by Farley Mowat
I must say, despite the leaks, my canvas tent is a happy roof. It beams with the morning sunshine when the day is bright, and it frowns a little darker whenever I open my eyes to the prospect of a drippy dawn. I’m lucky in having a tea-boy who, no matter how much I cuss him out for bringing tea at six, brings tea at six. He pecks once at the tent pole with the teapot lid and then runs like hell. Six o’clock is not such an unholy hour, in fact it is the normal hour of awakening in most countries, but I guess I’m getting to be an old lady-six seems very early to me.
When the moon is full here it seems a sacrilege to be inside one’s tent, for outside are screaming the violet, iridescent demands of snow-peaked volcanoes and etchings of lacy mosses and leaves against the silver-blue sky. Each tree assumes its own character when silhouetted against the moonlit sky-some are sinister, some are comical, but none is just a plain tree and none belongs to the daylight world. Walt Disney would be pleased to know Mr. Pluto-a gangly hypericum tree whose moss-tipped limbs exactly resemble Pluto, even to the whiskers. But even Mr. Pluto is just another tree in the daylight world.
To leave the kerosene lamps of the tent and to go outside on such a night is to be automatically captured in spite of one’s best intentions. Inevitably the nipple of Karisimbi is shining with snow, and the sparkle of that triangle can only be matched by the tusks of The Loner elephant wading through the creek just outside the tent. When I go out on such a night, he raises his tusks and trumpets as if to say the night belongs to him and I am the intruder. When this happens I relinquish the silhouettes of the trees, the silver phosphorescence of Karisimbi and the golden glow of my campfire, for it is true, the night belongs to the animals and I am an intruder. At the same time, I wonder why it is that the elephant and buffalo will crowd around the area of my camp on such a night. Is it because they feel safer, or does the spectacle of the moon here make them as oblivious to any potential dangers as it does me?
On such nights I feel that it is mandatory to track The Loner as he scratches himself and feeds his way along the meadow. My voice seems to fall on his ears like so much empty air, and he pays no attention to me or my shadow in spite of the fact that I’m near enough to reach out and touch him. The buffalo, however, are not quite as moon-touched: your presence is signaled by snorts and bellows before you pick up their elongated yellow eyes around the edges of the meadow.
And why is it on such nights that Visoke always chooses to hide her mediocre appearance in veils of cloud while Karisimbi and Mikeno trumpet the moon and insist upon showing off their splendid peaks to full advantage under the silver reflection of the full moon? Also, why is it that the owls and hyrax refuse to add to the litany of the night when the air is silver and bright? They refrain on these magical nights, thus giving sound only to the tumble of the creek, the snorts of the buffalo, and the trumpet of the elephant. They save their presence for the dark nights, as if they know they would only be superfluous on the nights of the full moon.
There is an opening in the trees of my meadow that lets me see the heavy, ordinary rain clouds blanketing the lowlands on my magical moonlit nights up here. I’m sorry for those below me who cannot feel the moon the way it shines up here, even though they know the daily sun as I can never know it.
Why should most African novels begin with, “It was a hot night, there was a full moon, the hyena was calling, the mosquitoes were swarming,” etc.? Why should I apologize for saying it’s always cold here. Actually I’m lucky ever to see the moon, and as for a bug-bless his soul, he’s a brave one, he is, if he comes up to Karisoke. Wouldn’t it introduce it better if I say I’m a noncommercial nobody-I have a clean tent and take a hot bath each night, but I’m not on a Kenyan safari; I see more really infested sores and goddamned chronic cases of leprosy than Schweitzer, but I’m certainly no missionary….
Yesterday I spent the usual day-six hours of climbing in and out of ravines on seventy percent slopes, and I screamed like a baptized baby over the worst of them for I know one fear, and that is acrophobia. Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work. I’m beginning to think so just because of my inability to control this particular line of thinking-fear of heights.
People have many fears, some deserved, some pretense, some either heard or read about, and some that seem to need cherishing because they elicit sympathy and thus bring attention. I can’t recall that my acrophobia can be attributed to any of these attention-getting aims, but it is real nonetheless. It is the only thing I feel brave about in spite of all the accolades for working in the Congo or here with the gorillas. The only peril I really face in this work is sliding across a moss-slippery rock face of seventy percent of slope, something a two-year-old could jump across, but which still reduces me to shivering weakness.
In her isolation, Dian thought more often of her father, George Fossey. Though her parents had divorced when she was six and her mother married Richard Price a year later, she had a soft spot in her heart for her real father. She still kept with her a picture of him in navy uniform taken during the war. As Dian grew older, she had sometimes yearned to see him. Finally, in 1959, a letter from her father reached her in Louisville, and she began a sporadic correspondence with him.
She sometimes wrote from Karisoke, pouring her heart out, as if to a stranger for whom she had an instinctive liking. He was very proud when a newspaper in San Rafael, California, carried a story about Dian and her African adventures, identifying her as the daughter of George and Kathryn Fossey of Fairfax, California.
I had another letter from Daddy. He has not been well, but his wife seems to be taking care of him. I wonder what he would think of the Virungas? He always did love the wilderness, but never had a chance to enjoy it very much. Perhaps I’m here because of that….
As 1967 ended and the new year began, Dian wrote to Leakey: “It seems impossible that a year has gone by since beginning the study in the Congo, for I haven’t accomplished half of what I intended during that time. I have chalked up 485 hours of observation, and although this puts me ahead of Schaller, it’s less than what I’d hoped for. Now, of course, I’m anxious to know what the next 485 hours of observation will bring and hope that I will know twice as much as I do now.
“Had several good contacts with Group 8 two weeks ago—unfortunately deep into the Congo and six hours from camp, so I couldn’t follow them further. The young adult, Peanuts, and the blackback, Samson, approached me to twelve feet; and as has been the case from our first contact, this small group of six members was receptive and calm, and their response behavior was at a minimum. Also was able to follow a badly wounded silverback—the third dominant in Group 4—for two days before losing the trail. However, from trail signs today it appears that he is now recovered enough to follow his group, although still at a day’s distance. Have also recorded some excellent play sequences in this group that involve the dominant silverback, Uncle Bert, with younger members.”
The observation of play was of particular importance. Dian was beginning to suspect that play was an aspect of gorilla behavior generally concealed from human observers, and for that reason had in the past been accorded far too little importance in studies of the apes’ daily lives. That the gorillas were allowing Dian to observe their play showed how well she was being accepted.
The one constant thorn in her side was the presence of human intruders, and she told Leakey, “I will be going to Kigali January 23 for a visa extension and renewed permission to work in the park. At that time I intend to make an urgent request to the ministry to do something about the cattle and the poachers as the situation is past the point of tolerance. Now that the rainy season is over, there has been a tremendous influx of cattle and men, and the constant bawling of the cattle and yelling of the men has driven the gorilla out of the area, with the exception of one group that now clings to the summit of Visoke. It is a deplorable situation.”
The result of her complaints was a commitment by L’Office Rwandais du Tourisme et des Parcs Nationaux (ORTPN) to increase patr
ols by armed park guards and an understanding whereby Dian would be able to call on the guards for assistance to help drive herders and their cattle out of the park. She began employing their services almost immediately, organizing cattle drives down Visoke’s slopes. However, as she explained to Leakey, “The park guards do not stay in the park, and they only come up here once a month or when I send for them. Unfortunately, last week when the conservateur, who is the top park official, and a guard climbed, they were attacked by herdsmen whom they met on the lower trail, so their enthusiasm for trying to patrol this area is somewhat diminished as the guard’s head was really mashed a bit.”
She had some problems with her own African camp workers but was now better able to handle them.
One of my two trackers increased his use of hashish and really made life miserable for me during the month of November and most of December. I hated to let him go because he was a good tracker, but had to do so when he became violent. He returned last week and I had to shoot over his head to get rid of him — he left immediately. I then reported the use of my pistol to Mr. Descamps, a Belgian adviser to the park authorities, as I want it on the record, and he in turn drew up a convocation, or warrant, for this man’s arrest should he return.
Two other problems plagued Dian—her ailments and her growing notoriety.
In April 1968 she was eagerly awaiting Leakey’s decision whether she could attend a primate symposium scheduled for June in the United States.
“A lesser reason for wanting to go to America is the fact that my teeth are beginning to rot and chip out in spite of the fact that I spent most of my savings before coming here to have them ‘fixed up’ just to prevent such a thing from happening. A friend of mine in America would be able to repair them much cheaper and faster than could be done in Africa, but again, this is not justification for making the trip, it is only an added incentive. Meanwhile, I’m saving all the chips and packing my gums with stuff that my tent boy brings up from his village every week—it helps to relieve the pain even though it looks like a combination of merde and vacuum-cleaner sweepings.”
In the same letter she noted: “Some screwy British female psychiatrist has been trying to get up here—Descamps stopped her, and apparently she finally returned to Kigali spreading stories about my being charged and embraced by male gorillas, and now the American ambassador thinks I’m due for hospitalization any day…. Descamps told me of fourteen other people he’s turned away, mainly just curiosity-seekers and missionary types from Rwanda, and this makes me mad for I don’t feel that Descamps should have to worry about protecting me from ‘the public.’“
Dian received word from Leakey the following month that grant money had been found to send her to the States for the primate symposium. For two days she was walking on air, her mind a world away from the forests of central Africa, as she silently rehearsed the stories she would soon be relating to friends in Louisville—between visits to her dentist.
Then a telegram arrived from Alan Root to tell her he had been hired to visit Karisoke in June to begin documenting her work on film for a National Geographic article.
The necessity to forgo the conference and remain at Karisoke for a few more months was made less painful when Leakey agreed to send her back to the States in October as a consolation.
By the time Alan arrived, Dian’s venerable canvas tent had been replaced by a two-room cabin about twelve by twenty feet, crudely constructed of timber posts and sheathed in corrugated metal—a project initiated, financed, and supervised by Alyette de Munck. Dian painted the exterior of the cabin green so that it would blend into the background and decorated the interior with rush mats, skins, masks, and other local artifacts. She hung curtains made of bright yellow African printed cotton in the big front window. When she was finished, her cabin and its surroundings had an air of permanence. Karisoke was no longer just a name—it was a place in being.
— 8 —
After spending so much time alone, Dian felt she was getting a little “bushy.” So she welcomed Alan Root’s company during the summer of 1968. It was a productive time for both. While Alan shot hundreds of feet of cine film of the gorillas and took scores of still photographs, Dian and her Rwandan trackers ranged far and wide on the steep slopes of Visoke and Karisimbi, exploring her little empire and getting to know its natural inhabitants. By summer’s end she had located nine gorilla groups, or families, and had named and could identify by name each of nearly eighty individuals.
Alan Root had to leave at the end of August, but the National Geographic Society arranged for Robert Campbell, another Nairobi-based wildlife photographer, to carry on filming and to maintain the camp at Karisoke while Dian was away on her autumn trip to the United States.
Dian showed the quiet young Scotsman the ropes and introduced him to the camp staff and the gorillas. It was at this juncture that she learned in a telegram from her stepmother, Kathryn, that George Fossey had committed suicide.
In death, George became more real to Dian than he had perhaps ever been, and she grieved for him. It was a grief that needed sharing, but there was no one at camp to share it with except the newly arrived Bob Campbell. He turned out to be a sympathetic listener—so much so that Dian was moved to show him the first, anguished letter she had ever received from her dead father.
April 15, 1959
My Dearest Dian,
I imagine you will be surprised to hear from me, but I just received your address from R.S. in Corte Madera. He got it from some girl in Larkspur who went to school with you. About a year and a half ago I wrote to Hazel asking for your address but never had an answer from her.
I am married again, my baby, to a very wonderful person and we are very happy. It happened two years ago. At present we are living in Inverness on Tomales Bay. It is very beautiful up here. Deer in the place plus raccoons and quail. I have been so anxious, my darling, to write to you and to know how you are and what you are doing. I understand that you gave up the idea of veterinary and agricultural work and decided on occupational therapy.
PLEASE write to your daddy and tell him all about it. Also if you have a picture of yourself PLEASE send it to me. Kathryn is very anxious to see and meet my beautiful daughter and suggested that maybe we might take a trip to see you if you would like us to. Do you come out to the coast at all? …
PLEASE, my baby, write to me and tell me all about yourself. I have been so anxious to know about you, what you are doing, etc…. PLEASE, my baby, please write.
All my love
Your Dad
George Fossey
Dian seldom made a show of her deepest emotions and for a time regretted having exposed her sorrow—which was as much for her own lost childhood as for her lost father. However, Bob Campbell’s quiet but compassionate response reassured her.
Bob is so kind. He listens but doesn’t speak about such things in an embarrassing way. We get on well together and I really hope he will be able to stay on after I return.
On September 24, 1968, Dian departed from the tiny airport in Gisenyi for Kigali, there to catch a connecting flight to Nairobi. She was on her way home to the United States for the first time in nearly two years. But those two years had forged a different woman with a new life, and there was now some doubt as to where “home” really was.
She spent three days in Nairobi, consulting with Dr. Leakey and looking after outstanding Karisoke business. Then it was on to Cambridge, England, to meet Prof. Robert Hinde, who had been Jane Goodall’s Ph.D. thesis adviser and would be hers; after that to Washington, D.C., for discussions with the National Geographic Society’s Research Committee about future funding of Karisoke and to screen the film taken by Alan Root. Only when her business was completed was there time to savor the old life that now seemed to lie so far behind her.
From Washington, Dian traveled to Louisville. She visited the farm cottage, now occupied by a couple whom she did not know. She spent most of her time at the home of Mary White’s mother, Mrs. Henry
, where she found some small measure of remembered pleasure. But for the most part Louisville was a disappointment. She was impatient with the uninformed and sometimes patronizing reactions to her tales of Africa and found Louisville life much less engaging than she had remembered it.
On first arriving in the United States, Dian had dutifully placed a call to Kitty Price. “Do you think you’ll have time to see your mother?” Kitty had asked plaintively.
“Of course. As soon as I’m finished with my work and get my teeth fixed.”
But Dian was in no hurry. She spent several days sorting and cataloging the hundreds of slides she had taken at Kabara and Karisoke and had forwarded to Mrs. Henry for safekeeping. She spent a day in the hospital undergoing minor surgery to remove a growth on the cornea of her right eye; and many hours in her dentist’s chair.
Finally the time came to seek the warmth of California sunshine and endure a cool reunion with the Prices.
“The life you lead,” Kitty cried reproachfully, “it’s tearing us apart. Why are you punishing us like this?”
“It’s my career, Mother. It’s my life’s work.”
“Your life’s work!” Kitty looked to her husband for support.
“Those gruesome letters you write. They have a terrible effect on your mother. Do you have to put her through all that?”
“I’m just writing the truth … sharing what I do with you. And it’s what I want to do. You have to understand that. I’m thirty-six years old, and it’s my life.”
During the rest of her stay an uneasy armistice prevailed between Dian and the Prices. Her treatment of Alexie Forrester especially rankled them, but this was a subject she would not discuss.
Lots of yak yak about Alexie. What a chance I’d lost! Mother really cried about that and she said I was a fool. Too bad they couldn’t marry him!
Despite everything, the Prices could not suppress a certain pride in Dian’s burgeoning fame. When she left for the long trip back to Africa, they gave her a battery-powered cassette player, for which she chose some favorite tapes—classical piano, the Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Edith Piaf, some jazz, and the sound track from the movie Dr. Zhivago.