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from inner tubes. He drove poorly, braking in the sand unlike Jean Gaston, so that several times we
nearly wiped out.
Our first stop was in a small village not far from the landing strip. We pulled up to the hut of the
chef du groupement
, a female chief, which was rare—her father having had no sons. She walked
out in a skirt and white bra, trying to get her blouse on but putting it on inside out, then pulling it off
before getting it right. Without a word, she grabbed the Nalgene water bottle from my hand, sniffed
its edge, and, clearly disappointed, shoved it back into my hand.
She and Roger spoke quickly in Longando.
“What does she want?” I asked him in French.
“She was hoping that you had brought
lotoko
for her.”
And then everyone just stood, the
chef du groupement
staring off, scowling, a tight gray head-
wrap on her skull. Her sons and the other village men approached, one after another, to shake my
hand, smile, and nod. Then, as if having received a signal I'd missed, Roger got back on the motor-
cycle, and I joined him. The sand was so deep that the rear tire spun as we pushed forward with our
feet, carving a long, winding line until we were back on the path.
“Do we have to stop at many more places like this?” I asked.
He hesitated before shaking his head slightly. “
Non
.” A moment later, he called over his
shoulder, “You want to go fast?”
“We've already lost a day, and we don't have much time.”
I was concerned about formalities, that the novelty of my visit would oblige us to stop often.
If the hike to his site was as arduous as everyone said, we'd have to hurry so we could get back in
time to meet BCI on their next trip to Djolu.
Until now, in Kokolopori and Djolu, Roger had come across as subservient, nodding and cur-
rying favor with more established conservationists, always at the edge, quick to help with bags and
hardly speaking. But I was soon to receive a lesson in local hierarchy.
The sun had set as we neared his village, the trees cut away on either side of the path, the air
blue in the shadow of the broken forest. He blared his horn and kept his thumb on it until he reached
his house, then rode twice in a circle in front of it and stopped. He dismounted as women, children,
and a few men hurried out. They began singing and clapping their hands.
Roger, who until now had communicated in a near whisper, spoke in a booming baritone, and
the people fell silent. His jaw suddenly appeared long, thrust forward. He motioned to the mem-
bers of his family one by one, introducing his father, his brothers, his older sister. He took me to
see the unfinished mud-brick lodge where ecotourists would sleep someday. The name of his future
reserve, Nkokolombo, was painted on a metal sheet, and he commanded me to take photos, though
the absolute equatorial night was almost upon us, and the camera's flash blotted out the details.
He asked me to sit in a small room in his house, on a chair, then left. In the light of a single lamp,
the room filled up around me, neighbors arriving, and nearly two dozen boys crowded in, standing
and crouching. Two doorways led outside, in the front and in the back, and the people filled them.
They pushed open the wooden shutters and stared in the windows. Small children squeezed and
peeked between legs. Adults stood on tiptoe to see past each other. At least forty sets of eyes studied
me. I tried to start conversations with the young men, but they were too shy. They stared as I waited
for the better part of an hour. I could only imagine how exotic I must be, strange enough that they
could gaze evenly, studying my face and my hair.
