Sean's Blog
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Pygmy-Ville, Gabon (1.6.2006)
We were hundreds of miles off the tar road, deep in the rainforests of Gabon, searching for the Baka, or Pygmy peoples. We had left our car with the mayor of Minvoul, a neglected provincial town in danger of being swallowed by the surrounding jungle. After finding a Fang guide to take us deep into the forest the following day, we sought out a local 'spirit walker' for counsel. In a dimly lit room on the edge of town, he stressed the importance of fortitude and respect for the natural order of the jungle. Our impending journey was not one that should be taken lightly. He whispered that many strange things happen in the forests. He equipped us, in his own fashion, for the days to come.
After securing provisions early the next day, we struck off into the bush on foot with our guide and two Pygmy trackers. It wasn't long before the cultivated land surrounding Minvoul transformed into dense forest. The damp heat was stifling. I wore sweat like a winter coat. The jungle gradually consumed the trail. Suddenly, we hit water and were brought to a halt.
I had not expected that 'rain forests' were underwater. When we started our expedition, I did not think that we would be navigating a nearly impenetrable maze of waterways in our search for the shifting Pygmy villages, slowly moving deeper into the forests. This unanticipated ecosystem had a swampy feel straight out of the Degobah system. Surprisingly, it lacked the abundance of small bugs and pests that one might expect. Large trees, emerging from the shallow waters below, provided an inviting home for a host of vines. Much of the remaining space was consumed by large drooping fronds from stout river palms. Very little sunlight light reached the forest floor beneath.
The pygmies fetched two dugout canoes and we piled in. After navigating into a small river, we cut back into the swamps and hit dry ground. Our guide informed us that our staging base, a small Pygmy village, was only a short distance away. As we hiked up to higher ground, a few scattered banana trees materialized and abruptly, we stepped into a clearing. The houses, built with mud bricks on a bamboo and palm frond skeleton, were grouped together to form a few family compounds. While the men were slightly taller than I had anticipated, none of the women seemed to be taller than four feet. Many were returning from the forest, with wicker backpacks overloaded with wood.
We spent much of the afternoon learning about the Pygmy way of life. While they are best known for their honey collecting and elephant hunting, many of the pygmies are also engaged in trapping, fishing and small scale agriculture. One of our Pygmy guides offered to take us out to check his traps. He led us back into the forest, turning quickly off the narrow track into the village. As we ambled through the forest, he pointed out trap after trap that were almost invisible even with his assistance. Most consisted of a small tree bowed to the ground, held delicately in place with a metal lariat as its trigger. Anything that stuck its head, arm or foot inside would be snatched, thrown into the air, and left dangling helplessly. The smaller ones were used for porcupines, bush rats and duikers, while the larger ones were set for gazelles and panthers. I was genuinely terrified during a great deal of the time spent checking the traps that I would suddenly find myself launched into the air only to find myself painfully hanging from atop a small tree.
After returning unscathed back to the village, we heard more about the changing nature of Pygmy life as the outside world steadily encroaches on their traditional way of life. Many Pygmies have embraced certain aspects of Western culture fervently. While only a few generations before they wore bark, now they wear jeans and t-shirts. While still hunting elephants with spears, now they fire them out of specially constructed guns. Mass produced gadgets and toys are fancied. Yet, because of their traditional lifestyle, earning money for these things is difficult. There seem to be no easy solutions and many feel neglected and ignored by their own government.
Evening came quick and the chief informed us that we were lucky to be in their village that evening; drumming and dancing were to be performed to appease the forest god. Men manned a few big drums and beat them fervently while the women wailed. The local 'witch doctor' put on a many layered chain link metal butt mask and shook his way back and forth in front of the fire in time to the music. Tuuli and I contributed a long forgotten glow stick and the party really got going. Soon, the 'witch doctor' informed us that the forest god needed alcohol. (This very same 'witch doctor' fell into the fire the next evening while professing his undying love to Tuuli.) While satisfying a forest god's craving for booze seemed a strange request, we offered a bottle of local manioc liquor. It was ceremonially offered and left by the fire. Tuuli was especially pleased to see one of the woman run over and grab it a few minutes later; she demolished the bottle with the rest of her friends. The party soon petered out and we returned to our tents to sleep.
The following day, we hired three dugouts to take us on a long trip to the earliest Pygmy settlement in the region. A tiny village much deeper in the rainforest, we were told it would take us much of the day to get there. There are only six Pygmy settlements in the region, yet they are scattered widely and difficult to reach. When Nate asked how often they visited this village, one of the pygmies responded "I've been there a couple of times. We only go when somebody important dies."
Two to a canoe, each of our guides sat in front. Nate and I debated a bit why this was the case; the answer quickly became apparent when after only a short while we cut away from the main river into the narrow waterways. There were no 'swamp trails'. Our guides slowly cut a path through the swamp, putting their machetes to work as the paddles took a back seat. It was nearly impossible to believe that the pygmies had any clue where they were going until I noticed my guide mark a tree with a strange sign. Increasingly, I began to notice other trees with similar markings. Hours went by. We continued paddling. I kept expecting Yoda to pop out from behind a tree. And then, no land in site, our guides told us that the boat portion of the trip was finished.
I got out in knee deep water. We trudged along, sinking deep into repulsive mud. My sandals broke. I went barefoot, gashing my feet at every opportunity against submerged sticks, logs and razor-sharp fronds. We continued in this fashion for nearly a kilometer. Land appeared and a short while later, covered in mud, we stumbled into the village. The Pygmy chief met us and gave us a brief history of the village. It had been there for around 40 years and was the first settlement. Most of the Pygmies in the area had come south from Cameroon. They still build their houses strictly from palm fronds. The village is used as a hunting camp for elephants. Last year they had one tourist, a Japanese man, visit them. After a short stay, we had to get back on the river because of the great distance between villages. We said goodbye and headed back to our camp; the following day we returned to Minvoul and hit the road, with Libreville our intended destination.
We were hundreds of miles off the tar road, deep in the rainforests of Gabon, searching for the Baka, or Pygmy peoples. We had left our car with the mayor of Minvoul, a neglected provincial town in danger of being swallowed by the surrounding jungle. After finding a Fang guide to take us deep into the forest the following day, we sought out a local 'spirit walker' for counsel. In a dimly lit room on the edge of town, he stressed the importance of fortitude and respect for the natural order of the jungle. Our impending journey was not one that should be taken lightly. He whispered that many strange things happen in the forests. He equipped us, in his own fashion, for the days to come.
After securing provisions early the next day, we struck off into the bush on foot with our guide and two Pygmy trackers. It wasn't long before the cultivated land surrounding Minvoul transformed into dense forest. The damp heat was stifling. I wore sweat like a winter coat. The jungle gradually consumed the trail. Suddenly, we hit water and were brought to a halt.
I had not expected that 'rain forests' were underwater. When we started our expedition, I did not think that we would be navigating a nearly impenetrable maze of waterways in our search for the shifting Pygmy villages, slowly moving deeper into the forests. This unanticipated ecosystem had a swampy feel straight out of the Degobah system. Surprisingly, it lacked the abundance of small bugs and pests that one might expect. Large trees, emerging from the shallow waters below, provided an inviting home for a host of vines. Much of the remaining space was consumed by large drooping fronds from stout river palms. Very little sunlight light reached the forest floor beneath.
The pygmies fetched two dugout canoes and we piled in. After navigating into a small river, we cut back into the swamps and hit dry ground. Our guide informed us that our staging base, a small Pygmy village, was only a short distance away. As we hiked up to higher ground, a few scattered banana trees materialized and abruptly, we stepped into a clearing. The houses, built with mud bricks on a bamboo and palm frond skeleton, were grouped together to form a few family compounds. While the men were slightly taller than I had anticipated, none of the women seemed to be taller than four feet. Many were returning from the forest, with wicker backpacks overloaded with wood.
We spent much of the afternoon learning about the Pygmy way of life. While they are best known for their honey collecting and elephant hunting, many of the pygmies are also engaged in trapping, fishing and small scale agriculture. One of our Pygmy guides offered to take us out to check his traps. He led us back into the forest, turning quickly off the narrow track into the village. As we ambled through the forest, he pointed out trap after trap that were almost invisible even with his assistance. Most consisted of a small tree bowed to the ground, held delicately in place with a metal lariat as its trigger. Anything that stuck its head, arm or foot inside would be snatched, thrown into the air, and left dangling helplessly. The smaller ones were used for porcupines, bush rats and duikers, while the larger ones were set for gazelles and panthers. I was genuinely terrified during a great deal of the time spent checking the traps that I would suddenly find myself launched into the air only to find myself painfully hanging from atop a small tree.
After returning unscathed back to the village, we heard more about the changing nature of Pygmy life as the outside world steadily encroaches on their traditional way of life. Many Pygmies have embraced certain aspects of Western culture fervently. While only a few generations before they wore bark, now they wear jeans and t-shirts. While still hunting elephants with spears, now they fire them out of specially constructed guns. Mass produced gadgets and toys are fancied. Yet, because of their traditional lifestyle, earning money for these things is difficult. There seem to be no easy solutions and many feel neglected and ignored by their own government.
Evening came quick and the chief informed us that we were lucky to be in their village that evening; drumming and dancing were to be performed to appease the forest god. Men manned a few big drums and beat them fervently while the women wailed. The local 'witch doctor' put on a many layered chain link metal butt mask and shook his way back and forth in front of the fire in time to the music. Tuuli and I contributed a long forgotten glow stick and the party really got going. Soon, the 'witch doctor' informed us that the forest god needed alcohol. (This very same 'witch doctor' fell into the fire the next evening while professing his undying love to Tuuli.) While satisfying a forest god's craving for booze seemed a strange request, we offered a bottle of local manioc liquor. It was ceremonially offered and left by the fire. Tuuli was especially pleased to see one of the woman run over and grab it a few minutes later; she demolished the bottle with the rest of her friends. The party soon petered out and we returned to our tents to sleep.
The following day, we hired three dugouts to take us on a long trip to the earliest Pygmy settlement in the region. A tiny village much deeper in the rainforest, we were told it would take us much of the day to get there. There are only six Pygmy settlements in the region, yet they are scattered widely and difficult to reach. When Nate asked how often they visited this village, one of the pygmies responded "I've been there a couple of times. We only go when somebody important dies."
Two to a canoe, each of our guides sat in front. Nate and I debated a bit why this was the case; the answer quickly became apparent when after only a short while we cut away from the main river into the narrow waterways. There were no 'swamp trails'. Our guides slowly cut a path through the swamp, putting their machetes to work as the paddles took a back seat. It was nearly impossible to believe that the pygmies had any clue where they were going until I noticed my guide mark a tree with a strange sign. Increasingly, I began to notice other trees with similar markings. Hours went by. We continued paddling. I kept expecting Yoda to pop out from behind a tree. And then, no land in site, our guides told us that the boat portion of the trip was finished.
I got out in knee deep water. We trudged along, sinking deep into repulsive mud. My sandals broke. I went barefoot, gashing my feet at every opportunity against submerged sticks, logs and razor-sharp fronds. We continued in this fashion for nearly a kilometer. Land appeared and a short while later, covered in mud, we stumbled into the village. The Pygmy chief met us and gave us a brief history of the village. It had been there for around 40 years and was the first settlement. Most of the Pygmies in the area had come south from Cameroon. They still build their houses strictly from palm fronds. The village is used as a hunting camp for elephants. Last year they had one tourist, a Japanese man, visit them. After a short stay, we had to get back on the river because of the great distance between villages. We said goodbye and headed back to our camp; the following day we returned to Minvoul and hit the road, with Libreville our intended destination.
Foumban, Cameroon (12.17.2005)
I find myself no longer able to delineate the boundaries between the sentient and inanimate; I can no longer think of the Stingray simply as the perfect vehicle, created to conquer all obstacles. During the past five months behind the wheel, I have seen the Stingray take petty revenges for imprudent decisions. I have also seen him impulsively fix long running problems without any outside help. Although often needy and regularly temperamental, I have found in him a reliable friend.
It took some time before I could fully trust the Stingray. There was one night early in our friendship when he would not allow his headlights to be turned off. Shutting off the engine and removing the ignition key made no difference. In the end, I was forced to disconnect the battery at each stop. This outburst lasted only one irritating evening. I marked it off as an early attempt to set boundaries.
Sometimes, after a long punishing day on the road, the Stingray will refuse me access to his horn. Other times it is the turn signals. Sometimes closing the left door with force will dramatically change the volume of the radio. For a few months we fought over the power windows (excessive and potentially dangerous in a car with such an unpredictable attitude). This often occurred during such opportune times as trips to the market, forcing me to baby sit him, and sudden downpours. This has not won the Stingray many friends. Yet these outbursts are infrequent and the Stingray frequently normalizes relations on his own by suddenly fixing the problem.
On the flip side, the Stingray has performed admirably well in some of the worst areas we have faced. Climbing dunes in Dogon, wading deadly rivers near Konni, plowing through large tracts of Saharan desert, straddling deep culverts in mountainous Rhumsiki, and navigating muddy rice field dividers in Karifiguela were relatively straightforward for the Stingray. Where many failed, the Stingray stood strong.
However, before our latest journey I observed something I had never seen before. I saw undeniable fear in the Stingray. We had decided on a notoriously unpleasant track west through Banyo and Tibati in an attempt to steer clear of the Chadian rebels creating havoc on the main road. We awoke and packed early in the morning, before the sun could peak its head over the misty mountains to the east.
When it came time to awake the Stingray, it was business as usual. There were no early indications of any irregularities. The engine purred softly as dawn sky began to fill with color. The road ahead seemed surmountable. Then an unexpected cough. A sudden sharp fluctuation in the idle, warning lights flashing, and the engine almost died before returning to normal. I looked at Nate and Tuuli. They shrugged. Then it happened again, with 'hicups' materializing every ten seconds. I popped the hood, we poked around a bit, checked the sparkplugs, but couldn't make anything of it. Before searching for a mechanic, I felt we should give the Stingray a bit of time to stretch its morning legs.
With Nate behind the wheel, the Stingray's early morning flutters quickly disappeared. We considered that quite possibly the Stingray was a bit worried about the road ahead and wanted to notify us. However, with no other options and the 'problem' suddenly gone, we headed off the paved road onto a rocky dirt road with almost 400 miles between us and our intended destination.
The road, while rough and even a bit precarious at times, was manageable. I was overjoyed to see that the potholes, twice the size of the Stingray and deadly during the long rainy season, could be avoided with appropriate technical driving. Infrequent 'traffic' on the road consisted primarily of an occasional commercial shipping truck.
Covering more than half the distance by nightfall, we stopped in a small Fulfulde village and camped in the chief's compound. The following day, after a long stretch of ruined road, we finally hit tarmac. I was sure the Stingray would be grateful. Surely, after adeptly guiding him across potentially devastating terrain, he would make the final stretch easy. But this was not to be; it was payback time. After the punishing we gave the Stingray, he vindictively waited until we were within striking distance of Douala.
It happened slowly at first. As we ascended the final mountainous roads, less than a hundred kilometers away from our intended destination, we found the 'muscle' distinctly lacking in our usually trustworthy car.
It sputtered, coughed and finally wouldn't accept any speed faster than that of a donkey cart in deep sand. We rolled into a small roadside town, confident that we couldn't even make it to the top of the hill just after town. With Nate and Tuuli debating about leaving the car there and trying to catch a ride to the capital for help, I popped the hood and started tinkering with the air intake valve. After a few minor adjustments, the Stingray seemed to have caught its breath and regained some of its strength.
I hadn't yet lost faith in the Stingray's ability to carry us to even the most remote places. We jumped back in, and without fail arrived in Douala before nightfall. The next day, we brought the Stingray to a local mechanic for a check up and, after fixing one broken shock and a busted bobine, we were ready to continue further south.
I find myself no longer able to delineate the boundaries between the sentient and inanimate; I can no longer think of the Stingray simply as the perfect vehicle, created to conquer all obstacles. During the past five months behind the wheel, I have seen the Stingray take petty revenges for imprudent decisions. I have also seen him impulsively fix long running problems without any outside help. Although often needy and regularly temperamental, I have found in him a reliable friend.
It took some time before I could fully trust the Stingray. There was one night early in our friendship when he would not allow his headlights to be turned off. Shutting off the engine and removing the ignition key made no difference. In the end, I was forced to disconnect the battery at each stop. This outburst lasted only one irritating evening. I marked it off as an early attempt to set boundaries.
Sometimes, after a long punishing day on the road, the Stingray will refuse me access to his horn. Other times it is the turn signals. Sometimes closing the left door with force will dramatically change the volume of the radio. For a few months we fought over the power windows (excessive and potentially dangerous in a car with such an unpredictable attitude). This often occurred during such opportune times as trips to the market, forcing me to baby sit him, and sudden downpours. This has not won the Stingray many friends. Yet these outbursts are infrequent and the Stingray frequently normalizes relations on his own by suddenly fixing the problem.
On the flip side, the Stingray has performed admirably well in some of the worst areas we have faced. Climbing dunes in Dogon, wading deadly rivers near Konni, plowing through large tracts of Saharan desert, straddling deep culverts in mountainous Rhumsiki, and navigating muddy rice field dividers in Karifiguela were relatively straightforward for the Stingray. Where many failed, the Stingray stood strong.
However, before our latest journey I observed something I had never seen before. I saw undeniable fear in the Stingray. We had decided on a notoriously unpleasant track west through Banyo and Tibati in an attempt to steer clear of the Chadian rebels creating havoc on the main road. We awoke and packed early in the morning, before the sun could peak its head over the misty mountains to the east.
When it came time to awake the Stingray, it was business as usual. There were no early indications of any irregularities. The engine purred softly as dawn sky began to fill with color. The road ahead seemed surmountable. Then an unexpected cough. A sudden sharp fluctuation in the idle, warning lights flashing, and the engine almost died before returning to normal. I looked at Nate and Tuuli. They shrugged. Then it happened again, with 'hicups' materializing every ten seconds. I popped the hood, we poked around a bit, checked the sparkplugs, but couldn't make anything of it. Before searching for a mechanic, I felt we should give the Stingray a bit of time to stretch its morning legs.
With Nate behind the wheel, the Stingray's early morning flutters quickly disappeared. We considered that quite possibly the Stingray was a bit worried about the road ahead and wanted to notify us. However, with no other options and the 'problem' suddenly gone, we headed off the paved road onto a rocky dirt road with almost 400 miles between us and our intended destination.
The road, while rough and even a bit precarious at times, was manageable. I was overjoyed to see that the potholes, twice the size of the Stingray and deadly during the long rainy season, could be avoided with appropriate technical driving. Infrequent 'traffic' on the road consisted primarily of an occasional commercial shipping truck.
Covering more than half the distance by nightfall, we stopped in a small Fulfulde village and camped in the chief's compound. The following day, after a long stretch of ruined road, we finally hit tarmac. I was sure the Stingray would be grateful. Surely, after adeptly guiding him across potentially devastating terrain, he would make the final stretch easy. But this was not to be; it was payback time. After the punishing we gave the Stingray, he vindictively waited until we were within striking distance of Douala.
It happened slowly at first. As we ascended the final mountainous roads, less than a hundred kilometers away from our intended destination, we found the 'muscle' distinctly lacking in our usually trustworthy car.
It sputtered, coughed and finally wouldn't accept any speed faster than that of a donkey cart in deep sand. We rolled into a small roadside town, confident that we couldn't even make it to the top of the hill just after town. With Nate and Tuuli debating about leaving the car there and trying to catch a ride to the capital for help, I popped the hood and started tinkering with the air intake valve. After a few minor adjustments, the Stingray seemed to have caught its breath and regained some of its strength.
I hadn't yet lost faith in the Stingray's ability to carry us to even the most remote places. We jumped back in, and without fail arrived in Douala before nightfall. The next day, we brought the Stingray to a local mechanic for a check up and, after fixing one broken shock and a busted bobine, we were ready to continue further south.
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