27.

GORILLA ON MY SHOULDER

Don’t look them in the eye. And don’t smile. It’s a sign of aggression.” The guide’s advice about gorillas ran contrary to our social training, but we followed him up the faint trail without a murmur. Our group of six was eager to go before the moist heat of the day melted us in our boots. We brushed under a canopy of overhanging cecropia leaves and plunged through a fringe of bamboo. He turned to us with a final warning. “And one more thing. If they touch you, just sit still.” I imagined a five-hundred-pound gorilla coming up to me and patting me on the back. Still was not an image that came easily.

Paul and I had looked forward to this expedition as the highlight of our three-week trip to Kenya, Tanzania, and Rwanda to look at wildlife. It was 1984, and Rwanda’s Virunga National Park was still relatively peaceful and abounding with gorillas.

I thought back to the only other time I had visited gorillas. My parents brought Peggy, Richard, and me to Europe when I was nine. Our driver was a friend of the London zookeeper and had arranged for us to have a backroom tour of the gorilla cages. Peggy was a budding adolescent of thirteen. She had long brown hair and behind her tortoiseshell glasses her brown eyes were wide open to the world. The zookeeper led the way, with Peggy following at his heels. Richard and I were close behind.

When we reached the gorilla’s cage the keeper opened the door. A male gorilla, larger than the three of us put together, lumbered onto a table in the feeding hall. He had silver hair on his back, which we were told was typical of a mature male. In that moment I was glad to be at the back of the line. The silverback seated himself comfortably. His eyes fixed on Peggy and he leaned forward, inviting her into his space. Trusting her instinct, she moved close enough to smell his breath. His long, hairy arm reached out with fingers extended to touch her cheek. He was surprisingly gentle. His fingers had dark nails and wrinkles around the joints. They looked almost human.

With his right index finger he carefully opened her mouth and examined each tooth with the care of a sensitive dentist. Then he moved his finger up to her nostrils and, with the same gentleness, opened each one. He was really seeing her. Had he not been dressed in black fur, I might have thought we were at our family physician for an annual exam. I was envious of all the attention on my sister. My nine-year-old self already felt in her shadow, seeing how my father favored her, while my mother preferred my brother. I wanted someone to favor me. Even a gorilla. I pushed closer, hoping to divert the large hairy beast’s attention and redeem myself as special.

It was hopeless. The gorilla would not take his eyes off Peggy. To make matters worse, he leaned closer to her and very carefully kissed her on her cheek. Now I was really jealous. I suspect my brother was, too, for he would not let me get in front of him. We jostled for position and finally both of us squeezed closer, shoulder to shoulder, making ourselves so obvious that the gorilla could no longer ignore us. With a sigh, the large animal momentarily turned his eyes from Peggy and gave each of us a perfunctory pat on the head before turning back to his newfound love. No amount of antics, wishing, or demanding could draw him away from her. This was an all too familiar story.

Twenty-three years later, I was still plagued by memories of being last, unseen, and unsure of how or whether I belonged. My mother had faced similar doubts and had coped by escaping to the sea during gale-force winds. The tumultuous sea brought her back to herself, forcing her to stay present and forget everything but survival. Through her I learned to equate the natural elements and adventure with self-discovery and hope.

I felt the heartbeat of this ancient land. I reflected once again on “Androcles and the Lion,” about a boy who is protected between the paws of a lion after removing a thorn from its paw. It gave me an image of myself as part of a larger family where people and animals are interconnected.

The steep trail up the side of the volcano was choked with stinging nettles and vines that made progress difficult. I left Paul’s side and worked my way up to the front of the line behind our Rwandan guide. He was dressed in a dark green uniform and carried a rusty Lee-Enfield rifle at his side in case poachers threatened us. He walked with quick, accurate strides, avoiding sticks and curled-up leaves whose cracks and crunches might signal our presence. He stopped every so often to look up at the trees while we waited for the last person in our group to catch up. The lagging man wore a prosthetic leg and was missing an arm. He needed a cane to walk. Even more than for the rest of us, this trip was a life’s dream. We willingly moved at his pace.

It seemed like hours before the first sign of gorillas appeared. We were tired and muddy. Our guide had warned us that it might take most of the day to find them and we would have to be as quiet and patient as possible. I kept close to him, hoping to get the first sighting. I imagined a thick black hand reaching out from behind a tree. Instead, our first glimpse was a shiver of leaves in the distant canopy. I would not have recognized the movement as a sign of gorillas, but our guide put his hand up to stop. He crouched down and slinked along the trail on fingers and toes until he came within throwing distance of the gorilla-occupied trees. He determined they had accepted our presence and beckoned us forward. We sat down in a circle with our backs toward the gorillas and lowered our heads to communicate peace and nonaggression. I could hear my heart drumming in my ears. Time expanded. I reminded myself to breathe.

There was scrambling in the trees. To my right I saw what looked like a two-year-old swinging from branch to branch as it made its way to the ground. It bounced in our direction like a curious child. I kept my head turned at a forty-five-degree angle, careful not to look at it directly.

A silverback male emerged from behind the base of the same tree and followed the baby. I curled myself in a tighter ball and peered out from under my elbow. He was an impressive animal with a prominent head and shoulders, expansive chest, and long hairy arms. He easily weighed six hundred pounds. His presence must have relayed a message to the mother and other members of the troop, for they stayed up in the trees.

I prayed the baby would come close to me. I also prayed that the father would not. This was not the back corridor of a zoo. It was the real deal and we were guests in their playground and dining room. I was glad gorillas were vegetarians.

It took all my willpower to sit still and not stare right at them or smile dumbly in a way that might communicate aggression. I was glad Paul was next me. His hand found mine and squeezed tightly. We were soaked with sweat. A fly circled my face. Here in the jungle, with the grunts of gorillas around us, I felt a sense of kinship stretching back to a time when my ancestors had very few words. In the curve of the gorillas’ foreheads, I saw the horizon of time. My tears flowed.

A flash of fur darted behind me. No sooner did my heart leap than I felt something warm and furry climb up my back. It smelled of sweat and leaves and its little, hairless fingers grabbed at my right shoulder as it jumped down. Goose bumps rose over my body. I might have shouted for joy had I not been aware of the male gorilla lumbering behind the baby. When he reached a distance of ten feet from my left side, he stopped and watched. I hid my eyes. This simple form of hide-and-seek must have attracted the baby, for it climbed back on my right shoulder, snuffling and pulling my ear. I imagined that playing with my own children might feel like this.

Curiosity, play, and exploration: I had observed this in humans, dogs, cats, horses, lions, and elephants, and now with gorillas in the wild. This time I was the subject of fascination. The little one somersaulted off my back and nibbled my right knee. I wished he were my brother.