An Uneasy Peace Plan For Congo's Gorillas Caught in the crossfire of eastern Congo's deadly conflict are some of the world's last remaining mountain gorillas. But for more than a year, that gorilla sector in the nation's east has been mostly off limits --- and in the hands of a rebel army.

An Uneasy Peace Plan For Congo's Gorillas

An Uneasy Peace Plan For Congo's Gorillas

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The Democratic Republic of Congo is home to some of the world's last remaining mountain gorillas. But for more than a year, that gorilla sector in the nation's east has been mostly off-limits — and in the hands of a rebel army. But a new agreement between Congo's leaders and the rebels calls for official, government monitoring of the gorillas to resume.

So in the coming weeks, the gorillas and the returning rangers will have plenty of catching up to do — who got married, who had a baby, who ran off with whom. You know, war stories

This is how you get to the gorillas: Climb into a vehicle — preferably one with a good chassis and four-wheel drive — and head north from Goma into Virunga National Park. It's not that far. But be sure to strap in, because the potholes are unforgiving. And, more importantly, be sure to have the permission of the rebel army, led by Gen. Laurent Nkunda. Without its OK, you might as well stay home.

It's an "over-the-river-and-through-the-woods" kind of drive — except this one is more like "over the hills and through the banana trees." You also pass bean fields and corn fields. But mind the chickens that are crossing the road. And mind the goats. Mind the sows, mind the cows — and whatever you do, mind the kids who stand along the shoulder and yell "jambo," which means "hello" in Swahili.

Ten miles can take two hours, so you might as well keep your face in the window. This is Hutu country — and it lays out like an emerald kingdom — neatly cultivated, lush and idyllic except for the fact that the people here are destitute. Little girls wear torn men's sports jackets as dresses and little boys beg for pencils. Everyone else asks for money. Babu Amani is a spokesman for the Tutsi-led rebels.

"For us, gorilla, it is more than diamonds," Amani says. "For us it is more than all the wealth we have in the soil of Congo."

The rebels set the rule of law in these parts, having beat back the Congolese army late last year. When you reach a village called Bunagana, stop, because the rebels want to make sure you are who you say you are. And if you're a journalist, they want you to know how much they treasure Congo's mountain gorillas.

There are only 700 or so mountain gorillas left in the entire world — spread among Congo, Rwanda and Uganda. Congo is believed to have about 200 of them. Amani says this area of the park was of strategic value to rebel forces — a high perch from which to see the army below.

When the rebels took over this area back in September 2007, most of the government-employed rangers left. The rebel army is a Tutsi-led force and many of the Hutu rangers feared ethnic violence. But other rangers, like Pierre Kanamahalagi, came here specifically to take care of the gorillas. Sitting in a local bar in Bunagana, he says he made the right choice. Under a new government deal with the rebels, he will retain his job as a government ranger even though he's been working with the rebels these past 14 months.

"Well, at the beginning I was criticized," Kanamahalagi says. "My name was spoiled, because I was said to have gone and joined the rebels. But today I'm being congratulated for what I've been doing."

Kanamahalagi says that gorillas are apolitical. But Virunga National Park is a highly charged political landscape. And the gorillas have sometimes been caught between the rebels, the army and militias in league with the army.

When army soldiers lived in the park, many reportedly engaged in the area's habitat-killing charcoal trade, estimated to be worth more than $20 million a year. Even the former head of the government service that employs the rangers has been implicated in the charcoal trade, as well as in the related murders of several gorillas last year. Now that the fighting has died down between the army and the rebels, the gorillas appear to be at the center of a propaganda war. Each side claims to care more than the other for the animals' well-being.

When you're done with the rebels, a couple of rangers climb into the car and you drive to a place called Bikenge. After walking uphill across a grass field, over a cow patch, into the bush and through the wet forest, turn a corner where the tree trunks look like butterscotch and you'll hear cicadas.

By now, you're in the jungle. There are so many tangles of branches underfoot, you can't see the ground. The canopy of trees overhead is so thick, you can't see the sky. Pretty soon, the rangers have their machetes in hand and are hacking a path through thickets of trees and sticky, clingy, itchy vines.

A soaring bamboo forest lays out like a scene from the movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The air smells different, the insects look more beautiful and at the same time more angry. A cloud of hysterical black flies hums close. And before you know it, you stumble upon the most magnificent black gorilla sitting in the tall grass like a big baby doll. She calmly picks a few nits off her smooth, shiny chest, looks at you and nibbles the grass. It is rare to see any creature as relaxed as she is.

The head of this household, Lulengo, sits elsewhere. He's an enormous, King Kong-like presence, black like licorice, but with a large, silvery patch behind. His head is the size of those giant pumpkins you see ordinary people standing next to in newspaper photographs. And if Lulengo ever had to wear a suit and tie, the haberdasher would surely despair. This gorilla's neck size is somewhere between 28 and 30 inches. There's nothing doll-like about him. He's the boss.

Lulengo snaps bamboo shoots in his fists and chews them like crudités. Meanwhile, his lady friend walks by on all fours, tears through more handfuls of grass and then stretches out on the floor of the jungle like she's luxuriating in a bubble bath.

"She's very old," the rangers tell me. "She maybe, like 50." The rangers also say she's pregnant.

But chances are she's just fat. At least, that's what the previous game wardens say. More than a year ago, guerrilla fighters ran off the game wardens in the park. The wardens know Lulengo and all his lady friends. And even though the wardens haven't seen the family in 14 months, they say this female gorilla is nowhere near 50 years old. And — if her chest is flat and smooth — she's nowhere near pregnant, either.

Emmanuel de Merode is the new head of the park service, which, like the gorillas, is now headquartered in rebel territory on another side of the park. He says that no matter how well-meaning the rangers who stayed in the park are, they don't have the training to monitor the gorillas properly.

"You know how things work here," de Merode says. "Everything works on rumor. And until everything is properly verified, it can only be considered rumor. And that's the problem."

When the old wardens come back, de Merode says, they will train those who've been watching the gorillas these past months. They'll also make a survey of all the gorillas in the sector — who's alive, who's dead, who moved away.

Miraculously, the population is believed to have grown during the war years in eastern Congo. And sure enough, before we leave Lulengo, we see another of his lady friends, with a baby on her back. These gorillas may be the only creatures who have more or less thrived here in recent years. As a conservationist, de Merode says he is ever worried about the survival of the species. But right now, he concedes, Congo has a bigger fight on its hands as the rebels, militias and army continue hostilities.

"The terrible tragedy that has affected the people of eastern Congo ... is the greatest tragedy that exists at the moment," he says. "And I think it should be at the top of everybody's agenda, whoever they are, to do whatever they can to resolve that issue above everything else, including the protection of the mountain gorillas. That's how I feel personally and I think that's what's shared by most people here."

The people along the side of the road on the way back to Goma look as if they could use some monitoring, too. And more protection. In this natural paradise, they wear plastic flip flops and rags. They are neither fat, nor relaxed. It cost $300 to see the gorillas — that's 30 month's salary for the rangers and more money than many here will see in a lifetime. The majority will never own a car or leave this place. And most Congolese across this vast nation will never see their own mountain gorillas. They will never know how truly rich they are.