An hour with Gahonda & Family

Deep in Rwanda's northern hills, where five volcanoes separate it from the Congo and Uganda, live the world's only mountain gorillas. After 20 years of intensive conservation and research efforts, there are seven hundred of them, up from 650 ten years ago. At least five groups of them -- representing almost a 70 gorillas -- have become so used to the presence of humans that they're visited virtually every day by a group of eight camera-toting tourists.

When I first arrived, I met a British woman who was meeting the gorillas on April 11 and I was easily persuaded to get a permit for the same day and join Tess and three friends who would be visiting. We arrived in the tiny, rough-and-tumble town of Ruhengeri in the afternoon and watched an already grey sky turn the colour of wet concrete and unleash buckets and buckets of rain. The already muddy streets became more puddle than road and started worrying about what that would mean for our trek up the hill.

We met a driver with a 4x4 at 6 a.m. and started out, bumping along a road made of rocks, seemingly on square wheels. (My back was sore the next day and it was purely from the ride there and back.) At the gorilla office, we met up with the three other groups who would be heading out. The girls seemed to know all about the different groups: Susa is the largest and has connections to Dian Fossey; Group Thirteen has an aggressive silverback male; two of the groups go in and out of the Parc, crossing over to Congo regularly and sometimes requiring a hike of more than six hours to reach.

The gorillas are a major boon for Rwanda: each permit costs $375 US, which entitles a holder to spend up to one hour with the gorillas. There are no guarantees, although it's virtually certain that visitors will see the gorillas. They can sometimes be wily, though, and spend the entire hour hidden in bamboo. In the rainy season especially -- from mid-March to mid-May -- gorilla visits can be tricky, as they hate rain and will hide if it gets too wet. (SEE STORY BELOW)

We were set to meet the Sabinyo group, who are led by the oldest silverback in the region, a 45-year-old named Gahonda, whose brother also helps protect the pack. There were four women and two juveniles and three babies, including an eight-month old who hadn't yet been named.

Gorillas are organized in groups or families with a dominant male and several females, with whom he mates. Any other silverbacks or males in the group are often just there for companionship and protection, although Olivier said they will try to "cheat" with the women whenever they get a chance and will be severely punished by the dominant male if they're caught. A few will go off on their own and try to establish their own groups, but the males will fight fiercely to keep their women with them. It's dangerous for the women with children to leave a group, as the new silverback will kill all of her babies in order to establish his own genetic trail in the group. Infanticide is actually pretty common amongst gorillas and no one is really certain what happens with the babies after they've been killed. Fossey theorized that they were eaten by their mothers, but she never came to a conclusion.

The girls had come prepared with serious all-weather gear, hiking boots, even "waders" to keep the stinging nettles and ants off their legs and shoes. I was wearing my tired old drawstrings (the drawstring finally busted, so I was always hiking them up) and some silk long underwear, a tank top, t-shirt and hoodie, which I finally found around the corner from the hotel. I bought some sneakers two days before. I'd looked in vain for a rain slicker, figuring it could get pretty wet on the mountain.

Just before stepping beyond the rock fence that marks the boundaries of the park, our guide Olivier stopped for a snack break and we took in the terraced hills around the place, the potato farms and the green that just seemed to stretch on forever. It was still early, and a bit chilly, so there was mist settling in the folds of the hills, sometimes looking like lakes.

Olivier explained that we would hear him making noises that would help calm the gorillas and that when he told us to move, he expected us to move in a tight group -- the size of the group compensating for our size as individual people -- and that we were not to make loud noises, use the flash on our cameras or point our fingers. The flash might scare them and pointing would make the gorillas think we were throwing them something.

We started up the hill, into a dark, dank jungle of bamboo, up a path that had been churned into ankle-deep mud by a line of buffalos. We slid and squelched our way upward, the suctioning plop of our walking sticks keeping a rather steady rhythm. There were a few squeaks from a few birds, but no other signs of life. Of course, with eight hikers, a guide, three porters and three AK-toting soldiers, there was little chance that we would be quiet enough to see anything like a dikker or a golden monkey.

The bamboo would let out a hiss like a shower head when moved by the breeze, but otherwise it was quiet. Occasionally we would come out into a clearing full of the soft green of eucalyptus trees. (A gorilla who chews on eucalyptus acts like "one who has taken alcohol," Olivier told us, since it's got a bit of alcohol in its leaves.)

After walking for about an hour and a half, my hair plastered to my forehead from a combination of sweat and raindrops splattered by moving leaves, my shoes black and soaking from the mud, Olivier's walkie talkie came crackling to life and announced that the gorillas were heading our way and if we kept up our pace and they stayed still, we'd be there in about a half an hour. It seemed like only 15 minutes later that we came upon a man and a woman, both dressed in uniform, and as I smiled hello at the woman, I noticed a gorilla in the bamboo just beyond her shoulder. I was so surprised I nearly squealed.

Suddenly they were everywhere in the dark, shady bamboo, sitting and chewing on bamboo shoots. Most didn't seem too upset by our presence but some would tolerate us for only a few minutes before getting up and walking away. It was pretty incredible to see them just saunter by. If we were in the way, they'd sort of hesitate, then just go for it. All the while, Olivier was making these low rumbling noises in the back of his throat, sort of like clearing your throat, known as "belch vocalizations," which is a noise that the gorillas themselves make. I have a picture that's nothing but blur because as I went to take the picture, the gorilla started chest beating and it scared the beejebus out of me. Apparently they do that when they're trying to intimidate, but the younger ones also do it when they're happy or playing. Olivier claimed that this one was just happy to have company.

One of the silverbacks, the brother of the dominant male, was nursing a shoulder wound, a punishment for cheating with his brother's women, and walked using only one hand, as he'd been fighting with a lone silverback who was trying to steal the women. The woman we'd met when we first arrived was a vet, dispatched to see whether it could be treated. He sat rather placidly in the bamboo, snapping off bamboo shoots, peeling them, munching for a while, then leaving the peels and moving on to the next group of shoots.

I had pictured a visit to the gorillas as being a hike up to the group, then sitting on the ground and watching them from a stationary position -- as thought they were part of a play -- for the hour. But we were constantly following them. If one moved away, we moved toward another, then another. The rule of staying back seven metres was definitely broken. We were often within two metres, closer if the gorilla decided to move. We were all pretty enthralled, but were cursing the darkness of the bamboo. It was impossible to take a decent photograph. And then, after watching a mother and a baby amble away, suddenly they just disappeared.

We'd been with them about 15 minutes and I think we all silently figured we'd spend the next 45 minutes searching for them. It was amazing how such huge creatures could get away so quickly and disappear so thoroughly. It turned out they were just moving into a beautifully sunlit clearing, where a couple actually sat and seemed to pose for the paparazzi. We followed them up the hill and watched them build nests in the soft green plants. A few flaked out on their backs, a couple just nestled down. Olivier had told us that they spend most of their day eating and the rest of the day sleeping and grooming. When we walked up to the babies, they were in full-on play mode, tumbling over their mothers as they wrestled, biting one another and growling and occasionally chest beating. It was amazing.

All too soon, Olivier was announcing the last two minutes. It was quite possibly the quickest hour that has ever elapsed.

An hour goes fast when you're with gorillas; A couple of primates seemed to be posing for the paparazzi
Karen Palmer
Special to the Star
869 words
30 April 2006
The Toronto Star
A12

RUHENGERI, Rwanda -- Only minutes into our visit with the world's only remaining mountain gorillas, a mother with a baby tucked under her arm ambled past, followed by a giant, cone-headed male nursing a mangled middle finger.

Altogether, they were 11 massive balls of kinky black fur, variously emitting low grunts, mock belches and real farts.

Before they slipped away - disappearing silently and all too quickly into the depths of the bamboo forest - we watched them snap off bamboo shoots, unpeel them with human-like dexterity and munch on the soft white insides.

We were bunched together, 15 of us moving in a group big enough to mask our puny individual size, following guide Olivier as he groaned and growled in an impressive mimicking of the gorillas' own comforting noises.

They were dark-eyed and vaguely curious but difficult to capture on film since the bamboo forest was too dark and flash was forbidden.

Before climbing up to meet the gorillas, Olivier had explained that we would spend only an hour with them. Whether they decided to spend the hour with us was another question.

A permit to visit them costs the equivalent of $420, the average cost of a four-day safari in nearby Kenya or Tanzania. Forty people can visit the gorillas each day, translating into $16,800 for conservation, park maintenance and Rwandan development.

There are no guarantees, but because they have been habituated to people for decades and are well guarded by anti-poacher patrols, it's virtually certain that visitors will see the gorillas.

They can sometimes be wily, though, and spend the entire hour hidden in bamboo. In the rainy season especially - from mid-March to mid-May - visits can be tricky, because the gorillas hate rain and will hide if it gets too wet.

Dian Fossey's bleak prediction that they would be both discovered and made extinct in the same century hasn't come to fruition. In fact, the gorilla population has grown from 650 to more than 700 in an area where conservation has not come easily and where guerrillas are one of the gorillas' main threats.

We were meeting the Sabyinyo group, which is led by the eldest male in the region, 45-year-old Gahonda, whose brother also helps protect the pack. There were four other adults, two juveniles and three babies, including an eight-month-old who hadn't yet been named.

Gorillas are organized in groups led by a dominant male - which can weigh as much as 500 pounds and stand upright between five and six feet - and including several females with whom the male mates.

Any other silverbacks, as adult males are known because of their saddle-shaped patch of silvery hair, are just in the group for companionship and protection, although Olivier said they will try to "cheat" with the females whenever they get a chance - and will be severely punished by the dominant male if they're caught.

We started up one of the hills in the chain of mountains and volcanoes that separates northern Rwanda from Uganda and Democratic Republic of the Congo shortly after 8: 30 a.m., taking a path that had been churned into ankle-deep mud by a line of buffaloes.

We slid and squelched our way upward, the suctioning plop of our walking sticks keeping a steady rhythm. There were squeaks from a few birds, but no other signs of life. Of course, with eight hikers, a guide, three porters and three assault rifle-toting soldiers, there was little chance we'd be quiet enough to see anything like a golden monkey.

After walking for about 90 minutes, Olivier's walkie-talkie came crackling to life and announced that the gorillas were heading our way. If we kept up our pace and they remained still, we'd rendezvous in about half an hour.

It seemed like only 15 minutes later that we were suddenly surrounded.

I had pictured us sitting quietly and watching from a distance for the hour, but we were constantly following the group. If one moved away, we moved toward another, then another.

The rule of staying back seven metres was definitely broken. We were often within a metre, closer if the gorilla decided to move.

At one point, they all disappeared into the dark undergrowth, only to reappear in a beautifully sunlit clearing, where a couple of them actually seemed to pose for the paparazzi.

We watched them build nests among the soft green plants and marvelled at their human-like ears, hands and eyes. A few dozed on their backs while two females nestled down and began grooming the toddlers. The babies were in full-on play mode, tumbling over their mothers as they wrestled, biting one another and occasionally beating their chests.

It was an amazing hour - and one of the shortest I've ever spent.