Gorillas in the Midst
Photograph by Skye Parrott
I love gorillas. I’m not an enthusiast — I don’t spend my days scouring the internet tracking the various primate families roaming the lowlands of Central Africa. Maybe I’m a casual? A hobbyist? It’s really the silverback I love. This may have something to do with my role as a stay-at-home dad who spends a great deal of time in the laundry room. The gorillas, on the other hand, live with a quiet, old-timey, heavy-handed masculinity that I think I sometimes long for. There is no gorilla youth movement. There’s a boss, and there’s everyone else.
Still, when presented with an invitation to go gorilla trekking in Rwanda, I didn’t want to go.. The truth is, like gorillas, I’m a little lazy. My preferred travel reporting involves sitting and sleeping. Second, if I’m being generous, I would say we humans are a lot. And so, in trying to mindfully offset the impact we have on certain destinations (such as Venice, Barcelona, the Amalfi Coast, Paris’ Right Bank), I’ve resigned myself to not visiting them (except for Venice, Barcelona, the Amalfi Coast, and, if absolutely necessary, the Right Bank).
But my partner is the editor-in-chief, and since she assigned me to write the piece, and then ordered me to accompany her as she photographed it, no wasn’t an option. So, as I prepared for the trip organized by Go2Africa, packing a cosplay wardrobe of Vollebak made-for-the-future, end-of-days adventure gear to wear while being chauffeured in a vintage Land Rover, “sure,” I thought, “I can be this guy for a few days.”
We were met at the airport by our guide, Dennis. He was about 6 foot, four inches and 270 pounds, with a keen interest in the birds of East Africa. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of Rwandan history and politics that he shared generously, with so much enthusiasm that he sometimes veered into sounding like a pitchman for foreign investment. And he seemed to know everyone we encountered by name.
I couldn't believe how busy the roads were leaving Kigali. But it wasn’t angry traffic, like in New York, where no one is going anywhere and is subsequently consumed with murderous contempt. Here, everyone was going somewhere, mostly via bicycle. It was a wild scene. There were utility bicycles transporting lumber, propane tanks (a dozen at a time), enormous sacks of potatoes (probably 400 pounds each), bundles of sugar cane bigger than the average car. There were ornately decorated bicycles set up as taxis, with a small pad added to the back as a passenger seat (imagine a Guatemalan chicken bus if it was a bicycle). Each bicycle operator had shoes (espadrilles or flip-flops, not sneakers) reinforced with strips of rubber from old tires. They would utilize these as backup brakes, Fred Flinstone style, as they raced downhill at speeds of up to 40 miles per hour.
Another thing I noted was how clean everything was. When we landed, there were announcements on the plane reminding visitors that plastic bags have been banned in the country since 2008. Customs officers were searching luggage and confiscating the contraband. Dennis also informed us that Rwandans practice something called umuganda, a nationwide day of mandatory community service. On the last Saturday of every month, everyone, even the president, takes to the streets and cleans. In the ’70s, the term was synonymous with forced labor (because that’s what it was), but the reimagined activity, reinstated in 2009, has resulted in a clear sense of cohesiveness and community pride – and some very clean streets.
It was a couple hours’ drive to Virunga Lodge, where we would spend the rest of our nights. Perched on a ridge above the Musanze valley, the lodge, built in 2004, overlooks two lakes and has views of several Virunga Mountain peaks. The property has ten bandas, standalone bungalows with thatched roofs and private outdoor sitting areas with firepits. Each room has its own butler. Our butler, Dan, was a 24-year-old local who aspires to eventually hold political office. The details are always in the service, and the service couldn't have been any better. Dan woke us up in the morning — by singing. His voice registered a quiet falsetto, almost like a birdsong outside our banda as he lit our fire and delivered breakfast. I didn’t want to ask any questions about what he was saying, or where the song came from. I wanted to make up my own story about it. He left as he arrived, singing, leaving behind a wake of loveliness. On the morning we went gorilla trekking, our wake-up song came at 5:10 am.
We were at Volcanoes National Park by 7:30. After a brief introduction, we were taught some basic vocalizations to communicate with the gorillas, and instructions on what to do if a male charged us. This is crazy, I thought, looking around at the sea of Patagonia fleece on my fellow trekkers. Why are there so many people from the Park Slope Food Coop here?
Our guides and armed guards were kept informed as to the gorillas general whereabouts by the trackers, but the gorillas are living beings. They were doing what any other family might do: tending to daily needs, which for these guys meant wandering as they looked for food and kept cool. The landscape they were wandering through was dense, green vegetation that covers the five mountains within the park’s borders.
Everyone in our group had a Type-A vibe — evidently that’s who thinks: I want to see gorillas in the mountains of East Africa and then does. So when we found the gorillas, all were scrambling, jockeying for position with cameras whose lenses probably could’ve captured a gorilla's fart from the moon — but what do I know? I wasn’t taking pictures. I was watching the gorillas.
They were just doing their gorilla thing, which wasn’t really much of a thing at all. It was sort of like watching a ’50s-era family led by a moderately engaged father. The kids rolled around (literally, like giant furry, rolly polly bugs), poking at dad, waiting for food to fall from the sky. The moms looked to the dad, waiting for him to decide the family’s next move. The dad sat there, lazily peeling apart thick stalks of bamboo with the same level of interest given one might give to a bag of Twizzlers during a movie.
I was hoping the gorillas might tell us something about ourselves during the hour we spent with them — why we were here, or where we might be headed — but that didn't happen. They were just gorillas. Adorable, smart, and wildly dangerous.
Perhaps we weren't here to see the gorillas at all, but rather to understand some complex, unsolvable equation about human capability. One of the members of our group said that the story of the gorillas is the story of Rwanda. Both were brought to the precipice of extinction by preventable human folly: ignorance, greed, and fear. But now, as a result of forward-thinking leadership, strong allies, and a commitment to education, both have taken significant steps towards meaningful recovery. Tourism is a thriving industry in Rwanda (and being mindfully managed). The gorilla population, while still considered critically endangered, has nearly doubled in the past 30 years. This is directly attributable to the work being done by the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund in partnership with the Rwandan government and private operators.
Rwanda is not a place to avoid. It’s a place that needs us and that should compel us to think about travel differently, more holistically — about how we might be able to bring a place up. What we can give rather than take.
View from the porch of our Banda at the Virunga Lodge, photographed by Jeremy Malman