2: stress

        I hadn’t heard much good said about Nairobi.  I’d heard it called “Nai-robbery”, the most dangerous city in Africa, that type of thing.  A week before I left the US, two bombs had gone off in the Eastleigh neighborhood—a largely Somali immigrant community—and killed a few people.  From what I’d gathered, the militant group Al-Shabaab was behind the attacks, apparently in protest against the Kenyan government for sending troops into Somalia the previous year.  I’d been at work, floating around at sea and listening to the BBC via satellite radio when I heard about the bombs.  I’d pulled up a map of Nairobi and checked the location of the hotel I’d reserved, which was west of the city center, the opposite side of town from Eastleigh.  It was nothing that would jeopardize my trip.  I just hoped that my parents or grandmother hadn’t heard the news, which seemed unlikely anyway.  As no foreigners had been killed, it wasn’t the type of thing to wind up on an American broadcast.  Regardless, Nairobi was the starting point for my tour of East Africa, and I would have two days to kill before we set out.  I’d spoken with a South African friend whose advice was, “Don’t leave your hotel, mate.”  But I had no intention of flying a quarter of the way around the world to a continent I’d never been to hang out in a hotel.  

Two roughly equidistant flights broke up the trip nicely, one from New York/JFK to Amsterdam before continuing to Nairobi, and I was getting dinner and breakfast on each flight.  I wondered if four meals on a single ticket was a personal record for my travels.  I’d been back and forth to Asia lots of times, but those flights never stopped in Europe.  On the last leg, bound for Nairobi, I’d surfed the ‘in-flight entertainment’ options for something to last through dinner service.  Despite the novelty, no TV at home, I rarely watch movies on flights.  If something looks worthwhile, it would be better seen elsewhere, I presume.  I scrolled through the ‘documentary’ tab dismissively until a dinner tray was thrust upon me.  I settled on beef over chicken and a ‘Ted Talk’, as I unwrapped the plastic around each dinner portion, and began the utilitarian consumption.  It wasn’t the ‘Ted Talk’ that caught my eye so much as the accompanying image of a rather attractive redhead.  Pale skin and lithe features, the tiny still of her visage offered a temporary diversion into a realm of possibilities, an escape into a tangle of potentialities.  When her lips began to move, I fiddled with ear buds until I had sound, and her voice was another rapture, introducing herself as a “health psychologist” and stating her mission “to help people be happier and healthier”.  I focused intensely as she began to move around the stage, a blue business skirt, red high heels highlighting an arresting production.  “For years I’ve been telling people stress makes you sick,” she spoke in American English without discernible accent.  “It increases the risk of everything from the common cold to cardiovascular disease.  Basically, I’ve turned stress into the enemy.”  She turned to stage left, an evanescent pause, “But I have changed my mind about stress, and today, I want to change yours.”  A camera panned the homologous audience before settling again on the lovely doctor.  We were all in.

When the beverage cart arrived, I took a wine single and a bland dinner roll while I listened to an explanation of physiological changes that occur in human bodies during various encounters, challenges, moments that produce rapid changes in chemical make-up, delivering the typical stress response: an increased heart rate and constricted blood vessels.  I ate pragmatically while she said, “Normally, we interpret these physical changes as anxiety or signs that we aren’t coping very well with the pressure.  But what if you viewed them instead as signs that your body was energized, was preparing you to meet this challenge?”  I involuntarily scanned the aircraft while considering.  No one nearby seemed to be viewing the Ted Talk.  Boy were they missing out.  “Now that is exactly what participants were told in a study conducted at Harvard University.  Before they went through a social stress test, they were taught to rethink their stress response as helpful.  That pounding heart is preparing you for action.  If you’re breathing faster, it’s no problem.  It’s getting more oxygen to your brain.”  The woman next to me looked done with her meal, and I resisted an urge to go for the untouched salad.  

A second, bland dinner roll arrived while the doctor revealed the results of the study, which found that those who learned to view the stress response as helpful were not only more confident and less anxious, but their blood vessels, remarkably, reflected the difference, allowing increased blood flow without restriction.  While the participant’s hearts fastidiously pounded, “It was a much healthier cardiovascular profile,” said the enchanting psychologist.  “It actually looks a lot like what happens in moments of joy and courage.”  

The beverage cart rolled through a second time as the doctor shared an anecdote about oxytocin, the “cuddle” hormone, which somehow drives us closer to loved ones in difficult times.  I picked up a second wine single, but I was nearly done with the meal, and however much I wanted it to go on, I sensed that the charming speaker would be wrapping it up.  “I want to finish by telling you about one more study.  And listen up, because this study could also save a life.”  Flight attendants had begun clearing trays in economy, dumping platters and stacking cups, as she continued, “This study tracked about 1,000 adults in the United States, and they ranged in age from 34 to 93, and they started the study by asking, ‘How much stress have you experienced in the last year?’ They also asked, ‘How much time have you spent helping out friends, neighbors, people in your community?’ And then they used public records for the next five years to find out who died.”  

I gathered all the extraneous plastic wrapping from my tray and crinkled it into a ball, tried to stuff it under a stack of food containers, but it wasn’t cooperating.  The meal-clearing cart was just two aisles away, a restoration of order advancing to the disillusion of entropy.   “Okay, so the bad news first: For every major stressful life experience, like financial difficulties or family crisis, that increased the risk of dying by 30 percent.  But -- and I hope you are expecting a but by now,” laughter and smiles from a spellbound audience, “but that wasn't true for everyone. People who spent time caring for others showed absolutely no stress-related increase in dying. Zero. Caring created resilience.”

I was still processing the implications of all I’d heard as I handed over my tray and the tray of the woman beside me, salad intact.  So, it’s not stress that’s killing us, it’s our interpretation of a physical response, the idea that something is harmful, the implementation of a mindset.  A man had appeared on stage—on the tiny screen—and had begun interacting with the health psychologist, who responded to a comment, “One thing we know for certain is that chasing meaning is better for your health than trying to avoid discomfort.”  And an instant later, her final words of advice, “Go after what it is that creates meaning in your life and then trust yourself to handle the stress that follows.”  And then there were applause.

When the cart disappeared for the final time, I retrieved my travel pillow, donned a ball cap and pulled the bill down to cover my eyes.  I felt for the ear plugs I’d stowed in my breast pocket, pinched the foam before inserting, and as expansion occurred, it sniped out all the babble, deadening sound into muddled bliss.  I drifted into sleep, mildly disturbed by visions of the scholarly beauty.

***

Although it was nearly 10 o’clock at night when the Dutch airliner rolled to a stop, I was fairly well together upon arrival.  Disembarking, the night sky became visible through the boarding doorway where a great rolling staircase emptied directly onto the tarmac a hundred meters or so from the airport.  I took my first breaths of the mild, slightly humid, African air.  It was April, the rainy season, and while that could have implications for travel in the region, I was ostensibly avoiding the searing heat of an equatorial summer and presumably getting a better deal on a trip.  Always an independent traveler, I’d never taken any type of guided tour, but this was Africa, after all, and if you wanted to head out on safari, you’d have to hire guides anyway, wether you did it upon arrival or through a tour company beforehand, which is what I’d done.  I had signed on for a 17-day tour with Intrepid Travel, the Australian outfit.  We would be “overland trucking”, whatever that meant, from Kenya to Uganda to Rwanda and back.

I followed the heard toward a queue of buses and packed in behind a woman with olive skin mostly covered in a flowing garment.  She held a girl just small enough to carry, her tiny hands, adorned with henna tattoos, clasped around her mother’s neck.  The bus jerked forward and we moved first parallel to the main terminal and then away, hugging a sheet-metal barricade that snaked along one side of the road.  It was dented and leaning, and there were tiny gaps between sections where I tried to catch glimpses of what lay beyond.  We came to a stop in front of a nondescript building, some distance from what had appeared to be the main terminal.  I would find out later that the arrival hall was under repairs due to a bombing.  I’d somehow missed that news.

The immigration line was typical and orderly, and I prepared my documents and shuffled forward, either people watching or neurotically re-checking my documents.  I didn’t have a visa yet, but I knew they were available upon arrival, at least in Kenya.  The whole visa issue had been the most annoying aspect of planning the trip.  The travel company, Intrepid, systematically avoided visa advice and referred you to various websites, such as the US State Department or the individual embassies, but those web sites all told a slightly different story.  There was talk of a new ‘East African Tourist Visa’ that would get you into Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania, but it wasn’t clear about Rwanda. Then I read something on the Rwandan embassy website about visa-free stays for US citizens.  Uganda seemed to be the sketchiest.  The US State Department recommended getting visas for Uganda prior to travel, and I’d emailed and called the Ugandan embassy in DC to inquire, but my messages were never returned.  Each country offered an on-line application form and an address to mail your passport, but you’d be paying registered mail fees each way, each time, and waiting who-knows-how-long to get your passport back.  I didn’t know if I had enough time or energy for that.  I’d finally decided to deal with it upon arrival.  I felt sure that I could get into Kenya.

When it was my turn in line, I told the immigration lady that I would be going to Uganda and Rwanda and inquired about the East Africa Toursist Visa, at which she hesitated, looked around the arrival hall as if searching for a supervisor, and then told me I could get a visa for Uganda in Uganda.  I decided to let it go at that and to push my reservations about further visas to the back of mind.  I paid the $50US, and with that, I was officially in Kenya.  Somewhat relieved, I lengthened my stride toward the baggage carousel and then hung back, avoiding the crowd until I spotted my backpack.  I made a push for it through the masses and received a shock to the olfactory system, my first good whiff of the distinct body oder that I would encounter throughout the trip.  I handed a declaration to a customs official, who didn’t appear to be stopping anyone, and headed for the exit.  I’d pre-booked an airport pickup through Intrepid and paid too much, I’m sure, for a ride to the hotel, but there’s something to be said for seeing a sign with your name on it when arriving in a place like Nairobi, at least I presumed.  I carry a vivid, harrowing memory of flying into New Dehli and getting harassed by touts and drivers, and I was hoping to avoid a similar nuisance.  I reckoned upon planning the trip that the whole culture shock of India and my experience there would help prepare me for Africa, and I wouldn’t be wrong.   

As it turned out, things were rather tame at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.  I was largely ignored, asked politely a couple of times if I needed a ride, and then left alone to change money and look for the Intrepid Travel sign with my name on it.  I spotted it and met Joseph.  I hadn’t realized at the time that so many East Africans would have Christian names, but such is the case.  Roughly 80 percent of people in the region are Christian, or so says Lonely Planet.  We exchanged introductions and a few pleasantries, but Joseph wasn’t talkative.  I crossed into the pedestrian only waiting area where he stood between concrete barricades, and we took up watch for another Intrepid participant, her name also printed upon the sign Joseph held.  I returned to people watching.  The presumed locals were rather nicely dressed, men in suits and women in dresses, and little kids bundled up in winter coats.  To me it felt pleasant—by no means cold.  I watched a few families greeting people.  They were warm yet demure, absent boisterous exchanges.  A few caucasians scattered about the crowd wore shorts and t-shirts, flip-flops or sandals.  The crowd was thinning and Joseph was beginning to look concerned by the time a woman emerged and reacted to the sign.  Patty, a middle-aged American zoologist from Arizona, had also paid too much for the ride and booked the same hotel, the Kivi Millimani, where Intrepid begins most of its East African tours.  Undoubtably, we could have taken a taxi to the hotel for less than half the price we paid, but the trip itself was a bargain compared to most of the companies I’d researched, so they obviously needed to make money somewhere.  I didn’t mind paying extra for a pickup.  

Aside from the residual excitement of landing on Africa, it was an uneventful ride through rather typical-looking commercial development.  I noticed nothing of the insane driving I’d witnessed in other parts of the less-developed world and little else of note.  I found out that Patty was taking a different trip than mine, traveling south out of Nairobi for Tanzania.  I would be heading north and west.  When we approached the city center, there was a great “Johnny Walker” advertisement, a tapestry on the side of a tall building that would serve as a landmark, however incongruous, and provide bearings for many miles in several directions.  As I’d studied a map beforehand, I actually knew we would head west at the traffic circle, to our left toward the embassy district.  I also knew we were close when I saw Slovakia, and then further up the hill, the Kivi Millimani Hotel looked nice enough upon arrival, lots of greenery and landscaping about a wide courtyard in front of a rectangular building, 4 or 5 stories tall.  Geometric cinder blocks veiled the facade of the structure, partially concealing corridors and room doors open to the air.

I retrieved my pack, got a friendly greeting from the doorman, and stepped into a reception hall, pleasant and typical, with large, leafy plants in great pots.  There was a lounge to the right, a few people at the bar, and to the left, a check-in counter with the ubiquitous set of clocks on the wall, telling time in various cities around the world.  It was just after midnight in Nairobi.  When I got to the room, it was decent enough at first glance, but well worn.  I propped my pack against the bed and pulled a chair out from under the desk, took a seat on the threadbare fabric and caught an unpleasant whiff of myself.  I pulled off my boots and stood up, then bent at the waist and hung.  I could barely touch my toes.  I felt stiff, and old.

I straightened up and took stock of my condition.  I felt tightness in my jaw, shoulders, something in the lower back.  A general uneasiness pervaded my system, seeping through tissues and joints, but underneath the exhaustion, a restless energy simmered.  I tried to extend my spine, to grow taller.  I let my eyes close and noticed the silence, and with it, a buzzing in my head.  This was a more precise manifestation, an unruly noise of images and memories and frenzied thoughts.  My heart skipped a beat and it threw open my eyes.  Drapes concealed the opposite wall, an indiscriminate pattern in orange and brown and yellow.  My head involuntarily cocked to the right while my brain extracted elements and applied meaning to the emergence of legible objects within the design.  There was an elephant, and then a rhino, a lion.  I found a pull chord and exposed a sliding-glass door, stepped onto the balcony.  A pallid, grey humidity hung in the atmosphere above a courtyard with a swimming pool and a bath house.  A lush entanglement of banana tree leaves and palm fronds, one of which I could touch from the third floor, embellished the grounds. 

There was a knock at the door.  It was a hotel attendant, a bellhop, a young man in a uniform of olive-green polyester that looked starched and uncomfortable.  He showed me how to work the on-demand hot water while I processed his pungent smell and tried not to imagine what that attire would feel like on bare skin.  I handed him a few bucks worth of Kenyan Shillings and ushered him out the door, attempting “Asante”, Swahili for thank you.  It produced a smile.  I stood by the door for a moment, staring at cracked tiles on the bathroom floor and wondering how much that guy could be getting paid, what that life would be like, and then I jumped into action, starting up the hot water and stripping down.  I pulled a folding bucket from my pack, tossed in my travel clothes, and took it with me into the shower.  I knew I’d be doing laundry in such a manner.  There was only one temperature for the hot water, and it wasn’t hot enough to encourage a long shower.  I finished, wrung out the clothes and draped them on the balcony.

Soon I was in bed.  I lay flat on my back and spread my limbs wide, maximizing the surface area of body contact, increasing—perhaps—the avenue of escape for my underlying agitation.  I deepened my breath.  Sleep was coming if I could just ease my mind, which clung stubbornly to consciousness.  I watched a parade of fragmentary visions, listened to a litany of justifications, mitigation.  I’d made it to Africa, my sixth continent, was that some type of accomplishment?  The inner screening endured: pivotal moments, epic failures.  Was I finding meaning— what did she say, the redhead, about avoiding discomfort?  Epiphanies and disappointments piled up like a heap of rubbish.  “Chasing meaning is better for your health than trying to avoid discomfort”.  That was it. I could write it down, get to it later.  I was reasonably comfortable at the Kivi Millimani, I felt sure of that, but what was I chasing?  Finally, as the room spun slightly, the remaining traces of my consciousness mercifully floated away.

Here is a link to the Ted Talk of Dr. Kelly McGonigal

1: the volcano

 There is continual uncertainty as to what is real

     and unreal, what is happiness and what is misery.

—Chogyam Trungpa 

***

          A stinging nettle pierced my right wrist at just the right time.  And immediately, as the itch ensued, I was distracted from the discomfort in my legs and back, and from the rest of the epidermal irritations controlling my consciousness.  I’d been sporting a nasty skin rash around East Africa for about two weeks, several inflamed and itching hives on my arms and torso, a few about the legs; but at that point, I was primarily dealing with the lactic acid intensifying in my thighs, and with the effort to maintain footing in the precariously steep and muddy ascent of the Bisoke Volcano.  I was trying not to bust my ass. 

          The jeep ride from park headquarters to the village at the base of the volcano had seriously jarred my body, and I’d obviously over-exerted myself bracing for impact as we careened across boulders and traversed streams.  So hiking the sharp grade sent sporadic shards of pain down my back each time I caught myself in a slide.  I trailed only Vincent, a park ranger and our guide, and I watched him peripherally and looked for footholds beside the trail, aiming my boots for patches of vegetation on either side of the meter-wide mud path in between.  I was trampling flora to some extent and widening the path, but it seemed like the only recourse.  I tried incorporating the walking stick I’d been given in the village.  I wasn’t used to using one and I’d nearly turned down the offer, but I was beginning to grasp its advantages for leverage and balance, and it looked cool enough, a stained-black wood, carved with zig-zags and intricate patterns along the shaft, and into a tiny replica gorilla head at the top. 

          Vincent stepped aside and turned around, placed his hands atop his walking stick and scanned below.  We’d pulled ahead of the others, so I followed course and dropped my day pack, which I’d obviously over-stuffed with nonessentials.  The gray mist that clung to the volcano had lifted above the fields below and exposed countless acres of farmland that ran right up to the park boundary where we’d entered the forest.  Although it wasn’t that far, it was looking tiny, nearly straight down.  One of the rangers remained there, a rifle slung on his back, and beyond, dozens of people slung tools, tilling and hoeing, some transporting loads they balanced on their heads.  Rwanda is thoroughly cultivated, devoid of idle land.
          I savored the rest, felt my heartbeat easing, and tugged at my rain paints, which were sticking to my legs with the sweat underneath.  We’d been warned about the nettles and I’d worn them for protection, but I wished I hadn’t.  I stripped off a layer up top, a button-up long sleeve shirt, and the cool mist felt awesome on the bare, ravaged skin on my arms.  I cracked a smile and noticed Vincent looking my way and doing the same.

          “It is a steep ascent,” he broke the silence, “but you’ve done trekking before.”

          “I’ve done some,” I said, folding my arms to conceal the rash.  I nodded toward the plains.  “The hard work is going on down there.”  

          Vincent scanned the panorama.  “This is the African way.”  He spoke with the familiar, halting English of East Africa, with the enunciation of each syllable.  “It is a simple life, but nature is pleased with simplicity.”  He let that linger. 

          He was a handsome guy and spoke through a grin.  Sporting his ranger gear and rubber boots, hands atop the stick, with a fancy label or two he could have been modeling for an LL Bean catalogue.   He turned from the vista to me with a look of engaging curiosity.  “You have a big family in the USA?  Several children?”  “Several” came out in three distinct syllables.  

          “None, its just me,” I said, knowing what that meant in East Africa, where bachelorhood is an anomaly.  He would find it odd.  A sense of isolation crept through my perception, lingered momentarily, then dissolved into the mist.

          “A life with many freedoms,” Vincent declared, and caught me by surprise.  He was being considerate, not calling attention to my peculiarity.  It was one of the moral lessons of the gentleman, and a memory flashed, my father articulating the concept—I was young, exposed to a disabled child, told to not make him conscious of his affliction.  For a moment, I mulled the universality of morality.  “Yourself?” I asked.

          “I have a wife and two children, not a big family.”  

          I envisioned his home life.  A ranger in a national park, he had a good job.  He would be a member of the “middle class”, one of the relatively few with that distinction in a place like that.  I met his gaze and tried to look sincere, to give him room to speak.  He sensed it and carried on.  “I grew up working the land, as well.  We grew potatoes primarily.  We had banana trees, goats.  We tended to the essentials.”  He looked earnestly at the expanse below.  “When life is simple, it can also be dignified and open.”  (I wondered fleetingly if he’d put an extra syllable into “dignified”—or was I shorting it?) “It can also be difficult in troubled times.”

          Vincent was roughly my age, would have been a teenager or a young man during the genocide, and I wondered for a moment whether he was Hutu or Tutsi, but that was a taboo topic in contemporary Rwanda.  I knew better than to ask.  “These farmers will have many hands to perform the work,” he continued in a lighter manner.  “They may take a second or third wife to aid with the necessities of labors.”  He paused in consideration.

          “A second wife,” I echoed, shaking my head.  “Maybe life isn’t that simple, after all.”  That got a laugh out of Vincent.
          The rest of the group began to emerge from the lush entanglement below: three Austrians I’d met that morning, then two Rwandan kids they seemed to be sponsoring, and then my two travel mates, an Aussie named Mark and a Kiwi named Steph.  I’d been en route with them from Nairobi.  Another ranger brought up the rear.  When everyone had piled in close enough and stopped slipping and sliding, Vincent addressed the group.

          “As I have said, we often have difficult conditions.  The Volcano creates its own weather, which can change rapidly,” he scanned us quickly, back and forth, “but it appears we are all prepared with rain gear.  Has everyone (4 syllables) consumed enough water?”  Quiet nods all around.  He picked at some vegetation and said a few things about the diet of a mountain gorilla.  “If there is sunlight after the rainfall, the gorillas may come to rest.”

          The fog thickened above, but cleared even further below, revealing divisions of land to the horizon in the south, and to a mountain range in the east that must have been the Congo.  There was another farm, very active, a cluster of people working closely, all dressed in orange, contrasting with the earth tones.  I noticed Mark was checking it out too, and squinting.  He pointed to it and inquired to Vincent.

          “That is a communal farm.  The workers in orange are genocide prisoners,” Vincent responded matter-of-factly.  That led to silence among everyone and a few exchanged looks.  “Shall we carry on?”  With nods of confirmation, Vincent renewed the charge.  Steph was still staring toward the field of prisoners.  “Shivers,” she said, and then turned to climb.

          With that, we carried on into the mist.  A slight breeze cascaded down the volcano, and the atmosphere darkened a few shades of gray, like someone had turned down the dimmer.  Tiny rain drops fell, the temperature dropped, and for the first time in awhile, I felt comfortable. Vincent called down, “There are ants along the trail, so we do not stop here.”   I glanced up, then down for boot placement, watched ants crossing the great mud divide from one side of the trail to the other.  They were huge ants, looked big enough to eat.  A few more lunging steps and we were swallowed in the mist.  

          This park was the base for Diane Fossey and her primate research.  Made famous on the cover of a Nat Geo magazine, Fossey was then portrayed on the silver screen by Sigourney Weaver in the 1989 film “Gorillas in the Mist”.  Ms Fossey had conducted research, battled poachers, and possibly saved the mountain gorilla from extinction, but her scraps with the poachers eventually got her killed—by machete.  Of that singular determination, she had also been opposed to tourism on the volcano, but the Fossey Institute had changed course since her death and started promoting it.  Tourism was obviously a huge revenue source.  One-day gorilla permits were running $750US at the time, about half of the per capita GDP of the entire country.  

          “Here we will stop.”  Vincent was standing in a slight clearing beside the trail.  “We should put down our packs, walking sticks, anything that might scare a gorilla.”  I made the clearing, dropped my pack and got dizzy straightening up, a momentary horror that passed, while Vincent continued, “I know what everyone is thinking, and the answer is ‘yes, bring your cameras’.  But please disable the flash.”  It didn’t feel like we’d been hiking that long, but I was feeling lighter, relieved of my daypack on that precipitous grade.

          I noticed others moving forward, upward, and I followed until given the ‘halt’ sign by one of the Austrians.  Steph was next up the hill, her hands raised like she was in line at the airport about to get frisked.  I looked down, and a little black fur ball walked right past her, brushed her leg, and disappeared into the verdant frills to the right.  I looked back at Steph, and she had a humongous smile on her face.  I didn’t know what to do until I saw everyone else moving, so I followed them further up the volcano, and then off the trail into an area that looked tread upon, but not cleared.  It was awfully green, and the black fur of the mountain gorillas contrasted intensely, revealing a whole family of them, resting on the hillside.
          Two little ones scuttled about the diminutive underbrush while the adults sat still.  Another ranger, camouflaged head scarf, navy blue rain jacket, swung a machete slowly to and fro, clearing bits of space where he directed foot traffic among us humans.  When he got close to a gorilla, he grunted at them, mimicking their sound.  He was announcing his presence, and it was very clear they were comfortable around him.  He must have been the tracker.  The rangers had to have someone on the volcano shadowing the gorillas at all times, calling positions with a handheld radio.

          A silverback sat in the middle of the group, the distinct streak of white hair across his back, covering a wall of muscle.  The rangers called him “Charles”, I’d learned that morning.  He was thought to be 23 years old and I’m sure there was extensive research available, although the park was shut down and abandoned for most of the 90’s during civil war.  There was another silverback, slightly smaller, lower on the volcano and in proximity of a couple of females and one of the young.

        I saw that Vincent was talking, so I snapped a few pictures and moved down to where I could hear, keeping an eye on the lead silverback, who ignored me.  If the gorillas were concerned in any way by our arrival, they didn’t show it.  “What we know about the gorillas comes from observation,” Vincent was saying.  “The fossil record of the area is particularly poor, so the evolutionary history is not clear.”

          I took a seat on the hillside, within a few feet of a gorilla.  We were much closer than the 7 meter-recommended distance I’d read about, although in that type of jungle entanglement, you wouldn’t be able to see anything 7 meters away, unless you were looking off the volcano and into space, toward the farm world below, which alternately appeared and disappeared at the whimsy of visibility.  I was very conscious of the silverback and kept him in the corner of my eye. A couple of times he looked my way, and I turned my head not to meet his gaze.  I’d heard that advice—not to look him in the eye, which he might perceive as a challenge.  He stared off into the void while I checked him out, and I wondered what he could see.  Would the lack of circumstance for sharp vision have registered him near-sighted, my evolutionary cousin?
          Then suddenly sunlight filled space, the fog turned phosphorescent, and all the gorillas stretched and yawned and yanked at themselves before settling into rest.  Charles rolled over, exposing his silver back against the lush, bronzed tapestry.  Only the two little ones escaped rest, fidgeting while their mothers cuddled them and tried to nap.  They would momentarily nod off, then poke their heads up and check us out.  Vincent spoke softly, “The silverbacks have been known to fight amongst themselves, but as you can see, they are gentle creatures.  They are not territorial, so they will defend their group rather than any spot on the volcano.”

          And so we spent an hour with the ‘Umabano’ group, their one daily hour of exposure to humans, who snap photos, gawk, and seem generally impressed by the encounter.  And it appeared to be a well-regulated process.  There were 12 gorilla groups in the park, but only 8 had been acclimated toward human contact.  So in groups of 8 people, there would have been a maximum of 64 tourists present at any time, spread out among five considerable volcanoes.  Another ranger appeared from above, a machete in hand and rifle on his back. Charles perked up and craned his neck to look up the mountain.  The ranger stopped in his tracks, drawing comments from the others.  Charles turned his head downhill, and settled his gaze in my direction.  I instinctively averted eye contact but kept my line of site nearby.  I could sense him looking at me.  The ranger above moved, and Charles swung slightly to again observe the recent arrival.  He did it twice more, then seemed to lose interest.  He stared off into space, folded his arms across his chest.   

          In the next moment, everything darkened, and a light mist dusted the hillside.  Vincent made an announcement that our time with the gorillas would soon come to a close.  As I watched fog creeping its way up the volcano, I got the sense again that I was being watched.  It was a feeling devoid of fear, but still an awareness—I knew that Charles was looking at me.  He must have shared some of the same curiosities, (if not neuroses and skin rashes), participated in lots of the same urges.  How different were we?  Slowly, I turned my gaze to meet his.  We looked right at each other, and in that moment, there was the conundrum of Africa, the despair with all the joy, the discomfort and the grace.  The swirling clouds captured chunks of the volcano, released others, and I waved ‘goodbye’ to the gorillas in the mist.