Endangered (12 page)

That night, Mushie made me a nest even nearer to him, Banalia, and Ikwa. Songololo slept in it along with me and Otto. Whenever I'd look over toward Anastasia, I'd see her eyes trained on me in the moonlight.

Every morning I would climb the tallest tree to check out the
kata-kata
's position. After ten days, it was almost a routine. Usually I'd find the core dozen or so that I was coming to recognize on sight. Other times their numbers swelled, and I'd see men hanging out of the windows, relaxing on the roof, urinating against the nursery's mural wall. One day a truck appeared in the driveway and never moved again; if the region really was at war, there was probably nowhere to get gas.

Sometimes they shouted loud enough for me to hear — they spoke Swahili or some other language I didn't recognize. Once, though, I watched them get drunk on some foul brown corn brew, stand at the enclosure gate, and shout for me in accented Lingala, their eyes dancing mad. I was glad they were too far away for me to make out most of the words. I'd been careful never to go near enough to the fence to be seen, and of course didn't reveal myself then. So they switched over to calling to the bonobos: “Animals, animals, give us meat, meat!” Maybe they figured apes spoke Lingala. They chanted the phrase over and over. In Lingala,
animal
is just the plural form of
meat
— which tells you a lot about the state of wildlife conservation in Congo.
Banyama, banyama, pesa biso nyama, nyama!
It stuck in my head for some time.
Banyama, ban yama, pesa biso nyama, nyama!

I took pleasure in how scrawny the rebels looked, while as far as the bonobos were concerned it was as if the attack had never happened. Realizing that the soldiers were starving was small
consolation when, one morning, I smelled an awful sweet smoke as they burned corpses somewhere. Then I hoped the
kata-kata
starved until there was nothing left.

With the soldiers there, my best option remained the same: stay with the bonobos while I waited for my parents to get through and rescue me. We were fairly secure in our position. The protective fence was humming away, and the bonobos stayed clear of the front half of the enclosure — they had a long memory for gunfire.

I knew there wasn't any electricity running to the sanctuary, because at night there was never any light from the buildings. Once the
kata-kata
had run through the gas for the generators, they were in the dark as much as I was. At least it didn't mean the fence, with its solar panels, was out. Thank God no rebellion could cut off the sun.

I was sure my father was doing everything he could to get me out, once he realized I wasn't on the evacuation flight out of Kinshasa — but if the rebels had control of the airport, if they'd chased out the UN, there was nothing he could do to help me except wait for liberation. He might have assumed I'd been killed long ago. He probably feared I was in the hands of the rebels as much as he feared I was dead. But I couldn't possibly get word to him. I had to remain in the enclosure until someone finally came and chased away the
kata-kata
.

At least it didn't seem like food would be an issue; there was more to eat in the enclosure than I'd first thought. Every time one food source was depleted, the bonobos discovered another. They liked fruits the most, but once those dwindled they began selecting certain leaves and munching on those, too. It took a lot more greenery than fruit to feel full, so foraging went from a few-hours-a-day activity to a major occupation. Even the youngest bonobos began to help collect food.

I remembered my mom telling me that a big reason for the bonobos' peaceful society was how plentiful food is south of the Congo River. The Congo is so wide that it effectively splits the country in two. Chimpanzees live north of the river, where there are also gorillas. Since the bigger gorillas leave chimps only a fraction of the quantity of food bonobos get, each chimp must fight ferociously to survive, including killing other chimpanzees. Watching my bonobos groom and play, even as their mouths were full of leaves, made me proud. Kindness was a luxury that only the full belly could afford.

During my second week in the enclosure, giant green gourds began to soften and sag and drop from the trees. Each was nearly the size of an infant bonobo, and a few breadfruit were enough of a meal for the whole group. Within a few days of the first ripening, more of them were dropping than we could ever eat. The skins were too leathery to bite through, so old Ikwa used his sharp rock to open them. I joined him, using a similar rock, but lacking Ikwa's strength I had to use it as a knife, slicing rather than smashing. It worked better, though. Other bonobos started bringing their fruits to me and dropping them at my feet. I'd cut back the peels and hand them back. They'd rub against me as ape payment, and then lay back to enjoy their lunch. The air was full of a sweet, overripe smell and the high-pitched calls of fruit-sticky bonobos. I'll forever remember the image of muscular Mushie lying back, mouth hanging open, while Songololo picked out a morsel to eat from between his jaws, happily smacking it between her teeth.

We'd fragment into small groups during the day to forage and come back together at night. I was still terrible at making nests, so Mushie would dutifully make me and Otto one before crafting his own. Even though she hadn't attacked us since that rainy night, I couldn't get to sleep before seeing Anastasia fall asleep first. Otto had had a raspy cough ever since we'd been forced to sleep on the
wet ground, and I wasn't about to let her subject him to that again. But ever since Songololo's breaking over to my side, everything had been remarkably peaceful — in fact, anyone who observed us during the days of the fruit harvest probably wouldn't have known the bonobos had a queen or Pink Ladies at all. The matriarchy revealed itself only at times of stress. Like when I first intruded into the enclosure and a hairy screeching bonobo dropped on me during the middle of a rainy night. Times like that.

Mushie may have been charming, but I found myself most often searching out the company of old Ikwa. I had no idea how old he actually was, since he seemed as strong and able as the other male bonobos, but he had distinguished silver whiskers under his chin, and one eye that was rheumy and blue-gray. Plenty of females displayed themselves to him or invited him in for a kiss, but he ignored them, keeping his focus on the horizon. I loved sitting next to him at sundown, high in a tree to get a better view of the gold and purple in the distance, swinging our legs as we watched the sun disappear.

I had more chances to get to know the other bonobos as Otto was growing increasingly independent. He still checked in with me, but in between times he'd range, playing with Songololo and the other young bonobos. He learned a game from them that everyone else enjoyed with gusto but made my heart stop: They'd climb the highest tree they could find and then, after a few minutes of goading, drop to the ground, saving themselves from splattering by grabbing a branch at the last possible moment. Otto would run up to me proudly, coughing his cough and rasping his laugh, all to scamper back up the tree with his friends and start the game all over again.
Don't forget
, I wanted to call after him,
that you have only eight fingers, and they have ten.

Meanwhile, it was becoming apparent that Mushie had a painful crush on Anastasia. While she submitted to the attentions of
other males and females, she wouldn't give Mushie the time of day. Apparently his rank wasn't up to her standards.

That didn't stop him from trying, though. He'd race around her in a circle, finally flopping to the ground in exhaustion. He'd come up behind her and drop a pile of leaves on her head, running away in surprise when she snarled back. He'd reach a hand out to stroke her palm, only to see it batted away. Finally he gave up and collapsed at her feet, his head turned away in misery. She ignored him. Slowly, he let his arm uncurl toward her. His hand landed right by her thigh and, building up his courage, he flicked his fingers so they toyed with Anastasia's hair. She moved over a fraction so he was no longer touching her. Mushie lay there, staring at her. Then, finally, Anastasia headed into the jungle and stared back, waiting for him to follow.

Mushie was in such a good mood when he returned that the other bonobos crowded around him to see what was the matter. But he didn't give up his secrets, just lay back, blissed out. Ikwa and I, old souls, watched the beginning of the love affair from our perch in the tree.

The other young males kept bothering Mushie, and like rowdy teens they engaged in some good-natured jostling, ending in all-out wrestling. They got so into it that Mushie was barely aware that he was rolling toward the fence. I called out a warning, but before he could stop himself, Mushie rolled right into it.

And nothing happened.

The fence was off.

I never found out why the fence cut off. Maybe the
kata-kata
got creative and found a way to turn off the juice so they could finally have meat. Maybe something in the system shorted since there was no one maintaining it. It had been cloudy for a few days; maybe the solar panels couldn't muster up enough energy anymore, and without backup from the national power lines, they gave out.

Whatever the reason, the fence was down.

Assuming the
kata-kata
weren't behind the power cut, I figured I had a little time. The rebels had tested the fence in their initial days, had gotten shocked plenty, and had left it alone ever since. They seemed to be like the bonobos: once jolted and forever wary. The problem, though, was that the humming of the lines was gone. As soon as they walked near, the soldiers would piece together what that meant.

I considered waiting it out. Even once the
kata-kata
got in, the enclosure was large enough that I could secret myself away like the bonobos, taking to the trees. But hiding on high was no defense against bullets; the orphans all around me were proof of that. There was only the one entrance to the enclosure — I could imagine the
kata-kata
manning a guard there with a machete in case anyone tried to escape while the rest hunted us inside, pulling their net tight until we were penned. They'd slaughter the adults for food, keep the young bonobos as pets or for sale, and do who knows what to me. Or worse: I had a very good idea of what they would do to me.

Our best chance was to escape before they figured out that the fence was off. They were wary of an attack from another rebel group, or of official forces arriving. That meant their attention would be focused on the front of the sanctuary; they wouldn't be ready for something to emerge from my side. Certainly not a girl with an ape.

It seemed wisest for Otto and me to leave during the night, but with clouds shielding the sliver of moon, the dark was near absolute. I'd be lucky to find my way out of the enclosure without breaking a leg, much less successfully navigate the main sanctuary and the front driveway. It would be better, I decided, to leave at first light. I'd noticed that the rebels tended to sleep in, only emerging from the main building a few hours after daybreak.

I knew to avoid the roads in times of war — any child knew that. I didn't have an exact plan of what to do, but since the capital was about thirty kilometers away, basically west, Otto and I could walk away from the morning sun and get there in maybe two days, taking trails or following streambeds and foraging as we went. I knew the assassination had happened in Kinshasa, but my hope was the capital would be the first place the UN would secure and that once I was there I could try my aunt's house. I really wished I could head straight for my mother's place, but there was no one there. It had probably been looted clean by now.

I didn't sleep much that night, hashing and rehashing the next morning's strategy. As soon as dawn came, I nudged Otto awake. He groggily sat up, snorting back the mucus that had accumulated during the night. I'd taken to wearing socks on my hands for sleeping to cut back on bites and rashes, and as I peeled them off, I used one to wipe his nose. He yawned and curled against me, nodding back to sleep.
Perfect
, I thought as he clutched me.
I would love for you to sleep through this.

I tried to extract us from the nest without waking Songololo, but that would have been hard enough in a bed, even worse in an
improvised hammock that tipped and rocked with every movement. She was instantly up, peering down over the side of the tied branches as Otto and I descended, her eyes open wide.

Don't follow, please don't follow
, I prayed as I worked my way down, branch by branch, unhitching the nearly empty duffel bag at the bottom and tossing it over my shoulder. But there was Songololo standing in front of us, wringing her hands and glancing back at Anastasia, then back at me. She had two moms, a real one and a surrogate, and she'd chosen the surrogate.

Now we would be three.

Part of me was frustrated, because having Songololo along lessened our chances of escape, but I was also relieved that I wouldn't have to live with the guilt of leaving her yet again in the hands of the
kata-kata
. We picked our way through the pale yellow dawn jungle, Otto dozing on my back and Songololo walking beside me, her hand in mine. I felt something in my chest, both sharp and sloshy, that I first thought was anxiety, but then realized was guilt. Major guilt. The bonobos snoozing above me were pretty well doomed. But what could I do? I knew that I didn't have a great chance of getting myself out of this alive, less with Otto and Songololo, and much less with thirty bonobos herding alongside me. Not that they would follow me to Kinshasa, no matter what I did — bonobos weren't pack animals, they were social foragers. There was no leading them anywhere, unless it was to a nearby clearing for fragrant leaves. Even if they did freakishly decide to follow me to the capital, what would I do, parade with them down war-torn streets and hope people would be nice to us?

I'd done the best I could. And though I didn't like the feeling of leaving them behind, I'd be able to live with the guilt of abandoning the other bonobos if it meant keeping Otto, Songololo, and myself alive.

We passed the central pond, then the fallen tree where Otto and I had spent our first night. When we finally came to the enclosure gate, I peered out between the wires. There was no one in the yard, and no movement in the buildings' windows. So far, so good.

I kneeled down to input the code, and panicked when the panel of buttons didn't work. Then I laughed at myself.
You moron. The power's off. You don't need a code.

I pulled on the gate and it swung free. I closed it quietly behind me.

I avoided the nursery, whose murals were now partly obscured by rubbery black stains where the rebels had burned the corpses of my friends. I took the other path instead, which led alongside the administration building. It was my first chance since the attack to see it up close: Garbage overflowed out the back door, one wall was sprayed with bullet holes, and a couple of black circles were on the grass where the men had inexplicably burned tires.

Some of the windows had been busted out of their frames. Otto was on my back, but to protect Songololo's feet, I swung her over the sprays of glass shards that swirled through the grass. She seemed to know that she needed to stay quiet. The scene was too strange and anxious for her, though, and she made a stream of whispered murps. I squeezed her hand as we cautiously walked forward.

We'd have to avoid the gravel in front, because of the noise our feet would make crunching on it, and instead skirt the grassy edges of the driveway.

I'd made it to the front of the building, where the UN van had once been, when I heard rustling behind me. I stood stock-still.

Songololo was the first to turn and look, and she shrieked exuberantly.

There, at the edge of the administration building, was Anastasia. She'd followed us. She'd followed her daughter.

Songololo shrieked again and ran to her, climbing up Anastasia's back and wrapping her arms around her mother's neck. Anastasia didn't move. Keeping her eyes on me, she plucked a rake from the side of the building and started using it to gather the garbage into neat rows. She was mimicking what she'd seen the gardeners do — after all, she'd spent more of her life with humans than with bonobos. Performing the chore was just a place to put her anxiety, though; she raked the same spot over and over while she stared at me.

Songololo's jubilant shrieks were very loud. Though the guards must have become accustomed to bonobo calls, they wouldn't be expecting them from this side of the building. We had to get away.

Clutching Otto to me, I continued down the path.

There was rustling behind me, and foot- and hand-steps on the gravel.
Fine
, I thought as I kept walking, resolutely not turning around.
Go ahead and follow me, Anastasia.

But something was wrong. There was way too much noise for it to be only Anastasia and Songololo following.

I allowed myself to turn around. I was right: It wasn't just Anastasia anymore.

The front lawn was dotted with black shapes. I quickly stitched together what had happened. Songololo had followed me. Anastasia had followed Songololo. Mushie had followed his crush. Like any dutiful Pink Lady, Banalia had followed her queen. And Old Ikwa, nearly blind and an easy victim to peer pressure, had ambled along behind. Five bonobos out on the lawn.

They greeted loudly, calling and rubbing against one another to purge the anxiety of their new surroundings. Even as Otto and I crept down the driveway, I watched them, glad they were out of
the enclosure, but the thought running over everything else in my head was
We're dead we're dead we're dead
.

I gave up on creeping and started running down the path with Otto. I hoped Anastasia would follow like she had before, but now that I didn't have her daughter with me, she stayed. Which meant the other bonobos did, too.

When the
kata-kata
woke up and looked out their windows, they'd find bonobos grooming one another on the front lawn not twenty feet away, perfect shooting-gallery distance.

I shouted, “Come on! Move!” and waved my hands in the air.

The bonobos froze in mid-rubbing and stared at me. Which meant they were all looking the other way when one of the second-story windows opened and the muzzle of a rifle poked out.

“No!” I shouted. “Go, everyone! Now!”

The man behind the rifle started shouting, and more windows opened.

There was a flash of light, and all I could think was
Why are they taking a picture?
but then I saw Banalia turn gracefully with one leg splayed out, like a ballet dancer, only her head was open and a cloud of red mist framed it, and she was down on the ground, twitching in a way that I knew meant she was gone.

I heard the shot and the bonobos' answering screams all at once. They were suddenly creatures of pure energy, blurs of black jetting across the clearing and into the trees. Only Otto was stiff and unmoving, stunned and heavy at my back. The living bonobos were gone and it was only Otto and me facing the men at the windows.

I crashed into the trees surrounding the sanctuary. The bonobos had taken to the branches and were already far ahead — I could see fronds waving in the distance. Leaves and spiderwebs lashed my face as I pushed through, and fat panicked birds took to
the sky. I couldn't spare time to plan where I was going, and wound up in a stream up to my knees, pitching forward into the muck. Otto cried in terror at my back as I foundered, but I regained my footing, and we were back to running through the trees.

I was much slower than the bonobos, but after a few minutes of frantic fleeing they took a break, Anastasia and Mushie assuming a high perch and scanning the group, then shrieking for us to continue. I lost sight of them a couple of times, but then I'd glimpse a black blur leaping between trees and I'd regain my bearings. Inevitably the first bonobo I'd manage to catch up to would be Ikwa, who was slower than the rest. We became two halves of the troop: Anastasia and Mushie and Songololo high and in front; Ikwa, Otto, and I lower and in the rear.

By then there were no more gunshots behind us, or sounds of pursuit. I figured the
kata-kata
had realized that the enclosure was open, and they'd headed in for the rest of the bonobos. It wouldn't end well. All great apes were naturally wary, but, because of my mother's painstaking work, these bonobos had become accustomed to seeing humans as allies. I tried not to imagine them descending from the trees to investigate the new humans in the enclosure, as they had once done for me, tried not to imagine them running forward, arms outstretched and excitedly calling for food, and getting a machete in response.

I knew at least Banalia was dead; that had happened right in front of my eyes. They would either eat her now or smoke her body to sell the meat. It made my stomach turn — the DNA in that meat was almost 99 percent the same as human DNA; it was nearly cannibalism. But the men were hungry.

It was cold comfort that the massacre of the remaining bonobos would slow the
kata-kata
and aid our escape. It made me feel bad, but in an abstract, numb way. I was tired of living for the
memory of those who'd been lost, for the memory of Otto's family and that of those twin bonobos, gripping the bars of their cage as the trafficker pedaled away.

Now that the immediate threat was over and seemingly forgotten, Anastasia stopped moving and began to forage, taking advantage of the plentiful fruit in an area that had never seen bonobos. The others followed her lead. There was a lot of dithering and stopping to groom or rub, but despite their stress everyone got a fair amount of food in. Otto descended from my back and began to forage, too, following Mushie for a while before coming to find me and leading me to a papaya tree. I crashed one papaya with a rock to slit it open, gave half of the fruit to Otto, kept half for myself, and settled down to eat. When Songololo came to join us, I cut open a papaya for her as well. What she didn't eat went to Ikwa.

It was barely afternoon, but it appeared the group was settling in here through the evening. After the morning we'd had, filling my belly with papaya and sitting in the grass and staring at nothing sounded fine. As long as we hadn't been followed.

The bonobos went about their foraging with a single-mindedness that made me jealous. Was it possible that, for them, the morning's events hadn't happened? No. I knew their emotional intelligence, their delicate minds so near my own. Ikwa kept picking at the same spot on his back, where there was no bite or scab. Mushie had gone from tenderly soliciting affection from Anastasia to standing on his hands and falling into her, running away, and shrieking his head off when she responded angrily, then starting all over again. Things weren't normal for the bonobos.