Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
We'd been in Kokolopori for more than two weeks, the days mostly hot. Sally, Michael, and the
BCI team worked with Vie Sauvage, frequently meeting in the
paillote
to go over reports, expendit-
ures, and the details of projects involving reforestation and maintaining habituation.
Every few days, a different group of twenty or thirty women arrived in the camp from another
village on the reserve. They entered singing, clapping, and stomping, and formed a circle in front of
our hut, the words “Mama Sally” clear in their song. They'd known her for years, from her previous
trips, and they came bearing gifts of chickens, eggs, and vegetables. One group even showed her a
newborn girl named Sally.
Other conservationists visited as well, and Roger Afelende, a tall, thin, baby-faced man in his
early thirties, turned up one afternoon on a motorcycle. Michael told me he'd created his own
community-protected area where he lived in Nkokolombo, tracking a bonobo group in forests that
could be reached after a motorcycle ride sixty minutes south of Djolu, followed by an eight-hour
walk west. Roger told me that his trackers had seen an albino bonobo who spent more time on the
ground than the others, and made her nests in small trees rather than in the canopy.
I'd often heard stories of the community-based conservation projects locals had launched after
being inspired by Albert and BCI's work. Roger's was the most recent, and the albino made the idea
of visiting the site appealing. I discussed it with Michael; he wanted to go but had too much work.
After a few days of planning, I was ready to head back to Djolu, but Roger told me I couldn't
ride with him. He was hesitant to explain why, so Jean Gaston Ndombasi, another homegrown con-
servationist, explained that this excursion to Yetee had been Roger's first time using a motorcycle.
Jean Gaston told me to climb on with him. He was small and thin, in his late forties, his light
brown skin tight over the prominent bones of his skull, his eyes slightly jaundiced. He couldn't have
weighed more than 140 pounds, and I was nearly 190. I told him this was a bad idea.
“
Ce n'est pas vrai
,” he said. “It's not true. I can take you. It's not a problem.”
I hesitated, but he waved for me to get on. As soon as I did, he cranked the accelerator and
we weaved around a deep rainwater gully before careering down the hill toward the log bridge. He
braked, aimed for one of the logs, and shot across, then up the road, gaining speed. I glanced back
to where Roger was only just setting out, riding slowly. He soon disappeared from sight.
The sun dominated the sky, the shadow of a distant thunderhead on the horizon. It was two in
the afternoon, and the yellow trail was at times a tunnel of shadow beneath the canopy, at others in
sunlight so hot it felt like a hand pressing against my forehead. I wished for a helmet, or that we
were going slow enough for me to wear a hat.
Before a flat stretch of clay, Jean Gaston accelerated, and the wind brought tears to my eyes. On
either side were immense clumps of silvery-green bamboo that burst skyward. As he gained speed,
the tires made a skittering sound on the leaves covering the baked earth. Ahead, the trail turned to
golden sand, and he crouched like a jockey. Rather than slow as I expected, he sped up.
