Pink Boots and a Machete

by Mireya Mayor

  At Bai Hokou we met Chloe Cipolletta, an Italian wildlife biologist who knew these gorillas better than just about anyone else. She had spent the last five years following and gaining the trust of a family group she and her trackers named the Munye, meaning “good thing” in BaAka. Chloe and her team had revolutionized the strategy for saving western lowland gorillas in this remote corner and for the first time were showing success in habituating them to humans. If the program succeeded, tourists instead of loggers would be trekking in to visit the gorillas.

  No more than a minute after we arrived at camp, the bees moved in. The soundman got stung in the eye, and it soon bulged grotesquely from its socket. Amid this possible medical emergency, Chloe came out to greet us.

  It was easy to see why she had succeeded where many others had failed. Chloe’s feistiness and determination came through before she even opened her mouth. She is the daughter of an Italian banker and could have lived a luxurious life in a Roman villa with a closet full of Dolce & Gabbana. How appealing an idea, I thought, as I stood drenched in sweat, waving off bees! Instead, she ran around in ripped tees and unshaven legs and lived in a thatched hut at Bai Hokou. I was eager to ask her questions, but there was no time for more than a quick introduction before she ordered me into a vehicle. We quickly headed out to pick up the BaAka tracking team, who’d had two weeks off in their village. A swarm of bees accompanied us.

  Later that afternoon, as I pitched my tent at the edge of the Bai, I noticed cans a few feet away attached to barbed wire surrounding the camp. Chloe later explained that this was an elephant alarm system. The cans were filled with rocks, and should the elephants try to break through the fence, the cans would cause such a racket you would at least have a few seconds to escape. She warned me that elephants did frequently come into camp and that under no circumstances should I attempt to engage them. The thought had never crossed my mind. She explained that a young male elephant gored a young Italian woman here. “And,” she added, “the large hole in the kitchen that looks like a window—elephant.” Visions of being trampled in my sleep consumed me. I spent my entire first night at camp awake, listening for rattling cans.

  Exhausted from my vigilant night, I staggered out of my tent to a thatched hut for a breakfast of fresh bread the BaAka had baked in a stone oven. I spread preserves and took a bite, then felt a sharp sting on my left shoulder, which left my arm almost paralyzed with pain. Then another and another. Bees. I instantly became aware of a growing hum and realized it was hundreds of African honeybees, also known as killer bees, hanging out in the dining area near the sugary treats. From then on, whether in camp or the forest, I could count on not only the annoying sweat bees but also multiple stings a day from the killer bees. We began documenting who got stung first, most, and least. Even in my tent, I wasn’t safe; bees flew down my pants and into my shoes, making getting dressed hellish. Freaking bees! Their presence here had taken me completely by surprise. Had this been edited out of Gorillas in the Mist? Getting trampled by elephants somehow didn’t seem nearly as bad.

  Chloe and the trackers briefed us on how to find and track the gorillas, and, most important, what to do if a gorilla charged. I learned you must stay at least 20 feet away from one to prevent passing on germs. No matter how tempting, no hugging allowed! If charged, Chloe said, you must look confident but not overly, letting the gorilla know you’re not scared but keenly aware of who’s boss. I wondered if waving a white flag would work. For centuries our close, forest-dwelling relatives have known humans only as hunters, who have killed them by the hundreds. Not surprisingly, the relationship between man and gorilla has been based on violence and fear. Early explorers described gorillas as “half man, half beast” and slaughtered as many as they could in the name of science. Given that horrible track record, the silverback, named Mlima, was still aggressive, Chloe warned. A silverback’s job is to protect his family, and it is not uncommon for them to fight to the death. Mlima had attacked, bitten, and clobbered two trackers. In one instance, he charged a tracker and ripped his shirt off in a single motion.

  My fantasy of sitting among a group of gorillas having a tickle fight had quickly vanished. Because of their habitat, western lowland gorillas are much more difficult to follow than Dian Fossey’s mountain gorillas. Whereas you can see mountain gorillas—and they you—from miles away, dense vegetation serves as a shield for lowland gorillas, making it easy to stumble upon and surprise them. Not until the 1960s did scientists try to study lowland gorillas in the wild. And then their fear of humans made it difficult to habituate them, so that they would go about their normal activities tolerant of human observers. After many failed attempts, it was assumed they were simply unable to accept a human presence. Because of this, lowland gorillas were the least understood of the great apes.

  As Chloe was well aware, her project’s stakes were very high. Habituation was not without risk. Habituated animals are easy prey for poachers. When Chloe first encountered them, the Munye group consisted of the silverback Mlima (Swahili for “mountain”), four adult females, two infants, and possibly a subadult black male. Chloe and her team had devised a nonthreatening clucking sound to alert the animals to the team’s presence even in the densest forest, in the hope they’d eventually associate clucking with friendly humans. At first Mlima tried to discourage the approaches with impressive charges, but gradually over the years the team earned his trust and were allowed to get close enough to gain knowledge of the family.

  The most testing stage of habituation, the aggressive period, can last for more than a year. But, as Chloe learned, that was only the beginning of the process. After that period, silverbacks may ignore human observers, but females resist far longer. The reasons are unclear. Perhaps the females are just more sensitive to us as risks to their young, or as competition for food. Funnily enough, it might also be that they think we are after their mates. Mlima was handsome, but I could assure the females that big, hairy males were not my type.

  There is absolutely no glamour in gorilla tracking. Covered in sweat-bee residue, bitten by chiggers, and usually soaked by rain, we would spend up to 14 hours in the forest, half of it searching for the animals. Despite their massive size, they left only the slightest of trails, whose signs the BaAka deciphered like a CSI team. No one goes into the forest without the BaAka. These guys can spot a snapped twig at 50 paces and then recognize it as snapped by a gorilla. Female. Thirty minutes ago, give or take. Extraordinary.

  One day I lay down in one of the nests the gorillas build every night and noticed how much more comfortable it was than my tent’s foam mattress. Clearly, these are intelligent beings that enjoy comfort. Then I realized that my head rested on a mound of gorilla crap. We collected the dung in bags made of large leaves to later analyze for the fruit species the beasts consumed. Suddenly, Chloe and the trackers sensed something. We clucked and looked around, but there was no gorilla in sight. All of a sudden, I was hit by a very strong, musky, distinct odor. For a moment I thought it was me needing a bath. But it wasn’t. It was the smell of the silverback.

  Watching gorillas is not unlike watching a soap opera. The Munye family had its history of drama, jealousy, and violence. Though Mlima initially looked like a smooth operator with a four-female harem, he did not seem to have an easy time with the ladies. In November 1999, Chloe and her team found him horribly wounded. Adding insult to injury, two of his females, one with a still dependent infant, had deserted him. Based on the evidence, it was thought that a leopard, or perhaps another silverback, had attacked. Mlima slowly recovered, but two months later a third female departed, leaving Mlima with a sole female, Matata (“problem” in Swahili), and their infant, Ndimbelimbe (named for a local herb). It was while the silverback was injured and weak that Chloe was able to move closer and begin to earn his trust and the group’s.

  One day, as we stood watching, Mlima’s now teenage son, Ndimbelimbe, like a typical teenager, was doing his best to annoy Dad. Finally losing patience, Mlima to
ok a swing at his son. An infuriated Matata rushed to her boy’s defense. Ndimbelimbe shot his Dad a smug look as his mother pulled him by the arm and dragged him away. Of course, not before giving Mlima a good scolding. Typical male, Mlima continued eating, probably thinking that this would blow over and the nagging wife would come to her senses. But the next day, his wife and son disappeared and Mlima, usually the picture of pride and strength, was a big, weeping mess.

  Matata did not return that night. Or the next few nights. It is not typical for a female to sleep apart from her mate, so this was serious. Somewhere in the dense forest, divorce papers were being filed. Forlorn cries from Mlima rang through the trees for days. He had lost his only remaining female and son. This would mean a life spent alone, socially isolated from other gorilla groups. It was difficult not to feel sorry for this blubbering male, and I wanted desperately to find Matata and persuade her to take him back. A few days after Matata had left Mlima, we were standing in the forest watching him when, upset and frustrated, he charged us. I tried not to breathe, though he could surely hear my heart pounding like a drum. But it was a bluff charge, and as soon as it was over, he just sauntered past. I did a quick count of limbs, four—the correct number—and it occurred to me, not for the first time, just how soft and pink we are. Now we needed to back off. The disintegration of the Munye group meant much more than a lonely male gorilla. It could be the end of Chloe’s project and her many years of hard work.

  I decided to try to lighten the mood back at camp. I turned up some music and asked the trackers to teach me a dance. Then they asked me to do the same. At first I tried swing, but that was a little tricky. I had to think of a dance that didn’t require partners. Then it dawned on me: La Macarena. It caught on like wildfire. In the forest behind their huts the trackers practiced constantly thereafter, much to the dismay of the film crew, who pictured coming back another year to film the BaAka’s traditional dance only to have La Macarena spring up. The BaAka had taught me so much I was happy to be able to leave a little Cuban cheerleader culture behind.

  But the smiles did not last long, as more bad news arrived. A call over the high-frequency radio shook us to the core. Poachers had been caught with the remains of two dead gorillas. Hoping against hope it wasn’t Matata and her son who’d been found, I jumped in the truck and headed over to the poacher bust. When I arrived, I saw what looked like a barbecue pyre piled high with dismembered gorilla body parts, hands and feet severed to sell as souvenirs. Uniformed guards holding rifles stood watch. A dead gorilla can bring five dollars, a big sum here.

  As I got closer, I could smell the distinct odor of burning gorilla flesh, little different from a human’s. I picked up one of the hands and felt like crying. It was still warm to the touch. As I looked through the remains, I was painfully aware that they belonged to a female and a youngster. Had Matata and Ndimbelimbe been killed? Had the habituation project led them straight into the barrel of a poacher’s gun? I pulled myself away from this tragic scene and let flow the tears. Back at camp I stood under the waterfall, hoping to wash off the horrible scent, though it would never remove the horrendous memory of the murdered gorillas.

  The mood was somber. News of the murders had affected everyone at camp. With no gorillas to follow, I picked up a book in Sango written by missionaries and began learning useful phrases such as, “There are rocks in my rice.” When I tried practicing on the trackers, they invited me and the film crew to go into the forest with them for a three-day spear hunt. Welcoming a break and curious as to how these forest dwellers survived, I accepted. The BaAka eat berries and other fruit, as well as honey and animals; their constant moving allows the natural wealth of the forest to replenish itself. The plan was for the BaAka and me to hunt in the farthest depths of a forest reserve where no guns are allowed, taking very little, including tents, with us. I thought about the bees and just how little I relished being rained on. Authentic was good, but my tent was coming along.

  We retraced the route back to Bayanga, their village, and I was led through an array of igloo-shaped dwellings to meet somebody I assumed would be a local chief. You can imagine my shock when a tall white man in a military green T-shirt, ripped jean shorts, and a pencil-thin mustache greeted me in very American English, introducing himself as Louis Sarno. Twenty years before, while sitting in his living room in New Jersey, Louis had heard Pygmy music on the radio and was so spellbound he came to record it and never left. He married a local woman and learned the language. He had become an advocate for the BaAka, whose way of life, much like the gorillas’, was now seriously threatened by logging. Other groups were moving in to settle and grow crops in the clearings. As BaAka are much smaller than most Africans in the area (they were traditionally called Pygmies, but some now consider that label pejorative), they have often been mistreated and forced to work as slaves for others, such as the Bantu.

  Louis frequently went on hunting trips with the villagers. Despite towering over them and, by his own admission, being a lousy spear hunter, he and his New Jersey accent fit in surprisingly well. Thirteen BaAka families, Louis, the film crew, and I all piled into two pickups. I was handed a little boy no older than two with a runny nose and no diaper. For hours the women sang, their voices powerful and the rhythms complex. I could see why their music had compelled Louis to travel halfway across the world. It was extraordinary. There was amazing energy as we drove from village to slash-and-burn logging area, to marginal forest, to second-growth forest, and finally to ancient, primal rain forest. The BaAka were home.

  We hiked through the undergrowth, carrying cassava, cooking items, and hunting equipment. While I struggled with a small backpack, the women carried loads as big as the men’s strapped to their heads and on their backs, with babies in their arms. BaAka people are built strong. Most of them went barefoot. They have short and very wide feet, most likely an evolutionary adaptation, with soles as thick as the soles of my boots.

  After a three-hour hike we stopped to set up a campsite, intending to get farther into the forest the next day. The women, who wore nothing but a wrap, began cutting branches and setting up the shelters. One woman in particular, whom we dubbed “Superwoman,” stood out to me and the crew. With breasts hanging down to her belly and a baby in tow, she quickly built her shelter, got a cooking fire going, and climbed a tree to collect honey before I’d even figured out where to put my tent. To bless the hunt, the men chanted to the forest spirits and whacked their nets with plants they believed to be magical.

  The next day, armed with nothing more than porcupine quills, crossbows, and nets, the BaAka men and women began moving through the forest. I was told to make noise to aid in chasing out the duikers and porcupines. The noise would also help clear out elephants and gorillas before they’d be forced to charge. I helped carry a 70-foot net made of vine bark to form a barrier, but I could sense from the looks on some of the faces that I was not moving fast enough. That annoyed look is universal. The BaAka depended on these hunts. I tried going faster.

  The men were chasing a duiker, a small forest antelope, and suddenly three blue duiker were running our way. The men yelled and chanted, forcing the animal to run toward the net. We women, along with the children, stood at the periphery of the net. If the animal changed direction, we would adjust its position. Everything was perfectly organized and at the same time chaotic. A very unlucky duiker was caught, and I could sense both victory and disappointment at having caught only one.

  Then came the brutal part of the hunt, which I will never be prepared for. The little antelope was hog-tied, and I made the mistake of looking into its brown eyes before its screams sent chills down my spine and blood began splattering. I determined to become a vegetarian again. But we can’t judge these hunters. They have lived sustainably off the land for centuries. For most Westerners, meat comes nicely prepackaged, sparing us the gruesome reality of the kill.

  I joined the women who were now fishing at the stream. They built a canal to divert the water an
d then used sand to create a dam and corner the fish. I attempted to catch some but soon realized it was a huge effort for a few small fish. Behind us, other women climbed the trees, collecting honey from stingless bees. This I liked. They handed me a honeycomb, and I let the honey drip into my mouth. Nothing ever tasted as sweet or delicious.

  At midnight the camp erupted in celebration for the successful hunt. BaAka men drummed on pots and pans and jugs, and the women sang and yodeled, thanking the forest spirits and asking for a fruitful hunt the following day. There was a lead singer, with call and response. Under the stars in the deep forest their haunting music seemed otherworldly, and it would only get more so. As if a piece of the forest were moving, men under shaking branches danced, representing the forest spirits. From the shadows, we could see the movement, and as the “spirits” came closer, we could make out glowing shapes, men covered in phosphorescent mold or algae, illuminating the forest. It was surreal and magical, and I never wanted it to end. “This is the BaAka’s place,” whispered Louis. How tragic it was that their forest and way of life were so rapidly vanishing.

  As we drove back to Bai Hokou, I braced myself for what news might be waiting. I hoped that the forest spirits had lent a hand in reuniting the Munye family and that the dead gorillas I had seen were not Mlima’s son and mate. But a glance at Chloe’s face told me that as yet there was no good news. Mlima was still alone, and there’d been no sightings or traces of Matata and Ndimbelimbe.

  Over the next few days, I joined in the search. Eventually, the trackers thought they spotted Matata in the thicket. No one dared breathe, but we clucked softly and prayed it was them. Indeed, Matata’s eyes peered out through the leaves, and next to her sat Ndimbelimbe munching. Mlima had won his family back! It was the most touching and beautiful moment of the journey, tainted only by the sweat bee in my nose.