The gorillas had spent several days in a steep, shrub-choked valley outside the forest and we hiked for half an hour through morning sunlight and broad-leaved banana plantations. Worn smooth by generations of sandals and bare feet, the path wound across the hard red earth, connecting fields, families and farms. Collared sunbirds darted through the air above our heads, searching for dew and nectar in the drooping clusters of banana blossoms. The trackers diverted from the main pathway and we began following a dry creekbed, ascending slowly towards a fragment of rainforest at the head of the narrow valley.

The rasp of a saw echoed rhythmically through the air and we soon met a man carrying freshly-hewn mahogany planks. He balanced the load easily on his head, nimbly crossing the rocks in bare feet as he descended towards the village. Medad and the trackers greeted him and exchanged a few words. The timber was being cut to order for several carpenters in town, where the demand for hardwoods far outstripped the supply. When Bwindi was still a forest reserve, loose regulations and large scale corruption ensured a steady flow of illegal timber to lumber merchants throughout the district. Mature hardwoods disappeared from much of the forest before the park was created, and most stands of native woods outside the reserve were cleared altogether. The few mature trees remaining in this valley would soon be gone, cut and sold by their owner, an irascible old farmer named Behuari.

Less than twenty years ago, Behuari's valley was connected to Bwindi by a large forest that stretched for several miles along the ridgetop west of Buhoma. The area formed a central part of Katendegyere group's home range, and although most of the trees have fallen prey to the demand for wood and seasonal croplands, the group still crosses large distances of open space to visit patches of forest like Behuari's. More than once we sat with the gorillas and heard a thundering crash of timber as another piece of their dwindling rainforest home was literally cut down around them. The situation seemed almost contrived, like an elaborate fundraising advertisement for Greenpeace or the World Wildlife Fund. It was, however, unfortunately and poignantly real, a sad microcosm of conservation problems in Uganda, where the rapidly expanding human population is pressing right up to the edge of protected areas.

IGCP and the park had both offered far above market value for Behuari's land, but he refused to sell. He owned other shambas closer to the village, but this valley was an important family asset, something more tangible and lasting than any one-time payment of cash. In desperation we offered him a logging contract, agreeing to purchase all the timber in the valley with only one stipulation, that he left it standing. This too failed and the trees continued to fall.
As we climbed up the valley, the banana fields thinned to a few ill-tended clumps clinging to the steep hillside. The guides had told me that Behuari planted here with no expectations of harvest. He knew the gorillas often raided these outlying patches, and wanted to supplement his logging income with crop damage compensation from the park. With Behuari, we had learned that the pronunciation of his name, be wary, was good advice for any business negotiations.

The trail narrowed and turned up the northern side of the valley and we came across a group of banana trees where the gorillas had been feeding. Behuari himself stood waiting for us, wiry and fit in his ripped blue T-shirt and rounded knit cap. A scraggle of grey beard clung to his narrow chin and he had the calloused, cracked hands of a long life in the fields. He blocked the trail as we approached, arms akimbo, and gestured at his ruined bananas with an expression of stern horror.

The trees lay scattered about in piles of ropy white strands as if exploded from within. While Behuari lamented his loss to the trackers, I stooped and tugged up a handful of the crushed stemwet and fibrous, like coarse, overgrown cornsilk.

The old farmer continued his indignant rant until I urged Medad to move ahead. "Tell him well come back to count the stems later," I said. The park offered a small to compensate farmers for every lost tree, and encourage them not to harass the gorillas on their land. Medad translated and Behuari nodded his grudging approval. For fun I added, "Tell him he shouldnt plant his bananas in the gorillas shamba."

He looked at me warily for a moment, then barked a laugh at my crazy muzungu joke. I smiled too and watched him disappear down the trail, finding myself liking the man in spite of his determination to clear the valley.

Just then we heard another kind of bark, the unmistakably resonant cough of a silverback far above us on the valley wall. Climbing towards the noise, we crossed the charred lunar landscape of a newly burned millet field. Every footstep kicked up plumes of grey ash and knocked a small slide of stones and dirt down the steep slope. Much of the upper reaches of the valley had been planted at one time, and lay now under a thick tangle of weeds, grass and shrubs. Millet is hard on the soil and fields must lie fallow for up to four years before they can support another crop. To transform the pillared greens of the rainforest into this patchwork of bracken and soot seemed a poor exchange indeed.

We paused to catch our breath on the heat-baked, near-vertical grade, and it struck me as a particularly terrible place for a farm. Mere walking challenged my sense of balance, let alone swinging a hoe or harvesting heavy bushels of grain. People didnt plant on the steep hills around Bwindi because it was good land, or because they had a special desire to ruin gorilla habitat. Only one reason drove them to farm such rugged terrain: in southwest Uganda, there was little place else left to go.

The trackers beckoned to us from above. They'd found a fresh trail and we advanced together slowly, tunnelling into the thicket. The gorillas were nearby, but we could see only a few feet through the dense undergrowth. I walked in the lead with Mishana, peering into the vegetation, disappointed that we might not get a clear view for Ted. Finally we saw an indistinct flutter of leaves and heard the long sigh of a gorilla at rest. Circling to approach the sleeping animal from above, we could just discern its dark form lying quietly in the shady gloom.

Suddenly the greenery erupted with screams and a surge of animate shadow as Makale charged full speed towards us from somewhere up the hillside. We crouched in a tight group and he loomed over us with a deafening roar, his eyes wild and angry and his teeth bared, two rows of sharp white jags in the huge red of his mouth. After an endless, gut-wrenching instant he settled back on his haunches several feet before us, squatting and glaring like some dark vision of a belligerent Buddha.

His nervous stench filled the air with a thick, horse-and-sweat perfume as we waited for the tension to pass, holding our ground, but looking downward submissively. Makale followed our gaze to the ground and noticed the panga that James had dropped during the initial charge. With an almost contemptuous grunt he leaned forward and snatched up the blade.

From the standpoint of developing safe, ecologically responsible tourism, this was a low point. Our first visitor from park headquarters had been instantly charged, and now the gorilla was armed. I turned to Ted and attempted an encouraging "no problem" smile while Makale twirled the long knife in his hands, alternately sniffing and biting the handle and blade. Several minutes passed and I had visions of him cutting himself on the sharp steel, but he handled the panga gently, even nimbly in his huge, leathery fingers. Abruptly contented with his inspection, Makale threw the blade back to the ground at our feet, his expression seemingly tinged with a look of smug satisfaction.

Behind me, Medad was sitting on his walking stick, trying to keep it hidden under a layer of trampled vegetation. Makale picked him out immediately and reared up, screaming, to lunge over our heads and grab at the stick. Medad didn't hesitate in taking the only logical course of action: he let him have it.

Makale gripped his new prize and moved a few feet off, sniffing and biting the smooth wood as he had the panga. He held it out in front of him and peered along its length as if inspecting a rifle barrel for flaws. I cringed every time the stick passed into his mouth.  In a project designed to minimize the risk of disease transmission, gorillas licking recently-handled equipment ranks high on the list of catastrophes. When Makale moved towards us again we held our collective breath, and I tucked my camera under my jacket, dreading what new object might catch his attention. But he came only to return what he'd borrowed, leaning forward and gingerly sliding the walking stick back into place under Medad, exactly where he'd found it.

With a final haughty glare, Makale left us, striding nonchalantly up the slope. His broad back mingled quickly into deeper shadow, and there was a moment of silence in the thicket, like the heartbeat pause between a good punch line and laughter. Nervous energy drained from the air in a rush and we found ourselves suddenly smiling and shaking our heads with relief and awe.

 

Below us, the first gorilla turned over with a soft rustle of branches and slept on, completely oblivious to our encounter with its comrade. The whole drama had taken less than twenty minutes and we could have pressed on, but Ted and his brother looked like they'd seen enough, and none of us were too excited about following Makale deeper into the undergrowth.

"Well, that's what we mean by partially habituated," I whispered as we backed slowly away.

"So," Ted replied, never without a comeback, "when they're fully habituated, do they pick up the machete by the right end?"

 

"Exactly."