Their aircraft was met by a tall, frowning woman in a polo shirt and chinos. She walked up the ramp, daylight flooding in around her, bringing with her the tang of jet fuel, the hot hyacinth breath of the lake.
Wait in your seats, she told them, and then she guided a blacked-out SUV as it reversed up the ramp and into the cargo bay.
Get in, she said.
The SUV drove them from the plane’s hold to the US compound, bypassing immigration. An obese American contractor wearing sweat pants and camouflage, his rifle tricked out with store-bought accessories, waved them through a blast gate that slid shut behind them.
Their guide showed them to a converted shipping container shielded from the sun, and aerial observation, by a camouflage net and a green canvas awning. Sandbagged breastworks protected the door. Its walls were stacked, floor to ceiling, with Meals, Ready-to-Eat and bottles of water.
You sleep here. The dining facility is over there. But if you’re too shy for that, help yourself to these Mr Es.
Aoife spoke up:
What if someone here asks us who we are?
They won’t. I’m not asking either. Some people told me to help you, and that’s good enough for me. The only thing I need to know is how long you’re planning to stay.
From tomorrow, said Towse, you won’t see us.
I’m not even seeing you now.
There are a number of safari lodges in the Budongo Forest Reserve, serving visitors on a range of budgets. The Addison Primate Experience stands apart from them all.
Sited at the remote edge of the forest, where the land falls to Lake Albert in the Western Rift, the lodge is reached, by most of its wealthy guests, via a private dirt airstrip two miles to the east. With a good four-wheel drive vehicle, in the dry season, you can drive from the lodge to the tarred road near Masindi in two or three hours. In a regular vehicle, or when the road washes out in the rains, you might not make it at all.
The remoteness of the camp is inconvenient, but its founder, the famous Kenyan-born adventurer, filmmaker and naturalist, Bill Addison, told the park authorities he would build on this site and no other. It was here, in Budongo, that he proposed to dedicate what time he had left to the study and care of the forest’s famous chimpanzees.
The Ugandan park authorities resisted Addison at first, because they thought this remote part of the forest should be left undisturbed. But Addison found ways to make himself agreeable to the presidential palace. The lodge – a large, open-fronted building, its thatched roof held up by beams of mahogany, with cane chairs and tables, a circular bar, the heads of antelope and buffalo mounted on its walls, and separate guest chalets dispersed in the trees – went right where he wanted it, by a fast-moving stream, whose valley, falling off to the west, cut a notch in the forest, showing – in the morning and evening, when the haze briefly cleared – the sheen of Lake Albert, the blue rim of the Rift on the Congolese side.
And there too, hidden away in the trees, a short walk from the lodge, is the Addison Primate Experience research laboratory, a private facility for studying and rehabilitating injured or orphaned chimpanzees, with the ultimate aim of sending them back into the wild. The lab is very well funded. Its donors, whoever they are, are now paying for most of the national park’s expenses, including the off-road trucks for its rangers. They seldom now drive them near Addison’s lodge.
It was already evening when the hired Landcruiser dropped Michael and Aoife at Addison’s lodge, a day’s drive from Kampala. The manager, a stocky white Zimbabwean lady called Lynette, wore a Hawaiian shirt that was up for a laugh in a way that her face was definitely not. She took the payment agreed on the phone earlier – walk-in booking, cash only, one day and one night – then showed them to their lodging.
The forest grew close around the camp, and the guest chalets stood in their own private clearings. It was hot and humid, the air composted by the trees. Their bamboo-walled chalet was designed to look rustic, but was very well appointed, with an en-suite bathroom and a ceiling fan and fridge. A mosquito net, tied up for the daytime, hovered over the bed like a Victorian ghost.
The honeymoon suite, said Lynette. We don’t get many newly-
weds here. Or at least, not on their first time around. Dinner is in one hour, in the boma. Try not to be late.
When she was gone, Michael looked at Aoife.
We’re married?
I looked at the brochure before I called in the booking. The honeymoon suite has an extra-large bed. Which is good, because we have to share it. They didn’t have any twins left. Believe me, I checked.
Tiki torches, smoking to ward off mosquitos, lit the clearing where dinner was served. A wood fire burned in the central pit. The other guests – elderly Americans and Germans and British, in self-conscious safari clothes bought just for this trip – already occupied their tables.
Come on, muttered Aoife. We’ll eat and get out of here, then check out the laboratory when everyone’s asleep.
Do you really believe Towse? You think what we find there will solve all our problems?
I don’t know. But I know that Towse got us out of the States, no questions asked, which isn’t easy. And I like having an ocean between me and Barb Collins. So we’ll have to trust him, for now . . . Come on, that corner table is empty. Let’s try to eat alone.
But Lynette had other plans.
The newly-weds! You must come eat with Bill, at the top table. He insists. We’ve chilled the champagne. I say champagne, but it’s Méthode Cap Classique. You won’t know the difference.
And, watched by the resentful tourists, she led them to the table at the top of the boma, where Bill Addison sat with two younger men.
Addison was a short but heavy man of about seventy years. He wore a bush shirt and trousers, with a thick grey-black beard and long grey-white hair. His face, burned and fissured, had a red, angry tint in the light from the torches. When he saw them he didn’t stand up.
The love birds . . .
He stared admiringly at Aoife.
No wonder they’re late . . . Come!
He stood, offered Aoife his hand.
Come and sit beside me, my dear. I’ll tell you all about our work here. And you – Mark, is it?
John.
John. You sit at the far end, with Lynette.
Waiters fanned out among the tables, bringing wine and food –
platters of game meat, and salads and sweet potato, and bowls of mealie pap. The servers wore khaki shirts, with shorts for the men and skirts for the women – the uniform for children in African schools.
The other two men at their table were Americans, late thirties, early forties, with pleasant, bland faces, wearing sweatshirts and jeans. Their names were Kevin and Steve. They said they were geneticists from Berkeley, here to study chimpanzees. Most of the time they sat hunched together, talking quietly, eating quickly, politely declining champagne. After one beer each, they excused themselves. Addison didn’t notice. He’d already drunk their share of the champagne and ordered a follow-up bottle of red. Apart from the wine, he was interested only in Aoife.
So, what would you like to see tomorrow, my dear? I can take you out myself. Special game drive. Show you my chimps.
Aoife had worked out her part for the evening.
That would be awesome! I’d be able to tell all my girlfriends I’d been on safari with you! We watch all your shows!
Addison squinted at her.
My shows haven’t been on the telly in years.
I meant, on demand. Streaming. We watch your shows online.
Lynette watched Addison top up his own glass.
You should take them out on the dawn game drive, Bill, she said. If we all get to bed early – she looked at the glass in his hand – you can show them the chimps yourself.
Addison looked at Aoife, and then at Michael, and then at the quantity of
drink on the table. He seemed to be calculating.
Why not? I’m already taking out a few of these bloody Germans, the ones who paid for the premium package. There’s room for two more on our Rover. We’ll get to bed early. Let’s just have one for the road.
I’ve been married myself, Addison confessed to Aoife, almost an hour later. He was on the whiskey now.
Three times, I’ve been married. And each time was beautiful. To three beautiful, beautiful ladies. If I had my time again, I would marry each one of them again. In the same order. And I would do it even knowing that, in the end, we would go our separate ways. Everything is eternal, but nothing will last. I learned that in the bush, from Nature herself. Nature is my temple, and my university.
That’s so beautiful!
I’ve lived in the bush for most of my life, in a half-dozen countries, and now I will end my days living here, among my brothers of the forest, the genus of Pan. And you know what I have found . . . Rosa, is it?
Rose. What did you find, Bill?
He leaned towards her, close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath.
I’ve discovered this, Rose: Nature wants us to be free.
He held her gaze for a moment, frowning at his own wisdom. Then he placed his hand on hers.
I shall die in this forest. And here, under these trees, I shall be laid to rest. I don’t want a grave. I told them that. I said, Just lay me in a clearing, on a nest of leaves and branches, and linger sadly for a while, as the chimpanzees do around the body of a loved one, and then leave me. Nature will reclaim me.
That’s so beautiful.
I’m making a film of it, you know. It will be my last.
Please don’t say that.
She withdrew her hand, smacked a phantom mosquito, put her hand in her lap. He didn’t seem to notice it was gone.
It will be my last film. And my greatest. I’m putting money aside, so they can finish it after I’m gone. Death scene, sky burial, the lot. Then we’ll see whose films are outdated.
You’re a pioneer, Bill.
My agent is talking to Werner Herzog, to see if he’ll do the narration. Maybe even make the final cut. Herzog is an artist. He’d never have worked with Cousteau or Adamson. Or Steve bloody Irwin.
Who even are those guys?
Exactly, Rosa! Forgotten, now. Showmen. Oh, look, there’s some dolphins over there! Let’s jump in with them and film ourselves! Let’s bother some fish! . . . Entertainers. Not naturalists, like me.
Science is so important to me. I totally believe in it. And you even have your own science centre, right here, in this camp. That is so awesome!
Science centre?
Over there, in the trees. Lynette showed us earlier. What does it do?
Oh . . .
He glanced at Lynette, at the end of the table, who was blabbering away to that other stupid kid, Mark, or John, or whoever.
The primate rehab laboratory . . . Well, it’s like it sounds. We rehabilitate injured or orphaned chimps. And scientists can come and study them.
What kinds of scientists? I did science at high school.
Top scientists. From America. Like these guys tonight – Kevin and Steve. Genetic biologists. They pay a lot of money for access to our chimps. Because our chimps are pure. Uncontaminated by contact with humanity. They’re worth millions, believe me. That’s how I’m funding my film.
He lowered his voice.
Some of our chimps have bred in captivity. If anything, it makes them more sexually active. And they also become more nocturnal in their mating. Like people. If you come with me now, I can show you.
His hand reached blindly for hers, failed to find it.
Maybe tomorrow, she said, standing. After the game drive. I’m so looking forward to that. Come on, John. We should get to bed.
A dim light from the sky seeped through the gaps in the forest canopy, showing no more than the blurs of their faces. Aoife made Michael put one hand on her shoulder, then led him along the path, its stones a pale line in the darkness, to the clearing where the laboratory stood on its own. She moved slowly, sweeping twigs aside with her feet before her weight could snap them. They listened to their own breathing, the whine of mosquitoes, the scuff of their shoes. Leaves and branches brushed past them, releasing a hot musk, fungal spores, and the pollen of night-blooming flowers. Ants stung their ankles, worked their way inside their shoes.
The laboratory wall, appearing abruptly out of the darkness, brought Aoife to a halt. It was another rectangular industrial building, vinyl clad, though much smaller than the one in New Jersey. Her penlight flicked on, found the door. It was steel, held shut by a padlock. A few scratches, then a click, and the creak of metal hinges.
Come on, Aoife whispered. Towse said that whatever’s in here, you should see it too.
What little air there was inside came from small mesh windows, high up the walls. An ammoniacal stink – a smell like overcrowded, unwashed bodies, flood-damaged carpet and raw human sewage – made Michael gag. Aoife shone her flashlight about them, narrating the scene with its beam.
They were standing in a room, ninety feet long by thirty feet wide, that took up one end of the building. At the further end was a whitewashed partition with a large double door, and, beyond that, the hum of refrigeration. Just inside the outer door where they stood, facing them, was a metal bench scattered with scraps of vegetable and fruit. Rows of steel cages lined either side of the room, like an old-fashioned jail, with a stretch of bare concrete down the middle, wide enough to allow safe passage out of reach of the bars. Dark, viscous fluid, oozing out of the cages, glinted in the beam of the light. The ooze pooled, stagnant and stinking, in a gutter that ran down the aisle.
Look.
Aoife’s flashlight probed the nearest cage. At first, Michael saw nothing, just filthy bedding, more excrement than straw. Then a pair of eyes opened in the beam of light.
Aoife steered Michael down the line of cages, keeping to the middle of the passage, flicking the torch back and forth.
I count about forty chimps, she said. It’s hard to tell, the way they’re lying together. These cages are too small.
Some were caged alone, but most were in groups. A few stared glumly back at the light. A mother shielded her baby, one hand over its eyes and the other on one ear. In another cage motherless infants, clustered together for warmth, slept with the intensity of exhausted children.
They can’t all be orphans or injured, Michael said.
Aoife flicked the beam on ahead. The inmates of these cages looked like chimpanzees at first, except a little larger. Then he got it.
Gorillas! Female gorillas . . . But Addison said they don’t have gorillas in this forest.
They don’t. They live a long way to the south.
Aoife turned the flashlight to the last cage on the left. Two long, spindly arms were splayed on the straw, crucified by gravity. The face that lifted itself to the light was ugly and wise, fringed with long ginger hair. Two smaller eyes peeped from its armpit.
And they don’t have these on this continent at all, Aoife said.
Orang-utans . . . Jesus . . . Are Addison and Fess smuggling endangered apes? For private zoos, or something?
I don’t think so. They didn’t bring orang-utans all the way to the middle of Africa, just to move them somewhere else. This must be the end of the line.
Aoife opened the door in the whitewashed partition without any difficulty. The small room beyond smelled of diesel and soot. Her flashlight played across breeze-block walls, a concrete floor, another door on the opposite side. In the far corner, a red light was blinking. There was a ticking sound too, loud and steady. Aoife pointed her light.
The flashing light was set in the door of a coffin-like steel box set on a brick bench. A metal flue pipe ran from the box to the ceiling.
Aoife p
ulled her sleeve over her hand, touched the box. It was warm but not hot, ticking as it cooled. She turned the door handle upwards; it rotated stiffly in steel lugs. Opened, the door released a gust of burned diesel, and something else too – a smell like stripped metal. Aoife shone the torch inside the box. Its floor was heaped with ashes, and a few scorched fragments of bone. White flakes glided through the beam.
What is it? asked Michael.
She looked closer, then turned the bolt home again.
It’s a crematorium.
The door in the far wall wasn’t locked. Beyond it, tiles gleamed white in the torch beam. Tiles on the walls, tiles on the floor, in the middle of which was a metal-topped table. The whiteness of the tiles matched the coolness of the room, the hum of fridge motors. Glass cabinets lined three of the walls. Inside them, the glint of more glass, of beakers and test tubes and specimen jars. The benches beneath them were sheathed in dull metal.
I guess that part was true, said Michael. This really is a laboratory.
Aoife shone her light on the table in the middle of the room. Its zinc surface sloped gently from its edges down to the centre, where a grill protected the mouth of a drain. Hearing Michael move behind her, she jabbed her torch beam at the door.
I don’t see any windows. Close that door and turn the light on. There’s a switch over there.
Neon tubes in the ceiling flickered and steadied. They saw themselves reflected in the cabinets, their faces distorted in each vial and beaker, and magnified and dulled in the three stainless-steel doors, each half a metre square, set in a row half way up the far wall. Aoife looked at these doors with a dull sense of dread. I’ll get to you later, she thought.
Hey, said Michael, opening a cabinet. Look at this.
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