by Tony Park
‘Are the bush-meat hunters usually armed?’ Shane asked.
‘They may carry spears, bow and arrow, or they may set snares. However, in this area there are also many, many AK 47s. We are restoring law and order, you understand, Shane, but you will encounter men with rifles.’
‘What are our rules of engagement?’
The colonel looked at Fletcher, then back at Shane. ‘We here in the DRC have been very impressed with the stance that our allies in Zimbabwe have taken against armed poaching. Our government has imposed a shoot-to-kill regulation in the national park and in designated safari areas, such as where we are right now. As far as I am concerned, if you see a man in this area,’ Gizenga traced the borders of the concession with a manicured fingernail on the map, ‘and he is armed, but not in the uniform of the Congolese Army, national parks or police, then you may kill him.’
‘As far as you are concerned, Colonel?’ Shane wanted more than one man’s opinion. ‘What does the law say?’ Fletcher frowned at Shane.
‘Monsieur, I am the law here.’
‘What should we do with those two over there?’ Fletcher asked Gizenga, pointing at the building. He explained the night’s events to the colonel.
‘I will take them into custody and hand them over to the police. They will be charged with robbery.’
Shane rubbed his chin. ‘They didn’t actually take anything, you know. We caught them before they could.’
‘They will be charged with robbery, monsieur.’
Shane nodded. It wasn’t his country. He almost felt sorry for the two men. He wondered what was in store for them.
After the colonel left, the work gang from the local village returned for duty – minus the two who had attempted to rob the camp. Shane had a reluctant Patrice tell the men what had happened to their comrades, along with a warning that the same fate awaited anyone else who wanted to steal from the hunters.
‘Tell them the wages they will receive will be good, and that we’ll be looking for some men – and probably a few of their wives – to work here full-time. Those who apply themselves will be rewarded.’
Patrice scoffed, but translated anyway.
Shane supervised half of the men in a clean-up of the debris in the disused building. Wise and Caesar worked with another party finishing off the pit latrines and erecting a bush shower – a framework made from felled trees that would support canvas buckets with a nozzle attached. Patrice lay in the shade of the tree line, propped up against his still-rolled safari tent, smoking a cigarette.
Fletcher walked past the work gangs and let himself into Michelle’s tent, where she had been since Gizenga’s visit. Shane took a break from shovelling broken glass and charred timber, and lit a smoke while he watched. He heard Michelle’s raised voice and, though her words were indistinct through the heavy canvas, he could guess what she was saying.
After a few minutes, Fletcher left the tent and walked over to the Landcruiser. He called to Shane: ‘Colonel Gizenga invited me over to his camp for lunch to meet his officers. I’m going now. I’ll be back before dark.’
‘Everything okay?’ Shane asked.
‘I think we should let the whole team know next time you’re running a night-time security operation. She’s accused me of treating her like a “princess”. Is that a bad thing?’
16
Fletcher had to drive to Goma to meet with some bureaucrats from the parks service to discuss the details of hunting quotas and permits, but before he left he wished the others well on their expedition to track the mountain gorillas in the Virunga National Park.
Michelle sat next to Shane in the front of the Land Rover Defender, and Wise and Caesar sat in the back. It was Sunday, so Patrice and the work gang had the day off. Shane was pleased to be away from the surly guide. He didn’t know who would come to blows with him first – himself or one of his men.
Shane had encouraged Wise and Caesar to come gorilla tracking in order to help familiarise themselves with the terrain in which they would be operating, and to learn more about the wildlife they might encounter. While both could interpret the warning calls of a baboon, track a lion or tell the size, sex and condition of a rhino from its dung, neither man had ever seen a mountain gorilla in the flesh. Shane handed them his dog-eared field guide to African mammals as he drove. Caesar flipped through the book and was astonished to learn that a male silverback could grow to be as tall as himself and twice his weight. ‘Ah, that is one big monkey,’ he observed.
‘Ape,’ Michelle corrected.
‘Still looks like a monkey.’
‘I saw chimpanzees when I was here with the army,’ Wise said. ‘They are like humans, those ones. They beat on the big roots of the trees like this,’ he drummed a rapid tattoo on the Land Rover’s aluminium door panel, ‘to signal each other through the jungle.’
‘It was good of Fletcher to organise the gorilla-tracking permits,’ Shane said to Michelle.
‘Hmmm,’ she replied. ‘He certainly is in tight with the local authorities.’
They drove as far as they could, until the track leading eastwards from the village of Rumangabo, the nearest settlement to the Bukima gorilla base, finally petered out. Amidst some fields of straggly maize and a muddy potato crop they met a Congolese guide, Henri, and a scout, Jean-Batiste, who were waiting for them by prior arrangement. Fletcher’s contacts had arranged for them to track the gorillas first and then end up at the Bukima base camp, instead of jumping off from the research base. Henri carried a well-worn FN rifle. Shane wondered if the weapon was for protection against wildlife or armed Rwandans, but he said nothing. The two guides wore brown parks uniforms with a yellow-orange patch on the left breast pocket that said ICCN, Institut Congolais pour la Conservation de la Nature, and a round patch on their right shoulder with the ICCN’s Okapi logo on it.
Four skinny boys – Shane guessed they were in their mid-teens – offered to act as porters for the small party, but the men all declined. Shane looked at Michelle, who had brought a small day pack containing water, some bananas and her camera gear. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t need anyone to carry for me.’
‘It is a difficult walk, mademoiselle,’ Henri said.
‘I said I’ll be fine,’ Michelle admonished the guide in fluent French.
Fletcher had viewed the mountain gorillas on a previous visit and, on his advice, everyone wore long-sleeved shirts and trousers, despite the oppressive heat of the morning. Michelle pulled on a pair of yellow chamois work gloves as they set off – Fletcher had warned her about stinging nettles.
Henri and Jean-Baptiste led them into the forest, and set a cracking pace, even though the lead man was using a panga to hack through vines and thick grass as soon as the path from the rendezvous point petered out. Shane kept himself in the peak of physical fitness and ensured that Wise and Caesar exercised between patrols, but soon all three men were sweating and huffing. From the tops of the hills they crested, Shane could still see the smallholding farms they had passed through earlier, a reminder that the loss of their natural habitat to agriculture was as big a threat to the gorillas as the activities of poachers.
Shane put his hands on his hips and paused for a second to suck a deep breath into his lungs. They had stopped in a rare natural clearing, on the knife edge of a ridge that afforded them a stunning view of dark dense valleys and peaks bathed a glittering emerald by the morning sun. He realised it was the combination of several natural factors that made this such arduous country to function in. He had climbed mountains in the army, he had operated at altitude, he had worked in stifling heat, and he had hacked his way through near-impenetrable jungle. However, he had never faced all of those conditions at the same time.
The little gap in the tangle of creepers and thick bush trees was an anomaly. As they resumed their trek he noticed that the entire surface of each mountain was covered in vegetation. As well as clumps of trees and bamboo thickets, there was a never-ending latticework of vines to negot
iate. The creepers crisscrossed at about waist height for a human, though underneath them there were crawl spaces where nothing grew because of the lack of light. The gorillas, Henri had explained before they set off, walked bent over, on all fours, on their hind feet and the knuckles of their hands, so they could move faster than humans, scurrying about for much of the time beneath the tangle of vines. The lead man, Jean-Baptiste, had no option but to keep hacking.
‘Ils sont là,’ Jean-Baptiste whispered.
‘There they are,’ Michelle translated for the others.
On the far side of the valley they were descending into, Shane saw a sapling, taller than most around it, swaying, although there was not a breath of wind on the hot, humid mountain slope.
Henri explained. ‘Un gorilla. He has grabbed the tree to try and reach for leaves, to eat. He may try and break it.’ On cue they heard a snapping noise and the sapling fell.
Shane looked at Michelle. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, almost as though she were hyperventilating. Unlike the men, she had spent most of her days in the Zimbabwean bush in her Landcruiser, not on foot. ‘Breathe slow and deep, if you can. We’re almost there.’
She nodded and tried to smile.
The guides said nothing to each other, but moved off with renewed vigour. Michelle grimaced. ‘They’re heading the wrong way, the gorillas are over there.’ Jean-Baptiste and Henri were hacking a path on a ninety-degree tangent away from the apes.
Wise tilted his head back and sniffed. ‘These guys are good. You can hardly feel the breeze, but they are taking us downwind of them, so the gorillas will not smell us.’
Shane nodded his agreement. Wise was good as well – Shane could feel no trace of any wind when he tried the same trick.
‘They are moving as they feed,’ Henri explained, picking up a freshly shredded length of creeper vine, the sap still sticking on his fingers. They stumbled after the tireless Congolese, stopping every now and then to whisper curses as they picked off vines covered with tiny thorns that continually snagged at their clothes and exposed skin. ‘We will move ahead of them, in an arc, to . . . what is the word . . . ?’ He made a T with his two hands, the fingertips of his right meeting the path of his left.
‘Intercept them,’ Shane finished.
‘Oui – intercept. Bon.’
Shane brushed a vine from his face and felt the barbs rake his palm. Gloves would have been a good idea, he conceded. The skin on his arms and legs was by now covered in shallow scratches, the fabric of his lightweight shirt and hiking pants laddered in dozens of places. He made a mental note to make sure he, Wise and Caesar all learned from the lessons of this tourist jaunt before their first patrols.
There was still another half-hour of scrambling, sliding, climbing and slithering up and down hills before Henri held up a hand and shushed them to silence.
Michelle had felt, more than once, like she wanted to quit. She had been on the verge of asking the guide to leave her by the side of the trail, or send his assistant back to camp with her.
It would have been foolish and selfish, she realised, but, more than that, she did not want to appear weak in front of Shane. Plenty of other female researchers, including the pioneering Dian Fossey, had worked in these conditions. She had to show Shane, and herself, that she was as tough as any of them. What this walk was showing her, however, was that she was woefully out of shape for work on foot in this environment.
Michelle looked at Shane’s broad, sweat-soaked back in front of her. The smell of him was acrid in her nostrils, but not at all repulsive. That odour, the presence of a man, had returned to her life only recently. Fletcher had reminded her how good sex could be and, if she were honest with herself, how much she craved a male presence in her life.
She had accused Fletcher of treating her like a princess and he had not denied it. The look in his eyes had said, And what’s so wrong with that? He had also treated her like a child, not warning her of the night patrol he and Shane had cooked up, and lavished gifts and indulgences upon her. It was nice to be spoiled once in a while, but not at the cost of being relegated to a mere chattel.
Shane was certainly not out to woo her, but she wanted him to be her friend. She had antagonised him initially, regarding his profession, and felt a little guilty about that now. On the few occasions they had been together in private she had enjoyed their chats and the way he started opening up to her. They talked about their families and their childhoods, but he was still prone to becoming moody and withdrawn. She wondered what demons from his time in Afghanistan and Iraq he might be hiding. It was nice being with him here, on the mountain, despite the punishing nature of the trek, just as it had been good to be with him in Livingstone and on the parachute jump. Coming so soon after her return to the wonderful world of sex, the feel of his muscled body strapped to hers in the little aeroplane had been almost overwhelming. She mentally chided herself. Fletcher was a good man, and one man in her life – in that way – was more than enough.
Michelle reached out to grab a vine and haul herself up yet another incline. At times it was like climbing a ladder, her feet not even touching the soil beneath the interlocking strands. Hand over hand, she dragged herself up the hill, her feet scrabbling for purchase.
Even though he was breathing heavily, Shane made the trekking look easy. Mercifully, at the top of the hill they reached another small clearing. She followed Shane’s lead and dropped to one knee. Ahead of her she saw Henri’s raised hand. She knew that meant silence. She slipped off her day pack, fished out a plastic water bottle and guzzled the now warm contents.
They waited, panting and sweating, on the edge of the clearing, which had been caused by the fall of a giant tree. Henri made a low two-part coughing noise, as though he were trying to clear his throat.
To her left, Michelle heard the rustle of leaves and, to her amazement, the voice of a mountain gorilla in reply. ‘Hmm-ha,’ it coughed.
Shane looked back at her and she wondered if her grin were as wide and as silly as his. She saw the look of boyish surprise on his face and thought he looked too sweet right then to be a trained killer. She wondered how Fletcher had reacted to seeing the forest giants. Probably wanted to shoot one, she thought uncharitably.
Henri cleared his throat again and the gorillas replied. Michelle shifted position slightly to peer around Shane’s protective bulk.
The silverback waddled into view, spreading his huge weight between his rear legs and his wide knuckles. He stopped in the clearing and turned to look at them.
‘This group is named after a silverback called Rubago, or his western name, which was Marcel. The current leader of these gorillas is a descendant of the first Marcel, who was killed by poachers,’ Henri whispered.
Michelle felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck and a lump rise to her throat as the gorilla locked eyes with her. Henri had told them, in the briefing before the trek, to try to avoid eye contact with them, but she couldn’t. She was transfixed by the bottomless, jet-black pools, for how long, she would never be able to remember. He seemed to be questioning her, appraising her, trying to make up his mind about some issue of life-threatening importance. In essence, she realised later, he was probably doing just that. As the leader of a small family of imperilled individuals – a group lucky still to be alive, against incalculable odds – the silverback had to decide, right then and there, if he would trust this band of upright two-legged apes.
She glanced at Shane, who was rock-still in front and to one side of her. Michelle felt light-headed and realised she had been so mesmerised she must have stopped breathing. Shane might have been in the same state of suspended animation, for when the silverback ambled slowly off into the jungle, the ex-soldier let out an audible hiss of breath.
With the all-clear given, through a cough-word or two, the rest of the troop of gorillas filed past them. Michelle counted two more adult females, three juveniles and a very young one, before she had the presence of mind to fumble for the digi
tal camera in her day pack. When she looked up and focused, she saw the youngster, perhaps the height of a human two year old, scamper up a sapling on the far side of the clearing. The spindly tree was too narrow to support even the baby and, as he neared its top, the trunk bent. The little gorilla, a bundle of spiky, fuzzy fluff, found himself dropping back to earth at an ever increasing rate and let out a little squeal. Michelle tried not to laugh out loud as her camera motor clattered off half-a-dozen frames.
Michelle lowered the camera as the toddler dropped the last metre to the ground and toppled over. He raised himself, shook off some leaves and waddled towards the humans, instead of following the rest of his family.
Henri had warned them that the younger members of the troop still found humans a novelty, and might try to approach them. The rule, if that happened, was that they should stay perfectly still. Visitors were discouraged from reaching out and trying to touch a gorilla, but if the animals tried the same gesture, they should just sit quietly and enjoy the experience. Michelle froze, her camera held near her chest. The little gorilla walked past Henri and Jean-Baptiste. He sidled around Shane – perhaps the man’s bulk reminded him of his disciplinarian father – and knuckle-walked through the grass until he was close enough for Michelle to smell him. He sat for a moment, looking up at her, though she noticed his eyes weren’t on hers. The gorilla stood on his little hind legs, reaching up towards her. Michelle’s heart fought to escape her rib cage and she felt sweat break out anew all over her body. Tiny hands that looked as though they were encased in gloves of soft black leather reached up to her. The gorilla extended a finger and tapped the end of her three hundred millimetre telephoto lens. Michelle cast her eyes downwards and saw the reason for his curiosity. The youngster had caught sight of his own reflection in the glass of the lens. He moved his face closer, until she was sure his breath must be misting the surface.
