They engage in rigid small talk and rather stuffy formalities, until bottles of Maotai are placed on the dinner table . . . then the toasting begins, and soon these stiff comrades are fast friends, and the evening becomes a cloud of drunken toasts. “Sing for us!” cries one of the railway executives. Gerald and Austin glance at each other in despair. “I hate singing,” Austin whispers.
“We need this train for Bill Gates,” Gerald replies. They break into their best karaoke Chinese songs, and before the night is finished, there are more than a dozen grown men dancing the foxtrot. “If it will get A&K the train for Bill Gates,” Gerald says to me the next morning, “then why not.”
On their stop off the train in Dunhuang, the group requests a Western meal. The chef at the Dunhuang Hotel has no idea how to prepare something Western, so Gerald takes off for the local market to find potatoes for French fries and good ground beef. They chop it up with a cleaver and find bread for buns to serve hamburgers—the first ever served in Dunhuang, it turns out.
However, the greatest feat of all occurs when vital concern is given to Warren Buffett’s fondness for Cherry Coke. Gerald and the Managing Director of our China office, Patrick Macleod, meet with the Coca-Cola distributors in Hong Kong to discuss how A&K can provide Cherry Coke to the Gates party at each of their stops: in Dunhuang, Urumqi, on the Yangzi River, and Guilin. Fortunately, they learn that there is some stock in Hong Kong, and it’s sent out to these destinations exactly per the group’s itinerary. All goes wonderfully, Gerald reports, except in Guilin, where the Cherry Coke is not delivered to the Gateses’ private boat for their highly anticipated cruise on the Li River. Gerald sends the group off down the river on their boat. Then he returns to the pier and awaits the grand delivery, which arrives within a couple of hours.
After some cajoling and negotiations, he finds a small motorboat that will carry him fast to track down the Gateses’ boat. He races past almost three dozen boats down the Li River, calling out and signaling to the Gateses’ craft when he spots it. Finally, when Gerald transfers the Cherry Coke on board, there is great clapping and cheering from Warren Buffett and the entire group.
At the conclusion of the trip, the Gates family and Warren Buffett tells us that A&K is “simply the best way to travel.”
{Pat Garcia}
Coming face-to-face with a gorilla in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, one of the richest ecosystems in Africa both in animal species and plant life. A life-changing moment. Don’t make eye contact!
Chapter 11
Uganda, Rwanda, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo
1985
In 1980, my father—the man who’d introduced me to travel and the early business partner who so often had doubted my aspirations—dies. It stirs me in many ways. Over the years, we’d had so many conflicts; but we always shared a deep, meaningful bond over our love for two things: my mother, and Africa.
My sister, Anne, and I establish a grave site not far from my first safari camp. It overlooks the Masai Mara, and on two giant boulders we place separate plaques for each of our parents. His reads: John Kent: His footprints across Africa became our roads. It so happens that at this time, an opportunity to preserve some African wildlife comes my way. The whole thing started in the mid–1960s while I was accompanying an art dealer from New York on a game drive. He asked me whether I’d ever be willing to locate some pieces for his gallery—in specific, he was looking for some ancient artifacts that he’d heard could be found only in the far reaches of the Congo.
With my colleague Tony Church, who was leading our early horseback safaris at the time, I loaded up two Toyota Land Cruisers and take off. “This is no small errand, Geoff,” Tony said. “This is a right expedition. Have you ever been to the Congo?”
“Sure, I went with my father when I was ten.”
“Well, that was sixteen years ago, and loads has happened there since then. That whole area has been ravaged by war. Where will the job take us?”
“To the southern end of Lake Kivu—”
“Lake Kivu, it’s deadly there! Black Jack Schramme and his gang of mercenaries razed Bukavu to the ground last year, it’s like a shelltown now. What’s he willing to pay?”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“Seventy-five thousand?” Tony exclaimed. “Just to do the reconnaissance?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll end up a little richer, or dead. Let’s go!”
Tony and I drove through Uganda’s great game park of Murchison Falls, then west to a location in northern Uganda called Pakwach. There we crossed the Nile at a spot my father had discovered years ago and then drove into the Congo, stopping off at the Ituri Forest to visit their legendary pygmies and for a look at the Okapi, a rare and secretive antelope-looking creature with a brown body and legs striped like a zebra’s, which can usually be spotted only in a camp kept by scientists.
Heading south, we finally arrived at Goma at the northern end of Lake Kivu. When we finally reached our ultimate destination of Bukavu, we found it indeed to be like an apocalyptic movie set. We drove past the remains of buildings and over potholes as big as craters until we finally spotted someone walking in the town. He pointed us toward the road to locate the Warega tribe, and, sure enough, some days later, there we discover a huge supply of tiny elephant statues, moon shapes, and miniature daggers made of amber-colored ivory.
Mission accomplished! I know my art dealer friend will be thrilled with this information. I mark the spot carefully on my map and say to Tony, “Let’s get back to Bukavu.”
By way of celebration when we return, we find a nightclub where we can get a beer, and a fellow patron strikes up conversation with us. He is from Belgium, though he’s been living here with the gorillas for years. “Guerillas?” Tony said. “Sounds a bit dangerous!”
“No,” said the Belgian. “Gorillas—I live with an actual troop of gorillas.”
I pound my chest with my fists. “Gorillas—like these gorillas?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m a scientist. Adrien Deschryver.” He holds out his hand. “Pleased to meet you “Would you like to see my gorillas?”
We nod.
In the early hours of the next morning, we climb into Adrien’s four-wheel-drive Austin Champ, sipping brandy and ginger ale, as Tony and I search like fools for some hint of a gorilla. Just as the sun rises, Adrien stops his vehicle. “We’ll have to trek through some pretty thick rainforest jungle,” he said. “Watch for snakes. There’s a lot of them.”
After an eight-hour trek, Tony finally asks, “Where’s your camp?”
Adrien points ahead. “Just there.”
There, before us, are about ten gorillas. Tony and I watch in disbelief as our new friend approaches them and makes himself at home. The big male silverback pounds on his chest. The babies thump their tiny chests as they make mock charges along the branches above us. They look excited to see him. He stands there, laughing at our reaction, as if we were the odd ones.
I fly back to New York to report our findings to my client and organize a meeting with a film producer who I know well. “You’ve got to make a documentary about these gorillas,” I tell him. “No one in the world apart from this Belgian scientist has ever seen them.”
I start to market gorilla safaris in the early 1970s as part of my Off the Beaten Track safaris, and soon an anthropologist, Dian Fossey, asks to see me.
Dian Fossey meets me at the table I’ve gotten us inside the café at the Goma Hotel. “Look, Geoff,” she says. “I know you’re anxious to show off the gorillas to your wealthy clients, but I want you to stay out of my territory.”
“Your territory?”
“I don’t want my gorillas to be disturbed when tourists come along, you see.” She explains that she recently lost one of the gorillas to which she was the closest, and she’s afraid that if we bring people in, the gorillas will become too trusting of humans—even of those who want to poach them.
“These a
re not your gorillas, Dian,” I tell her. “Tourism has the potential to save those gorillas and provide jobs.”
“Geoff—”
“Their habitat will be destroyed unless they can prove themselves financially worthwhile to the community. Jacques Cousteau said it, Dian: ‘People protect what they love.’ The locals will protect the gorillas from poachers if they can earn a living from the people who want to watch the gorillas.”
She disagrees vehemently, stands up, and storms out of the hotel.
A few years later, in 1985, I’m in my office in Nairobi when I learn that Dian Fossey has been killed in Rwanda. I realize how terribly off the whole affair went, how Dian and I actually had the same intention to save the gorillas, just two very different approaches.
{Ian Johnson}
Bwindi Impenetrable Forest in Uganda is home to half of the world’s surviving population of mountain gorillas, estimated to be less than 800.
The following week I get a visit from one of my old army mates, now working for MI5—the British equivalent of the FBI. “We’ve got an interesting trip tomorrow,” he says. “I’m going in with a bunch of SAS guys. We think we have a lead on who’s going to be the next President of Uganda.”
“I certainly hope it’s General Museveni,” I tell him. “President Obote is killing thousands of his own people! Someone’s got to clean up all the unrest in that place.”
{Bridget Stephenson}
Gorilla family checking out the gift shop at Sanctuary Gorilla Forest Camp.
“The most I can say right now is that we are going to see Museveni,” my friend says. “Would you like to come?”
We fly from Nairobi to Uganda and meet up with Museveni, surrounded by members of his force. He’s just as he’s always pictured in the media: wearing combat boots and a wide-brimmed jungle hat. He’s friendly and inquisitive as the SAS team checks in to ensure he feels he’s got enough security for the upcoming election. After an hour or so of cross-armed talks and occasional bursts of laughter from the group, the SAS disperses toward the fleet of trucks we drove from the airport.
This is my chance. Standing alone with Yoweri Museveni, I introduce myself. “Once you become President, which I’m sure you will do,” I say, “you’ve got to come with me. I’m involved with the gorillas in the Congo, just past the Nyiragongo Crater and the Parc des Volcans. On the other side of that park is the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, and there are meant to be many big families of gorillas on the Ugandan side.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, trying to understand what I want.
“Those gorillas have never been habituated,” I explain, “so when you become President, let’s see if we can’t make it a park and habituate them.”
“The election is next month,” he tells me. “If I’m fortunate enough to be elected, do come and see me in Kampala.”
Sure enough, in January 1986, Museveni assumes the office of President of Uganda. Immediately I make an appointment to leave Nairobi and visit the statehouse in Kampala, just as he invited me to do. “I’m interested in helping you protect these gorillas,” he says. “But I’m wondering, in your work, what can you do for Uganda?”
“That’s just it,” I tell him. “If we create a park where the gorillas will be protected, then I’ll bring my clients here to see them. I’ll bring you tourism dollars—your communities will flourish.”
“You’ll see to it that our people make money? If that’s what you’re saying, then as many people as possible should come and see the gorillas.”
“No. We have to make it low-impact, high-yield. You have to believe in me: if you bring loads of people in, they’ll hurt the gorillas and destroy the forest.”
“That makes sense,” he says. “But how can our people make money?”
“You can charge hundreds of dollars per license to track a gorilla, and the community—not the central government—will sell the permits. Within a few years, it will bring hundreds of thousands of dollars to Uganda. Best of all, the gorillas will be protected.”
He ponders it, then finally speaks. “One last thing, Geoff: If we establish a park, what will you do?”
“Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll build the first luxury camp in the Impenetrable Forest at Bwindi, and I’ll assist in the habituation of the gorillas.”
“I’ll give you the exclusivity, Geoffrey,” he says. “If you do what you say, this will help everyone.”
“I agree,” I tell him. “Most importantly, the gorillas.”
Within a few months, we sign the deal, and the development of our gorilla camp at Bwindi is underway; I dispatch my son, Joss, to build the camp. In 1991 the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest becomes a national park, and we’re booking so many reservations that we have a years-long waiting list. Right away we habituate one troop of seven or eight gorillas, and with all the momentum coming at us, I hire a Kenyan named John Webley to open an A&K office in Kampala.
A few dozen clients visit the park each season, and they’re falling in love with these gorillas, whose communication is so similar to our own. Our guests have the opportunity to observe a band of gorillas in their natural habitat—eating, grooming, vocalizing—for one hour each day. A videographer captures footage of one guest as the gorillas are patting his head in a good-morning welcome—a video that quickly goes viral on the internet.
It’s all running perfectly except for one rather unsettling aspect of the whole project: to open a national park to protect the gorillas meant that any humans who were living within the habitat have to be relocated—if humans stay, they will hunt the wildlife. Worst of all, the only humans living there happen to be the Batwa pygmies, an ancient tribe of African hunter-gatherers who had lived in the area for thousands of years. We are concerned—not just for where they’ll have to move, but for their overall well-being. Few of them have ever seen a doctor, and some are in rather dangerous health.
We work with an American doctor and his wife, Scott and Carol Kellermann, to provide medical care. It begins with an open-air clinic under a tree. Our guests meet the Batwa and learn about their traditions: how they live and hunt, their ancient legends and traditional songs, and their use of medicinal plants.
In the years to follow, that little medical clinic grows into a fully fledged hospital. Three hundred patients come through every day, and we’ve worked to develop a school there as well. Today, our guests have contributed more than $1.18 million to transform the clinic into a regional hospital with an operating room, a maternity ward, a children’s ward, a neonatal unit, and a nursing school. Bwindi Community Hospital serves more than thirty thousand outpatients annually and has reduced infant mortality in the area by an estimated 50 percent.
Protected in the park, the gorillas thrive and Bwindi Impenetrable Forest provides a safe haven for more than half of the world’s critically endangered mountain gorillas.
{Harold Lassers}
This striking bird, the blue-footed booby, spends its days scanning the sea for food, returning to land to nest and to carry out the foot-stamping mating display that makes it a favorite of Galápagos visitors.
Chapter 12
Galápagos Islands
ECUADOR, 1988
I’ve always said that seasonality is the biggest killer in the tourism industry. In almost any given destination, you can run at full capacity for four months of the year, and then you’re half empty or less for the other eight months. So as we continue to develop vacations beyond safaris, I think long and hard about the locations where the weather is reliable year-round.
At this point, I’ve learned well what Americans desire when they travel: they prefer to stay somewhat close to home and, when possible, close to their own time zone. Wouldn’t it be great, I realize, if I could get a ship to the Galápagos Islands? Americans will feel somewhat at home in this archipelago so very near the equator; it boasts gorgeous weather twelve months a year, the temperature growing just slightly cooler from June to November, when the Humboldt Current flows north from Chile to Pe
ru. Up until the seventies, only scientific expeditions really had been to the Galápagos, and most people still associated that part of the world with hard-nosed science and Charles Darwin’s natural selection research on board the Beagle. I’ve always imagined the islands must be spectacular—amazing fish, beautiful reefs, volcanic areas, hundreds of birds, seals, and penguins that follow the cold waters north from Antarctica—and that it would be possible to take it all in while feeling completely safe. Also, the Galápagos Islands have been protected by the Ecuadorean government since 1934, so the animals are relatively unafraid of hunting or disturbance from humans.
{Jean Fawcett}
Sea lions basking in the sun. The social sea lion hardly bats an eye at human visitors. When not congregating on the beach, sea lions are swift, powerful swimmers, navigating pounding surf with ease as they search for sardines, their main food.
This would be the perfect vacation spot for families, I muse: children will be captivated to learn about the distinctive, colorful wildlife that inhabit the islands; and with so many islands for our ship to cruise around, parents will have plenty of chances to rest and recharge.
Then in the 1980s, Prince Charles introduces me to his close friend Gerald Ward, the godfather of Prince Harry and a fellow Sandhurst-trained former soldier. In 1988, Gerald and his lovely wife, Amanda, tell me they’re interested in taking a vacation that is totally off the beaten path. Because of our mutual interest in sport, I know Gerald loves the outdoors and animals. It hits me: this is the perfect opportunity to introduce the Galápagos as a luxury destination. I accompany Gerald and Amanda Ward to the Galápagos Islands—a new adventure for them, as well as a new one for me and just about anyone.
Off the main island of Santa Cruz, we board a private yacht that’s fully stocked and self-contained, all ready to house us for an entire week, as good as if it were a safari camp. “The generators for the scuba tanks are here?” I ask the captain.
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