[Click on the pictures to see larger versions with captions.]
Today, I went up to the forest to do a routine health check on the Cantsbee group of gorillas. I hadn't seen this big family in many weeks and was looking forward to the visit. With 30 or so animals to observe, I'd come prepared to take my time with the trackers, see each gorilla and maybe even work on my nose print recognition. It didn't quite turn out that way.
Cantsbee, the No. 1 silverback, and his family have a colorful recent history. This group is actually a subset of the 60-plus member Pablo group. When I first arrived in Rwanda, everyone predicted something had to change: Pablo had far too many gorillas. They were right.
Last fall, a respiratory outbreak hit Pablo group. Several animals became very ill, an infant died and another newborn was killed by Cantsbee (probably not his). For unknown reasons, the group moved west into the Democratic Republic of Congo, where they encountered poachers.
The poacher scare splintered the family for several days. Three infants were separated from their mothers and two of them died before the group reunited. Then there were fights among several lone silverbacks and two young silverbacks left the group. A few months later, the No. 2 silverback disappeared and was later found dying of pneumonia. (We couldn't save him.)
The big family, reduced by seven, moved into the far corner of its range on Visoke Mountain at very high altitude and in steep terrain. It seemed that Pablo himself, an older silverback and no longer No. 1 chose to separate from the main group. He began to lag behind with "his" half-dozen females and their infants — or rather, they stayed with him.
Then several other adult females left to join a lone silverback, Bwenge, who now leads a group of nine. It's interesting that the Pablo group females who left for Bwenge were all mothers who'd lost their infants last fall; maybe they no longer felt safe.
Cantsbee held his own, but although he continued to lead the bulk of the group, he seemed nervous without the protection of multiple silverbacks.
Pablo group is one of three under study by the staff of the Karisoke Research Center, the legacy of Dian Fossey. Though the gorillas belong to Rwanda and remain the responsibility of the government and the Office Rwandais Du Tourisme Et Des Parcs Nationaux (ORTPN), the Karisoke trackers and scientists do the day-to-day tracking and monitoring. Typically, they observe the research groups for four or five days a week, staying with them for several hours at a time.
When the Pablo group dispersed in dangerous and distant terrain, even the scientists stopped their visits. The Karisoke trackers were with the gorillas on most days, however, so their location and overall health status was being monitored as usual. But until access to the scattered members of the group improved, we'd put our regular vet checks on hold, visiting only when there was a reported problem. The last time I'd been in Pablo group, weeks ago, it was to treat another dying animal — an old female named Puck — who had cancer.
Today's trek up to the section of the park boundary nearest the group's location was a difficult one — and high, up to 10,500 feet. Thankfully, the Karisoke team moderated their pace on my behalf. Once we reached the stone boundary wall, the soldiers, porter and all but one tracker stayed outside. Obviously the gorillas were close. A military escort is standard any time we enter the park, but the soldiers must maintain at least a 400-foot distance from the gorillas.
Sure enough, instead of having to hike for several hours into the forest, we nearly ran into the advance tracking team and the gorillas. Great — it was still early and the weather looked good. The Karisoke staff normally spends several hours collecting routine behavioral data; I'd be able to stay with them — and the gorillas — the entire time.
Francois, one of the trackers, greeted me and we began the health check. A few gorillas walked casually by us. We followed for a few steps and then stopped to let several others pass. Francois named each one as they emerged from the dense vegetation: Mafunzo, Dushishoze and Irakoze. Umuco and her infant appeared next. Her baby had grown since I'd last seen it. Afrika followed her. They clearly had a destination in mind. We continued on their trail.
Suddenly, I realized we were about to step up and over the stone wall and back out of the park. The gorillas were filing along, one by one, into the adjacent field. Some were eating thistles on the other side of the wall, others were walking along the top of the wall, and several had already sprinted into an open grassy area. I'd heard of this happening and seen pictures, but this was the first time I'd seen it. My jaw half-open, I followed Francois. We climbed up over the wall and walked quickly into the field with the gorillas.
Scurrying to keep up — and take pictures — I stayed with Francois. We soon reached the side of a ridge covered by a thicket of small eucalyptus trees. The gorillas were stripping the bark and eating the pulp, just as the other Francois (the ORTPN guide) had shown me a few weeks ago. A sweet mint smell filled the air. The stripping of the bark sounded like cardboard being ripped apart.
We moved again. While some of the group remained in the thicket of trees, others bounded back across the field close to the wall. In the span of 15 minutes, I'd seen the entire group except for two females and Cantsbee himself, though we could hear him eating on the other side of the wall. The group as a whole seemed remarkably calm. The infants played and pounced all around us.
To my mind, these special animals seemed frightfully exposed. Thank goodness there were no cows, goats, farmers or schoolchildren nearby. What if we'd been called on to intervene in some way? I couldn't — still can't — get the contrasting images out of my mind: mountain gorillas playing in a field soon to be planted with pyrethrum or potatoes.
I asked Francois how often this happens. About a dozen times a year, he said, usually during the rainy season. I wondered if the gorillas purposefully picked a place to leave the park where there were no domestic animals or people.
As I stood among the gorillas outside the park, trying to digest the scene around me, a call came over the radio. I heard the words "vétérinaire" and "Shinda." A few minutes later, several trackers appeared to lead me to a different group about a two-hour hike away where there was a sick silverback and a baby with diarrhea. Ah, well — at least I'd done the health check, even if I hadn't made much progress toward learning my Cantsbee group nose prints. Another day, perhaps.
[Rwanda, June 14, 2007. Pictures: Lucy Spelman/MGVP]
Comments