Before dawn, we walked to the border, which still had an old sign which read “Welcome to Zaire”. It made me think of the Mohammed Ali v George Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” fight in 1974, which helped take my mind off other pressing matters, like how to handle the un-uniformed man armed with a Kalishnikov bearing down on me. Fortunately, Butterscotch intervened just as I was about to tell this gentleman that I was just a lost helpless Canadian. They had a quick chat and then informed us that we had a choice of whether or not we wanted a Congo stamp in our passport, although we would have to pay $30 in either case. Everyone except me chose not to have the stamp to avoid re-entry trouble in their mother country. (I figure spending time in US Immigration quarantine facilities after a thorough body cavity search and intelligence debriefing will make for a good story later).
With all the official bribery sorted out, we walked into the “Democratic” Republic of Congo and my first impression was being engaged by a 12 year old kid trying to sell me an old Zaire currency note (out of circulation). I bought it for the cool old picture of a gorilla on the bill. We were picked up in a Landrover and driven about an hour to the foot of the Virunga volcanic mountain range, perched at 6000’ elevation. The drive was fascinating, as we were clearly in a country which does not see a lot of vehicles, nor white people. We passed just two other vehicles, both of which were UN Peacekeepers full of troops sporting their powder blues. There were no paved roads and people could hear us coming and came out literally singing with joy from their mud huts. Naked children, grandma’s, teenagers all came out with the warmest greeting I’ve ever witnessed. The welcome we received was staggering. They could hear the motor of our vehicle and were racing out to the roadside to wave their arms wildly and greet us with a Jambo Muzungu, “hello whitey” in Swahili. Some of the kids raced after our car and jumped onto the rear bumper. Some sprinted alongside our car until they exhausted themselves. Some just stared silently as we drove past, as if seeing an alien ghost.
We arrived at the base camp and met the head ranger who gave us his speech about gorilla etiquette. There are roughly about 700 mountain gorillas left on the planet. They all live on a mountain range which straddles the border region of Uganda, Rwanda, and the Congo. They have longer hair, a wider jaw and a broader chest than their lowland cousins, who reside in slightly larger numbers in West Africa. The first European to encounter them was a German military officer at the turn of the century. For two decades they were hunted mercilessly until one guilt-racked hunter decided to persuade the Belgian government in 1925 to create Africa’s first protected area. Long thought to be aggressive forest monsters, these gentle vegetarians are caught in a precarious predicament. Although they are a protected species, they are often poached for bushmeat to feed Interahamwe (former Hutu militia in Rwanda) and Tutsi rebel groups bent on exacting revenge for the 1994 genocide.
Our group headed up the lush green slopes of this volcanic range, led by a team of four rangers armed with machetes and two guards in full combat fatigues armed with AK-47’s. The trek was spectacular, at times hacking our way through dense jungle with the majestic peaks of the dormant volcanoes looming as the backdrop, shrouded in mist as we walked up past the 7000’ altitude. I was distracted in thought of Diane Fossey, who was just the second person to study these animals and protected them fiercely. Her uncompromising confrontational approach to poaching (bless her righteous soul) is thought to have led to her murder in 1985 (George Schaller was the first to research gorillas in the late 50’s). The stinging nettles and swarming red Army Ants snapped me out of my Sigourney Weaver fantasizing. Although unlikely of Soviet descent, they did have an oddly proletariat communal work force with centralized power that conspired to crawl up my leg and sink their scorpian-like pincers into my naked ankles (I was the only idiot to wear shorts).
After about an hour of clambering up steep slopes, we met up with 4 more rangers strapped with assault rifles. They were all in radio communication and these guys had been ahead of us trying to find the family of gorillas. Normally, I prefer my adrenaline dispensed only in necessary doses (ie. When Im about to be hit by a bus) but I began to enjoy this armed escort stuff. We were now a pretty decent sized armed group so if there was going to be a firefight, it would take more than the random pair of poachers to overpower us.
Around the two hour mark, the lead ranger stopped suddenly. He motioned to hush us. He then gestured for the other rangers to circle around and they began clearing away a dense thicket with their bush blades. Nestled in a clearing under an endless canopy of vines was a sight I will take with me wherever I roam. Eleven black lumps of fur lying about in a late morning slumber. A baby, no more than a year old, crawled off his mothers’ chest and slowly approached us. He got within ten feet of me before the ranger intercepted to discourage close human contact. Had the ranger not been there, the curious baby would have climbed all over me. He clearly wanted to play. I was torn between taking pictures and absorbing the moment. We were all speechless, wide-eyed and jawed. I wont even try to describe the feeling since it will surely be an inadequate dilution of the moment.
The silverback, the dominant male in a family, was lying on his side with his arms and legs facing our direction. You don’t realize how imposing these animals are until you are up close. The hands and feet are massive, the thickness of his leathery fingers was insane. His barrel chest makes a linebacker look like a badminton player. At about 450 pounds, he was by far larger than all the other adults. He had a large laceration across his face, a fresh wound still open. According to the ranger, two gorilla families encountered each other the night prior and there was a fight between the two silverbacks. Gorillas are not territorial and fights are uncommon, unless there is a challenge for dominance among silverbacks.
Most of these apes were strewn about, either napping or foraging. Some were still in their nests from last night (gorilllas make ground nests of plant material and then move on the next day and create new ones). The baby was curious, trying to wake up his brothers and sisters to play with him. When he tried to wake his dad up by climbing up his mountainous chest, the silverback stirred and, without looking, brushed him away with a gentle swat. There was one infant, no more than a month old, who was cradled in the arms of his mother but I could never get a clear view of him. I could have easily stayed there all day and all night to watch them. It was mesmerizing. But in order to minimize the impact of humans, all gorilla visits are kept to a strict one hour time limit. At precisely the 60th minute, the ranger asked us to move on.
Back at base camp, I met a local villager with huge teeth and an overbite who wanted to talk with me. He wore a tattered old sport coat with the stuffing coming out of the shoulders. It looked oddly normal here but worn on Haight Street, it would have been the cool new fashion. All his friends sat in the background hiding and giggling, thinking it was funny that their buddy Donkey Mouth was speaking to a whitie.
We returned later that day back across the border to Uganda. I came across some guys playing soccer so I joined them. There was a roaming herd of about forty Ankole cattle grazing on the edge of the field. A few times when the ball rolled under their hooves, we had to wait until they moved on to get the ball back. This breed of cow occurs in Central Africa and are known for their extremely long horns.
Went back to the Good Times Hotel and laid down under my mosquito net in post gorilla glow. Without a doubt, this has been the single richest experience of my trip. So many things flittering about in my mind. Those eyes. Those puddles of maple syrup. Staring through me, sizing me up, thinking gorilla thoughts, feeling gorilla emotions. These are complex beings, capable of much more than they are given credit for. Oh Diane. To have lived your life. Dozed off in a haze of Fossey madness, devotion, and obsession.
|  | 
|
