Caught in the Cross Fire

We set out on foot from a small village nestled at the base of Mt. Bisoke and spent the next few hours following buffalo paths up steep muddy inclines, cutting through thick vegetation, and diligently trying to avoid the stinging nettles that grazed our arms. Clutching at roots and branches to drag ourselves up a particularly strenuous uphill stretch, our armed guide stopped in his tracks and motioned for silence. With the intensity of a magician revealing his secret behind the veil, Jean Pierre pushes aside the greenery to reveal a full grown Silverback munching on wild celery. The gorilla glaces in our direction, his eyes strikingly human, offers up a humph of indignation, and continues with his breakfast. Adrenaline fueled excitement pulses through me, my eyes wild in amazement, as I stood paralyzed, stunned by the reality in front of me.

About half of the world’s remaining 700 mountain gorillas live in the Virunga Mountains of central Africa. Dissected by the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) and Rwanda, the dramatic slopes of these volcanic mountains are lush with tropical forests, an enormous diversity of mammals, birds, and reptiles, and civil unrest that has gripped this region for decades.  The plight of the mountain gorilla has been well documented over the past 20 years, and it is widely recognized that the future of these magnificent creatures is in great peril.  Slash and burn agriculture and logging have accelerated loss of habitat, black market demand for their hands and feet as trophy pieces have incentivized poachers, and capturing infants to raise as pets have all contributed to their dwindling numbers. However, in the last few years, the mountain gorilla has added yet another adversary to its list, and unfortunately these guys are proving to be much more deadly.

Sitting on top of Mount Bisoke, embraced by the chill of a gray, soggy mist I pull my knees into my chest and stare pensively across her crater lake. The deep green canopy of trees and mysterious mountains tainted by images of news headlines—rebels, AK-47’s, child soldiers, death, dying, despair—consume the landscape. The invisible border that slices the peak of Mount Bisoke in half intrigues me, and it’s only my faint sense of reason and responsibility that keeps my bum firmly planted on the Rwandan side. The rest of me wants to approach that line , to wiggle my toes across it, to dance a little happy dance, just to see what happens. Just to say I did.

“Shhh, listen. You hear that?”  My ears strain to hear the faint pop, pop, pop in the distance. Cutting through the thick mist I could just barely make out the dull cracking of bullets. I don’t shutter in fear. I don’t worry about our safety. I sit quietly and I listen. I acknowledge the bullets, their seeming familiarity with the landscape, and sadly it’s almost like they belong.

The horror of the Rwandan Hutu-Tutsi genocide that captured the world’s attention in 1994 continues to wreak havoc on the eastern region of the DRC. Fleeing UN persecution, Hutu extremists were granted refuge in the DRC by President Mobutu where they launched continued attacks on Rwanda and laid the foundation for a bitter, highly-political period of conflict and lawlessness that continues today.  The resource rich Virunga Mountain Range is one of Africa’s most bio-diverse regions, and a highly coveted position of control for rebel groups. In July 2007, the headquarters of Virunga National Park was taken by a rebel group in a plot masterminded by Honore Mashagiro, the Director of Virunga NP himself. The attack resulted in the slaughter of 9 gorillas, the acquisition of millions of dollars worth of resources, and control of land that thousands of people rely on for their livelihood—a major power move that has had, and will continue to have devastating consequences for the people of the eastern region of the DRC.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of daily life in the eastern DRC as Kate and I explored the strangely deserted streets of Goma a few days later. Aside from UN patrols of armed men and a few lone construction workers repairing a section of road long past repair, the streets were curiously bare. We hired two motorbikes to take us to the outskirts of town where a friend was preparing dinner for us. The further we got from Goma’s center, the more populated the streets became, and slowly, the energy and commotion felt wonderfully African again. But signs of war were everywhere. Machetes and guns. People with missing hands and deformed skulls. Temporary camps. But life too was normal. Prince and his family welcomed us into their small home, and set before us a feast of ugali, fried fish, and greens. Children peaked through the windows, giggling at the sight of muzungus. Christian music blared from a nearby store and conversation spiraled around politics, religion, and hopes for the future. Prince introduced us to his wife and new daughter, we took photographs with his mother, uncles, and curious kids. I had so many questions and wished the language barrier wasn’t quite so pronounced. I was desperately curious to know sort of truth was really behind the headlines.

Uganda, Rwanda, and the DRC all officially charge visitors $500 to track gorillas, however in the latter, the lack of regulation allows for activities that are detrimental to the conservation of this disappearing species. There are a plethora of companies and individuals who will offer tours for drastically less, most of whom are connected to rebel groups or corrupt park rangers taking a backhander. Beyond that, stumbling upon unhabituated family groups is dangerous not only for yourself (gorillas are incredibly territorial, especially when young are involved), but for the gorillas as well, who’s increased tolerance of human contact puts them at heightened risk in the face of a poacher. Virunga NP leaves much to be desired and visitors to the region should do their homework before setting off on an unofficial gorilla trek.

“Do you want to go see the gorillas?” Prince inquired, just as we were heading back into town before darkness fell over the streets. Explaining that we had seen gorillas in Rwanda, Prince continued. “I can get you diamonds. Cheap. Please my friend, please.” Kate and I glanced at each other knowing full well that the source of the diamonds were just as toxic as supporting the gorilla trade. The pang of desperation in his voice left me feeling helpless, as this kind man stood before me simply trying to support his family in a country where the luxury of ethics is obsolete, his options come down to mere survival.