Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
As men and women who had been involved with BCI over the years shook my hand and intro-
duced themselves, others loaded our bags into a Toyota Land Cruiser more battered than
les esprits
des morts
in Kinshasa. BCI bought it from a dealer in Dubai in 2006, secondhand but in perfect con-
dition, and had it shipped to Kinshasa, then upriver. As part of BCI's resource-sharing agreement
with the people of the reserve, it had served for many community-development projects as well as
tree planting. But a driver flipped it over an incline, and that, as well as constant use hauling people
and goods, had left it dilapidated, the bumpers collapsing, the panels loose. BCI's other vehicle was
stranded in Kokolopori, a Land Rover with a broken axle.
Michael climbed into the passenger seat with BCI's new photographic equipment. He would be
documenting their work for the purpose of fund-raising. Sally and I each got on the backs of the
two motorcycles driven by BCI staff.
The road through the forest was as narrow as a footpath, so sandy that my driver briefly lost
control and had to slide to a stop. I expected the land to be largely flat, but it rose and fell, and fol-
lowing the path was like going through the hallways of an old mansion, one moment closed in and
the next entering a large room. This was how I felt when the forest opened suddenly into a village, a
dozen houses of mud daubed on woven branches, children in underwear running out to wave. Then
the forest closed in again, the path winding between hillocks and declines, before we entered anoth-
er room: this time a clearing around a stream.
The bridge consisted of seven narrow fifteen-foot logs laid side by side, the gaps between them
wide enough to break a leg. Sally and I dismounted, and our drivers picked the flattest, straightest
log and drove across. Then the Land Cruiser arrived. Everyone got out but the driver.
A young man walked across the bridge and turned. He lifted his arms, his index fingers raised,
and with tiny movements of his fingers, he directed the driver. The Land Cruiser inched forward,
front wheels on two of the logs. He kept motioning, a little to the left, but halfway across, it began
to go too far, only an inch of its right front wheel still on the log, the rest over the water. The young
man urged it back. The driver corrected, and as soon as the front tires touched the dirt, he fired the
engine and raced onto the path, the wheels crushing the grass alongside it.
Ten minutes later, we came to a similar bridge and went through the same process, but the third
one was longer, at least thirty feet, with planks laid across its logs. The Land Cruiser inched for-
ward, the wood groaning beneath it. The young man directed with his fingers as the bridge swayed
and creaked. Nearby, a fisherman sat in a narrow boat carved from a small tree trunk. Beneath high
reeds that were reflected around him, he floated, watching without expression.
After climbing a rise from which the rainforest spread out, immense treetops rolling on to the
horizon, we arrived in Djolu. To my eye, the only thing that distinguished it as a town was the ab-
sence of dense forest. With a population of ten thousand, it was without running water, electricity, or
phones. At first glance, it resembled an agglomeration of small farms, the mud houses set far apart,
separated by trees and gardens, colorful clothing and blankets drying on thatch roofs. Ducks, chick-
ens, goats, and pigs wandered about. The occasional concrete building with a corrugated roof and
crumbling, water-stained walls stood out, each belonging to a different regional leader and likely
dating back fifty years or more to Belgian colonial rule. Wending everywhere, between trees and
hedges, behind houses, were numerous sandy paths like arroyos. The beaten dirt roads were often
sunk well below the surface of the land, the clay sculpted by running water. When the rainy season
came, the town must have as many waterways as Venice.
