Doug set a dangerously high precedent when he took me to Clouds Mountain Gorilla Lodge in Uganda for my birthday this year. It is the kind of place where you are assigned your own butler and, until this week, I didn't realize I'm the kind of person who truly needs her own butler.Our accommodations were off the charts, but the highlight was a gorilla-trekking expedition in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. We would be spending time with the Nkuringo gorillas, a group that became habituated (the process of making them accustomed to humans) in 2005. This is a particularly large group - 17 in all - with three silverbacks and a newborn set of twins. Our permits meant that we would be allowed to view them in their natural habitat for one hour, an experience closely monitored by the Uganda Wildlife Authority.
After a brief orientation from our local guide Augustine ("...don't leave trash on the mountain, eat something and drink plenty of water, stay with the group at all times, speak softly, turn off your camera flash, remember that these are wild animals...") we headed down the mountain. There were six tourists in the group - including us - plus a host of porters, the aforementioned Augustine, two rangers with guns (not to protect us against the gorillas, but to protect the gorillas from poachers), and two trackers who had left earlier to locate the Nkuringos. It was a beautiful morning, the breeze was blowing, and the scenery was absolutely breathtaking. I couldn't wait!
We hiked down about 1,500 feet before the trackers radioed to say that they had found the gorillas. We then left our gear with the porters, grabbed our cameras, and headed deeper into the jungle.
In no time at all, we walked past a gorilla resting calmly under a tree. While she didn't seem particularly surprised to see humans ten feet away, she didn't seem thrilled that we had interrupted her nap, either. She moved down the mountain and our group followed in her wake. The foliage was quite thick, and I was finding it difficult to keep up with Augustine, maintain my footing, locate the moving gorillas in the dense, thorny brush, and focus my camera in the dim light. I especially wanted photos of the babies, who were playing nearby. But it just wasn't happening. The gorillas were very elusive and I was getting frustrated with my lack of Kodak moments. So I took a deep breath and put my camera away. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I didn't want to blow it with my eye pressed to a view finder. If a great photo presented itself, fine, otherwise I wasn't going to sweat it. So I decided to quietly observe and, sure enough, I spotted a silverback about ten yards away. While the rest of the group positioned themselves to capture the optimum shot, I sat down in a small clearing and watched him eat.
You know that feeling you get right before you catch someone is staring at you? I looked to my left and noticed a large gorilla partially eclipsed by foliage. I snapped a few photos and, within seconds, he jumped up, came bounding through the brush, and sat down a few feet away from me. If it's possible to attribute body language to a gorilla, his said, "Here I am! So happy to meet you!"
At this point, my world slid into slow motion. I mentally re-played Augustine's lecture and realized that at no time did he cover what you are supposed to do when a gorilla touches you. Because that's what this giant ten-year-old blackback gorilla did. He slowly leant over, placed his nose to my fingers, and took a big whiff. Then he literally locked his M&M-brown eyes on mine, gently reached out his hand, and brushed it against the side of my leg. I wish I could say that I didn't hesitate, but I froze. Then I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his open palm. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
I know this description sounds overwrought, and the whole incident lasted less than a minute. But in that moment, I was blown away by this gorilla's humanity. He may have been curious about me and he was probably wondering what I was doing in his home. But he made darn sure that I wasn't scared. There are many humans out there who would have been a lot less gracious under the same circumstances. Call it anthropomorphism if you want, but when I looked in that gorilla's eyes, I saw intelligence. And empathy. And maybe something close to friendship.
After that, he straightened back up, faced the rest of the group who sat gaping at us, stood and pounded his chest in a "look-at-me-aren't-I-cool?" kinda way, touched Augustine on the shoulder, and sat back down so that everyone else could take his picture. I stayed seated, but handed my camera to one of the trackers, inching closer to the gorilla so that I could have proof of my encounter. He realized that I had moved, turned around, reached over to me again, sniffed my shoe, started playing with my shoelace, got bored (or was offended by the fact that I had made a sartorial blunder by tucking my pants leg into my socks to avoid ant bites), and bounded off into the jungle.
Our hour was up.
In spite of the rough terrain and steep incline, I literally floated back to the buffer zone where the porters waited with our food and water. I attempted to maintain a this-was-no-big-deal attitude in front of those who didn't get their very own personal gorilla encounter, but inside I was feeling like the person who wins the jackpot after playing the lottery one time. Special. Lucky. Chosen.
And here's the part where pride goeth before a fall. I had felt quasi-queasy since arriving at the lodge the night before, but attributed it to the excitement of the upcoming trek. But now the encounter was over, and I was still feeling a little, well, off. I'm not an idiot, and I know that keeping one's body hydrated and fueled is critical when exercising. But I just couldn't eat anything more than a few bites of apple. And I could only manage to drink a small bottle of water. But who cares, right? I had just held hands with a gorilla!
This thought sustained me until we started making our way back up the mountain. And I was having a really, really tough time. Dizzy. Out of breath. And extremely nauseated. So I started a constant internal monologue: "You will not throw up. You will walk to that rock/tree/bush and then take a break. One more step. One more step. You will not throw up. No one else is having trouble walking back, and they are all older than you are. Quit being a baby."
This got me pretty far up the mountain. But when I was within 100 yards of our final resting spot, two porters had to pick me up and carry me the rest of the way. I was positively mortified.
Within a few minutes of sitting in the shade and drinking some water, I started feeling 100% better and ready to begin the easy quarter-mile walk back to our starting point. Unfortunately, I made it about fifty feet before dropping to my hands and knees and vomiting off the ridge in a manner not seen since Linda Blair starred in The Exorcist.
Augustine diagnosed me with altitude sickness, and immediately asked if he should send for a stretcher. There was no way in hell I going to be carried off that mountain in a prone position, so I jumped up, smiled brightly, and assured him I felt A-OK. I made it another 15 feet before I was back on my hands and knees. In between dry heaves, I mentally waved goodbye to my pride and croaked, "Can you bring that stretcher?"
Within minutes, six porters arrived, carrying a contraption consisting of a woven mat lashed to a bamboo frame. If I had any presence of mind, I would have propped myself up on one elbow, grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and gave my best homecoming queen wave as they paraded me through the village. Instead, I closed my eyes and concentrated on making my body as flat as possible in hopes that no one would notice the wimpy white chick being hoisted aloft in someone's craft project. This was not necessarily the dumbest strategy I've ever employed, since I had probably left about five pounds back on the ridge, and was feeling positively skeletal.
But if the villagers didn't notice me then, they certainly took note once the porters laid the stretcher on the ground. Instead of standing up and walking the mere six steps into the office, I literally rolled into the dirt, curled into the fetal position, and started a five-minute round of dry heaves even more dramatic than the last. As if from a great distance, I could hear people saying, "Madam, please get into the shade, have something to drink, take this cool rag" and I really, truly wanted to do all of those things. At the very least, I wanted to move for Augustine, since I fully realize that having a grown woman gagging and whimpering in front of your business is not a huge draw for future customers. But I just couldn't budge.
I'm not sure how I got into the Land Cruiser, but our driver Oketch got me back to the lodge, where I threw up some more, then cried a little bit before crawling into bed and sleeping for two hours. Two Stoney Tangawizis (a local ginger soda) later, and I finally was able to sit upright. By the evening, I was okay, and once we returned to Kampala the following day, I felt perfectly fine.
I realize the latter part of my story might eclipse the epic nature of the first, but I didn't want to edit my adventure in the spirit of full disclosure. And, let's face it, I'm going to forget the fact that I barfed off the side of a mountain and had to be carried back on a woven stretcher a lot quicker than I'm going to forget the the fact that I was able to view mountain gorillas in Bwindi.
This experience has created some discord within me. On one hand, I realize that charging tourists $500 a pop for a permit to watch gorillas is what gives various non-profit organizations the ability to purchase the land that keeps them safe and alive. But on the other hand, I also know that when you teach gorillas (or any animal) not to fear humans you make them easy prey for poachers, which is the only enemy of the Bwindi mountain gorillas. And the idea that someone would hurt my new friend (that's him above) - or any of his family - breaks my heart.
I wish I knew the answer to this one. In the meantime, I'll be making a donation to the World Wildlife Fund.
