East of the Sun Trip Part 4

East of the Sun Trip Part 4 : In which we continue to take for granted the natural beauty around us to wonder miserably if we will actually leave without seeing any gorillas

One of the "mirador" or observation towers we spend hours in

After a disappointing morning at Petit Savanne, we start the 10k hike to Djangui. On the hike, we see several Colobus monkeys (the originator of moto-engine-revving-noise) and some elephant tracks (I don’t understand how such big animals can pass through the forest so quietly) but not too much else of interest. 

Look at his cute little bearded face! 

Despite the lack of animals, Valentin repeatedly brought wide grins to all of our faces. Valentin is Baka, but at six-foot-something he’s definitely not a pygmie, and he grew up in and out of the forest. He is so obviously at ease here, drinking crystal clear creek water from a folded leaf cup or lounging his large frame on handy vines, roots, or saplings. He makes me feel like a clomping clutz the way he moved with such ease and confidence. When we stop to rest, he drops our bags and goes gleefully traipsing off into the forest, returning with elephant poop or a half-eaten rabbit (he’d scared off the eagle) or a rotted turtle or a bird nest complete with three lil’ babies peeping inside (and yes, he hangs it back up afterwards where the momma bird could find it again). Once he leads us all through thick undergrowth the show us gorilla beds and gleefully—no other adverb does him justice—gleefully recount how a gorilla sleeps with its butt here and its head here and just sleeps like this and it SNORES (giggle) and he knows all this because one time he snuck up on a big male gorilla and scared it out of its nest. Casual, Valentin, messing with 500 pound animals strong enough to rip a man’s arm right off, probably with a ten year old boy’s exuberance and delight. 

Beautiful bird's nest.

"And this is where he puts his butt..."

During our hours in the observation tower at Djangui, we finally see some wildlife! Five water buffalo with their funny birdy friends, a bunch of birds including a teal sun catcher and a great blue Turaco. But, no gorillas. 

We finally see some animals and yet—everything is sticky and itchy and gross, I can’t stop sweating and I’m tired. Tempers are short and the water buffalo are starting to look particularly brilliant with their heat-beating strategy of sleeping in the think mud. 

LES BOEUFFLES! 

That night, Joe and I learn to play the card game “fapfap” (meaning “five five” in who knows what language) and make new friends in the process. I manage to win a couple of hands and also shit-talk a lot more than my pretty pathetic skills entitle me to. 

Day three begins magically—and for once, I am not being sarcastic. Upon waking with the sun, we walk the muddy, marshy mile back to the clearing and climb the mirador (observation tower). We sit down and settle in, each of us in our own way: me sitting on the ground and staring as if my will-power alone will call the animals; Joe passing time with his Kindle; and Kate alternately lounging on a bench and quietly pacing.

These trees are full of birds - I wish I had a telephoto lens and DSLR. Oh well, next trip. 

The birds, too, are waking. Little groups of green “pigeons” fly out of one tree into another; they join with another group, who joins with another group, until thousands of girls are circling between the trees, gradually descending towards the marshy clearing where they eat. But when settle down to breakfast, angry skwawking “perroquets” (Gray Parrots, with bright red tails) come swooping in: get outta here! that’s my food! And wave upon wave of pigeons take to the sky, and flocks of parrots pass by, and they’re all circling again in a flashing green and grey dance. 

It’s entrancing. I could watch for hours. And we do. 

Eventually, we head back to the camp for breakfast. Cedric and Valentin make Gari and share it with us; this is our first shared meal, American and Cameroonian together. It feels right. 

Afterwards, still praying for gorillas, we commence our quiet walk back to the savanna. No gorillas. Joe breaks out his special can of spam and treats us to a lovely lunch. We go to the mirador. No gorillas - though a big group colobus monkeys leaping through the trees, flying down to the ground, and hopping around the savanna like overgrown squirrels brings us joy for a while. We also see more birds, but not like the flocks of this morning. No gorillas. 

I turn to my friends and the words come tumbling out. I whisper, “If I was writing this story, we wouldn’t see gorillas today but we would see them tomorrow on our way out of this park, and we would stop and watch them before they notice us and our hearts would stop too and light will break through the canopy and it would just be a  magical moment. But I’m not writing this story, and I’m so scared we’re not going to see any and there’s nothing we can do about it.” I feel resigned and disappointed and sad. 

And yet, very few experiences are entirely disappointing if you are determined to enjoy yourself, and we’d seen a lot of cool stuff already.  When we get back to the camp Valentin mentions that he’s going to go “village fishing.” I imagine this involving a spear or a long sharpened branch being launched at fat, lazy fish swimming in the shallow creek near the house, and immediately invite myself along. So I’m a grown woman giggling and tagging along after this tall man like a four year old girl; he’s gleefully leading the way like a mischievous ten year old boy, teaching me how they dam the creek and then scoop out all the water with leaves until they catch all the fish, prawns, and crabs in the muddy bottom. “See this?” He carefully, concentratedly, holds up a crab and points at the claws. “These animals are mean and these hurt.” He snaps off the big claws and throws them in a pile with the other fish we’ve stranded. I tell him some Americans think claw meat is the best part of the crab. He picks up the dismembered claws and carefully adds them, too, to the pile—and later, after making a freshwater fish soup, picks out the claws and puts them in my bowl with a grin.  

In the night, a panthère (leopard) passes in the trees above our camp. Our guardians hear her cry.