Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
From time to time, the path opened into a sundrenched village, a dusty yellow clearing
smoothed from decades of feet. Jean-Pierre stomped the accelerator so that we soared past flapping
chickens, ducks, goats, dogs, and pigs, past dozens of children who ran out shouting, in underwear
or torn shirts. Everyone waved, families in doorways, men seated in the shade of their eaves, be-
neath the open-sided village
paillotes
, or beneath the patch of roof protecting the talking drum, a
five- or six-foot section of thick, hollowed log with slits cut into it, which people strike rhythmic-
ally to send messages across long distances. Then we plunged back onto the forest path, branches
lashing the Land Cruiser, the young men on the rear bumper ducking.
Two hours into our journey, we passed the fork in the road to Kisangani, the nearest major city
and a regional crossroads where the Lingala- and Swahili-speaking parts of the DRC meet—only a
ten- or twelve-day walk from here, Jean-Pierre told me. Michael explained to me that I should know
the expression
kaka awa
, “just here,” how the Bongandu, the people of the local Congolese ethnic
group, answer all questions regarding time and distance. They delivered the words with the same
assurance with which a parent driving a car says “almost there” to a child. To demonstrate this, he
switched to French and asked Jean-Pierre how much farther we had to go, to which Jean-Pierre re-
sponded without hesitation, “
Kaka awa
.”
Three hours and two
kaka awa
later, he finally announced that we had crossed the boundary into
the reserve. The forest was denser, its trees huge, crowding the path, which was even narrower and
more degraded. The rainwater gullies were so large that Jean-Pierre opted to take us through them
instead of on the remaining road, a narrow ledge several feet higher.
When we pulled into Yetee, the village where BCI kept one of its main camps in the Kokolopori
Reserve, children and adults surrounded the vehicle. The camp was near the village, against the
forest. Men were striking sticks together, singing as we got out. Michael began dancing with them,
and they hooted in appreciation.
Someone took my arm and told me in French that it was impolite not to dance, so I joined the
mass of people. They all had their knees bent, their butts stuck out, bobbing and swaying, shuffling
side to side as they sang. Sally and Michael's names were distinct among the words.
The two motorcycles arrived with the rest of the BCI and Vie Sauvage personnel. The singing
grew stronger as people began shouting, “Mama Sally!” They swarmed her, and she danced with
them as our supplies were unloaded by dozens of hands and swept into a mud hut.
I didn't manage to retain all the names, as the reserve's staff were introduced in rapid succes-
sion, alongside those I had already met: local conservationists and BCI employees. After the singing
had gone on for half an hour, we retreated inside to inspect our mud hut, which was built on a slope,
tables and chairs tilted. There were four bedrooms, two on each end, and a center dining room with
wooden chairs. The temperature inside was distinctly cooler, the earthen walls moist. Beyond the
windows, the sunlight appeared white, erasing everything but the steady chanting.
We began unpacking as men with machetes gathered outside and cut up bamboo and tree
branches, crossing the pieces and tying the edges with vine to make shelves and tables for us. By
the time the sun's disk neared the forest, they had furnished the house. BCI and Vie Sauvage had
several camps in different villages throughout the reserve and tried to alternate where they worked,
so as not to create jealousy or rivalry. The simple presence of conservationists meant that scores of
local people were hired to repair camp houses, as the mud crumbled a little with each wet season.
Already points of light had appeared in the relatively new palm thatch, insects rustling inside the
leaves, lizards hunting them, occasionally bringing down showers of dust.
