Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
The tires plowed in and the motorcycle fishtailed, wobbling and swimming to the side of the
path. Three women carrying woven baskets with straps across their foreheads jumped into the
forest. Our tires bumped the shoulder, and we swerved to the other side. My heart pounded as I tried
to let my weight sink, to stabilize the bike. Jean Gaston repeatedly pulled us out of a fishtail.
As soon as we were beyond the sand, he shouted back, “You're a good passenger. You don't
make me fall.” Then he cranked the accelerator again.
There had been many people in the camp at Yetee, and I didn't know Jean Gaston, only that
he was the environmental inspector for Province Orientale and had been developing a conservation
area in Likongo, a five-hour drive to the south of Kokolopori, whereas Djolu was to the west. But
now, as we passed eight young men stumbling along the side of the path, he called over his shoulder
that he was a pastor.
“You see,” he told me, “these men, they have finished work, but they do not spend their money
on food. Instead they buy
lotoko
. I do not drink or smoke. It is not the will of God. Some of us must
set examples for the others if we hope for our country to survive.”
I agreed, but my thoughts were on my survival as he cut wide S's, avoiding potholes, and
splashed through sandpits as deep as those on a golf course. Each time he lost control, he crouched,
hardly reacted, and when the bike drifted to the side, where there was now a ten-foot drop to dark,
descending forest and massive tree trunks, he waited until the fishtail was almost at an end, then
popped the bike onto the narrow crust of shoulder, inches from the edge, accelerating again.
He called something over his shoulder.
“
Pardon?
” I asked.
“
J'ai dit
—I said, if we believe in God, we will not have an accident.”
I hoped that he had enough faith for the two of us, and it seemed he did as we repeatedly sla-
lomed through sand. I'd often traveled by motorcycle, alone or with friends, or on motorcycle taxis
in other countries, and I'd never seen anyone drive through sand this way. I would have preferred
that he stay focused, but he called explanations over his shoulder, telling me that four young half-
naked men with large woven baskets on their backs, singing, were walking the two-week trek to
Kisangani's market. He said the same of young men herding pigs or goats. He raced past others,
boys with bamboo over their shoulders, one with his rusted bicycle loaded with long wooden poles
cut from the forest, tied to the central beam with vines.
Then Jean Gaston talked about his conservation area, and all the sacrifices he had made to edu-
cate locals and train trackers, to build a lodge for the visitors who had yet to come. He worked in
Kisangani and used his money for conservation, inspired by Kokolopori. God made man the curator
of the earth, he explained, and it can be Eden if we so choose. Otherwise we will destroy it all and
our punishment will be that we'll have nothing for our survival.
The clouds I'd seen earlier had become a massive front, black along its bottom, blue striations
of rain below. At the top, a darker, bruised blue reached high into the atmosphere, blurred all along
the distance, like windswept strands of hair. The dry season hadn't ended here, and there had been
just one night of rain, before we'd gone to see the bonobos. Since then it had been dry and hot, and
everyone had been speculating as to when the rain would finally arrive.
We passed through a sodden village, the soaked sand firm, the palms dripping, and Jean Gaston
paused from describing the vast forest through which his people tracked bonobos to tell me that
God was protecting us from the rain. I pointed to the oncoming front. Wind blew hard, and he wiped
his eyes, freeing them of grit. But he told me that God would not let the rain touch us.
