Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
A day later, on a hot morning, the sun boiling moisture from the ground, we packed our bags in
preparation for the five-hour drive to Befori. From there we would take the pirogues that, after six
days and nights, would return us to Mbandaka. We would first follow the Maringa River to where
it joined with the Lopori, and became the Lulonga, rivers in the DRC often changing names at each
confluence. The Lulonga would then carry us to the Congo River, a little more than 40 miles up-
stream of Mbandaka.
When we were almost ready, a group of trackers gathered in the doorway. They usually didn't
arrive in the camp until after dark, when they'd watched the bonobos go to sleep and recorded the
GPS coordinates. Their faces were grim, and after speaking to them, Sally told us that the eight-
year-old daughter of Mbangi Lofoso, the young tracker who'd come to us on the day of our arrival
in the camp, had just died.
They were holding a wake, a
matanga
, down the road, and we walked with the trackers to pay
our respects. Thunder again boomed in the distance. Scattered dark clouds moved above us, wind
blowing through the dense foliage at our sides.
Michael told me that even though Sally paid to have Mbangi's daughter taken in the car to the
clinic, the family delayed and continued with traditional healers. When they finally saw the doctor,
it was too late. According to tradition, Michael explained, the mother's family would come to in-
spect the situation, to determine if the girl's death was the result of witchcraft.
We reached a small village of half a dozen buildings. A group of women stood in the weeds
near the road. They had finished bathing the girl and were dressing her. One of the men there asked
if we had a camera. Only I did, having carried it in my backpack with my notepad.
“Will you please take some pictures of her for us?” he said.
Michael held my bag as I carried the camera into the group.
She looked fragile, thin after over a month without eating. The women had powdered her face
and put a new camouflage T-shirt on her, then wrapped her in patterned blue and gold cloth. The
father, Mbangi, the young tracker with the scar on the side of his throat, stood close. Thunder res-
onated over the forest as my camera clicked.
The woman who picked up the girl wore a pink blouse. She crouched, supporting her on her
knees, one hand on the back of her small head, the other holding her mouth closed. The woman's
fingers were dark against the girl's skin. I didn't know what I was looking for, what type of image,
how they would want to remember her. A few raindrops fell as the woman cradling her cried, and
dark spots appeared in the white powder on the girl's face. Her hand kept drawing my attention. She
hadn't been able to open it for a month, her fists cramped shut, though now the fingers were loosely
curled in her lap, almost peaceful. The camera clicked, and Michael touched my arm.
“I think that's okay,” he told me softly.
The woman wrapped the girl and hugged her to her chest, then stood and carried her into the
family's house. We ducked through the low door. The inside was dark, filled with dozens of people
singing and hammering on drums. The only word I recognized was
hallelujah
. The girl lay on a
sheet of woven caning, on a bamboo pallet. We stood in the humid, suffocating dark until the song
had finished and people had spoken. When we left, others were arriving. Two young women came
running, screaming and weeping as they crossed the village, arms lifted, and almost threw them-
selves through the dark door of the pulsing house.
