Wild Spirit (21 page)

We were the same height, his face level with mine, just inches away. As he took my measure, I moved one hand up and rubbed the domed top of his head, made small noises of reassurance, and stroked the sides of his face as I looked into his eyes. He moved closer, nestled his face against my cheek, and extended one arm around my shoulders. His delicate touch belied the enormous power in his hands. As he honoured me with this extended greeting, I continued stroking his back and head. All this time, he made no sound. My mind raced. This gentle animal trusted me completely – how could it be?

As I looked into Ikata's serene face, a fine intelligence looked back, and in those few moments, the boundary between our species dissolved. We communicated, across millions of years of evolution, what was common to us both. Beyond speech, I stood motionless, transfixed. I'd had to live thirty years and come to this African wilderness to discover my vocation.

Eventually, Ikata transferred his attention to the others, and we all moved up the track to a clearing which served as the feeding station. There, the second gorilla, a female named Pascaline, sat quietly on her own. The
pinnassier
had brought a bunch of bananas up and placed it on the ground near her. She took no notice, and focused instead on the sight of Win's and Rodo's bare arms and legs.

Ikata calmly sat on the ground, his belly collapsing into rolls, his legs loosely crossed and his arms folded across his chest. I sat opposite him, cross-legged on the ground with the bunch of bananas between us. Glints of sunlight filtered through the canopy and patterned the leaf litter on the forest floor with patches of gold. I was immersed in his world, conscious of no-one but Ikata and myself. At eight years old, he was sub-adolescent. For the moment, Hugo had said, he was still playful. He loved nothing better than being jostled in a bout of mock wrestling. He would not be sexually mature for another three years.

He reached out and picked a single banana from the bunch, peeled it and took each mouthful fastidiously, smearing no fruit on his face or chest. He ate just two before turning his attention back to me, reaching out and lightly touching my arms and legs. When he noticed the gap between my socks and trousers, he reached out, lifted up the edge of one trouser leg with his thumb and forefinger, and bent over to look inside. I sat quite still as he explored the texture of my skin with his leathery fingers.

Then I moved in and faced him at close range. This must have been the signal that I had presented myself for social grooming: he reached across and pulled gently at the strands of my long hair tied back in a ponytail. Bit by bit, he teased it out of the elastic band until all the hair fell loosely over my face, then ran the strands gently through his fingers, focusing intently on the texture of the hair, and fossicking on my scalp. I could scarcely believe my feeling of connectedness with him, but I was conscious that one inadvertent move on Ikata's part and he could scalp me.

I slowly eased the clumps of hair out of his grasp, careful not to alarm him, and tied them back out of reach. The
grooming session was over. He sat back, resumed his Buddha position, and stared impassively into space.

Hugo's voice reached me as if from far off. ‘It's time to go.' I stood slowly and took a last look at Ikata sitting placidly in the sunlight. I wasn't ready to leave. For me, this had been a day like no other. I wanted to laugh, cry and shout out that I had finally decided what I wanted to do with my life. Like Biruté Galdikas, I would study to be an anthropologist and, if things worked out, I would work with great apes, as she, Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey were doing. I kept the decision to myself, but 13 March 1976 would resonate through my life for all time – the day I looked into Ikata's eyes and glimpsed eternity.

We made our way slowly back to the river, Bouéni and the other chimp following us down to the pirogue, still seeking attention. I stroked them and talked to them. It was too soon to leave – I wanted to spend hours with them – but Hugo was waiting. As we pulled away from the bank, I hoped that Ikata, Bouéni and the others would survive to breed. They were being given every chance, but there were no guarantees.

That night, back at Louise's bungalow, I lay awake a long time with a jumble of images jostling in my mind – the island in the river, the dead porcupine, the hammer-headed fruit bats – and the feeling of Ikata grooming my hair. Overriding it all was the vision I had now embraced for my future.

 

On our last morning at the reserve, Hugo invited us to his house for drinks. We arrived to find him bottle-feeding twin two-month-old chimpanzees. He cradled one in the
crook of his arm and held a bottle of warm milk to its mouth, while the other managed its bottle by itself. They were fed every few hours, day and night. As I watched him nurture them, I saw the depth of his commitment to all the animals in his care. For him, it was not just a job – the animals' needs took precedence over everything. Like everyone on the station, his work was his passion.

When the twins had finished their bottles, Hugo carried them outside onto the lawn. Their soft pink faces and huge expressive eyes were never still as they took in their surroundings, romped together, cuddled each other and played with small toys. It was impossible not to feel kinship with these great apes. We are so like them; they are so like us. The longer I watched them, the more entranced I became. Sitting with these fragile and delicate infants, I thought about Josie and how dependent she had been on us. I had no doubts now about the course I had set for myself. Above all else, this was what I wanted to do.

Just before lunch we farewelled everyone, tried to convey our gratitude for their generosity, and left for the trip back. On the way into town, we told Louise about our campsite at the Djadié. We were determined to persuade her to take a break away from her punishing routine.

‘Drive up and meet us at the Djadié next weekend!' Rodo urged. ‘We can camp there overnight and swim in the river in the morning.' Louise looked across at us wearily and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. A smile played around her mouth, and she took a deep breath. ‘I'd like that,' she said quietly.

‘Wonderful!' Rodo beamed. ‘It's all settled then.' It was agreed that Rodo would drive down in the Toyota, we would follow in the Kombi, and Louise would meet us
there in a CNRS vehicle on the following Saturday afternoon.

 

The day of our rendezvous with Louise dawned wet and muddy – the first storm of the ‘long wet' had struck the day before. Camping at the Djadié in those conditions was not an appealing prospect, so we made an alternative plan. Rodo would drive down there, pick up Louise, and bring her back to camp for the weekend. They arrived back just on dusk and pulled up outside our door. She was in buoyant spirits and greeted us both with a hug.

The rain had held off all afternoon, but a storm was building as I showed her to her room.

‘Drinks in our flat in fifteen minutes!' Win called out. ‘And you'll be eating with us, Louise.' Rodo left to shower and change, and returned carrying ice-cold bottles of Regab beer and a packet of nuts.

‘I've just learned there's a dance on in the village tonight,' he said, ‘and we four are invited!'

‘What's the occasion?' I asked.

‘I think it's some kind of ceremony to cleanse Madame Elizabeth and Augustine's new house of bad spirits, and make it safe for them to live in.'

I turned to Louise to explain: ‘Augustine is the village head, and Madame Elizabeth is the most senior woman. According to Eamon, she's actually a witch.'

‘We'll need to take some beer with us,' Rodo said. ‘They'll want us to have a good time, and if they see drinks in our hands, they won't be concerned about their hospitality. They'd probably hesitate to offer us palm wine, and if we don't bring beer, they'll feel compelled to buy
some. I don't think we should put them in that position.' Rodo was close to the men and understood their customs.

We walked down to the village by torchlight just after nine o'clock. Louise had her portable tape recorder, as she wanted to capture some music and singing. The importance of the occasion became immediately evident. A palm-leaf pavilion had been erected beside the new house, with fires lit at the entrance, and people sat around the sides facing inwards with the drummers seated at the far end.

Chief Augustine and Madame Elizabeth were sitting at the entrance. They stood and greeted us, and Madame Elizabeth ushered us to a row of plastic chairs that had been arranged for us. She was an imposing figure, tall, solidly built, with a commanding presence. Her broad, high cheekbones framed alert eyes. Her skin was smooth, the colour of milk chocolate, and her mouth often widened into a broad smile, revealing more gaps than teeth. She wore a brightly patterned length of
pagne
wound around her, with an overblouse and a headscarf.

About forty people were gathered in the pavilion. While Madame Elizabeth circulated among the guests, chatting, Chief Augustine, a small thin figure, looked on passively. I thought – not for the first time – that his wife's powerful presence seemed to have eclipsed him long ago.

I took my seat beside a young woman with a baby on her back. ‘What's going to happen tonight?' I asked her.

‘Madame Elizabeth is going to dance!' she said proudly.

‘Just by herself, no-one else?'

‘
Oui.
'

‘Why isn't everyone going to dance?' I asked.

‘Because Madame Elizabeth dances the best,' she
replied. It didn't sound as though I would have a chance to repeat my attempt at Gabonese dancing that night.

While two men stoked the fires, the other musicians arrived – women with rattles and men with lengths of iron pipe and wooden sticks. They began warming up, and Madame Elizabeth broke into a slow shuffle in front of them, throwing out comments to the crowd.

Just then, rumbles of thunder sounded directly overhead, and flashes of lightning arced over the forest like strobe lights. In minutes, the storm had hit, and everyone fled the palm-leaf pavilion, scrambling for the shelter of the new hut. It was of the same construction as all the village houses – puddled mud over a sapling frame – with two rooms and a bare earth floor.

We all sat cross-legged on the ground, pressed closely together around the walls, facing inwards, where hurricane lamps had been set up and a fire lit. The acrid smell of sweat mingled with the fragrance of burning sap, and the fire threw dancing images onto the ochre-coloured walls. At one end of the room, the musicians set themselves up afresh, and Madame Elizabeth retired unobtrusively to the adjacent room.

Time stretched and warped as we waited for something to happen. Around us, a hubbub of voices rose above the crackle of the fire. Some people smoked the rank-smelling Gabonese cigarettes. Children sat and stared impassively and babies slept as the rain drummed on the corrugated-aluminium roof. The air inside the hut soon turned hot and fetid: Rodo opened his bag and handed each of us a bottle of cold Regab.

Our eyelids had begun to close when the door to the adjoining room opened to reveal a terrifying figure framed
in the doorway. A collective gasp escaped from everyone seated around the floor. The figure stepped into the room, acknowledging no-one. Its skin was covered in thick white paint, its features picked out in black, red and blue. On its head was a grotesque wig of animal skins, with spiralling wisps of straw projecting in all directions, giving its face a Medusa-like appearance. It was a woman wrapped from the chest down in a stark white sheet; at her waist, a girdle of leopard-skin strips supported a rustling overskirt of straw. Two men accompanied her, one on either side, dressed in flowing white robes and white skullcaps. When I recovered from the initial impact, I realised the woman was Madame Elizabeth.

The drummers began beating out a slow, ominous rhythm, and the three figures processed forward and started circling the fire. Madame Elizabeth's demeanour had changed utterly from earlier in the evening. I peered hard at her face as she passed by. It was as fixed as a mask, with no flicker of recognition of anyone, and her eyes seemed focused on some distant point.

At a shout from the crowd, the two men in white dropped into the background and the whole band crashed into life. Madame Elizabeth's body became instantly charged with a raw energy. She circled the fire, her gaze fixed on the flames, and her voice rose in a guttural chant. The music grew louder and faster, and with it her movements grew more frenzied until her whole frame shook. Rivulets of sweat poured from her forehead, streaking her make-up into bizarre patterns.

Then the music ceased abruptly and she collapsed onto a low wooden stool, withdrawn, still acknowledging no-one. Once recovered, she began again: her chants
intensified and she directed invocations at the crowd, who made long, complicated responses. The ritual seemed to be building to some kind of climax. I had no idea what to expect, but she had created an atmosphere of terror in the room, and I started to feel uneasy.

Her performance continued for perhaps an hour and a half until, towards midnight, the band fell silent and Madame Elizabeth abandoned her dancing and moved with a small group of men and women – including the drummers – to sit in a circle around the fire. We watched them pass a flask of powder from hand to hand. Each person tipped some on to their palm, placed it on their tongue and swallowed it with a mouthful of water. I had heard about
iboga
, a hallucinogenic drug made from the roots and bark of a tree that was used in rituals of the secret Bwiti cult, and I wondered whether this was it. Then palm wine was poured into a glass and each person in the circle drank a sip from it. At the same time, lumps of resin from the atanga tree were thrown on the fire, sending a sharp, spicy perfume into the air. The obvious parallels with the Christian communion rite struck me, and I wondered whether this part of the ritual reflected the influence of missions.