In Search of Dian Fossey's Ghost: a

For some unfathomable reason, her murder never crossed my mind as I stood within the perimeter of what was once called her "manor" and where the panga (machete) blade inflicted its insane horror. My eyes, instead, were lifted upward to the beautifully twisted branches of ancient hagenia trees, silent sentinels and witnesses to the life, love, and dedication that defined Dian Fossey’s beloved Karisoke research station high in the saddle region between beautiful Mounts Karisimbi and Visoke in the Virunga Mountains of Rwanda.

It had been over a year and 10,000 miles since Dian Fossey’s life and death had grabbed me by the throat, refusing to relinquish its grasp until I could come to terms with her extraordinary life and brutal murder at the hands of still unknown assailants. That I was able to complete my personal pilgrimage at all was somewhat of a miracle, as I had been trekking for almost ten hours the previous day to see the Susa group of gorillas at an altitude of almost 3,500 meters (11,500 feet). Midwestern American flatlander lungs were screaming in protest at the rare air, despite that fact that my fifty-five year old body and muscles were somewhat prepared by months of rigorous training.

The muddy, rutted, nettle-infested trails that refused to level off until a height of 2,000 meters were more than "a killer," as a primatologist had warned me before my departure. A herd of buffalo and recent torrential rains had rendered the foot-wide path a boot-sucking manure pit, causing leg muscles to use more than their normal share of oxygen.

I wondered aloud to my Rwandan Park District (ORTPN) guide, Francis Bayingana, how Fossey managed to complete the climb for eighteen years, especially with the advanced emphysema that required her to climb with oxygen tank in tow during her last years. The answer was revealed in a meadow-like area that opened at the end of a tunnel of vegetation just as the trail leveled to a gentler slope for the rest of the journey to Karisoke. Francis explained that Dian would sprawl in the grass and rest there, gathering strength for the next hour or so of climbing.

Francis had been my guide the day before, during my journey to photograph and visit the elusive Susa gorilla group on Karisimbi. I could tell that he was keeping a watchful eye upon me, as I was the only tourist on the Karisoke climb my American cohorts and traveling companions were vanquished by the previous day’s efforts. At one point I stopped, literally gasping for air as I leaned on the bamboo walking stick thoughtfully offered by my porter. Francis asked with some concern whether or not I was all right, but I was not willing to give up after traveling half a world from my home to put Dian Fossey’s ghost to rest.

My recovery was quick, and an unusual event convinced me that the ghost of "Nyiramachabelli" dragged me the rest of the way up the mountain. That, and the promise I made to Dian’s friends to check on the grave marker they dedicated to her, fueled my final efforts. After my lungs quit heaving in protest, our group (consisting of Francis, the porters, and two guards) tackled the last remaining steep slope. Francis, who was in the lead, raised his arm for us to stop and turned to face me with what looked at first like a charred piece of wood in his hand. He asked me if I knew what it was, and after inspecting it, I realized it was a hollowed-out piece of bamboo with a base that formed a deep cup with an approximately eight-inch diameter. Its purpose, however, remained indefinable without further explanation.

Francis was somewhat surprised that he had found what turned out to be a forty-year-old artifact on a trail that he hikes quite regularly, as one of what I like to call the "guardians" of Dian Fossey’s final resting place. He told me that the object was, in fact, a Tutsi milking pot. Half-feral cows would not stand still for the indignities of milking, so the container was designed to fit a man’s grasp while the free hand did the milking. He had only seen the Tutsi pots in museums and was quite surprised to find one resting, literally, out in the open.

Indecipherable conversations in Kinyarwanda followed between Francis and the other Rwandans, while I took the opportunity to catch my breath on the tomb-like trail and wondered once again how Fossey had the stamina to endure the formidable surroundings for so many years. The men decided that, rather than bring the Tutsi pot back to Park headquarters, they would leave it on the trail. My memory of this event is so charged with emotion that I cannot recall why this decision was reached, but I know for certain that the ghost of Nyiramachabelli was mentioned and my general sense of things was that her spirit was being honored.

The entrance to Karisoke was just as Dian Fossey had described it in so many of her writings, but the jungle foliage had reclaimed the two rondavels that once housed the guards. Both structures were empty, save for the remnants of campfires from refugees of the genocide, the only reminder of their past function being a faded, painted logo from the African Wildlife Foundation on one of the doors. The Karisoke buildings that Fossey built with the help of her benefactor, Alyette DeMunck, were gone-only the moss-covered frame of the trackers’ dwelling remained. I recall Dian Fossey’s friend Rosamond Carr’s response when we showed her the raw photos during a visit to her home in Gisenyi. Mrs. Carr’s 92-year-old hands went to her face in a familiar gesture of shock and dismay as she turned to me and cried, "You mean there is nothing left?" Mrs. Carr currently runs an orphanage for 125 children of the genocide in Gisenyi. The last time she visited Karisoke was twenty years ago this coming New Year, when Dian Fossey’s body was laid to rest beside those of Digit and her other beloved gorillas. Rosamond had slogged up the same muddy trail at the age of seventy-two, her legs, heart, and lungs supported by the power of love and devotion for a friend whom she would miss until the end of her own days.

In some ways, Karisoke appears abandoned, but in other ways, Karisoke embodies everything that defines purity of heart and intention. As I sat at the foot of Dian’s final resting place, it never occurred to me that she is below the surface of the volcanic rocks that cover her grave. Her spirit is in the hypericum and hagenia trees that guard her tomb - living monuments to a life lived forcefully and with conviction. There is an indescribable beauty to the place and a sense of possibility that is felt, rather than observed. I was overcome, less with grief, than with a sense of gratitude that the gorilla family I had visited the previous day would not be alive but for Dian Fossey’s dedication and sacrifice of her own life.

The members of the International Primate Protection League (http://www.ippl.org/) will be happy to learn that, other than a few pry marks in the upper corners, their grave marker has stood steadfast over the years in loving tribute to Dian, who was a former colleague. There is another marker directly below. On the day I visited, raindrops covered the surface as tears would. Francis provided a translation from Kinyarwanda: "You Nyiramacyibili, that loved Rwanda-you gave your life to the gorillas in Virunga. This Karisoke you created has reserved for you peace and love that cannot be threatened by a spear. May God give you an everlasting peace."
Before our return to Ruhengeri and Park headquarters, Francis asked me if I felt up to a short hike, as there was something he was eager to show me. After stepping off the main path, we veered alongside a stream, and I knew exactly where we were heading-to Dian’s favorite meadow. Francis negotiated the stones in the middle of the fast moving stream, which was energized by the rains of the previous day, and extended his hand to mine as I slid across the rocks. Visoke formed a magnificent backdrop as Francis solemnly asked me if Dian would like the setting as a memorial that he envisioned for her. Why he asked me, I will never know, but I replied in the affirmative, knowing in my heart that there was nothing she would want more than a tribute planned by Rwandans.

History had come full cycle and she was now recognized as visionary by the people who thirty years ago could not imagine why an American woman would want to live alone on the mountain for so many years. The forests and the gorillas were under the capable guardianship of young Rwandan men like Francis, for whom Dian Fossey was now a heroine. We walked, shoulder to shoulder down the mountain, and, at his request, I told Francis every story I had ever heard or read about Dian Fossey.

About the Author: