Dear all,
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| My hut at Ngaga |
Oh dear, it’s been a little longer than I intended… Anyway. If
you remember, I had left Lango and arrived at midnight at Ngaga Camp, which is
technically within the Congo rainforest, but in the bits that are outside the
national park. Couldn’t see much, but the next morning, I stepped out onto the
deck to see that once more we were surrounded by trees, but the camp is in a
clearing really, so you’re on the outside looking in at the almost-solid wall
of tree-trunks and leaves. It was just before dawn, before we were to set off
into its dark depths, and time for an epiphany. To hear
the night choir of frogs and crickets give way to the orchestra of bird calls:
clear, fluting, whistles and tweets (the original kind), accompanied by the clouds
of mist condensing then dripping from one leaf to the next, a soothing,
arrhythmic yet constant sound – all this made me see so clearly that this riot
of life, abundance of green upon green must have been the Garden of Eden.
(Okay, minus mozzies, midges and other biting things possibly. The butterflies
– one sitting on my leg and another on my shoulder as I write this – can stay.)
I think we tend to think that the Garden was a well-tended orchard of fruit
trees but now I have seen the rainforest, I disagree. This is the remnant of
the Garden, a place of abundance, of life spilling out and replenishing each
other, the still, small voice of the Creator in the wind through the dark creaking
branches and the bass counterpoint drip of the rain down, down, down to the
soil far below. I’m still working on this hypothesis but it makes most sense to
me.
However, I digress. Back to Sunday morning which turned out a
little differently to what we had imagined. The way it works at Ngaga is that two
groups of five or six guests follow a gorilla tracker into the forest in search
of one of the two habituated groups (of gorillas, not humans) that the
researchers allow tourists to visit; the other six groups are off-limits to
most humans. Even these two can only be seen at a certain distance, you may not
be sick when you go visit them and you must wear facemasks, be silent – but not
too silent, as we don’t want unexpected meetings in the forest. The gorillas we
visit are the western lowland gorilla species, not the mountain gorillas which
live more towards the east of the continent, such as Rwanda, Uganda and DRC.
“Our” gorillas are slightly smaller and therefore tend to spend time up trees
feeding and hanging out, but the silverback – alpha male – is still large
enough to give you a hefty klap should he choose to do so. I think that of all
members of the primate family, they’re the more considerate and polite bunch
and we’re the loud, wild hooligans who have no idea how to behave on this
planet.
So at six o’clock on the dot, feeling all brave, intrepid
and adventurous, we each took a raincoat, water, snacks, a face mask and a face
net (for the sweat bees that insist on visiting when you are trying to watch
the gorillas), and marched out of camp, towards the forest gloom, down between
towering stands of marantaceae. Think of your nice, sedate, ankle-high green
ground cover or border to your flowers and then multiply this by 17; this is a ‘ground’
cover that stands in thick almost unbreakable stands some six to eight feet
high, covered in enormous wide leaves. Our tracker was Calvin and ‘his’ gorilla
group was headed by a silverback known as Jupiter. He (Calvin, not Jupiter)
warned us, (via our guide Justine as he only speaks French), that they had been
seen yesterday afternoon bedding down some 4 km away so he wasn’t entirely sure
we’d see them today but if we wanted a chance at it, we best move it, so we put
foot and tried to cover 4 km of uneven, muddy, twig- and branch-strewn ground
very quickly, slithering down muddy bits and having to watch for vines and
stalks of marantaceae that lie like tripwires all over the place.
We also had to slosh through one muddy river and one clear
one, meaning that for one moment our feet enjoyed the cool water but after that,
our thick socks and shoes went squelch squelch, or more accurately smuffle,
squeegle and squinchle. The sun was out a bit and shining in that strong yellow
dappled way thoroughly approved of by all forest narratives and poems that talk
about the path less travelled by.
Yes well. I wonder if Robert Frost ever took a less
travelled path in Africa, cos here the path is not well behaved and clear but
rather wild and unruly with plants and trees just growing wherever they please.
It struck me that as beautiful as it was, I felt completely
dislocated, disoriented. I was not sure where I was and where the end was (or
the beginning for that matter), as every direction I looked in seemed to be the
same: tall trunks hemming me in, large leaves waving in front of my face,
dappled sun and shade dazzling me. How easy it would be to get lost here – much
easier than the veld. Perhaps, I thought, when millions of years ago we decided
to leave our forest home, come down from the trees and lope out onto the sunlit
savannah plains, we gave up our forest GPS for a savannah one. And now to step
back here, we are lost without our technology, the GPSs that Calvin and Justine
were carrying being the only things between us and complete lostness.
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| Typical forest view... somewhere |
This sounds scary/weird but these and other random thoughts
wheeled satisfyingly through my head as we walked, tripped, scrambled along,
not stopping much, only when Calvin would stop to read the signs – it was truly
amazing how he could read one broken twig over another and point us in the
right direction. At least we hoped it was, because by then we had left even the
less-travelled path and cut our way (Calvin and Justine using secateurs to do
so, not pangas as pangas make too much noise and would disturb the gorillas)
into the depths of the marantaceae; we were following the tracks of the
gorillas you see, and gorillas aren’t that interested in keeping to the paths. They
were always ahead of us, or had just been here a couple of hours ago, feeding,
but always tantalisingly somewhere else, out of range. Calvin would stop dead
still at some points and we would stop too, not daring to make a sound as he
seemed to absorb the forest with all his senses; after a while he would nod and
go off in a direction that looked the same as any other, snipping away at the
stalks with all the verve of an obsessed ornamental gardener attempting a bit
of topiary. And we, tiredly stumbling by now, found it getting tougher,
thicker, stalks rearing up to poke us in the arms and legs, sneaky vines
tripping us up; it seemed as if the forest was fighting us. And Calvin pushed
deeper and deeper in, frustrated that we seemed never able to catch up with the
damn monkeys, I mean apes. (Pratchett’s Librarian reference, anyone?)
You can see that we had perhaps started to leave our senses
of humour behind somewhere, as we had gone from glowing to dripping, every pore
spewing moisture in copious amounts (it is the Equator after all), we had drunk
all our water and eaten all our trail mix. But as hot and bothered as we were,
none of us had any thoughts of giving up. Until about 12ish, when Calvin
admitted defeat and said we could not catch them up and so we should turn back.
Wearily we started to return to camp some three hours away – being on an
already-cut route made it marginally easier – disappointed but also starting to
think about a late lunch, showers and other comforts of civilisation.
But it was not to be. We came out on a path and suddenly
there in front of us was: gorilla poo. Not just any mind you but Jupiter’s
himself (don’t ask how we know this). OMG, says Calvin (in French), he was here
two hours ago and is moving back closer to the more travelled paths! We had a
choice to just go back by now but, despite blisters and exhaustion, thoroughly
tired of swatting at a seemingly infinite variety of flying biting things,
there was no thought of giving up. So off we set with renewed determination and
intrepidity, and over the next two hours… well, we had just missed them over
there somewhere. We’d just almost given up when some other sign would appear
and off we would trot in a new direction – thankfully more or less always in
the direction of camp. Wherever that was.
Finally, at 3:00, we had given up. We had heard one crack of
a branch somewhere in the thick undergrowth that Calvin had said was the group
feeding, we had smelt them – gorillas have a very distinctive smell – but there
wasn’t a chance of seeing them in there, so we turned back for home… when he
heard them again. This time he assured us excitedly, we could see them as they
were in the trees. How he knew I’ll never work out. Alright, I said to him, ONE
more chance!
Well, a good thing too, because we stumbled and scrambled
over yet another slope and around yet another corner … and there they were:
about ten of Jupiter’s 26-strong family hanging out – literally – in the trees
above our heads. I can’t say our sore feet were forgotten but the pain had to
move over for fierce satisfaction and wonder as we stood with binoculars and
cameras and indulged in that meeting of related species, while they fed,
unconcernedly, on leaves or relaxed on a branch. They knew we were there and every
now and then looked down at us (or on us, but I’m anthropomorphising). They
would stare straight at us, into our eyes and then look away, clearly supremely
unimpressed or just plain bored. “Oh, you lot again. Well alright, if you
must,” they seemed to say.
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| Some of the intrepid survivors |
About 20 minutes later, supper was over – for some of the
primates in that glade anyway – and they all slid down the incredibly tall,
smooth trunks like firemen to disappear into the undergrowth, while we began to
plod back, bruised, battered and bloody hungry. In the end, we had been out 11
hours looking for the relatives – a new record and not one they are going to
repeat (actually, if our group had been ‘real’ guests, they would have turned
around a whole lot longer ago). But as we walked into camp we felt a curious
mix of exhaustion and triumph; the intrepid adventurers return home successful –
but oh boy, talk about stiff and sore!
Apparently we had missed the forest walk which was the
afternoon activity. Hah.
Our second day of tracking was a doddle by comparison – but
no less exciting for all that. Firstly, thanks to the rather inordinate amount
of exercise we had perforce to do the day before, we were all a little ragged,
sore, stiff and blistered, which made making the trek back through the first
part of the forest, down the slope, slosh through the mud, up another slope
down into the clear river (shoes not yet dry from yesterday got wet again) and
then up again to the start of the area in which the gorillas spend most of
their time… gasp, a little challenging. We felt the plants were sniggering at
us, as we tripped a whole lot more than yesterday….
Then the clouds rolled in as we were walking, and thunder
began rolling too; here, the clouds seem a lot closer and so does the thunder. It
grew mistier and more thunderous and then drips turned into rain in earnest.
Eventually we huddled under a marantaceae bush/tree/thing. Say what you like
about these plants, their leaves are practically big enough to shelter under
and if you fold one in half it makes an excellent fan to keep the flies off with.
It duly bucketed down, again in the approved rainforest fashion, and we put on
raincoats but to be honest we were sweating and damp anyway, so we weren’t too
fussed about getting wet. Besides it was warm rain. It was misty and loud and
the whole “Wait – I’m in the rain in a RAINforest” thing was very cool.
The trackers however said that if it continued we’d have to
turn back. You can’t track gorillas in the rain as both of us have similar hearing
abilities – which means they can’t hear you and you can’t hear them, which can
result in everyone getting a fright – which may well end in tears. So we could
go back and try again in the afternoon or try wait for the rain to stop. Well,
there was no way we were plodding achingly back. We told him firmly that we
were staying dripping here. And happily, 20 minutes later, the rain eased
enough to continue.
And then – 100 metres later, we turned off the path, and
another few metres of cutting through with secateurs, we stood dead still with facemasks
on, in the middle of a troop who were all up trees feeding – including thrillingly
Neptuno, silverback of the group.
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| Thanks to Vicky for this pic of Neptuno eating his greens |
Meanwhile, a young adult showed off beating his chest for us
and a baby sat high up and wondered how to get down, wobblingly trying one way
and then another before finding his way back to blessed earth. (I know how he
feels.)
All this was in absolute silence. This difference here
between us is striking – indeed, the blessing of ‘meshaneh habriot’ ‘who makes
diversity of species’ came to mind. We’re all about noise and they’re, well,
they’re not. And the mist was swirling all around, weaving between the trees,
the only sound the drip-drip of the rain and the occasionally thunder in the
distance, the greens and greys framing the stark furry black of a primate
family.
Eventually to our sorrow, at an unseen signal, they all climbed
or slid down the trees and disappeared into the thickness of the marantaceae, leaving
us with shining eyes and happily heading back to camp for a cup of coffee – all
before 10 in the morning this time! I felt that, in meeting my relatives, and
in taking the time to seek them, I had traced my evolutionary path, backwards and
again forwards, ending appropriately as I stepped out, like my ancestors, into
the brightness of an open-skied morning.
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