Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
about to deliver. He realized he left his coffee mug on his desk and, still talking, reached back for it
even as he seemed to be moving forward.
Sally was fifty-one, eight years younger than Michael, with sandy hair and large green eyes
that gave an impression of someone who loved observing the world. Like Michael, she got lost in
her train of thought, and over the next few days I would see her checking budgets, writing grant
applications, and contacting donors while fielding calls from Mbandaka to prepare the boats that
would take supplies on the ten-day trip to the reserve, then following up with staff to make sure
those supplies were ready: hand pumps and ultraviolet SteriPENs for drinking water; medicine for
the reserve's clinic and for BCI's staff in case anyone got malaria; headlamps, machetes, and new
rain ponchos for trackers and eco-guards; batteries for everything and everyone. The list went on.
Another concern was transporting fuel to the reserve. Because of its high price in the DRC, the
fuel for the outboard motors and for a month in the reserve, where it would be needed to power
generators, motocycles, as well as a Land Cruiser and a Land Rover, could cost $10,000. This was
still cheaper than paying to take all cargo and passengers by bush plane, or buying fuel there, where
it was marked up three times. The boats could bring more supplies and more people, but the time
the trip would take depended on the water level. We were at the end of the dry season, when the
boats often got caught on sandbars and had to stop at night.
As Sally spoke, I could barely keep up with all of the details. Skype beeped constantly on her
computer, receiving messages from BCI's office in Washington, DC.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just have to send a report. I'll be right back.”
Both Sally and Michael worked the nine-to-five shift in two time zones, until the US office
closed at 10:00 p.m. West Central Africa time, and when I said goodnight, they hurried back to their
computers in different rooms, still calling out to each other. They had been a couple for ten years,
BCI in its early stages when they met. Its current incarnation was in many ways the fruit of their
relationship.
That evening, I stayed at the home of BCI's national director in the DRC, Evelyn Samu, a
statuesque woman with a still, appraising gaze and a sudden, at times wary smile. She'd been in
conservation for over fifteen years and lived with her younger brothers, her granddaughter, and her
niece. Her father had been a successful businessman under Mobutu and built the sprawling home
off Matadi Road. Its pipes were a less reliable source of water than the swimming pool where in-
sects skimmed the surface, so the maids filled blue plastic buckets and carried them on their heads
to the tiled bathrooms. When the power failed, they switched to another network, from a different
hydroelectric plant, and when both grids went down, they waited until nightfall to start the generat-
or. Well-kept gardens surrounded the grounds, and the terrace by the kitchen offered a view of the
western horizon, its rolling blue hills speckled with buildings, the setting sun spectacular over the
savannah.
The night was pleasantly warm. Normally, in the DRC, the dry season south of the equator lasts
from April to October, the opposite of the seasons to the north of it. There is little variation in tem-
perature, with a yearly average high of 86 degrees Fahrenheit and an average low of 70. Kinshasa
usually has a particularly short dry season, from June through August, but there had been almost
no rain that February, and the dust and the lingering, acrid smell of smoke from trash fires had the
Congolese wondering when it would rain.
The next morning, before departing for the BCI offices with Evelyn, I waited at the front gate
of her home as she prayed near a wall-size shrine to the Virgin Mary. Michael had told me how
