Last Chance to See

year’s dreams, but, like last year’s dreams, always invisibly and unfathomably present.
    It put me in mind of what I think must be a vague memory of a movie, in which a New Yorker, the son of East European immigrants, goes to find the village that his family originally came from. He is rich and successful and expects to be greeted with excitement, admiration, and wonder.
    Instead, he is not exactly rejected, not exactly dismissed,but is welcomed in ways that he is unable to understand. He is disturbed by their lack of reaction to his presence until he realises that their stillness in the face of him is not rejection, but merely a peace that he is welcome to join but not to disturb. The gifts he has brought with him from civilisation turn to dust in his hands as he realises that everything he has is merely the shadow cast by what he has lost.
    I watched the gorilla’s eyes again, wise and knowing eyes, and wondered about this business of trying to teach apes language. Our language. Why? There are many members of our own species who live in and with the forest and know it and understand it. We don’t listen to them. What is there to suggest we would listen to anything an ape could tell us? Or that it would be able to tell us of its life in a language that hasn’t been born of that life? I thought, maybe it is not that they have yet to gain a language, it is that we have lost one.
    The silverback seemed at last to tire of our presence. He hauled himself to his feet and lumbered easily off into another part of his home.
    On the way back to the hut I discovered that I had a small tin of tuna in my camera bag, so we greedily devoured this on our return, along with a bottle of beer, and that, at two o’clock in the afternoon, marked the end of fun for the day, unless you count listening to a couple of German—sorry, Latvian—students explaining how good their penknives are as fun.
    At this, Mark started to get quietly ratty, which meant that he grasped the beer bottle very tightly between his hands and stared at it a lot. Kurt asked us what we were planning to do next and we said we were flying up to Garamba National Park to see if we could find any northern white rhinos. Kurt nodded and said that he himself thought he would probably walk to Uganda tonight.
    Mark’s knuckles grew white around his beer bottle. Mark, like most zoologists, tends to prefer animals to people anyway,but in this case I was with him all the way. It occurred to me that we had spent a day rapt with wonder watching the mountain gorillas, and being particularly moved at how human they seemed, and finding this to be one of their most engaging and fascinating features. To find afterward that a couple of hours spent with actual humans was merely irritating was a bit confusing.
    Three days later I found myself standing on top of a termite hill staring at another termite hill through binoculars.
    I knew that what I was standing on was a termite hill, but was disappointed that the thing I was staring at was not a northern white rhinoceros, since we had been walking determinedly toward it for upwards of an hour in the blazing midday sun in the middle of what can only be described as Africa.
    Also we had run out of water. I could scarcely believe, having been brought up on a rich diet of H. Rider Haggard, Noël Coward, and
The Eagle
, that the first thing I would do on encountering the actual real savannah plains of Africa was to march straight out into them in the midday sun and run out of water.
    Though I wouldn’t admit it, of course, having been brought up on a rich diet of H. Rider Haggard, etc., I was actually a bit frightened. The point about not running out of water in the middle of the savannah is that you do actually need the stuff. Your body regularly mentions to you that you need it, and after a while becomes quite strident on the subject. Furthermore, we were miles from anywhere, and though there were a number of theories flying around about where we’d left the Land Rover, none of them so far had stood up to rigourous testing.
    I don’t know how worried Mark or Chris were at this point, because it was difficult to get them—particularly Chris—to say anything coherent. Chris is from Glasgow, and is an excellent specimen of one of the northern races: fair-hairedand fair-skinned, never happier than when carrying a DAT recorder and a microphone wrapped up in something that looks like a large dead rabbit across the Scottish moors with