Gorillas in the Mist (45 page)

Harcourt was told to expect Hausfater at the end of September.

“His Imperial Majesty,” Dian noted, “was not pleased.” In letters to all concerned Harcourt made it clear that the board’s representative would not be welcome. He wrote Hausfater to tell him that nobody would be available to meet him at Ruhengeri Airport, that he was expected to bring his own food with him and pay “a per diem for use of my staff during your period here.”

In response to a politic suggestion by Hausfater that the visit should help pave the way for Harcourt’s reappointment as center director, Harcourt claimed that he had already been reappointed as director. He therefore wondered “if your visit is in fact necessary.”

One of the board members who was having second thoughts was Dr. Snider of the National Geographic. Dian was delighted to find this old friend in her corner once again and quick to take his advice that she apply personally to the Society for the funding of Karisoke in 1982.

Presumably because he would not have controlled this money, Harcourt flatly rejected the proposal, adding that, in the event such funding was forthcoming, both he and Kelly would refuse to sign the standard literary release form required of all recipients of National Geographic grants.

Even some of Harcourt’s loyal supporters were now becoming alarmed by his behavior. Dr. Hinde wrote to his protégé, pleading with him to be more gracious. “I can see that there are a lot of things that irritate you … but it really doesn’t help to write such prickly letters. It doesn’t make it easier for those who are trying to oil the wheels.” An only slightly chastened Harcourt replied that, considering his perception of Dian Fossey’s behavior, past and present, he found it extremely difficult to be polite to her—let alone gracious. He then unburdened himself of his feelings about Glenn Hausfater. “I don’t think that Glenn will work as chairperson … my paranoia about Dian Fossey is too great.” The letter concluded with an enigmatic phrase suggesting that all was not well in camp.

Hausfater arrived in Rwanda on September 30 and found the country in some turmoil as the result of another suspected coup. He described what ensued in a letter to the board:

“Prior to reaching Kigali, the taxi I was in was stopped and my bags, in particular, searched. All hotels, including the Catholic mission, were under government orders not to provide rooms for foreigners or strangers. After finding accommodations at a friend’s house I was awakened, interrogated, and searched by the intelligence section of the police. Upon nearing the park headquarters next day I met an army blockade and was told they were … under strict instructions not to allow any visitors to the park.

“After returning to Kigali I was assisted by the American embassy in obtaining permission from the vice-president’s office to pass through the Ruhengeri barricades. However,
ORPTN
now refused me permission to visit the Karisoke Center, and so with only two days remaining of my allotted time, I gave up and went on to Kenya.”

However much the threat of a coup may have contributed to Hausfater’s discomfiture, both he and Dian believed that
ORPTN
’s action had little to do with a state of emergency and much to do with a willingness to cooperate with the current center director, who was himself so cooperative with
ORPTN
.

Harcourt now lobbed another bombshell at the board in which he registered displeasure at the prospect of Hausfater’s becoming even interim chairman. Not a few board members reacted with indignation at what they viewed as this unwarranted interference.

Much alarmed, Robert Hinde immediately wrote to Sandy and Kelly: “I am sorry about Sandy’s letter; it won’t increase his reputation or help to get the committee on his side.”

Harcourt apologized, but the effect was marred by his disclosure that he now intended to leave his post at Karisoke at the end of 1982—unless the Rwandan government (meaning
ORPTN
) asked him to stay on. Some board members took this
as a threat: if they did not mend their ways,
ORPTN
might lose patience and “foreclose” on Karisoke. Whatever Harcourt’s intentions may have been, this expression of them was unfortunate. Support for his cause had already been considerably eroded—now it began to dwindle rapidly away.

By the end of October the “Karisoke Gorilla Wars”—as one exasperated board member called the feud—seemed doomed to an inconclusive stalemate. The antagonists were exhausted by the wrangling, bickering, and recriminations. Harcourt was probably suffering more than anyone, and eventually it became too much to bear.

On November 19 he decided to abandon the struggle he had been waging off and on over the past four years. He wrote to Eisenberg tendering his official resignation, to take effect at the end of 1982.

Now it only remained for the two major combatants to conclude an armistice. The olive branch was extended by Kelly Stewart in late December during a flying trip to the United States. On the twenty-second she telephoned Dian from California, and the two women figuratively fell into one another’s arms.

Next morning Dian cabled a peace missive to Karisoke:

Apart from the “Karisoke Gorilla Wars,” 1981 had been relatively uneventful for Dian. While her back improved, she
spent most of her days working on her book and collating research material.

The even tenor of her ways was pleasantly disrupted toward the end of April by a reunion of Louis Leakey’s famous “trimates”—the three woman primatologists who had spent years of their lives in remote corners of the world learning to understand something of the nature and qualities of mankind’s closest living relatives. The Leakey Foundation had arranged for Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, and Biruté Galdikas to present a symposium at Sweet Briar College in Virginia on April 29, and the three women had agreed to rendezvous at Dian’s apartment in Ithaca.

Jane was the first to arrive. Having flown almost nonstop from Africa to England, then on to New York and Ithaca, she was sorrowing for her husband, who had died only a few months earlier; and she dreaded the ordeal of a public lecture tour across the United States, which was to follow Sweet Briar. Dian did not know Jane well, but had always held her in esteem verging on awe, and so was somewhat nervous as she drove to the little airport to greet her illustrious peer.

She need not have been apprehensive. As she wrote to Jane’s mother in England:

“I felt, upon seeing her, as if I was picking up a little wounded pigeon; I just hurt for her. Within a few minutes we were in my horrid apartment, and she just unwound. I felt myself the most fortunate person in the world just to be able to help her unwind. It was she who gave
me
a gift, not the other way around…. I’ve never felt as close to her—I guess because before there were always so many people around her, and I would never intrude upon her friends.”

Even the subsequent arrival of Biruté Galdikas, with whom neither Jane nor Dian was especially sympathetic, did not interfere with the development of an enduring and affectionate relationship.

This was the first time I’d ever been able to see so much of Jane, and I came to appreciate her even more than in
the past. She is certainly an example that I have much to learn from-patience, dignity, graciousness, not to mention her wonderful sense of humor.

After a “tryout of their act” at Cornell, the three flew to Sweet Briar for the symposium. There they were interviewed by Nan Robertson of
The New York Times:

“This week Dian Fossey, Jane Goodall, and Biruté Galdikas came together in a rare meeting to talk about “What We Can Learn About Humankind From the Apes” at a symposium on the Sweet Briar College campus, which was drenched in the white dogwood and azalea of a Southern spring.

“They have become three of the world’s foremost primatologists … with Dr. Fossey specializing in mountain gorillas, Dr. Goodall in chimpanzees, and Dr. Galdikas in orangutans.

“In conversations over two days, wedged between lectures and gala meals, the three talked about their lives and what made them tick. Dr. Fossey, forty-nine years old, is a San Franciscan, a brawny six-footer with a shock of black hair and coltish movements who somewhat resembles Julia Child. By contrast, Dr. Goodall, forty-seven and English, is wraith-thin and almost ethereal, with blond hair pulled back in a bun. The youngest of the three, Dr. Galdikas, thirty-four … a Canadian citizen … has masses of chestnut hair and bright blue eyes….

“The physical discomforts in camp are often extreme. Dr. Fossey works at ten thousand feet on an extinct volcano, and there is altitude sickness and depression as well as rain, fog, and hail. Dr. Goodall must often crawl on her stomach through bush pig tunnels to reach her subjects, and Dr. Galdikas is often neck-deep in leech-infested swamps looking for her orangutans….

“This has been their life. Dr. Goodall, to whom the others defer as the pioneer, has been in the field for twenty years, Dr. Fossey for thirteen years, and Dr. Galdikas for almost a decade….

“It is the solitude that finally breaks many….

“Dr. Galdikas calls it ‘bush fever.’ Dr. Fossey calls it ‘astronaut blues.’ She said that ‘if they can’t endure the isolation, they get
the sweats, they scream, shake, or cry.’ The three women pooh-pooh any thought of danger, for they are comfortable with their animals, who have never hurt them seriously, not even Dr. Fossey, who works with what the early explorers called ‘fearsome beasts’ and what she calls ‘the gentle giants.’ … Both Dr. Goodall and Dr. Fossey imitated some of their calls, hoots, and pants, rising to hair-raising crescendos. Dr. Galdikas was asked to imitate an orangutan call and replied, somewhat sniffily, ‘The adult female is virtually silent except when she’s being raped.’ …

“Dr. Fossey told of ‘the silence of the forest,’ putting her hands over her ears at the sound of a nearby cocktail party in the Sweet Briar president’s house. ‘I can’t stand the noise back here,’ she complained.

“‘I feel more comfortable with gorillas than people,’ she said. ‘I can anticipate what a gorilla’s going to do, and they’re purely motivated. It is true that there comes a time when I do literally dream of supermarkets and drug stores, potato chips and the Sunday morning paper. That’s the beginning and the end of it.’

“And Dr. Goodall repeated what she once told Dr. Leakey: ‘I don’t care two hoots about civilization. I want to wander about in the wild.’“

The return to civilization certainly posed its problems. In a letter to Jane, Dian recalled how, during the seminar, “we were asked to comment on what aspect of civilized life we find most difficult to adjust to upon returning from the bush. I immediately thought of my inability to remember to flush toilets and responded with that answer without a qualm. I was going to expand on other difficulties like that, but you immediately reacted in typical English manner by punching me on the arm and saying in a semishocked voice loud enough for all to hear: ‘Oh, Dian!’ It was the spontaneity of your reaction that brought the house down.”

On May 1 the “trimates” flew west for a joint lecture in Pasadena, but by now there was mounting friction between Dian and Biruté, and Jane had to mediate between them.

On her return to Ithaca in late May, Dian wrote to Jane:

“I don’t know how to tell you just how much it meant to me to be with you on those parts of the tour we shared. Your presence truly made some of the bad scenes bearable. I have a great deal to learn from you in the way of being tactful, graceful, gracious, and businesslike. I missed you so when you got on the plane in L.A. In retrospect, that was kind of a funny departure. The ‘two camps’ so to speak, with Biruté in one corner and I in the other, and you so diplomatically kind in the middle.”

Brief as it was, the time Jane and Dian spent together had been good for them both. Dian’s genius for mothering the wounded had brought some solace to Goodall, and Jane’s calm and sympathetic analysis of the Gorilla War proved a powerful antidote to the bitterness that had been festering in Dian. They parted as sustaining friends, and although they were to see each other only rarely in the years ahead, the friendship would endure.

As summer progressed and Ithaca grew increasingly hot and humid, Dian began to wilt. Work on the book dragged to a halt, so in early August, Anita McClellan rented a cottage close to the ocean at Bar Harbor. Here she and her aged dog, Boo, and Dian and Cindy spent six productive weeks. It was a marvelous and healing time for Dian and seems to have been no less memorable for Anita.

“I do want to tell you again, Dian, how wonderful it has been for me to be your editor and your friend and your peskiest fan…. Remember those days in Maine with our four-legged ladies and how we hammered out Chapter 5 for Coco and Pucker? Then our walks along the shore, looking at the birds and sea life, our talks in the cabin, our giggles, curses, and groans at the town library lectures? … How the locals ogled us on the lawn when we were yelling at each other? How Cindy insisted on supervising your every move when you picked shells on the beach?”

Dian returned to Cornell as a visiting professor when the fall semester began. As 1981 drew to its end, and the long battle with Harcourt seemed to be reaching its conclusion, she was in
good mental fettle. Physically she was in better shape than she had been in years. With Anita’s help she had made so much progress on the book that she could believe it would soon be completed. The publication of several scientific papers had somewhat muted the carping of her scientific peers. Good relations had been restored between herself and the National Geographic Society. She and Glenn had settled into the roles of comfortable and understanding friends. For once, the universe seemed to be unfolding as it should.