroads in her life, but this knowledge only unsettled me more, with wild imaginings of what drastic measures Dian might consider under duress.
As a condition of her departure and extended absence, Dian stipulated that Stuart take occupancy of her cabin. She did not want it left vacant at any time. In his new role Stuart would also be in charge of camp finances, meager as they were, and the camp’s guns, which she feared would be a target for theft. In addition to overseeing Karisoke’s Rwandan staff and their pay, our director instructed Stuart on the care and feeding of her pets, Cindy, Kima, and the chickens.
Although we were well aware of her plans, Dian took me and Peter aside at the fire pit, just before she left, to officially inform us she had appointed Stuart “acting director,” in her absence.
“He’s a really, reeaally good guy,” she said, beaming and holding her thumb up with a self-assured smile.
A few days before Dian’s departure, I mustered the courage to carry my camera and take some photos of little Nani in the meadow just before rain forced us into the Empty Cabin. When the sky cleared, Dian paid a rare visit to our end of camp. Recalling what Peter told me about Dian being annoyed when students would take pictures in camp or of the gorillas, I was certainly self-conscious about having my camera with me, but then I notice Dian had her camera too.
“The sky is clear again,” Dian said, eyeing my camera. “Why don’t you bring the baby out and we can get some pictures of her?” Outside, I soon realized Dian was posing for photos as she cuddled the baby and swung her around playfully. Is she mugging for me to take photos? Despite my confusion, or because of it, I snapped the only photo I would take of Dian.
“I can take your film back for you and have it developed,” Dian offered afterward.
“Oh . . . okay, thanks,” I said, thinking fast. “I still have a few more to use up on this roll.” That evening in my cabin, recalling Peter’s warnings and woes of stolen photographs, I buried my canister of undeveloped film deep inside a sock-stuffed shoe shoved to the far corner under my bed.
Dian left Karisoke early on the morning of March 3, among a throng of porters bearing her belongings in their hands and atop their heads. I watched quietly from my window as the noisy band passed, with Dian near the rear. When their voices had finally faded, I emerged from my door and approached the camp staff at their fire pit, trying to feign a solemn look to suppress my shameless grin. Once among them, I threw my arms up, panga raised in my right hand, shouting “Siku ya Uhuru!”—Independence Day! The men burst into laughter, and I broke into my own imitation of their Rwandan dance.
Not only did Stuart, Peter, and I soon enjoy another dinner with the Japanese, we did so that very night, and unabashedly at Dian’s cabin. Siku Ya Uhuru, indeed!
In the wake of Dian’s departure, Peter soon realized that yet more of his photographic slides were missing from his cabin. This time he’d had it, and not only dashed off a letter to National Geographic, warning them that Dian would be presenting these photos to them as her own, but he threatened legal action as a consequence.
As soon as Stuart moved into Dian’s cabin, I moved into what had been his side of our duplex. It had more windows, shelving, and a better stove. With Dian conveniently out of the way, the V-W couple boldly wasted no time trying to get a foothold back at Karisoke. Amy sent a note to Stuart requesting permission to spend more time with Group 5, so that she could follow up on some research for her doctoral thesis.
Stuart didn’t want to create ill will with our well-intended collegiate neighbors; still, he felt the pinch of his obligation to Dian, and well knew how much she would disapprove. Via worried letters and telegrams, Dian confirmed what Stuart already knew: Under no circumstances should Amy or Bill be allowed access to Karisoke research gorillas. Attempting to alleviate the tension and extend an olive branch, Stuart diplomatically made plans to invite the couple up to camp for dinner.
While our nearest American neighbors made no effort to reach out socially, nor communicate outside of Amy’s request for access to Group 5, Jean-Pierre von der Beck, who had been working in the region for many years, certainly did. Dian had helped to secure this elder Belgian’s job as the local project manager for the Mountain Gorilla Project, only to regret it as that project took on a life of its own without and despite her. He had become part of the larger collaborative team effort that included Amy, Bill, and Sandy Harcourt.
Despite Dian’s determination to keep Karisoke separate from the rival gorilla project, Stuart found himself unable to resist Jean-Pierre’s quirky brand of charisma and charm, so informal and friendly. He was the charming uncle
to Karisoke. The two became fast friends.
“He used to walk in from Zaire to spend the night with Dian,” Stuart told me, laughing. “Now she hates him!”
With Dian gone, this eccentric elder Belgian hippie gentleman began making regular visits to camp. With the void left by Dian, Stuart welcomed the input of this fatherly, French-speaking expat, whose lanky frame and gray beard lent him an almost wizardly appearance. With this new mentor’s encouragement, Stuart soon collaborated on a new plan for the baby gorilla’s release into Group 4. Stuart was obviously appreciative of the benevolent guidance and input.
“After what you went through with the first attempt,” Stuart told me, “We’re not expecting you to come to this release.” Despite the importance of the project, I was relieved. Not seeking recognition, and wanting to keep this task as calm as possible, he and Jean-Pierre also barred the Nippon AV duo from filming the event, much to the film crew’s disappointment; and they were already out ten thousand dollars.
Stuart and Jean-Pierre simply hung a burlap bag of sliced fruits in a tree near Peanuts’s Group, and left the baby there to feed. Her having to work at getting the fruit out of the bag gave them enough time to make a getaway before she could realize it. Less than an hour later, by the time the two returned to see what had happened, she had already begun playing with the other youngsters in her new family. Mission accomplished! To commemorate the success, Jean-Pierre gave the baby a new and permanent name.
“I always zought she should be called Bonne Année . . . French for ‘New Year,’” he said with grand purpose, “because we confiscated her on zat day.”
