A Forest in the Clouds

by John Fowler

  I felt my skin crawl at what I could only surmise was a pending cataclysm. As a precaution, I hid my eerie portrait of Dian in the footlocker in my cabin for fear that she would see it.

  In mid-July, Dr. Ramon Rhine, the University of California at Riverside professor, who served as a member of Karisoke’s research advisory board, paid us a visit. He brought with him a student named Guy Norton, who had been managing the professor’s baboon research center at Mikumi National Park in Tanzania.

  Professor Rhine had helped place we students at Karisoke, and duly took a professional interest in our well-being and dedication to the research center’s functions. By then, of course, he already knew of Carolyn’s untimely departure, and had arrived under the threat of what appeared to be Dian’s ambush amid accusations against Stuart. We were happy at least for him to witness firsthand the uneasy circumstances this created. It was the dry season, but Dian was brewing up a storm of her own for us.

  Neither we nor our trackers had found missing Nunkie, but when Guy Norton decided to take a hike up the Elephant Trail alone right behind camp he walked into the middle of this lost silverback’s group practically right in our back yard. We were at least able to get updates on these wanderers before they drifted out of range again.

  In a letter home to my parents on Wednesday, July 23, I summarized recent events:

  Presently, we are anticipating Dian’s return. She was supposed to have climbed two days ago, but has yet to materialize. She sent a telegram to the American embassy in Kigali saying that she would fly in on Monday for a brief visit, although she was at the time on tour in Japan. It seems it must be something rather urgent to have interrupted her Japanese tour to come here. Furthermore, it seems that she did not intend for us to know of her return—Stuart just happened to be in Kigali at the time and heard from the embassy.

  Stuart has decided to return to the states at the end of this month. After a long period of indecision, he has decided that the gorilla business is not for him, and for that, I’m sure Dian will not forgive him. Also, Peter has been denied renewal of his authorization to work here in the park. This is the most likely reason for Dian’s abrupt return visit since Peter sent her a letter in Japan concerning this problem. She may have returned to try and renew his authorization for him, but who knows?

  Speaking of surprises, Stuart just got back from Kigali and boy is he fit to be tied! He got a letter yesterday from his father whom Dian called, and claimed that Stuart has stolen $5,000 from camp along with 2 handguns and is going out on strange ventures with Jean-Pierre . . . She says she currently has lawyers looking into this.

  Needless to say, none of it is true, but it’s this type of thing that makes Dian more than just a little bit irritating. I am certainly glad that Dr. Rhine was here to see this. Since Dian clearly has a split personality, it is rather difficult to try and explain her dark side to someone who has only seen her charming side.

  At the time of Dian’s expected arrival, Stuart and Peter went to Kigali to meet her. Peter needed to renew his visitor’s permit to stay at Karisoke, and he thought that only Dian might be able to convince Benda Lema to authorize it. In Kigali, Stuart would also be able to talk with Dian in a forum outside of her domain at Karisoke. He was more than just a little concerned about where their relationship stood and decided to intercept her there to hash out any arguments in neutral territory. The three of us would soon learn that Dian had a different plan.

  With Stuart and Peter away in Kigali on July 29, I spent the morning with Group 5, thinking back on how I danced for the camp staff the day Dian left, expecting never to see her again. With a sense of guilt, I reminisced about joking with the men and referring to Dian’s departure day as the camp’s Siku ya Uhuru, or Independence Day. Knowing that Stuart would be her liaison and correspondent as Karisoke’s acting director, I had expected never again to communicate with Dian Fossey. The thought of her unexpected return was chilling, in light of all that had transpired. It occupied my mind all that morning, despite my attempts to lose myself in observations of the gorillas.

  Group 5 was on the slopes of Mount Visoke, very near the Porter Trail when I found them at 10:00 A.M. It was the middle of the long dry season and the group was finishing a midmorning rest period under a rare cloudless sky. Effie cradled Maggie loosely in her arms, dozing at the center of the group in the warm sun. A breeze stirred the vernonia branches and whipped down into the lobelia fronds where the young ones chased each other in a game of gorilla slap-tag, grunting and chuckling in their guttural staccatos, eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh . . .

  The warmth made me lazy too, and I sprawled on my back across a hummock of soft gallium in the midst of the group, half closing my eyes and listening idly to the drone of insects interspersed with the soft belches and farts of a resting family of gorillas.

  During the dry season, the Parc des Volcans is a beautiful and hospitable place. Rain is absent, and daytime temperatures climb into the seventies. From my vantage point that day, the verdant northerly peaks of Gahinga, Sabinio, and Muhavura looked like they were covered with green velvet spilling down their slopes into Rwanda on one side, and Uganda on the other. As the gorillas began to resume feeding, their dull munching sounds and placid belch vocalizations added to the serenity of a dry Virunga day.

  When Group 5 began to move, I roused myself, noticing that they were edgy, scrambling in a silent jerky pace upslope as they looked backward toward the Porter Trail. When Icarus screamed, I jolted upright and heard the voices too.

  Jonas, a self-employed tourist guide froze in his tracks behind a thicket. As I approached him, I could make out the figures of two khaki-clad white tourists cowering just off the Porter Trail twenty feet behind their guide. Jonas knew he wasn’t supposed to disturb the research gorillas, but with a fat tip likely for the encounter, he couldn’t resist bending the rules a little, so close to the trail he had to use anyway. Upon seeing me, Jonas slunk back to his patrons without a word and the trio of interlopers disappeared obediently up the trail.

  I made a note of the intrusion and resumed my observations of Group 5, but just as the gorillas relaxed and resumed their feeding, an odd sound punctuated the drone of normal gorilla noises: Ehht mwaaah . . . It came again through the dull munching sounds of gorillas stripping and chewing wild celery: “Ehht mwaaah . . . um waaah . . .” Not a gorilla sound, but the sound of someone poorly trying to imitate a gorilla. A sound I’d heard before.

  A chill ran up my spine. How could Dian be here? Stuart and Peter were not due back until much later, if not tomorrow. I looked toward the Porter Trail and saw the top of Dian Fossey’s dark hair, turning right then stumbling left while she struggled to find a path through the thick weedy substrate. She approached slowly, awkwardly tripping over the undergrowth, “Eht mwaah . . .” When she came into the area of trampled vegetation where the gorillas rested, Dian paused and stared silently at the members of Group 5. Although I was in plain view of her, and we hadn’t seen each other in five months, Dian didn’t speak to me.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to hide my shock.

  “As I was coming up the trail, I saw Ziz,” Dian said, pointing to the female named Puck. “He’s really getting big.”

  “Uh . . . that’s Puck,” I informed her, bracing myself for castigation. Puck had, in fact, been erroneously given her mythological male name by Dian when she originally mistook this gorilla’s gender.

  “I’m so out of touch with them.” Dian said. “Really and truly. Eht mwaaah . . .”

  I was surprised to see that my boss looked invigorated and refreshed. As the National Geographic producer Barbara Jampel had informed us, Dian had ended up in a hospital oxygen tent with pneumonia and bursitis after leaving camp in March. Now she was tan from her stranding in the Seychelles. Did she actually relax there? She had also put on a few pounds and was less sallow in the cheeks. I thought about her love for Pringles potato chips; her propensity for grease and salt in the junk food she loved must have been indulged w
ith unlimited access stateside in Ithaca.

  Dian’s hair was different too. It had been neatly trimmed and now hung down in an even length to her shoulders. Even its color had changed. Instead of the dull dark ash brown with gray roots that I remembered, her hair was an even, henna-like auburn. A little playful, I thought. Was she enjoying stateside? Was there a gentleman friend on the Cornell campus to inspire her whimsy?

  “Gorillas are the best. I’m so glad I chose them.” Dian said. I remained silent, still wanting to enjoy a one-on-one conversation with Dian, but overwhelmed by the tense circumstances. “I visited Jane’s chimps at Gombe when I first started out.” She added, scowling with disapproval. “They’re nothing like gorillas.”

  We talked awkwardly about gorillas versus chimps, and I wondered what Jane Goodall would have to say about Dian’s gorilla elitism. I thought Dian was as uncomfortable near me as I was with her and our conversation soon dwindled to an uneasy silence while we both stared at the gorillas.

  “How did you get here?” I asked. “Stuart and Peter went to Kigali to get you.”

  “I flew to Ruhengeri,” Dian said, dryly. “I wanted to get to camp as quickly as possible and didn’t want to wait around for anyone.”

  More silence.

  “I found out what really happened to Kima,” Dian muttered cryptically.

  I knew Dian was waiting for my reaction, but I had learned my first week in camp that silence was often my best response to her. Instead, I pondered the meaning of her words; we all knew Dian’s head porter, Gwehandegaza, had been keeping his boss informed in his own way via letters, but I wondered what this reference to her dead pet monkey meant. Gwehandegaza was essentially her paid informant, and the other camp staffers believed he would tell Dian anything just to be rewarded. Whether true or false, the man needed to maintain Dian’s illusion that he had inside information, and because of this he was viewed with suspicion as untrustworthy by camp staff. This negative perspective of him inevitably spread to Karisoke students as well.

  At last Group 5 began moving uphill and away from us. Thankful that I might have to leave Dian and the awkwardness behind, I feigned concentration on my note-taking and followed the gorillas onto a steeper upward slope. Without saying anything more, Dian moved back toward the Porter Trail, and I watched her back as she faded into the foliage to join her patient band of porters.

  With the thought of Dian back at Karisoke, I wanted to stay with the gorillas and out of camp as long as possible that day, but by the time my boss moved on, I had already spent the typical four-hour time period with Group 5. It was really time for me to head up to camp too. I waited for the voices of Dian’s entourage of porters to fade into the distance before leaving the gorillas and walking slowly back toward camp. I lingered, straining to hear Peter’s and Stuart’s voices, hoping they too, were returning now, up the Porter Trail somewhere behind me. Under the auspices of Dian’s return, I did not want to be alone with her in camp.

  The warm day cooled and the long shadow of Mount Visoke had crept over camp by the time I returned to my cabin. I felt the renewed aura of oppression at Karisoke with Dian’s return. Camp staff sat with Dian’s porters around the edge of the fire pit chattering and gesturing animatedly in Kinyarwanda. There was a lot of buzz in their voices, and tension hung with it in the air like the damp mist of the rainy season. I knew it was gossip about Dian, and the circumstances of her visit.

  As I sorted through the day’s notes and drew the paper with carbons through my Olivetti, Kanyaragana knocked on my door. His face was grave and I invited him in.

  “Iko lewa,” he said: She’s drunk.

  “What has she been doing?” I asked him, in Swahili. Kanyaragana sat down on the edge of my bed with his usual pleasant half-smile. He never really showed signs of anxiety, even in the most stressful situations. I asked him about Dian, and he told me that she immediately went to Kima’s grave upon arriving in camp. There, she dropped to her knees and cried over her dead monkey for a long time. Afterward, she went into her cabin and began drinking . . . Johnnie Walker, Red Label. She’d had her porters carry a case of her favorite Scotch up when she climbed to camp.

  “Iko umusazi sasa?” I asked about Dian’s behavior using the Kinyarwanda word for “crazy” because my Swahili book omitted any such word. Kanyaragana said Mademoiselli was acting umusazi, and described how she later took a bottle of Primus out to the graveyard. As she trickled the beer on Kima’s grave, Dian kept repeating, “Drink Kima . . . Drink.”

  I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck thinking of what we were in for with this visit from our boss, but Kanyaragana remained stoic as he relayed to me these details about her. He had worked for her most of the thirteen years since she’d founded the research center, and he had seen her at her worst. He had been fired by her and rehired more than once, and weathered every storm because jobs were almost nonexistent in Rwanda. Kanyaragana was a Fossey expert of sorts, and I sought some comfort in the fact that he had survived so many years with Dian, and remained calm even now.

  Still, I anxiously waited for Stuart and Peter to return. Kanyaragana left my cabin and rejoined the other men all atwitter under the pall of Dian’s return. When they soon left the campfire and disbanded, an eerie silence hung in the air in the growing shadows. While the light outside faded, I feared that my fellow students would not be returning at all that day. Without fond memories of interactions with Dian to reassure myself, and never having really developed any kind of rapport with her, I loathed being the only student in camp with her for the evening, especially under the current circumstances of her surprise return and present drunken status.

  Thinking about what Kanyaragana had told me, I pondered what Dian might be doing in her cabin at the other end of camp. I locked my door. I felt exposed and began drawing the curtains of each window. As I did so, the dull thuds of hurried footsteps came up the trail. I froze to listen as voices joined the sound . . . right up to my door, followed by frantic knocking.

  Despite their barrage of anxious questions, seeing Stuart and Peter again brought me a tremendous sense of relief.

  “Where’s Dian? What’s she doing?” they asked, talking over each other.

  The three of us moved to the campfire, which was still burning brightly although the porters had gone, and camp staff had returned to their cabin for the night. Huddled by the glowing flames, I told Stuart and Peter about my surprise encounter with Dian while I was with Group 5, and her cryptic remark about “knowing what really happened to Kima.” Like children hearing ghost stories, they both listened intently as I recounted Kanyaragana’s report of Dian drinking and mourning over her pet monkey’s grave.

  From the darkness at the other end of camp a light flashed and flickered. I had almost forgotten the telltale “ahem” that disclosed Dian’s drunken state until I heard it again that night coming down the camp trail. The beam of Dian’s flashlight bounced and jostled as it slowly drew closer, and we braced for confrontation.

  The three of us stared quietly, as the figure of Dian staggered into the faint light of the campfire. The rested look I had seen earlier on Dian’s face was gone. She had taken on more the look I remembered from my early days at Karisoke. Her hair was tousled and her puffy eyes twitched and squinted as she squared her shoulders to stand erect.

  “Stuart . . . ahem . . . where are the guns?” she asked. I felt my skin crawl. After these five months, and all that had transpired, including the accusations she’d been making about Stuart, these were her first words to him. Stuart paused before responding.

  “They’re up at your cabin, Dian.”

  “Where are the fucking guns? I can’t find them,” Dian said dryly. Despite the silent standoff that followed, there was only one thing for Stuart to do. Still, I was amazed that he was bold enough to accompany Dian back to her cabin to find her pistols. Drunk or sober, she just plain scared me. Peter and I watched Stuart follow Dian back up the camp trail, and remained by the campfire a little
longer, lamenting Dian’s demeanor and the oppressive pall it cast over Karisoke again. Dian’s contempt for us was truly in stark contrast to her need for us. What madness I thought it was when one’s wants are diametrically opposed to one’s needs, as I could see was the case with Dian and us. This lack of reasoning only added to my anxiety.

  Eventually, Peter and I retreated to our own cabins. I pumped up my pressure lantern and ignited it. The bright glare made me feel exposed and I resumed my task from window to window, drawing the curtains tight. Having anticipated Dian resuming occupancy of the big cabin during her return visit, Stuart had planned to stay in the other half of my cabin. He had moved his things into the vacant side, and our living arrangement was much the same as it had been when Stuart and I shared this duplex during our first three months at camp, except he was now relegated to my old room.

  As had become my habit, and in an effort to resume some normalcy, I rolled the triplicate typing papers and carbons into the Olivetti on my desk and sat to begin typing up the notes from that day’s visit with Group 5. I knew that if we got through the night, Dian would want to be reading the latest gorilla notes over the next few days. That is, if we got through the night.

  Normalcy wouldn’t last long. My apprehensions were soon justified by the sound of a pair of boots frantically pounding down the trail. Without knocking, Stuart flung my door open, and I flushed at the sight of the look on his face.

  “She’s crucifying me!” he exclaimed. Stuart’s eyes were wild and glazed. He had always been up for the task of anything Dian could deliver, but now, without even looking at me, he grabbed his backpack from the floor and began gathering his other things from around the room.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “She wants to know where the guns are!”

  “Why?”

  “She’s drunk and all she can say is, ‘Where are the guns? Where are the fucking guns?’ She’s accusing me of stealing!” Without breaking stride, Stuart frantically scoured the cabin for his belongings and stuffed them, one after another, into his backpack.