Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me

by Donal Macintyre

  This is one of the most remote parts of the world. Satellite phone is the only means of communication and the Danish Navy drops off supplies once a year. The place is so remote that the local population of 40 people produces their own stamps.

  I was greeted by Commander Palle Norrit, a Danish naval officer, who sported a fine bushy beard and was built like a Viking. He was in charge of the Serius Sledge Patrol, the navy unit that enforces Danish sovereignty in Northern and Eastern Greenland.

  Palle introduced us to Maks and Erik, two Danish elite soldiers who were in charge of the over-laden sled pulled by 13 specially-bred huskies. It was a remarkable sight to see these dogs acting under military orders. They nearly barked to attention, so obedient were they to their young masters. Ole Brolund’s dogs could have learned a thing or two from them!

  Since Viking days, when the Danes first landed here, Denmark has had a stake in Greenland, but it was in 1933 that the International Court of Arbitration in The Hague granted it full sovereignty, and dismissed Norway’s claim over the region. Flying the military flag in this extraordinary territory since then is the Danes’ elite Arctic unit, based here in Eastern Greenland. The unit grew out of a group of volunteers that first used the sled dogs to patrol the area during World War II to protect it from the Germans. They used the dogs to locate the few weather bases that the Germans managed to build in the region in the early 1940s. Their success in destroying these bases and fronting down the German threat gave the unit its reputation for stoic tenacity that it retains to this day.

  In the last 60 years, the dog teams have travelled nearly one million kilometres, mapping this wondrous landscape, which is more than 50 times the size of Denmark itself.

  For four months in spring and two months in autumn, six sled teams, each consisting of two men and eleven dogs, patrol Northern and Eastern Greenland for the Danish Admiralty. Only 14 men are in service at any one time. The dogs are kept for five years or 5,000 km, whichever comes first. On their final journey, they are taken on board the sled as a tribute to their endeavours. And then they are shot. My sensibilities didn’t warm to that. But this region is still about survival, and sentimentality doesn’t get you very far.

  I spent the next day sledding with Maks and Erik, travelling as Amundsen and the great explorers had under the power of the dogs, surveying the stunning landscape and the animals that have evolved to cope with this harsh environment better than man can ever hope to. In the evening, the Northern Lights danced across the sky for us, sparkling a deep green and taking on the perfect shape of a seahorse. I watched, mesmerized, sinking and slipping on the snow until I gave up and lay flat on my back for 10 minutes, allowing myself to be dazzled by nature’s greatest show. Eventually, the wispy green apparition faded peacefully away. Later, we were treated to another light show as the moonlight threw a pink hue on the glossy white landscape, making it glow and shimmer. It was an almost spiritual experience.

  Still a little drunk on the Northern Lights and the bottle of red wine I had shared with the irrepressible Commander Norrit, it was time for me to retire for the night and rest my frozen bones. But I wouldn’t have the comfort of an army cot – I was going to spend the night in a snowhole. This sounded like one of John Maguire’s ideas. A snowhole is exactly what its name suggests. You dig a -30°C hole out of a snowdrift; you then jump into the hole and plug the opening with more snow. This becomes your ice hotel for the night. It doesn’t sound too cosy, but it makes for life-saving shelter in these conditions. This kind of survival technique is a basic skill for the soldiers here and I was going to get a taste of it.

  It was 10 p.m. and a bitterly cold wind was cutting across the tundra at 48 km/h as I was deposited in my icy home for the night. The only sounds were the howl of the dogs and the muffled whoosh of the arctic breeze on drifting snow. The hole was tiny: maybe a foot taller than me and with just about enough room to turn around if I needed to. After about an hour, it seemed to warm up significantly as my body heated the air around me and the warm air was trapped in the sealed environment. Going to the toilet was a problem – if I left the hole, the air inside would freeze again and I would be back to square one. Also, any skin exposed to the freezing temperatures outside would be at serious risk of frostbite and I didn’t want a repeat of the cold store episode. I decided to hold on until morning. I did manage to get some sleep that night, and while it wasn’t exactly five-star accommodation, it was a world away from the deadly conditions just a few feet from me.

  The next morning as we sped back towards the base, I noticed one of the dogs in the middle of the pack veer left, off the track. His body turned but the momentum of the pack kept him in line. He had spotted an arctic hare sitting tall about 50 metres off the track. Soon the others caught the scent and veered off too in the direction of the snow-white hare. It was discernable only by its dark eyes. As thirteen howling dogs hurtled towards it, it didn’t even flinch. It knew that more than any creature, it was perfectly adapted to this environment. It was confident that it had time to outsmart any pack of dogs, and certainly an Irishman who had adapted to no climate except one where there was central heating and a good pub nearby. I hoped that this was something I could take home with me to London: I wanted to learn to live as calmly with the threat of extinction as this little hare did.

  * * * * *

  At the start of this adventure, I had thought that it would be a huge departure, but in the end it presented me with the same isolation, exposure, vulnerability and danger as my undercover work had done. On this odyssey, however, the dangers were marvels of nature. Hurricanes, blizzards and subzero temperatures were undoubtedly more intoxicating and enthralling threats than any hitman or gangster, and, in the end, they also proved easier for me to deal with. Let’s face it, no bodyguard or surveillance team can protect you from the power of nature. As I returned home, having survived some of the wildest and harshest conditions the planet could offer, I had gained a new confidence that I could deal with the worst that man could fling at me.

  10

  GORILLA WARFARE

  In 2003 I was lucky to follow in the footsteps of David Attenborough on an African adventure that would leave me drunk in a brothel, with only a bible and a gun for company. Well, maybe I added a few footsteps of my own to Sir David’s, but we did walk the same ground and meet some very similar and very special characters.

  In 1979 Attenborough went to the Virungas, a chain of volcanic mountains, which links the Congo, Rwanda and Uganda. There, on Mt Karisimbi, he met some of the last surviving mountain gorillas. He looked into the eyes of these stunning animals and gained their trust, so much so that they examined him for fleas and allowed him to reciprocate the intimate act of grooming. ‘There is more meaning and mutual understanding in exchanging a glance with a gorilla than with any other animal I know,’ he whispered to the camera, deeply moved by the significance of the moment. It was a beautiful meeting of minds between one great man of the natural world and a true gentleman of the forest.

  Nearly a quarter of a century later, after the horror of the Rwandan genocide and the ongoing civil war in the region, these gorillas were closer than ever to extinction. Their situation was exacerbated even further by the dramatic rise in poaching. Poachers were targeting the gorillas and selling them to unscrupulous collectors, who would remove them from their natural habitat for the amusement of others.

  A two-year-old gorilla, a direct descendant of the young male that David Attenborough had locked gazes with in 1979, had been stolen from her mother and sold on the illicit international market, and the BBC had drafted me in to conduct an investigation into her disappearance. The young gorilla had been nicknamed Baby Bibisi (BBC) by the local wildlife officers, in recognition of the corporation’s conservation efforts over the years. Baby Bibisi’s mother, 11-year-old Impanga, who had lost a hand and a foot in previous encounters with snares, had been killed. Another female, 25-year-old Muraha, was also found dead at the scene of the kidnap. She had been nurt
ured and named by Dian Fossey and had actually appeared in the film, Gorillas in the Mist. Ubuzima, Muraha’s 13-month-old baby was found alive, still clinging to her mother’s breast, desperately trying to suckle. It appeared that one of the silverbacks (dominant breeding males), Munyina, had attempted to interrupt the kidnap and massacre and had been badly wounded. He was being monitored by local wildlife vets dedicated to the group. Ubuzima was plucked from her dead mother’s breast by a blackback (sexually mature male) and brought back into the bosom of the remaining family. In the days after the massacre, the extended gorilla family appeared to grieve the deaths and the loss of Baby BiBisi.

  Before I buried myself in the investigation, I had the opportunity to get up close and personal with the same family of gorillas that had fascinated David Attenborough. Each group of gorillas is protected by a large male, the silverback, that weighs about three times my weight. If a silverback takes umbrage, he’ll bark at you, I was warned, and I would do well to back off.

  It is a 12,500 ft trek up the Virunga Mountains to where the family of mountain gorillas has made their home. Every spare metre of land is harnessed. On the floor is a carpet of daisies, which were introduced here as a cash crop and are used in the production of natural insecticides. Originating in China and traded along the silk route, the pyrethrum daisy plant was used to relieve the itches of civilisations and later to delouse Napoleon’s army. Today, they thrive here in the rich volcanic soil, in between Irish potato plants that are specially bred to grow at these altitudes, 7,000 km from home.

  I was accompanied by armed wildlife officers to protect me, not just from poachers but also from armed rebels and warlords. The poachers were not far away. They were armed and dangerous, and I was only slightly comforted by the fact that the wildlife officers were also carrying guns. We came across snares, deliberately placed to trap and maim these rare creatures. Many have been mutilated and killed by such snares. They are designed to kill, so that the carcasses can be used in the bushmeat trade. Bushmeat has long been a staple in the diets of forest-dwelling people, but today it is illegal and threatens the survival of many local species. Often, the captured animal will tug for hours, trying to escape the snare. The coil winds tighter and tighter until it locks and begins to slowly kill, as gangrene and septicemia set in.

  When we reached 12,500 ft, our guide began his vocalizations to call the gorillas. They have 25 recognisable calls, and the guide produced a guttural coughing sound as if he had TB. It had the desired effect and we soon found ourselves in the company of a group of males. I was captivated by my first glimpse of these extraordinary animals through the tall grass and bamboo. Times have changed since Attenborough’s close encounter and we had to keep our distance to just outside seven metres from the gorillas, to reduce the risk of passing on a human disease against which they have no immunity.

  They swept around us, curious and wary in equal measure. ‘Magnificent. This has got to be one of the most magical sights the jungle has to offer. And in this special moment you just can’t help but feel devastated that two members of this small family have been killed, and one is missing. I can’t understand why anyone would want to do any harm to these beautiful creatures,’ I said to the camera. I caught one silverback giving me a thousand-yard marine stare. He was not happy. It is hardly surprising that there is a degree of mistrust: their only enemies are snares, guns and the humans who use them.

  It was clear to the most casual of observer that this was a close-knit family that interacted almost as our own do. Today, the Sousa family population has steadied at around 50, but they remain under constant threat. Nestling close to the silverback, Waninya, we spoted the soft-furred baby, Ubuzina, who had been found suckling on her dead mother’s teat. There had been contradictory reports that she had gone missing after the traumatic events, but thankfully she seemed in sound health. Second to the birth of my children this wass the most moving encounter of my life. It was my inspiration and what drove me to help try to eradicate this terrible trade. ‘Don’t worry; we will get your little cousin back for you,’ I said.

  * * * * *

  There are just over 700 mountain gorillas left on the planet, so even a single death or capture has a devastating effect on the population. The UN tries to control the trade in endangered species but they are fighting a losing battle. Perhaps the most shocking evidence of this was the apparent involvement of a reputable zoo in this illegal trade.

  My investigation brought me to Malaysia, where we knew that Taiping Zoo had paid $200,000 for four beautiful lowland gorillas from the Cameroon. Middlemen had been used to hide the fact that they had been taken from the wild and not bred in captivity.

  They had bought the apes from traders who claimed to have obtained them from a zoo in Nigeria. Both the Malaysians and the middlemen were claiming that the baby gorillas were recently born in captivity at the Nigerian zoo. A cursory investigation revealed that the only male there was embalmed and that the last female had died several years previously. Given these circumstances, it would have been something of a miracle if the four had been born from this pair.

  The zoo in Taiping should have known that the trade was dubious.

  This was a well-respected, government-run zoo, but they focused on displaying trophy animals and their acquisition of the gorillas was born out of a desire for high-profile attractions that would generate profit and prestige. The zoo claimed to have had the correct paperwork and the Malaysian government confirmed this. But it was obvious to us that something was fishy and that most people involved in the deal either knew it or should have known it.

  We had made enquiries and knew that the zoo had the four gorillas on the premises. They continued to deny that they had been poached but refused to give us access to film so that we could identify them. They had built a $600,000 enclosure for the creatures for public viewing, but this was now effectively obsolete and the gorillas were kept hidden away.

  We had managed to get hold of the paperwork from the illegal deal and we were turning up the heat. But we still needed pictures to prove that the animals were actually on the premises. Gorillas are easily identifiable by their very distinctive nose prints. The folds of skin that produce the y-shaped stalk rising above the nostrils make each gorilla very recognisable, once your eye gets used to the different shapes.

  So this is why I found myself scaling the wall of the gorilla enclosure of a Malaysian zoo with a mad Australian cameraman called Jay Hanrahan, who later won awards for his work on this film. He was a gung-ho Aussie who was used to filming in warzones around the world and was the ideal companion for a bit of illegal trespass. Even for a hardened news investigator, though, this zoo incursion was outside my comfort zone. At the time the BBC had tightened up their health and safety practices. A colleague had recently had a paramedic and a first aider forced on him as he performed the perilous task of changing the wheel of a car. There was no mention of breaking into zoos in the health and safety manual, but we decided to keep the escapade to ourselves all the same. High walls, armed guards and four startled wild gorillas were all likely to ring alarm bells with the ‘elf and safety’ powers that be in the UK, who had recently banned a clown from the Russian State Circus from wearing his outsized shoes, which they said had constituted a tripping hazard.

  While we were preparing the guerilla style assault on the gorilla enclosure, the zoo was celebrating the start of its annual festival. We thought that we could sneak in unnoticed while the great and the good of the local political establishment were getting a hospitality and photo-op payback for their generosity. I suspected that the security would be diverted towards protecting the local dignitaries and that this would present us with our opportunity.

  ‘There is a tree stump we can use to get over, but it might be very difficult to get out again. We’ll have to improvise,’ I said to Jay.

  ‘Sure. No worries, mate,’ Jay replied, unfazed by the situation.

  ‘You could get mauled and torn apart by them and then sh
ot by the zoo keepers,’ I said.

  ‘I could outrun you a thousand times. And there’s enough meat on your bones to keep them busy while I escape.’

  I liked his style and I had to admit that the tall, athletic Aussie had the advantage if it came down to a quick escape. I comforted myself with the fact that gorillas are herbivores, but they are still capable of tearing a man limb-from-limb if the notion takes them. Their upper-body strength is six times that of an adult human.

  The enclosure was desolate and boarded up: a strange home for the animals who were supposed to be one of the zoo’s main attractions. I scrambled over the wall, with Jay close behind me. Our getaway vehicle, an old Transit van, was tucked away around the corner, ready for a speedy departure – if it actually started.

  I landed on the dusty terrain first. After helping Jay down with his camera, I quickly surveyed the scene. In the corner of the compound I spotted one gorilla behind a wall. I circled the area and then saw the other three. They looked forlorn in this tired backyard enclosure. This was a world away from the lush green habitat they had been snatched from. Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw a zoo-keeper appear from behind a shed. He clocked me and was obviously startled. At first he was too shocked to think or say anything. Jay continued filming the animals, aware that the priority was to get the evidence. I opened my hands wide, palms up in an effort to demonstrate that we posed no threat. Many Malayasians speak English and it is often the language of authority, so I decided to pretend that I had more right to be there than him. I knew the stages he would go through: stage one is surprise, two is bewilderment and three is panic. Once panic set in, I knew that all hell would break loose. He would be thinking: ‘I must get help with this situation’, and would go from processing the information to shouting ‘Help!’ and attracting unwanted attention that could land us in jail. In my head I was treating it as a pantomime and I was just waiting to hear someone shout, ‘He’s behind you!’ This was my way of postponing my own panic and holding my head together.