Anthony Wain travels to the forests of Gabon to meet up with some distant relatives.
KIN
Down in the jungle where nobody goes,
I was told of a fishing camp,
Where if I chose,
I could go in a dugout
Through mangrove and swamp,
To visit a beach where the green turtles romp
The twin-engined, hollow log —an African irony — slices through the limpid river. Far ahead I make out a fringe of mangrove. Too far to swim? On cue the outboard splutters and drowns. Feverishly, the prop is dragged up to reveal a plastic garrotte — civilisation is never far. Swift panga strokes and we are off, both engines beating a foamy wake in the cocoa waters.
I perch uneasily astride a loose plank, my knees braced against a sheaf of fresh baguettes and a beautiful but enigmatic girl, her long hair streaming. West Africa, Gabon; café society, African mystery. The odour of the river, the swamp and the sack of garlic at my feet overwhelm — the pungency of travel is difficult to write.
At speed we sweep into creeks, avoiding interlocked mangroves. The wake spreads, slopping between arching roots, sending birds teetering up and crabs scuttling down. A youth upfront recces our route, watching for mudbanks or renegade logs that float at waterlevel and threaten a pitch-pole.
We sweep around a bend; we’re here. The mangroves yield to bludgeoned, logged-out forest; we beach. Upstream cut logs wallow, corralled by booms, awaiting a tow to the saw.
I decant — a fine term for falling off a log and slithering to a waiting 4×4. The driver extricates himself, a French giant, bull-necked, crew-cut, oddly named Betty!
Roaring off into the forest, the trees swallow the road, the vehicle and us. My first experience of rain forest other than via glossy geographics or whispered documentaries, I quiver in awe. No medium can do it justice — it is too tall, too grand, too dense to describe. One has to close one’s eyes and listen to it breathe. A single organism, living and perspiring.
We plunge on into sunlight and a savannah surprise, rolling grassland, forest islands scattered in archipelagos. Staring dwarf buffalos stir around the fringes, ready to vanish if challenged.
We rollercoaster on, then pop out on the coastal plain. Before us, endless beach, the sea rolling with lazy waves. Home is a fishing camp, a grass hut, slap on the equator. Betty, his daughter, the beautiful girl and I gaze at the darkening sky as an eclipse begins. All, save the waves, is still. Sun and moon collide. The girl declares the emerging crescent sun a “croissant brille”. Heaven too is French!
Next morning, guide Salvadori arrives for “la promenade au forêt (the forest walk)”. The temperature climbs, the humidity follows. I stagger up and off, drenched in insecticide, sweat, safari suit and sensible shoes. Salvadori is barefoot and in shorts. “Elephant?” I speak loudly in English-for-foreigners. He nods, patronising.
Crossing the plain, the forest looms and we penetrate the trees in tunnels elephantine. Stealthily following the pocked track, no birds sing, no leaves stir. The silence is palpable. Salvadori and the forest are equally dark and silent.
We shimmy through the leaf litter until, nearby, a branch cracks like a gunshot. Ellies! We freeze. “Inhale them, smell them,” Salvadori mimes. Leafy swags obscure us from our prey. Great rustlings grow closer, betraying their invisibility. Closer still. Grinding teeth splinter wood.
From behind a green curtain I peek out, to see a mother and calf forest elephant. Not dwarf, but petite. We are in a trance. The calf, its ears flat, spaghetti-thin trunk corkscrewing wildly, dances. More of the invisible creatures join our pair. I imagine four, but see none. Swiftly the leaf-shakers blunder off and the forest peace returns.
Salvadori yanks me out of my reverie. We’re off. Emerging into brightness, meandering on game trails up a grand, grassy mall flanked by forest. It’s a classical English landscape on the equator, complete with a lost Oxford, including the domes and spires of Termite Town. Millions of inhabitants have chewed and forged a surreal paper metropolis. We gulliver on, crest the hill and the plain sweeps down to the sea. We sweep after it, to a shelving beach.
Other tracks distract me. “Turtles?” I mime in hopeful breast-stroke. “Turtle’s off,” Salvadori signs back.
Back at camp I am at last introduced to the kin I came to see. First encounters of close family may be unkind, awkward affairs. Introductions to albeit distant family can still leave us quizzical, searching for the tie that binds — facial feature, look or laugh. So consider meeting kin who not only share ancestry, but also share no less than 98% of your DNA, or conversely, you hers!
Zoa, a young, hand-reared orphan, lowland gorilla is playing boules. Intent on her game, she ignores me. But I soon distract her, she looks up and her eyes mesmerise. Swaggering forward, she embraces my shins, plumps down on my feet and in three pulls scales me. Furry arms clasp my neck and we snuggle.
Another heave by ear and eyebrow, and she is on my shoulders, small black hands cradle my face, a loving hat. We bond. The family likeness is awesome. Like this we stay, we eat and drink, she defecates. Families forgive much.
I gain priceless observations of a baby – a rare joy. I suffer sad introspection on her parents’ bush-meat slaughter and the human condition to blame. Homo sapiens? There is little “sapient” about human beings, if we choose to ignore the consequences of our being human.
For Zoa and her kin, the past World Summit on Sustainable Development was not a forum, it was a colosseum. Life or Death.
I hope the family has a future …