Wild Spirit (17 page)

After a week, her wound had healed well. All the stitches were intact, there was no sign of infection, and her daytime behaviour was placid and relaxed. On the Sunday morning, a burst of bright sunlight broke through the thick cloud, bringing the first warm temperatures we had had all week.

Sundays were Win's day to look after Josie, to give Rodo
and me a break. They were also his only chance to relax and listen to classical music on the cassette player. Sundays had become even more precious for him since his work schedule had grown more demanding. He drove himself hard to meet all the project deadlines, and the fatigue showed on his face.

But this Sunday he announced, ‘I'm going to give her a bath.' Josie had adjusted so well that she was content just to sit and watch while Win assembled everything on the wooden table out in the sun – a bowl of warm water, soap, a sponge and a towel. He rolled her on her back and she lay perfectly still while he sponged her all over. I sat nearby, taking in every small detail, full of wonder at her trust in us. He rubbed her down and applied a coat of antiseptic cream along the line of stitches, then they sat together in the sun while her coat dried.

When Josie was warm and dry, he picked her up and carried her into the flat. I watched as he chose a Tchaikovsky piano concerto and settled back to listen in a reclining chair with Josie face-down on his chest while he stroked her head and back.

The sunshine gave me a perfect opportunity to tackle a week's worth of dirty clothes. We still had no washing machine, so I lined up my usual row of plastic dishes and squeezed things by hand. The strains of Tchaikovsky reached me through the window of the flat, and because there was no work done on Sundays, the camp lay at peace, with just occasional bird calls echoing over the forest. I realised that the tumult of the first three months was now behind us, and I had begun to regain a sense of calm.

I returned to the flat to find Win and Josie both fast asleep in the chair, the sweeping phrases of the music
washing over them. My eyes filled with tears as I thought back to what Josie had gone through. Now she was safe, and she knew she was in a caring environment. She'd made a remarkable recovery. Her capacity for learning had astounded us, and her human-like responses filled us constantly with wonder.

Meanwhile, Rodo grasped his first chance in a week to have some unbroken sleep. Before lunch, he joined us in the flat for drinks around the camping table. Josie, by then wide awake, sat on Win's lap. She was content just to sit still while we talked, calmly watching everything we did. But the sight of Win pouring beer into a glass caught her attention. She focused hard on him as he put the glass to his lips, then she stood on tiptoe, balancing herself on his legs, and reached out for the glass. Wrapping both hands firmly around it, she pulled it carefully towards her mouth. I had difficulty remembering she was a great ape and not a human child as Win guided the glass to her lips and she took a sip. When she had swallowed, she settled back on her haunches and looked around at each of us in turn.

Twice more in the hour that followed, she did the same thing. I thought back to what Eamon and Peter Telfair had told us – that Arthur the gorilla used to sit with them in the evenings and drink a glass of beer. When I had first heard it, I was convinced they were exaggerating.

After lunch, Win took her by the hand and walked her slowly from the flat down the grassy embankment, behind the clothes line, and up the slope to the edge of the tree line. He was concerned that her diet of human food might be deficient and that she might need more exercise. Thick secondary growth had sprung up in the clearing since Mario had had the helicopter pad made: plants with bright
pink fruits at their base grew among a jumble of greenery. We knew they were a type of ginger that gorillas loved to eat.

Win let go of Josie's hand and she sat for some minutes looking around and smelling the forest for the first time in a week. The sight and smell of growing things must have stirred some of her earlier memories. Dappled sunlight played on her skin, moist rotting leaves were soft under her feet, and the buzz of insects droned in the afternoon stillness. Win stood perfectly still, careful not to distract her. She looked back at him, checking he was still there, then slowly began to crawl around, stopping here and there to pick tiny shoots, which she delicately placed on her tongue and chewed thoroughly before swallowing. At intervals she turned around to confirm that Win was nearby. Eventually, she found the bright pink fruits. She made for them unhesitatingly, picked one, and carefully prised out the flesh and placed it in her mouth.

She didn't range far, but seemed totally absorbed in the forest world. When she had eaten enough, she sat down, drew her knees up to her chin, crossed her arms and looked up at Win as if to indicate, ‘Well, I'm finished. What now?'

I watched them at the forest's edge – Josie relaxed and calm, Win understanding her needs and giving her the chance to follow her instincts – and I marvelled at the miracle of their perfect communication. As the three of us walked hand in hand slowly back to the flat I felt like we were a family.

In the weeks that followed, I took Josie everywhere with me. Although her cold lingered, she seemed otherwise healthy. When I had washing to hang out, she came with me to the line and sat nearby on the grass. Each time I went out in the Méhari, she sat quietly in my lap. I had become
so accustomed to her snuggling into me as I sat at the desk that sometimes I almost forgot she was there.

At first, I didn't stop to seriously consider how long Rodo could sustain his stoical tolerance of Josie's night behaviour. He rarely spoke about it. At midnight every night she would become playful and start cavorting around the bedroom; at dawn she would eventually tire. He lost more and more sleep, his bed linen and clothes were continually soaked with her urine, and he struggled to focus on work during the day. We all knew the situation could not continue indefinitely, but we pushed that thought to the back of our minds. There was no question of confining her to a cage: that would have killed her as surely as a hunter's bullet. In time, we came to the painful realisation that her long-term care required more resources than we had available.

Two unrelated events brought things to a head. First, Doug made one of his regular visits to review progress on the building program and the clearing of survey tracks. He told us that a party of senior technical specialists would soon visit the camp for several days, and that the smell of gorilla urine in the guesthouse could not be allowed to remain. We needed to find another home for Josie before they arrived. That same week, Jacques' family had finally arrived in Makokou and had moved into a large house. He knew the problems Rodo was having and offered a solution: his wife and three daughters had heard all about Josie and they wanted desperately to have her. She would find a loving home there with four people to share her care, he assured us.

It was a prospect we could barely contemplate. We loved her, we were responsible for her, and she had bonded with
the three of us. Another change of circumstances might prove too great an adjustment for her. Every few days, Jacques reminded us of his offer. Then one Friday the decision could no longer be postponed. Josie would go down with Jacques to Makokou on the pirogue that afternoon.

I went about my work that morning weighed down with sadness. The wrench of having to part with her was almost too much to bear. She sat calmly on my hip while we moved about, unaware that her world would soon change completely. The three of us felt protective of her and afraid for her – letting her go felt like betrayal. We had no way of knowing whether she would adjust to the change, or be cared for as we had cared for her.

Rodo, Win and I made the trip to the
débarcadère
in the Méhari, with Josie occupying her usual place on my lap. When we arrived, the pirogue was waiting. Jacques supervised the loading of some empty fuel drums and iceboxes. Rodo stood silently on the riverbank. Josie, still in her woollen singlet, clung tightly to his leg with her eyes shut, almost as if she knew something was wrong. When all was ready, Rodo gave Jacques some food and drink for her for the journey, then handed her into his arms.

She clung tightly to him as he boarded the pirogue. The three of us stood together on the bank and watched as it moved slowly into the middle of the river. Then the outboard kicked in and the pirogue gathered speed. Her tiny form against Jacques' chest grew smaller and smaller until they rounded the bend and disappeared from view.

Each of us was too full of emotion to speak and we drove back to camp in silence. The parting had been inevitable, but that didn't ease the pain. Josie's time with us had been a journey of love, discovery and compassion, enriching
us beyond anything we could have imagined. Now there was a void.

 

I was impatient to get to the radio the next morning to hear how Josie had fared on the trip downriver, and how she had responded to her new environment. The pain of separation lay heavily on me, compounded by a sense of guilt that somehow we had let her down. She had trusted us, and in the end we could not continue to give her the care she needed. My body felt like lead as I walked across to the guesthouse and switched on the radio. I missed her warm body clinging to me, her soft touch on my leg, and the routines we had shared.

‘
Makokou de Belinga, Makokou de Belinga!
Jacques, do you receive me?'

‘
Belinga de Makokou, Belinga de Makokou!
Receiving you, Nettie.'

‘How is she, Jacques?'

‘She handled the river trip well, Nettie, and she's doing fine.'

‘That's great news, Jacques. Keep us posted, won't you?'

‘Roger, Nettie, will do. Talk to you again at five.'

It was Saturday and I had a lot to do. Although I welcomed the distraction of work, I kept looking at my watch, waiting for the five o'clock radio link. Josie's first twenty-four hours in her new home would be crucial. At five I switched on the radio to find Jacques already calling me.

‘
Belinga de Makokou
, Nettie, are you there?'

‘
Makokou de Belinga
, receiving you loud and clear, Jacques. What's the news?'

‘She still has a runny nose. I took her over to CNRS today so the vet could check her over. He said how well she had been cared for, and sends his congratulations to Win for the fine job he did on stitching her up. He said she's made a good recovery, but he's given her antibiotics for the respiratory infection.' (CNRS was the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, a distinguished French research body with a laboratory for tropical ecology located at Makokou.)

I felt myself relax: Josie was in good hands. ‘Great to hear, Jacques. Well done. I'll pass on the message to Win – he'll be thrilled. Talk to you tomorrow. Over and out.'

For six days, all seemed to go well. Each morning, I asked after Josie at the radio. Jacques' wife came on air several times to say that their daughters loved having her and that she was faring well.

On the seventh day all that changed. Madame Poussain's voice came over the airwaves agitated and angry. ‘She is behaving so badly, I'm thinking of sending her back to you!'

The words chilled me. If Josie was being disruptive, it could only mean that her needs were not being met. She was clearly stressed, and I feared she was heading for a crisis, but there was nothing we could do. I tried talking to Jacques' wife, but she was in no mood to listen.

The news came on Sunday morning. Eamon greeted Win and me at the guesthouse door, sadness etched into his face. ‘I heard on the radio last night from Monsieur Poussain that the little gorilla died yesterday. I didn't want to tell you straightaway. I knew how upset you folks would be.' We stood there mute, absorbing the news like a physical blow.

‘Does Rodo know?' I managed.

Eamon nodded.

‘What happened – do you know?'

‘She just turned blue and stopped breathing,' he said. I pictured her tiny body, fighting to the last against huge odds. Her life with us flashed before my mind, the image of her face, the touch of her hand. What had she suffered in those last days? Had they cared for her properly? I recalled the look on Eamon's face the night Josie had arrived, a look that seemed to say ‘beware of caring too much'. He'd seen it all before, only much worse, but he hadn't had the heart to tell us.

Win and I walked back to the flat arm in arm and sat staring out over the forest until the tumult inside us had subsided. Our grief was too deep even for tears. Rodo buried his grief like the stoic he was. When we saw him later that day he was outwardly calm, but, like us, subdued and thoughtful. There was nothing to say. It was all over. In the morning, Madame Poussain came to the radio, her voice breaking as she told us, ‘She died in my arms. We buried her in the river, with flowers.'

It was only months later that we heard something indirectly that made sense of her rapid decline. Apparently she had been kept outside at nights by herself, and had spent the hours of darkness fretful and agitated, trying to get in the door. We knew that warm body contact had been essential for her wellbeing, and that the stress and trauma of this deprivation would have hastened her death. But recriminations would have been futile. We kept our thoughts to ourselves, aware that few people could have matched Rodo's heroic self-sacrifice in letting her sleep in his bed. I remembered what Jacques had told us – that gorillas sometimes died of grief when separated from their
long-term carers. It seemed the odds had been against Josie from the start.

Weeks went by before I could banish the endless cycle of these thoughts churning in my mind. Josie had become part of our lives – nothing could take that away. I was determined that somehow, sometime, I would do something to make her life and death count.

I threw myself into work. The whole project was gathering such pace that all of us struggled to keep up with the daily demands. I shuttled between the guesthouse, the warehouse, the
cas de passage
and the
économat
delivering supplies and keeping track of stocks. In between, I dropped in wherever Win was working, in case he needed me to interpret or translate. But he rarely did: his French had progressed quickly. He knew no formal grammar, but his men had taught him the vocabulary he needed for building. One word at a time, he learned the names of tools, types of timber and building tasks. As construction was underway at several sites, he drove between them in the Kombi.

A special friendship had developed between Win and his head carpenter. Mehendje Bruno was quietly spoken, thoughtful and gifted. I often observed the instinctive rapport they had with each other – the language barrier barely mattered, as they seemed to know each other's thoughts.

The
combinée
had streamlined construction work dramatically. It could handle planing, spindle-moulding, and trimming rough timber to required thicknesses. The two smaller machines Win had ordered at the same time – a circular saw for breaking down the bulky 400 © 400 millimetre timber baulks from the sawmills, and a drop saw mounted on a bench for cutting sections of timber to required lengths – enabled the prefabrication of frames for all the new buildings.

Win thrived on the challenge of planning the entire building program, designing all the buildings, including the electrical, plumbing and septic systems, and supervising construction. Determined to avoid accidents, he trained the men in the safe use of the machines, and enjoyed the growing relationship with his team. It was the most demanding role of his life and called on all his skill and experience. And there was enough work to keep him going for a year, so when Doug offered us both a further six-month contract starting in the new year, we didn't think twice.

 

Our first issue of the
National Geographic
magazine arrived in November – the October 1975 issue. We had eagerly awaited its arrival, as we received no newspapers and had few books with us. I tore off the wrapping to find the image of Biruté Galdikas on the cover, walking in the forest of Borneo with a baby orangutan clinging to her left shoulder and an older juvenile on the ground, reaching up to take her hand. She was my age, and we even looked a bit alike, with long brown hair. She was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved sweater, just like I wore on the coldest days.

I sat down and read the entire article on the spot. Some photographs showed baby orangutans playing, like Josie had. Others showed Biruté in dugout canoes on remote tropical rivers. Galdikas had become the third of Louis Leakey's ‘ape ladies', dedicated to the study of great apes in the wild. Jane Goodall had been the first, and Dian Fossey had followed soon after. The
National Geographic
was helping to fund their research. I could barely tear myself away from the article. Biruté was forging a career working in an equatorial forest with great apes. If Josie had not come into our lives, the article would not have resonated with me so strongly. But as I stared long and hard at the photograph of this woman with the two young orangutans, I imagined the wonder and joy of working with great apes every day and earning a living at the same time. I saw it as a noble calling that required immense personal sacrifice, but that would be rewarding beyond anything else I could imagine.

I put the magazine aside and went about my daily tasks, but I couldn't put thoughts of it out of my mind. I had no academic background that would fit me for such a career and no idea of how I might go about pursuing it, but the seed had been planted. Could I aspire to working with gorillas, and combine my love and reverence for them with an academic career? It seemed like an impossible dream. I was a secretary and I was thirty years old. The chances seemed remote.

 

Eamon had an endless repertoire of stories. If he wrote them all down, I thought, he could publish a bestseller. Every chance I had, I encouraged him to tell them. They were always larger-than-life tales, and mostly revolved
around animals and the way the Gabonese relied on them for food.

One night the conversation turned to elephants, and Eamon remembered one of his stories. ‘I had a Pygmy come to my door one night. Pygmies are great elephant hunters, y'know. They don't even use a gun. They set a row of sharpened sticks on the track where they know the elephants go. Then when the elephant comes along and treads on the pointed sticks, it injures its foot and goes lame. After that, the Pygmies just come in underneath and stab it in the belly with their long-handled spears. Ever seen one? They're about six feet long, iron-headed, and boy oh boy, I wouldn't like to be in their way. Anyhow, this Pygmy came to my door one night. He knew we were having a little trouble feeding our workers, so he said, “
Patron
, I've just killed an elephant. Would you like to buy it?” So I said, “Well now, that depends. Do you have it with you?”' Eamon's eyes twinkled as he remembered. He always used humour when dealing with the local people. I'd seen it often, and they loved him for it. I tried to picture the scene – the tall laconic American and the tiny Pygmy – and how the Pygmy would have laughed till he almost cried.

‘Come on,' I urged. ‘Tell us another one about elephants.' I had always been drawn to elephants and I longed to see one in the forest, but they were elusive, and I doubted I would ever get my wish.

‘Well, I think you'll enjoy this one. I was camped out in the forest working with a group of local men and their families. One day we got word that this elephant had been killed down by the river. We were running a bit short of food at the time, so I thought it'd be a good idea to let them have it, so I organised a truck to take them down there.
You've no idea how these people love to eat elephant – you've never seen anything like it. While we were driving down there, they were all singing and calling out, everybody was so excited. When we got there, I just stood back and let them go. I've never seen such a sight. As soon as we stopped, they all leapt out and ran at the thing like it was the last meal they were ever going to get. Men and women alike, it didn't matter. Well, they attacked that thing as if they were mad. Everybody had their own machete and there were arms and legs and knives flying everywhere. When they got through the skin, they just swarmed inside the carcass and started chopping and hacking. They seemed to be in some kind of frenzy and I was sure someone was going to get killed. Anyhow, it all ended peacefully, and everybody got back in the truck with their meat and went home for a big feast. If it happens again, you'll see.'

I didn't say so, but people hacking at an elephant carcass with machetes was a sight I never wanted to witness. ‘Are there many about now?' I asked instead. I had often heard talk of the piles of elephant droppings out on the tracks.

‘Oh, they're about. Not a lot of them, but they're certainly around. I saw one the other day when we were cutting an access road to one of the drill sites, and I've often seen its tracks in that area.'

Jacques had told me that the elephants in Gabon were pygmy elephants. They had evolved to be much smaller than the elephants of the savannas so they could travel more easily through the forest. Their tusks had a pinkish tinge. I knew that they also moved through low-lying areas close to the river, as people at Mayebut had told Rodo their plantations near Camp Six had been ripped up and trampled.

Eamon strode into the guesthouse one afternoon and presented me with four wiry black hairs about five centimetres long.

‘There,' he said, ‘if you ever get close to an elephant, you'll be able to get these too!' His whimsical smile played around his mouth. ‘I didn't pluck them out myself, mind you. They were clinging to the bark of a tree where the elephant had been scratching itself.'

I ran my fingers along the fibrous strands and smelt them, trying to picture the elephant scratching. ‘They're beautiful,' I said. ‘I'll treasure them. Thank you.' I carried them carefully back to the flat and stuck them into my diary.

Though elephants remained elusive, we never knew from one moment to the next what wildlife we would see, what rare animal might be brought in, dead or alive. With the return of the wet season, game animals had moved back to the forest around camp, promising more fresh meat for the workers and their families. The men spent much of their spare time out hunting and trapping. They often shot duiker – the small antelopes that were plentiful – and the monkeys that provided easy pickings as they moved along open branches.

One day, Étienne pulled up at the guesthouse on his bicycle, with bloodstains all down his shirt and a smile that split his face. I'd never seen him look so proud. I raced outside to see what he'd taken.

He had a carcass trussed up on the carrier, and I watched as he untied it and laid it out on the ground. It had the head of a leopard and a sleek feline body, and was large enough to bring down a small antelope. I'd never seen an animal like this before. It was smaller than a leopard but
bigger than a civet, and its coat was a dusky cream with muted spots.

‘
Lui, il est trop méchant!
' he told me – it was vicious and dangerous.

‘
C'est quoi, Étienne?
'

‘
C'est un chat-tigre, madame!
' A tiger cat. He'd caught it in a wire snare
–
the wound showed clearly on its right front leg. I thought how beautiful it was, and how sad that it had become prey because, according to Étienne, tiger cats were quite rare. But I pretended to be enthusiastic so as not to spoil Étienne's moment of triumph. For him, it was a prestigious kill, and would provide abundant meat for his large family.

‘I want to take your photo with it,' I said. He looked embarrassed, but called Bernard from the kitchen to help him hold it up.

‘Thank you for showing me,' I said, as I snapped the picture. I realised he had brought it up to show us because he knew we would be interested. He strapped the carcass back on the bicycle and rode down to the village with his rifle slung across his back.

When I consulted our wildlife atlas, I found no mention of tiger cats in the equatorial forests of Africa. The atlas depicted a much smaller animal, the African golden cat, but its body shape and size were quite different from that of the animal we had seen. Positive identification of Étienne's tiger cat would remain a mystery that I hoped one day to solve (though I never have).

 

November also brought our first experience of a traditional Gabonese celebration.

‘We've been invited to a coming-out-of-mourning party down at Mayebut tonight,' Rodo announced one day. ‘Moagno Bernard's son is giving it. When someone dies, there's a mourning period of three to twelve months. After that, they hold a party.' Moagno Bernard was one of Rodo's workers.

‘Terrific!' I said. ‘That sounds like fun.'

Win, Rodo and I left after dinner, armed with folding chairs, pullovers, torches, cameras and insect repellent. It was the first time in months we had driven in the forest at night. Clumps of black cloud scudded across a bright moon, driven before a strong wind. A storm was gathering in the distance: rolls of thunder ricocheted over the forest, and the wind tossed the leaves by the roadside.

Win drove slowly, alert for any wildlife ahead. In the glare of the headlights, pairs of large red eyes stared at us from the undergrowth, but their bodies were invisible.

‘They're probably bushbabies,' Win said. When we stopped level with them and shone the torch, they panicked and scrambled up the nearest tree trunk to the safety of the canopy. Bushbabies were small, brown, furry tree-climbers with huge forward-facing eyes. They were classified as archaic prosimians, an ancient life form which preceded the evolution of monkeys.

A few kilometres from Mayebut, another pair of eyes appeared in the tall grass by the road, hanging in the darkness like two amber orbs. As Win braked hard, a large sleek leopard moved into view and stopped just metres away. In all probability it had smelt us through the open window. It stood quite still, sniffing the air. Unlike the one that had visited our annexe, this leopard was in prime condition, its powerful, muscular body lithe and relaxed.
It remained still for less than a minute, then ambled across the road, paused to look back at us, moved into the thick vegetation and disappeared.

This was what I loved most about being in the forest – you never knew what you would see each time you went out. But I wondered about the implications of the leopard's presence for the people of Mayebut. In the forest, human settlements always attracted animals in search of food – elephants trampled vegetable gardens, gorillas raided banana plantations, leopards hunted for meat. Humans and animals competed for survival.

At Mayebut, the huts loomed as dark shapes in the clearing, faintly outlined in the moonlight. The giant triangular leaves of taro plants growing beside the huts shone like silver. A dog barked petulantly in the background, and the muffled sound of voices issued from one of the huts. Nearby, a group of old men sat huddled around a dingy hurricane lamp on the ground, their grave faces outlined in its glow.

There was no sign of a party. We climbed out and picked our way over ditches and around mud puddles until we found Moagno Bernard.

‘What's happening, Moagno?' Rodo asked. ‘Has the party been postponed?'

‘
Non, patron
. We're waiting for the women to return with the tom-toms.'

Half an hour later, the first group of women emerged from the forest, carrying a metre-high wooden drum slung between them. It had been carved from a tree trunk into a tapered shape; antelope skin covered the top and trailed raggedly around the edge. A series of timber wedges, held in place with liana, allowed the drummer to adjust the tension.