Gorillas in the Mist (60 page)

During her years in Africa she had informed herself as to the nature and usages of native sorcery and magic. She understood full well what she had found—and what its message was.

Someone had laid the curse of death upon her.

A
lthough Dian did not record her feelings about the sinister discovery on her doorstep, assuredly she did not take it lightly. On the other hand, she knew that native sorcery had power only against those who believed in it and that the Rwandans considered whites immune to
sumu
. Working things out in the reassuring light of day, she would have reasoned that a Rwandan intent upon her death would, in all likelihood, resort to the use of poison, this being the preferred method of committing murder in Rwanda.

It may also have occurred to her that the death adder and the apparent poisoning of her parrots, were ploys designed to increase the pressure on her to abandon her mountain home. Unless—unless someone was laying the groundwork for eventual violence that could be blamed upon unlettered Africans such as the Batwa poachers. Perhaps it was with this dark thought in mind that she so rigorously suppressed any mention of what had taken place.

Whatever her conclusions may have been, the days following the discovery of the snake brought distractions that must have been very welcome. On October 30 a charming French journalist with the melodic name of Anne Marie Voisin-Romagnani arrived to research an article about Dian and Karisoke. She was
closely followed by a French cinematographer whom Dian found less attractive.

Yann is so pretty, suave, and delighted with himself. Some thirty years ago I would have fallen madly in love with this beautiful man (Clark Gable with blue eyes and long, sandy hair), but he was too arrogant for words. Thus we simply tolerated each other, and guess who had to do all the cooking? How do French women stand the brutes?

Of much greater import was the arrival of a young Dutchman Dian had met during her brief visit to Holland in 1984. Sjaak Van de Nieuwendijik had been given leave from his job as keeper of gorillas at a zoological park to learn the ways of the animals in the wild. Dian was delighted with him.
This “little” boy is about seven feet tall, blond hair, and just as nice as they come. I don’t know when I’ve ever enjoyed such a refreshing, enthusiastic, intelligent, vital young person in camp. He is already speaking Swahili and never complains about anything, though the weather is
HORRID.
He just gallops through the forests every day and all day to be with the gorillas. I am hoping and praying he will stay until the New Year and beyond. I would have no hesitation leaving camp in his care when I go on my lecture tour to the States in March or April, but his boss may want him back too soon.

Dian’s journal notes for November 10 consist of a single brief entry:

I get very, very, very sick & heart is bad. Why?

There is no elaboration, but the question may relate to suspicions of what had happened to her parrots. It is certain that
sumu
was still much on her mind. Two days later Vatiri and his men caught another poacher, and a description of the event begins with the bald statement:

Black magic is quite prevalent in these parts.

My patrols have captured four poachers in four weeks, all actively poaching in the park. This one turned out to be
really
nasty. They caught him skinning a lovely bushbuck
taken from his trapline right next to a gorilla group. His name is Yavani Hategeka, and the strange thing is I captured him once before in 1974. It bothers me that he doesn’t look any older than he did then, but I look a millennium older, which isn’t fair. He wasn’t the least bit cooperative with me. Although we grilled him all night, he wouldn’t answer questions. As a result, I took away his black magic charms that had been sewn into his stinky, frayed jacket (I know where to look for such things now). They consisted of two little pouches containing dried vegetation and an inch-square piece of some kind of animal fur. It was like taking a nipple away from a baby-maybe not a nice thing to do, but I did it since he wouldn’t give me any information about other poachers. I watched him shrivel up defensively upon losing his charms, but he had had over two hours to tell us things prior to his “rape.” Now, according to my men, he will never poach again, once he gets out of prison, because I have his “sumu.” Along with the “sumu” pouches we also found a letter in his pocket from a dealer in Zaire who is in the smuggling business with the poacher. Some kind of rare metal, probably gold, was involved.

Dian took no chances with Hategeka. Instead of sending him down to park headquarters in the manner prescribed by
ORTPN
, she sent him directly to the judiciary in Ruhengeri. There he was tried, convicted, and given a three-year sentence. Two weeks later his brother appeared at the prison offering to pay fifty thousand Rwandan francs for Hategeka’s freedom, but to Dian’s delight—and surprise—he was refused. Shortly thereafter she heard that the incorrigible Sebahutu had been the loser in a prison fight and was in the hospital suffering from mortal injuries.

At the end of November Dian wrote a long letter to a friend in the United States in the relaxed, story-telling vein that had once characterized her correspondence but which she now seldom seemed to have the energy or the inclination to indulge:

“I’m really sorry I didn’t get the chance to go to America this fall, but Wayne, the new ’student’ who came in August, just could not have held camp together by himself. He’s a nice boy but with hardly the smarts to come in out of the rain. That is really hard on him because today was the
FIRST
day of sun in a good two months of daily rain. I sneaked off into a little meadow not far from my cabin, actually the same one where I wrote the very first pages of my book, and spent two lovely hours basking like a happy hound dog. Then the whistles sounded, meaning ‘come home wherever you are,’ and I had to go back to deal with one of my antipoaching patrols who had brought in a badly hurt duiker caught in a trap for me to fix.

“Your letter speaking of Christmas reminds me of one that happened about ten years ago. My mother had this wonderful, wonderful, and wealthy friend who was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known, but a little scatterbrained, which endeared her all the more to me. I had a Trappist friend in a monastery, Father Raymond by name, in Hardstown, Kentucky. This nice lady was a devout Catholic, so I introduced her to him via mail. He happened to mention in a letter how cold their cells were in winter, so she immediately sent him a huge, magnificent electric blanket! I don’t think he’s stopped laughing yet, though his abbot didn’t seem to see the joke.

“Well, one November when I was home in California briefly from camp, she planned a Christmas shopping day for me that involved a lovely lunch and was to be followed by a spree in a big shopping center full of lovely stores. At lunch she tried to get me to open up as to what I
really
wanted for Christmas. There was only one thing I
really
needed and that was a meat grinder for camp.

“The minute I spoke my wish her face just fell, ‘Well, ah, well, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,’ she stammered. Never mind. Off we went, she dressed up fit to kill, to find a grungy hardware store where a good hour was spent buying
the most elaborate meat grinder they had. I still have it and it still works. You know, I don’t think she had ever been in a mere hardware store before.

“On a separate piece of paper you have the list of things I
really
need
this
year, as you asked. Notice it begins with Triscuits—I dream of them, literally dream of them. I crave salted food like that, and nuts and pretzels, etc. Every time I go to America I plan at least one full day of supermarket shopping beginning, as always, on the right side of the store (I can’t shop from left to right) with the biggest cart they have. I drift up and down the aisles in absolute heaven, neither seeing nor hearing anyone around me.

“Things for the men. Well, they just appreciate anything, which is part of the goodness of them. They go through socks like Kleenex. I buy these when in the States at army-surplus stores. They are hardly Saks Fifth Avenue items. Inexpensive watches are also badly needed. I hate asking you, but my not getting to the States this fall has put a dent into the men’s (and their families’) Christmas presents this year. There is so little one can buy in Rwanda—so much in America. I mention warm jogging pants and hooded tops not because my men go jogging for their health (they can hardly walk when they get home from a day in the forest), but because when I give them something nicer they won’t wear it on the mountain. They save it for the big city of Ruhengeri—all four blocks of dusty
dukas
(little stores). We will keep the jogging suits up here for them to change into following a cold, rainy day’s outing in the forest.

“I started this letter yesterday, then at 3:40
P.M.
someone banged at my front door. I opened it to find a thin, bearded fellow whose greenish face matched his drenched rain gear. He was burdened with a heavy rifle and a panga. Because of the rifle I realized he must be a new man, a Belgian, working for the Mt. Gorilla Project, who occasionally do patrols with the park guards. All the Mt. Gorilla Project people are ordered to carry these big rifles when they go into the park, though I don’t know why.

“At any rate, he squished into my cabin, collapsed before the fireplace, and told a harrowing tale. The park guard with him had turned on him several hours previously, attacked him with a panga, shattered his eyeglasses, and walloped him on the forehead with the flat of the panga before collapsing in some kind of seizure. Not knowing what else to do, the Belgian had dragged himself to my camp.

“I sent him back into the pouring rain and fog, with all of my men carrying a litter to find this man. They didn’t get back here until 8:30
P.M.
to report that the guard had disappeared. The Belgian was then in a horrible state, cold, wet, tired, shaking for good reason, and the lump on his head getting bigger and bigger. I fed him a stiff drink, and sent him down the mountain with one of my men. I
didn’t
tell him I thought the guard might have rabies, which is quite common here. Even without that, it was a day I’m sure he’ll remember.

“The gorillas are doing well, except they are cold and perpetually wet during this prolonged rainy season. The new fellow, Wayne, the one who kept getting lost, went to Ruhengeri to cash a traveler’s check two weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since. I do hope you have a joyful turkey day. Eat lots of stuffing and exhale on your next letter. What better odor is there in the world?”

To which was appended “Fossey’s Christmas List”:

A few days later an apologetic Wayne McGuire finally slogged back to camp to explain that he had contracted an ear infection while in Ruhengeri. Dian welcomed him home, although not without a note of some asperity.

The American boy is back, though I don’t know for how long. If I could afford a nurse for him, I would.

With the beginning of December the weather broke. The seemingly eternal rains and mists no longer saturated the mountain slopes, turning them into a dim subaqueous world. The brilliant skies and piercing sunshine of high altitudes returned, and everywhere life quickened. The saturated lichen beards hanging from the ancient hagenia trees grew dry and fluffy and were filled with flamboyant little sunbirds. The camp hyraxes emerged to sit sleepy-eyed in the sun by day and to engage in their ultramundane songs by night. Although unable to visit them because of her breathing difficulties, Dian knew that the gorillas were lolling in sunlit glades, and she was happy for them in this time of warmth and relaxation after the months of somber fog and rain.

There was little relaxation for her. The dread day was fast approaching when she would again have to renew her visa. On December 3 she hid her pistols, her money, and the few pieces of jewelry she possessed (including the ruby ring given to her by Louis Leakey) behind the bottom drawer of her dresser and resolutely descended the mountain bound for Kigali.

She was accompanied by young Sjaak, and although she was heartened by the moral support his presence gave her, she was also saddened for he was leaving the Virungas to return to
Holland. “Sjaak,” she had written to his employer, “is not only an extremely gifted observer and field worker, he is probably one of the finest who has ever worked at Karisoke. I so wish there were more like him and that he could have remained at Karisoke into the new year.”

It was with a brave front but inner trepidation that Dian presented herself at
ORTPN
’s headquarters. The officials there proved even stickier than she had anticipated. Habiyaremye would not see her; and although some of his subordinates evidenced sympathy for Dian’s plight, they could do nothing to help her obtain the all-important permit without which her visa could not be extended.

In mounting desperation Dian went to the American embassy, but the current incumbents, while polite, offered no assistance.

She then retreated to the Mille des Collines hotel for a badly needed drink, and there encountered the editor of one of the local papers who had recently written glowingly about Dian and her work. When she confided her difficulties to him, he smiled broadly and patted her hand. “Mademoiselle Fossey, I think you do not understand. In Kigali you have many friends. But not at
ORTPN.
And not, perhaps, among your fellow Americans and some other foreigners. Why do you not ask your
friends
for help?”