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Rugabo Of
Sabinyo
 Author:
Lee Ridley
Posted: 12 June, 2003
We set out from the border
town of Bunagana having changed money (see previous). It was late
morning and a handful of locals had gathered, offering their services
as combined guide and porter. I studied the crowd of hopefuls and
chose an amiable, honest looking fella. He took my pack, and I relieved
Tracey of hers, the lighter of the two. A price of $2 was agreed
and we started walking. Our goal: To visit the fabled Mountain Gorillas
of Central Africa high up on the sides of the impressive Virunga
Volcanoes that straddle the border between Uganda, Rwanda and Zaire
(DRC).
The sun was warm on our
backs but not at all uncomfortable, now we were in central Africa
and at a higher altitude. The skies were blue and punctuated by
the occasional cirrus. We followed the dirt road through the village
for a few hundred yards, accompanied by wide-eyed children, bare
feet and dressed in filthy rags. Adults glanced at us as we passed
but showed little interest. This was clearly a well-trodden tourist
path.
Shortly, we turned left
off the track, between a couple of mud huts and the children began
to drift away until we were alone again. We passed along the side
of a patch of ground that was being tilled by an old woman with
a baby on her back. She didn't even look up; far too much work to
do.
Fields came and went
as we trudged towards the Virunga Volcanoes, filling our view now
but still a way off. En route we passed through another village,
built of red mud, along the side of a dry riverbed. Surrounding
the village was a small banana plantation and as we walked we were
joined by three or four children who were happy to stroll with us
in the hope that some kind of reward might be forthcoming. We all
looked up as we heard the voice of another carefree youngster, singing
as he rolled his rusty bicycle wheel out onto the footpath ahead
of us. He looked to be about three years old and the sight of his
playmates standing in the company of these strange, pale-skinned
grown-ups filled him with fear and uncertainty. Cruelly I loomed
over him as his eyes widened like saucers and he raised the rusty
wheel to fend me off. All it took was "boo" and he dropped
the wheel like a hot coal and ran off through the plantation howling.
His playmates thought it was hilarious. I felt more than a little
guilty. He'll despise "wazungus" forevermore.
Eventually the ground
ahead began to rise and the vegetation closed in. We tightened the
straps on our Bergen's and made the final push up to the national
park huts on the side of Mount Sabinyo.
A small discrepancy over
the payment to our porter was inevitable but quickly settled and
we were left to make ourselves at home for the rest of the afternoon
along with four other intrepid travellers who had also made their
way onto this Central-African volcano.
The hut was quite large
with several bunk beds and a separate living/dining quarter. Obviously
there was no power but a couple of lanterns gave us the light we
needed as the evening drew in. Our instructions were to sign in
at the main hut, a hundred yards away at 7 o'clock the next morning.
If we wanted any food, we could get a bowl of refried beans and
boiled potatoes from the kitchen by the main hut, but would have
to be quick as the staff would be heading back down to their respective
villages long before nightfall.
At that time of year
(November) there was a thunderous, tropical rainstorm every afternoon
about 4 o'clock, and the roof of our hut was very effective in channelling
the downpour into a refreshing shower to wash away the day's sweat
and grime. No doubt the locals were long bored with the sight of
pale-skinned naked tourists running around on the side of their
mountain so what the hell!
Perhaps the most interesting
episode that day, began when a young Batwa child turned up at the
door with a carrier bag full of Zairois home-grown. He only wanted
$1 for it so it hardly seemed worth haggling. The fun really started
when we all realised there was no means to smoke it. We finally
resolved to sitting around a table with a pile of the grass on a
plate and holding a lighter to it as we took turns in passing round
a paper cone intended to capture the smoke as the user sucked frantically
at the thin end. Can't say it worked particularly well. It may just
as well have been regular lawn grass and most likely was.
The following morning
the sun rose across the side of the volcano but was clouded in the
dense mist that is ever present in the early hours at this time
of year. The main hut was open and the staff were ready and waiting.
Each one of us had to hand over $100 U.S and sign in. I noticed
as I signed my name there was a column that held the name of the
family we were to visit. All Gorilla families are named after the
dominant Silverback. We were going to visit Rugabo.
Our party consisted of
six tourists, a tracker and an armed guard to protect us against
rogue Elephants and Water Buffalo, although I doubt the ageing Enfield
.303 with it's cracked wooden stock would stop a determined bull
Tusker who decide to charge us down.
The first part of the
morning was spent retracing the tracker's route from the previous
day to where he last saw the family. It took us two hours to get
there, by which time the mist was clearing, and along with the sun,
our expectations were soaring. The signs were there for all to see,
how the Gorillas had made their nests amongst the trees and bushes.
Rugabo's bed was a six-foot wide area of flattened undergrowth and
his parting gesture had been to deposit the mother of all craps
in it before he left. How nice!
The next stage was to
track the family and although the total distance wasn't ultimately
that much it still took us two and a half hours. Several switchbacks
and backtracks later we came to a clearing in the trees and the
tracker started behaving very strangely. He signalled for us to
wait, and moved slowly forward making low "mmmhh" noises.
As we all watched, spellbound I saw a furry black hand reach out
of the long grass and pull down a low hanging branch.
Then they were all around
us. As we moved out into the clearing, babies tumbled over our feet
as adult females watched curiously. Cameras started clicking as
the tracker continued to search for the Silverback. Rugabo was soon
located across the other side of the clearing where he had heard
the familiar voice of our tracker as he announced our arrival, and
decided we were no threat.
Rugabo was enormous, menacing yet peaceful. His brown eyes were
captivating; all brown with no "whites" like humans eyes.
This was a daily occurrence to him so provided we moved carefully
and made no threatening sounds he would carry on feeding and patiently
wait for us to leave.
 Perhaps
Rugabo was in a bad mood that day but he decided to play things
differently. For whatever reason, he decided to let us all know
who was in charge around here. The first sign was when he walked
on his knuckles toward the tracker and one of our party, an Australian
guy called Dave. Both assumed the submissive stance and I watched
amazed as he brushed roughly past Dave without so much as a sideways
glance. Ridiculously, I felt envious that Dave could forever say
how he had survived physical contact with a wild 500lb Silverback.
My envy didn't last: Rugabo had been feeding for a while in a small
corner at the side of the clearing. I had manoeuvred myself into
a nearby position where I could take a few portrait shots with the
camera, and had swiftly reached the end of the roll. As I squatted
on one knee to change the film, I heard Rugabo move, and looked
up to see him coming straight at me. The camera was forgotten as
I bowed my head and tried to look as insignificant as possible.
A huge black hand the size of a shovel reached out and shoved me
at the shoulder, sending me flat on my back, eyes tight shut waiting
for the sucker punch. It never came; he just wandered a few yards
off and carried on feeding, having made his point.
It was Nelson's turn
next, a tall Canadian guy in our group.
Nelson was standing in
a narrow passageway that had been trampled through some head-high
undergrowth. Thinking he was safe tucked away out of sight, Nelson
hadn't figured on Rugabo wanting to walk through. Face to face with
the evidently bad tempered ape, Nelson had to choose between dropping
to his knees and blocking the passage way completely, or standing
tall and trying to merge back into the impenetrable bushes. He chose
the latter and thus Rugabo found himself towered over by a six foot
three Canadian in a bright blue Berghaus jacket. The Gorilla let
out a bowel-emptying roar and tore Nelson to the ground by the knee
and then continued to drag him for a further few yards, all the
while displaying a lethal looking set of 3" canines. Our armed
guard was raising his Enfield as Rugabo decided his point was made
and released a visibly shaken Nelson. I suspect the Canadian threw
his pants away at the soonest possible opportunity. Our tracker
was very angry with us all because there should be no physical contact
with the Gorillas in case they pick up any human-borne diseases.
He wasn't willing to concede that each event had been unavoidable
as Rugabo was calling all the shots.
Our hour with the Gorillas
was over all too quickly and we were quietly led out of the clearing
by our tracker to begin the trek back to the park huts. Rugabo and
his family continued their day assured of the fact that tomorrow
would bring another crowd of clumsy tourists with their cameras.
The tracker took us in
the opposite direction from which we had arrived and almost immediately
we emerged onto a well-beaten track that led us back down to the
huts less than an hour away. The next group to visit would reach
their starting point quicker than we had.
Our porter was waiting
for us at the huts and as soon as we had sorted out our packs, we
set off on the long walk back to Bunagana. What a day!
Post script - I read
in the international column of the Daily Telegraph six months later
that the Mountain Gorilla Silverback, Rugabo had been found killed
by poachers. They cut off his head and his hands to sell to wealthy
tourists.
Author: Lee Ridley
Contact: editor@fourcornersexplorer.co.uk
http://www.fourcornersexplorer.co.uk
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