Gorillas in the Mist (54 page)

Her Dutch publishers took her to another zoo, at Apeldoorn, which had six lowland gorillas. This was a press event, and while photographers and TV cameramen clustered close, the inevitable publicity person handed a copy of Dian’s book to one of the caged gorillas. Writing to the Prices about this incident a few weeks later, Dian quoted a newspaper headline: “‘Local Gorillas Eat Up Fossey’s Book.’ Which is exactly what they did. Maybe that is why the book has sold so well in Holland—seven thousand copies so far, which is a lot of gorilla fodder.”

During her last day in Holland the stress of her recent peregrinations caught up with her and she almost passed out during a book-signing session.

Very lung-sick and really worried if I could make it back to Rwanda. Left next morning with temperature of 105° and flew directly to Kigali, where I crawled into the Mille des Collines Hotel and slept for twenty-four hours. Then I called the embassy and Ambassador Bland and his wife took pity on me and sent a car to take me to the residence,
where they looked after me for the next three days. Probably saved my life, which is what I told them anyway.

On the fifteenth, armed with all kinds of pills, I unwisely tried to climb the mountain but collapsed and had to be carried up by stretcher. On my arrival found David had raised all the men’s salaries and told them to stick with the new salaries and also make larger food demands. If he goes on like this, the sooner Watts is out of camp the better for all of us, particularly the Africans, who have become confused by his doctrines. Jan Rafert, a nice, quiet person with a sense of integrity, has taken over running the Digit Fund patrols. They have cut down 2,262 traps this year, released eighteen animals alive from traps, and have captured and imprisoned eight poachers. Not one gorilla from study of fringe groups injured/killed/harmed by poachers, though several have been caught in traps in other parts of the Virungas and some killed.

Effie had a new baby on October 20, likely sired by old Beethoven, who is perking up. Tiger remains with Simba, who is pregnant now and should give birth in April. All of the groups are two hours or more from camp, even for the trackers, and it rains on a daily basis, so I don’t see them. But I have my parrots (not very sociable), and the ravens come every day for food. Toby, the hyrax by my cabin, is the father of twins and sits on his log with momma and babies below, in absolute confidence of me even when I am within five meters.

I am still maintaining Karisoke by the payments from my book and the antipoacher patrols by the Digit Fund. The Mountain Gorilla Project continues to use my name as well as that of Digit for their own collection of funds. I have met, during the past eight months, a number of organizations and wealthy individuals who claimed they had given thousands of dollars to the
MGP
to help my cause. This kind of news is really defeating.

Dian’s concern about money was eased a little in mid-December when the trust committee of the Humane Society of the United States made her a grant of five thousand dollars for “the work you have been doing in the cause of animal protection.” This was the kind of recognition she could appreciate.

Another useful bit of recognition had come her way at the end of November when she had attended a fete to honor the establishment of Rwanda’s other national park, A’Kagera.

The fete was well done and most enjoyable. Laurent Habiyaremye was there; and though at first he snubbed me, he became more friendly toward the end of the festivities. That was likely because the president was also there. He came up and shook my hand, laughing with delight that I was still in the country, for he had thought I had left permanently. Because I really like this man I was thrilled to pieces. Habiyaremye noted this real honor and seemed duly impressed, but von der Becke was furious. Too bad! I guess I still have some friends higher up.

One final bit of good cheer reached Karisoke before Christmas—a letter from Houghton Mifflin announcing the release of a trade paperback edition of
Gorillas in the Mist
. “As of December 5 we’ve advanced 11,760 copies—which is wonderful news to carry into the new year!”

As if to balance the good news, another bleak episode in the story of Tiger took place on December 22.

My beloved Tiger has been severely if not mortally wounded in a fight with Ziz, Group 5 ’s young silverback, and he has lost Simba to Ziz. Apparently, from the tracks they left, the interaction took place about an hour from camp on Mt. Visoke. When the two groups almost met, Simba evidently moved to the Group 5 females, perhaps just for a visit. Tiger must have gone after her and met Ziz head-on. Albeit gorillas have extraordinary recuperative powers, Tiger now has a huge hole into his pleural cavity, not to mention other severe bite wounds. I have a
very unscientific “schmaltzy” feeling about “little” Tiger, now a huge silverback, whom I saw on his first day of life in 1967. Now he is alone near camp, eating little, traveling less, and passing blood in his feces. I cannot put him out of my mind but don’t know what to do for him.

The little village of green-painted cabins on the edge of Karisoke’s mist-shrouded meadows was very quiet as Christmas approached. Carole Le Jeune had left camp to be with her dying mother. Mike Catsis was spending Christmas in Kigali. And, as Dian reported in a letter, “Watts, the pompous, socialist ass from Chicago, has gone to France for three weeks of holidays.”

He and Dian had been at odds ever since he had taken it on himself in her absence to increase the men’s salaries. Matters had come to a stormy head on December 10.

Today Basili told me Watts was going away to France, but Watts says nothing. I go to his cabin tonight to find out. Lots of yelling and screaming in front of Jan and all Africans-pretty bad scene, and Jan wanted to disappear into the woodwork.

Next day she added:

Watts up today to apologize for yelling at me, says, “I only wanted to do something good for the men because of rough economic times below.”

Fortunately the two antagonists respected each other enough to come to terms. Although Dian was adamant about not raising salaries, she volunteered to give each man a special
prime
, which would have the same effect. Unredeemed capitalist that she was, she was also a reasonably soft touch.

Only Dian and Jan Rafert remained at camp to host the annual Christmas party, which for financial reasons was much scaled down.

No way I can afford to have a party for all the eighty-plus Africans and families. Only the men will be here, but ought to be content with very bulky packages of gifts for them and families from America and Europe as well as
their substantial
prime
. I “did” eighteen boxes, all wrapped in red and white and also “did” a small tree with Jan. On Christmas Day I had a stocking for Jan and made Christmas dinner.

On the twenty-sixth it was the men’s turn, and did we have a party! I don’t think Karisoke has ever done better or had more fun. It was in my living room, with lots of food and beer, followed by lots of singing and drumming, and then such dancing that we will have to take up all the floorboards to get the beams back into place.

Then I started pulling out the Halloween nonsense I brought back from the States last trip, silly false noses, plastic glasses, and eyebrows and mustaches, and the men went bonkers over them, looking into my mirror and killing themselves laughing at the results. Little Kana, the one whose wife gave birth here last Christmas, put on black glasses and a scraggy mustache and instantly looked like Monsieur X., a horrid, mean local burgomaster who is really disliked by everyone. Just for ducks I asked him the kind of question I might ask the burgomaster, concerning his illegal acquisition of parkland. Kana picked up the game and “became” Monsieur X.-pompous, grandiose, bumptious. His manner and voice just absolutely epitomized that particular type of “official” bigwig African. “You not be asking me silly rot questions, mademoiselle!” It was a riot. None of us, including Kana, knew he was such an actor. All the others were literally crying with laughter and rolling in their chairs. Me, I was on the floor laughing as I’ve never done in years.

It eventually turned into a full-scale play with each man taking on a role as a typical policeman, soldier, park conservateur, storekeeper, and even playing Jan and me, the two
bazungas
. Went on for hours. The finale was Kana’s depiction of a Kigali-type “big man” that he did half in Swahili and half in Kinyarwandan until we were just worn
out. Even Jan, a serious sort of person usually, was in hysterics. Gosh, it was fun!

Dian wrote to Anita McClellan giving an account of the culinary delights she had found among her own Christmas gifts:

“I did not receive pearls, diamonds, and emeralds, but I
did
receive two boxes of Triscuits. So who needs jewels? Salivating like mad, I put half a box of Triscuits covered with phony butter and Magi sauce under the broiler and went on a Triscuit orgy. I’m not going to share them with
anyone!
Next—the smoked almonds! Oh, God, this is living! They last longer if you suck them. Then something I’ve never seen before—canned bacon slices. Num num! I’m dying to get into them, but if I do my stomach will think it’s died and gone to haunt a supermarket. I’ll save them for company, and then begrudge them every slice. Ditto with the fancy, smoked oysters … three sacks of Colombos, the eating of which involves careful stripping with front incisors to get the full flavor and make them last longer. And let’s hear it for peanut butter/cheese crackers. Too much! Also granola bars and raisins. Even though these are good for you, I like them anyway.”

This letter crossed with one from Anita that may have been the nicest present Dian received:

“A wave of nostalgia swept over me this Christmas as I thought of the time spent with you and the elusive gorillas, the ever-naughty ravens, the shy, sweet duikers, the chatty hyrax and the night-visiting bushbucks…. Don’t forget me, the Boston branch of the International Fossil Fan Club … and don’t forget to be ‘cranky’ in between patrol reports; and baked potatoes; and forest walks; and camp chores. Hey, you’re family to me!”

A
s had so often been the case, the new year began badly for Dian. On the morning of January 5 she took advantage of some watery sunshine to seek out Tiger and take him a few handfuls of precious blackberries collected by Nemeye and Vatiri. The injured gorilla seemed sicker than ever, and the stench of the badly infected chest wound was nauseating when he came slowly to her side.

He wouldn’t take the berries and wouldn’t eat them when I put them down. Just sat there, whimpering a little. Not being able to help him made me cranky. I got worse when went back to cabin and saw two strange
bazungas
at the lower cabins. Basili came up to say they were tourists from Spain
demanding
to see me. They had a letter from the
ORTPN
director
(no
copy to me) saying they were welcome to stay at Karisoke for several months. This letter had been written in
November!
I told Basili, “No way!” and to send them down the mountain. They went but Basili said they were screaming and yelling to their porter and were absolutely furious.

These were no ordinary tourists. As Dian had observed from the director’s letter, they were from the Barcelona zoo,
whose reputation in the world of primate protection was by no means of the best.

Almost alone among European nations, Spain was not a signatory to
CITES—
the United Nations-sponsored Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species—whose task it was to
prevent
such trade. In consequence Spain was being used by animal dealers as a way station for transshipping endangered species to buyers in other countries. Spanish zoos were notorious for the cooperation they extended to these dealers, especially with regard to the great apes.

What Dian did
not
know was that the director of the Barcelona zoo had met Laurent Habiyaremye while that worthy was attending a conservation conference in Madrid in October 1984, and had made it known to the
ORTPN
director that his zoo was keenly interested in adding a mountain gorilla or two to its primate collection. Habiyaremye seems to have been most sympathetic, and it was agreed that two members of the zoo staff would visit the Parc National des Volcans to observe the habits of mountain gorillas.

Dian heard no more from the Spaniards until, as she wrote to Rosamond Carr, “the 18th, when they showed up again, this time with a letter from the director asking/telling me to collaborate. ‘I inform you that I allowed Mister Serrat and Miss de Dalman to stay in National Park for doing research on gorillas. I hear that you don’t agree with me, their presence there disturbs you. I want you to be collaborator one time and let them do their research.’

“This simply blew my mind. I fired back, I guess in haste.”

Hasty or not, her reply was certainly not calculated to improve relations with
ORTPN:

“Monsieur le Directeur, may I remind you that you apparently authorized the stay of these people from the Barcelona zoo last November,
BUT
you
never
sent me a copy.

“On January 5 these two strangers showed up at Karisoke
without notice
demanding a cabin and full cooperation for their
so-called research. Your note has
vastly
insulted the integrity of Karisoke Research Center, which you obviously consider a hotel.”

There was more in the same vein, ending: “I have given them a cabin room, which they don’t like. I don’t believe this is happening!”

Dian’s enforced cooperation was minimal. She gave the couple space—in the leaky half of the two-room cabin normally occupied by David Watts, who was still away on holiday. It contained no furniture, no bedding, no cooking or eating equipment, and no lamps. Consequently, the unhappy Spaniards were forced to climb down to Ruhengeri in a hailstorm and spend the next several days buying what they needed, wherever they could find it, if they could find it. Even Dian felt a little sorry for them.