Last Chance to See

by Mark Carwardine

  The private army of super-human porters.

  We had been given the Mubare group – a family of eight gorillas that spend most of their time fairly close to the park headquarters. Despite the giggling, I think the rangers had taken pity on us. The Mubares happened to be the first of four gorilla families (out of about thirty altogether) that have been habituated to receive human visitors. They were formally introduced to people for the first time in 1991.

  ‘Believe me, the spirit is willing, even though the flesh is a bin liner full of yoghurt.’

  Two great apes meet (Stephen is the one in the foreground).

  I had been to Bwindi the year before, to see the Rushegura group, and I asked how they were doing. There were fourteen members when I saw them and apparently, by the time Stephen and I arrived, they had had a few babies and there were seventeen. The only problem was that, in July 2008, they moved out of Uganda and into the DRC. Gorillas are not yet sufficiently advanced in evolutionary terms to have discovered the benefits of passports, currency declaration forms and official bribery, and therefore tend to wander backwards and forwards across the border as and when they feel like it. That’s all very well, but their unofficial primitive wanderings were causing havoc with the tourists who had come all the way to Uganda specially to see them.

  Once the giggling had subsided we set off into the forest, chaperoned by trackers, guides, armed guards and super-human porters (anyone who can carry my 20-kilo/44-pound camera bag up and down the steep slopes of the Impenetrable Forest has to be super-human). Within minutes we were sweating and panting, crawling and clambering our way along slippery, precipitous mountain tracks. The dark, wet Impenetrable Forest is aptly named – it’s a riot of green where things grow on top of other things that grow on top of more things in layers of ferns, mosses, creepers and lichens. In places, the forest is so thick you have to hike on solid mats of vegetation that tremble and flex with every step, threatening to break through and dump you into the unseen depths below.

  Stephen was struggling even more than I was, and I asked if he was okay.

  ‘Believe me, the spirit is willing,’ he said, ‘even though the flesh is a bin liner full of yoghurt. Oh heavens.’

  The deeper we penetrated the Impenetrable Forest the taller the forest undergrowth became, until every single bit of it was considerably taller than either of us. We hacked and stumbled our way to a clearing and there, on the other side, was an even more impenetrable forest.

  ‘Oh good Lord. Have we got to go in there? Go on without me. It’s fine. I’ll lie here and die,’ said Stephen.

  About a couple of hours into the trek, our guides signalled for us to keep quiet. It was a moment or two before I saw anything, but then a slight movement caught my eye. No more than 10 metres (33 feet) away in the thick forest, partially hidden by a tree, was something so big that I hadn’t even noticed it. It was a mountain gorilla, or more appropriately a gorilla mountain, standing propped up on his front knuckles. He assumed the shape of a large and muscular sloping ridge tent and was looking straight at us.

  Seeing a gorilla in a zoo (or any animal in a zoo, for that matter) is absolutely no preparation for seeing one in the wild. In the seemingly limitless mountainous jungle, the silverback was in his element, clearly master of his own wild world.

  ‘He’s belching,’ said Stephen, laughing.

  It was a belch vocalisation, or BV as primatologists like to call it. When researchers began to spend quality time with gorillas they thought they were just burping. But now we know better. A BV is an effective way of keeping contact in the thick foliage, as the gorillas spread out to feed. Each belch is a way of saying ‘I’m over here’.

  ‘The researchers should have another abbreviation,’ suggested Stephen, ‘called the FV, or fart vocalisation, because I must say they do fart quite a lot. What does that mean, do you think?’

  ‘It probably means they’ve been eating too many fruits and vegetables,’ I replied.

  ‘He’s got a pot belly,’ observed Stephen, ‘just like me.’

  The silverback relaxed and lay down, resting his enormous elbow on the ground and his enormous chin on his enormous hand. Best known for impressive displays of strength – hooting, chest pummelling and ripping branches off trees – this particular silverback looked the picture of peace and contentment.

  ‘You know,’ whispered Stephen, looking straight into the silverback’s wise and knowing eyes, ‘the gentler side of gorillas is just as compelling as their huge size and those dramatic displays of strength you keep hearing about.’

  ‘Did you know it’s rude to stare?’ I asked him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know how we find long, uninterrupted stares a bit intimidating and threatening?’

  ‘Unless it’s someone you fancy,’ interrupted Stephen.

  ‘Yes, unless it’s someone you fancy. But other primates are exactly the same. If you catch a gorilla’s eye you are supposed to glance away and then look back, or it’ll think you are squaring up for a fight.’

  Stephen looked away immediately.

  ‘And another bit of advice is not to stand directly beneath primates in a tree.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re basically standing at the bottom of a long-drop toilet.’

  We both laughed, in a quiet, gorilla-watching sort of way.

  I explained that the dominant male gorilla has a saddle of silver fur on his back.

  ‘Oh, that’s why it’s called a silverback,’ said Stephen, sarcastically.

  The saddle develops when the male reaches puberty, at about ten or twelve years old, as a badge of maturity (before then he is known, rather appropriately, as a blackback). At the same time, he loses all his chest hair. The development of chest hair in gorillas is the reverse of that in human males – they have hairy chests when they are young and then lose all the hair when they get older.

  There were several females in the group (we saw three altogether) and some youngsters. One was so tiny it tripped over Stephen’s size-12 feet. Mum seemed completely unconcerned.

  It was a dripping wet, misty morning that neither of us will ever forget. The hour went so quickly it felt as if it had only just begun, but one of the trackers signalled that we had five more minutes and then we had to leave.

  ‘Before we go,’ said Stephen, ‘let’s get a picture of us with the gorillas. We can call it Mzungus in the Mist.’ (‘Mzungu’ means ‘white person’ in some African languages.)

  The gentler side of gorillas is just as compelling as their huge size and those dramatic displays of strength we keep hearing about.

  Bwindi Impenetrable Forest: home to nearly half of the world’s remaining mountain gorillas.

  We stopped halfway back to the lodge to admire the view. Stephen was bright red.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said when I told him. ‘I’m glowing like a radioactive tomato. It’s part physical exertion and part radiant bliss. But it was worth every sobbing, gasping, aching step of horror, sweat, wheezing, and – frankly – humiliation to get to see those gorillas. It’s been unbelievable. Wonderful.’

  The business of gorilla tourism is obviously a vexed one. I know people who have wanted to visit the gorillas for years, but have been worried that tourism must be causing disturbance or exposing the animals to deadly diseases to which they have no immunity.

  But in truth the gorillas probably wouldn’t be there at all without tourism. It is the one thing that can guarantee their survival, by making them worth more alive than dead.

  It is all very carefully monitored and controlled. Each habituated gorilla family can be visited only once a day, for a maximum of one hour, by a party of no more than eight people (all of whom have been approved fit – well, relatively fit – and healthy). Each person pays US$500 for the privilege and, when you include all the additional money everyone spends on flights, hire cars, food and lodging, it soon adds up. So the gorillas are able to generate several hundred
million dollars every year. Much goes to central government coffers, of course, some goes to the local communities (or, at least, it is supposed to go to local communities – though it doesn’t always arrive) and the rest helps to pay to look after the gorillas themselves (as well as other parks in Uganda and Rwanda).

  I believe we have a special responsibility to make gorilla conservation work in any way we can. Think of it like this. We are the rich, successful members of the primate family. We are the ones who made good. We should be looking after our less well-off relatives.

  We were running out of time, so I made another call to my UN contact in the Democratic Republic of Congo. It was a better satellite link than before and this is roughly how the conversation went:

  Me: ‘How is the situation in the Garamba region at the moment?’

  Him: ‘Absolutely terrible.’

  Me: ‘Why? What’s happening?’

  Him: ‘There are lots of violent attacks on civilians, nearly a quarter of a million refugees are heading for the border and Garamba itself is becoming more dangerous by the day.’

  Me: ‘So if we do decide to come, what would be the main risk?’

  Him: ‘Apart from getting caught in the crossfire you have a good chance of being kidnapped, especially if you’re travelling with a high-profile celebrity and a film crew. You’d be an obvious target. And, without a doubt, the rebels would know you were there.’

  Me: ‘So is your advice not to come?’

  Him: ‘Absolutely. No doubt whatsoever. I very strongly advise you not to come.’

  And that was it. My long-held dream of revisiting one of the rarest rhinos in the world had just collapsed.

  I went to find Stephen and we wandered down to sit by the river. Staring across to the other side – across the border between Uganda and the DRC – we knew that this was as close to the northern white rhinos as we were ever going to get.

  We returned to Kenya in sombre mood and the next morning went straight to Nairobi National Park.

  I used to live right next to the park, in the mid-1980s, when I worked for the United Nations Environment Programme. I didn’t enjoy working for the UN, to be honest (too much red tape, too many meetings, too little progress), but I adored Nairobi. It was a fun time to be there, with few tourists and relatively few security problems (although they were just starting – there was an in-joke at the time that you had to check before you shut a window in case you trapped somebody’s fingers).

  There was a fence along three sides of the world’s most thrilling and untamed city park, to keep wildlife out of Nairobi itself, but in those days it was on its last legs in many places and absent altogether in others. So we often had animals in the garden. Warthogs and baboons were almost resident, but we occasionally had lions, and a leopard sometimes sunbathed on the garage roof.

  I used to go on a mini game drive every evening after work and frequently saw black rhinos. They were often standing in front of the famous Kenyatta International Conference Centre, the most iconic building on the Nairobi skyline just 6 or 7 kilometres (4 miles) away.

  Nairobi National Park has been one of the most successful rhino sanctuaries in East Africa. In fact, there were no fewer than 65 in the park when Stephen and I were there. We were joining park staff to help move a crash of rhinos to Ol Jogi Ranch, not a million miles from our old friend Max in Ol Pejeta Conservancy.

  (I’ve always wanted to say ‘a crash of rhinos’ but never thought I’d have the opportunity, until now. It’s one of the better collective nouns for animals – and depressingly appropriate given what’s happening to rhino populations. Some other good ones include: a dissimulation of birds, a murder of crows, a troubling of goldfish, a kaleidoscope of butterflies, a smack of jellyfish and a quiver of cobras.)

  One of the best ways to conserve rhinos is to move them around a lot. The individual animals don’t like being moved around a lot, of course, but the population as a whole benefits enormously. Surplus animals are moved from one place to another, to prevent numbers getting unnaturally high and to set up new breeding populations while there is still time. It worked for the southern white rhino and now it’s working pretty well for the black rhino.

  Kenya’s black rhino population plummeted from 20,000 in the 1970s to fewer than 350 by the early 1990s – as a direct result of intensive poaching. Now there are 577 and counting.

  We arrived just in time for a long and serious briefing, followed by a prayer, blessing the rhinos, and us, and anyone else within shouting distance. There must have been fifty or sixty people preparing for the translocation altogether.

  The briefing had only just finished when a helicopter rose above the trees. It was like one of the HueyCobra choppers in Apocalypse Now, except that this was a small six-seater owned by the Kenya Wildlife Service. Everyone scrambled into an assortment of khaki vehicles and we were off.

  This was the plan. The helicopter pilot, along with the chief vet and rhino darter, was going to find a suitable rhino. The vet would fire a tranquiliser dart, from a hovering height of about 6 or 7 metres (20–23 feet), to sedate the rhino – and the rest of us would leap into action.

  We quickly discovered that the journey to the capture site requires a fast driver, a sense of humour and a good grip.

  ‘Aaagh! Holy mackerel!’ shouted Stephen. ‘People pay a lot of money for this kind of thing at A-A-Alton Towers.’

  We screeched to a halt.

  ‘Oooph!’ said Stephen, lowering his voice to a scream. ‘What in the name of twenty arses is going on? Why are we reversing?’

  Ten minutes of racing in the manner of the Paris-Dakar rally later, we screeched to a halt once again.

  ‘That was one of the most terrifying drives I’ve ever had,’ said Stephen, climbing out of the Land Rover. ‘Absolutely terrifying. But at least we’re here.’

  At first glance ‘here’ appeared to be a rhino-less middle of nowhere. On closer inspection, it turned out to be just that – a rhino-less middle of nowhere. We were waiting for further instructions from the helicopter. This time, it was with a nagging feeling that another fast journey was firmly on the cards.

  Suddenly, the convoy was back on the move and, as predicted, it was fast. But this time, just to keep things interesting, it was hellish fast.

  Nairobi National Park: in search of a suitable rhino.

  Good news at last – Kenya’s black rhino population is increasing.

  ‘I think it’s loosening the screws in my arm,’ yelled Stephen. ‘I think my bone is about to start coming out. Aaaagh!’

  We screeched to another halt and, unexpectedly, arrived just in time to see something extraordinary.

  There was a one-tonne rhino staggering about like a drunk at closing time. It staggered this way, lurched that way, wobbled back again, and then dropped to the ground.

  The moment it fell, we all abandoned our cars and ran across the savannah towards the giant grey lump. We were in a race against time (it’s critically important that the rhino is unconscious for as little time as possible) and there was such a sense of urgency that, for a moment, I felt like an extra in a scene from ER. The rhino was lying on its side, panting and quivering slightly, while hordes of people rushed around doing all kinds of important things. This was clearly a group of experts who knew exactly what they were doing.

  Someone gently put a little ointment into the rhino’s eyes, to keep them moist, and then placed a cloth over them to keep out the dust. Another person poured water all over its body, to keep it cool. Several rangers were working together, taking measurements with a long tape measure. One man had the job of sticking his finger up the rhino’s nose, to make sure it was breathing properly, while someone else cut a neat little notch out of each ear, to make it recognisable from a distance – like pinning a name-tag to its chest. And all the time the rhino was receiving a seemingly endless stream of injections.

  Drilling a hole into the rhino’s horn for a radio transmitter to be fitted.

  One man h
ad a huge thermometer. We had a sneaking suspicion where that was about to go and, sure enough, it did.

  ‘I don’t know why,’ said Stephen, ‘but it makes me want to cry when I see all this attention being given to an animal like this, this great mighty beast that doesn’t give a damn for us. It sort of goes some way to make up for what the poachers are doing.’

  The top of the horn was sawn off (just the pointy bit – to stop the rhino hurting itself, or one of its human helpers, when it woke up) and then a 2cm (3/4-inch) hole was drilled into the base for a radio transmitter to be fitted by the person in charge of radio transmitters.

  Ten minutes later, we were ready.

  There’s only one way to get an animal the size of a VW Beetle into a wooden crate – you have to wake it up.

  There’s only one way to get an animal the size of a VW Beetle into a wooden crate – you have to wake it up. But first we had to prepare for the inevitable. A rope was tied around its head and horn, and another around its backside, ready to pull. A dozen of us stood next to the rhino, with our hands firmly on its back and side, ready to push. Everyone was preparing to pull and push as if their lives depended on it, which they probably did.

  Ol Jogi Ranch: Stephen enlists professional help in his relentless quest for mobile reception (actually, they’re tracking rhinos).

  Then the vet injected the quivering hump with a kind of anti-sedative, to bring it round.

  We waited for something to happen. Nothing. He started flicking the rhino’s ear. Still nothing. I relaxed. Just as I let my guard down, it sprang to life. One second it was lying down, fast asleep, the next it was standing up and wide awake.