A Forest in the Clouds

by John Fowler

  The Nippon AV pair left camp soon after Bonne Année’s release, graciously donating their tents, raingear, and camping equipment to Karisoke. Jinzaburo and I had become good friends, and he offered to take my rain-damaged camera back to Japan for repairs. He would return it to me via a traveling reporter, Yuki Sato, who came to Rwanda several weeks later. The repaired camera also came with a surprise gift, I would see to my utter delight when the bubbly young woman handed her cargo to me outside the American Embassy.

  “Jinzaburo said you die for this,” she said cheerfully, pulling a big jar of peanut butter out of her knapsack.

  The success of Bonne Année’s release further cemented Stuart’s and Jean-Pierre’s relationship, and soon Stuart was even visiting with his new father-figure at the elder Belgian’s home, a rented stone castle on a eucalyptus farm called Plantation de Gasiza.

  “You gotta see Jean-Pierre’s place!” Stuart said enthusiastically to me after a visit there. His descriptions of the old gray stone building was so intriguing, I soon joined him on a short trip.

  “Stuart?” Amy called out, appearing up the hill with a big grin, near their rondavel as we exited the trail at the base of Mount Visoke. “Did you get my note?”

  Stuart was caught off guard by Amy as he and I headed toward the Volkswagen for our trip to Jean-Pierre’s. Stuart let out a deep sigh, slumping his shoulders while bracing for what he knew would be an awkward encounter.

  “I can’t accommodate,” Stuart said bluntly as Amy trotted up.

  “What?” Amy stopped in her tracks in front of Stuart, her boots sliding to a stop in the dust and pebbles of the road.

  “I can’t accommodate.” Stuart repeated, shaking his head with an apologetic tilt.

  Amy’s cheeks flushed red. I could see she was choking back an immediate upwelling of both anger and tears.

  “I’m really sorry, but—” Before Stuart could finish his sentence, Amy spun her heels on the gravel beneath them, and with arms swinging, stomped back up the hill where Bill appeared. Bill, in turn, came storming down the hill in bold strides from their metal hut like an angry dad, with Amy trailing behind.

  “I’m really sorry. I was going to invite you both up for dinner to talk about—”

  “We don’t want dinner!” Bill said, cutting him off with obvious disdain. “We want access to Group 5!”

  This was a request, which, under the directives of Dian, Stuart could neither easily nor immediately honor. Just then, Stuart had to stand his ground, but with a little patience and open communication, perhaps things would have changed.

  Although presented with a crack in Dian’s defense, and a perfect opportunity to get a foot in the door, as Jean-Pierre certainly had, the duo preferred to eschew diplomacy and Stuart’s opportunity for dialogue with their deliberate snub, making it clear that Stuart, Peter, and I were of little interest to them and hardly their peers. The very idea that any of us could stand in their way must have been a supreme insult. I would like to have gotten to know them, and learn more about the work they were doing, but fraternizing with us was well beneath them. And so with brusque disdain, they perpetuated the cold war between their camp and Karisoke, undermining even their own agenda.

  Aside from the long road to Kigali, traveling up the rocky road to Jean-Pierre’s castle with Stuart was my first foray off the mountain in a while. Stuart had invited me to join him overnight at the old Belgian’s bachelor pad, at the base of Mount Muhavura, near the border of Uganda. On a whim, Stuart stopped the car for a hitchhiker, only to eject him a few kilometers up the road when he realized the young man was just taking a joy ride, standing the entire time, looking out the windshield, grinning at the view zipping by, and never revealing a destination. We could’ve driven him all the way into Kigali and I don’t think he would’ve complained.

  As we rounded the end of a grove of tall eucalyptus, Jean-Pierre’s rented Belgian plantation house came suddenly into view—a gray stone castle, complete with crenellated turret. I enjoyed the respite from Karisoke at the beguiling, if Spartan, bachelor pad this turned out to be, and the hospitality of our eccentric gray-bearded host who slept in his round turret up a spiral staircase, like a genie in a bottle. The evening in front of the castle-worthy great fireplace and its roaring fire made for a relaxing interlude. I envied Stuart’s camaraderie with Jean-Pierre, as the two chatted and joked with each other. I had become increasingly self-conscious, and felt mute by comparison. Was it the isolation at Karisoke? Had holding my tongue with Dian cost me the ability to converse and socialize normally? I was beginning to wonder . . .

  In the morning, Bill Weber dropped by with a European colleague, snubbing Stuart and me with scarcely a glance our way. He pointedly excluded us by speaking only in French, for which our lack of comprehension forbade participation. Watching them, I could only surmise that Bill reveled in his acquired fluency of French, especially with the audience of Stuart and me, relegated to the sidelines of incomprehension. Upon his departure though, diplomatic Jean-Pierre gave Stuart and me a full rundown of the conversation of Bill’s updates on his and Amy’s progress with tourists visiting the newly habituated gorilla groups.

  Days later, Stuart suggested I visit my former foster baby, warning me, however, about the silverback’s reaction to her acquired fondness for humans.

  “He got really upset that Bonne Année wanted to come near me,” he advised, with a nervous laugh, “But it’s great to see her. You need to pay her a visit.”

  I would soon learn that Stuart’s account failed to prepare me for what was in store for me as we hiked to Peanuts’s Group, down the trail across the boggy meadow into Zaire. We passed near the sites where Stuart and I had the bivouac camps in preparation for the baby’s ill-fated release attempt. Things would have been so different if we had simply found Peanuts’s Group as planned. The Nippon AV footage would have shown our baby gorilla integrating seamlessly into a wild group—the first reintroduction of a gorilla into the wild. I saw then that Dian should’ve waited, and stuck to her original plans instead of the attempt with Group 5. Plan B had seemed rushed, something to check off her list before departure under the pressures of deadlines passed. The blunder had nearly cost Bonne Année her life. Perhaps it had put us all in danger, in a situation that had never been tested.

  After climbing into and out of several deep ravines, Stuart and I found Group 4 low on the slopes of Mount Visoke’s northwestern side, well into Zaire.

  “Hmwah, Hmwaaah,” Stuart and I vocalized in unison with our approach, a response that had become so automatic to us over our many days approaching gorillas. Excited to see Bonne Année for the first time as a wild gorilla, I moved ahead of Stuart, peering over the undergrowth. Spotting Peanuts’s high sagittal crest, where he sat feeding next to our baby, I squatted down respectfully, as had become my custom. Stuart followed suite behind me.

  Bonne Année’s shining eyes stared into mine. I could see the recognition on her face. Immediately she stopped chewing, dropped her handful of gallium, and scrambled straight for me. Peanuts, by contrast, glared at the scene unfolding before him as she plopped herself half on my lap.

  “Eh, eh, eh . . .” the old silverback grunted loudly in disapproval. But our little baby just settled right in on me. At that Peanuts rose up, and with a swipe of his powerful arm through stinging nettles beside, me he screamed his loudest roar.

  “Aaargh!”

  All four hundred pounds of him rushed me with his scream, and he landed nearly upon me, slamming his fists on the ground. It’s moments like these, you feel the size of a silverback with a shake of the earth beneath them. I could feel the heat of his breath, smell the crushed nettles in his black teeth. I cowered as required, flopped over to one side, and whimpered. Bonne Année be damned. At that moment, I wanted her off me! And away from me! Instead, she stayed seated, oblivious to what Peanuts’s problem was . . . what MY problem was, in fact—I should be as happy to see her as she was to see me. At his little female’s lack o
f response, and my mere proximity to her, Peanuts rose up again, beating his chest directly over me with his high-pitched hoot.

  “Hoo woo woowoowoowooWOOT!”

  He slammed the ground again, sending a shudder through me. I made my required whimpering sound involuntarily. Bonne Année was settled in, half on my lap, pressed against me. I thought she must be confused as to why I must ignore her. Trembling now, in a crumpled heap, I peer under my arm toward Stuart, sitting nonchalantly just a meter and a half away. His stoic demeanor only annoyed me as he calmly took notes of my misfortune, with Peanuts’s ire directed at me. The bastard set me up! He had roused a similar response from Peanuts just days earlier, and he had left out the key details of Peanuts’s rage.

  During our ill-fated release attempt with Group 5, I had feared for Bonne Année’s life in the mayhem that resulted in her injury, then I feared for Dian’s, as she yanked the baby directly from the clutches of the marauders. This, to me was more frightening than those moments. All four hundred pounds of a silverback was directly over me, nearly on me. I could feel the hot breath, smell every fleck of vegetation in his teeth. All of that gorilla’s anger was directed at me, the intruder, in contact with his newest member. I was a threat to his authority, but no match for him.

  In the worst moments of being charged by a wild gorilla, I would remind myself that no one’s really been harmed by these research groups. I had nothing else to do but run these thoughts through my mind again. And Bill Weber was attacked. Was this circumstance different? Was it worse? Anyway, there’s always a first time. Bill’s attack was a first. Could I be a first? As I trembled and shook under Peanuts assault, Stuart sat nonchalantly by, scribbling notes. He knew this would happen!

  I needed Bonne Année to get off me! My left hand was out of sight from Peanuts, and I slid it under my right forearm, trying to push the baby away. I couldn’t get enough leverage without Peanuts knowing I was deliberately touching the baby. I decided to make the experience uncomfortable for her. Feeling her hair against my right arm, I maneuvered my left hand toward her, underneath me. Gathering a cluster of the hair of her butt between my thumb and index finger, I yanked. Peanuts kept up his angry vigil, and loud complaint, beating his chest and slamming the ground. Stuart sat idly by, taking notes, as helpless to intervene as I. The little gorilla didn’t budge. I yanked harder. She shifted, pulling the hair from my clutches. I reached again, this time grabbing more hair, and yanked. Finally, a few hairs came loose in my hand. The baby shifted again. Out of reach! Peanuts beat his chest, and slammed the ground again. I felt the baby let out a deep breath, as if in a sigh, then, miraculously, she moved away. Peanuts was quiet. I dared to look from my flattened position. Bonne Année was moving up hill, Peanuts’s eyes on her intently. I too breathed a sigh. As the baby moved uphill, Peanuts turned and followed. I held my submissive position until Peanuts followed Bonne Année out of view uphill, into the undergrowth. Finally, I felt I could sit up.

  “Ohhh, you bastard, Stuart!”

  “I told you she’d be happy to see you.”

  “You knew this was gonna happen.”

  “Well, it may have been a little more intense with you. She stayed with you quite a while.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  I didn’t bear any grudge to Stuart. In the wake of the horror, I felt such relief. That was enough for the both of us, and as Peanuts led his group onward up Mount Visoke, we headed back. I felt as if the very weight of a silverback had lifted from me, and the hike seemed effortless, even as we climbed back down into the biggest ravine we had crossed.

  “I feel so alive!” I caught myself saying, realizing there was a true high from such adversity and feeling of danger, as if I had died and was reborn. “I’ve never felt so ALIVE!”

  Still, I didn’t want to go through that again. Despite my worry, subsequent visits to Peanuts’s Group were peaceful. It was as if Bonne Année had gotten the message too, and kept a respectable distance from me, much to my relief.

  Over time, Stuart’s interest in camp waned. From the onset, he had planned for his girlfriend back home in the States to join him, but that no longer seemed to be in the offing. He didn’t talk much about the reasons why, but he let me know that Dian had informed him in a recent letter that she had taken it upon herself to intervene. In an effort to keep Stuart in place, Dian had the nerve to call his girlfriend in the States to encourage her to join Stuart in Rwanda, Dian was put off by the young lady’s having made up her mind to do otherwise. After that, Dian decided she didn’t like her. Instead, she thought one of her female students would make for a better fit for Stuart and camp. The student had no doubt appealed to her professor’s ego.

  In response to Peter’s complaint to National Geographic about Dian’s having stolen his photographs, she simply wrote to Stuart that Peter was clearly going crazy and should leave Karisoke.

  Eventually Stuart simply stopped mentioning his girlfriend. In time, he began complaining of having injured his knee in a ravine, before spending longer periods away from camp, at Jean-Pierre’s rented Plantation de Gasiza. Soon, Stuart talked about leaving camp.

  “I’m getting more interested in gorilla conservation, actually, than research,” he surmised.

  During his absences, he asked me to stay at Dian’s cabin, because she had requested that it always be occupied. Also, the two wooden lockboxes, one containing the camp finances and another containing Dian’s precious handguns, were kept in her room—one .32 caliber Walther PPK, and one .25 caliber Beretta 950B Jetfire. Uncomfortable sleeping in Dian’s king-size bed, and never feeling quite as safe in her large multi-room cabin, the closest to the open meadow and the border with Zaire, I complied nonetheless. Each time, though, I longed only to get back to my own small cabin tucked in the middle of camp.

  Away from camp, however, Stuart seemed to have found an ever-sympathetic and supportive ear in Jean-Pierre, and spent more and more time with him off the mountain. And in return, Stuart opened up a dialogue between the Mountain Gorilla Project and Karisoke. For my sake, he stopped requesting I stay in Dian’s cabin, instead, moving the money and gun boxes down to my own place during his absence. In an effort to keep the diplomatic Stuart happy in Rwanda, Jean-Pierre introduced him to a young French girl who was visiting friends in Rwanda.

  “The funny thing is, she looks kind of like a young version of Dian,” Stuart finally confessed after a visit with her at Jean-Pierre’s.

  A Dutch film crew with an American writer-producer, Barbara Jampel, arrived to gather wild gorilla footage for a National Geographic documentary about the mountain gorillas. They brought food and beer, and we put them up in the Big Cabin. Knowing Dian had already returned stateside, Barbara had met with her before coming to Africa. Dian had been hospitalized with emphysema soon after returning, and that’s where the interviews took place.

  Over dinner and beers, the funny and feisty documentarian entertained us with tales of trying to get a story out of an irritable and distracted Dian in the hospital. Despite being kept under an oxygen tent with pneumonia, Dian remained unfocused and fidgety during the interview, repeatedly interrupting to plead for a cigarette.

  “You could sneak some into the hospital in your purse,” Dian finally suggested to the incredulous Barbara.

  Satisfied with her camp visit, Barbara left filming in the hands of her crew: director André Gunn, cameraman Jan de Ruiter, and sound man, Dick Rector. The team had already been filming with Amy and Bill down below, but weren’t satisfied with the fleeting shots of their less-habituated gorilla groups.

  “Amy said we could get good footage of her with your Group 5,” André told Stuart. “Would that be possible?”

  Once again, Stuart was back in the awkward position of keeping Amy at bay under Dian’s directive. We all thought Amy had to know how Dian would feel about her appearing in the documentary back among Karisoke’s gorillas instead of Dian. But we had a valid reason to keep even the film crew away from Group 5 for the time bein
g. Per Peter’s ongoing observations of Effie’s estrus and copulations, this gorilla matriarch was due to give birth in early June. At that, we decided to minimize disturbance of the group during this period.

  This time, we let André break the news to Amy. Upon his return to camp, he told us that Bill and Amy scoffed at the idea that Peter could predict an impending birth with any degree of accuracy, let alone time of cycling, ovulation, and impregnation. Peter just hung his head, shaking it in bemused exasperation. Effie gave birth on June 10, giving great credence to Peter’s growing understanding of gorilla behavior and female cyclicity.

  Peter had planned the name Maggie for a long time, simply because he liked it.

  “Maggie, Magpie, Maggie-May . . .” Peter said, “Don’t you just love that name?”

  I didn’t love it. All I could think of was Stephen Crane’s novella, Maggie: a Girl of the Streets, which a high school English teacher had assigned our class to read, so I wasn’t as enamored of the moniker. But Peter had certainly earned the right to name the new baby of Group 5, so I didn’t argue.

  It was amazing to see a baby mountain gorilla within the first hours of her life, after a trail of blood spotting had led us from a steep ravine to Effie that morning on Mount Karisimbi. Little Maggie still appeared to be damp, her hair slick to her head, as if we’d just missed the event. She looked to be about four pounds, and a six-inch portion of the umbilicus still clung to her navel. Her eyes remained closed. Although her hair was dark, her skin was pink with grayish shading, lacking the full melanin that would eventually color it. Effie tended to her like the skilled mother that she was, cradling her newborn gently in one arm, and nudging her onto her nipple to suckle. The fascination by other group members was obvious, as each approached to stare at the baby, but none was more fascinated than Tuck, who was nearly old enough for a baby of her own. This oldest daughter of Effie stayed close, obviously captivated by her new little sister.