The Last Mountain Gorilla by Gary Ponzo

The Last Mountain Gorilla
     
    Death is often a good career move for a journalist. There are massive vigils where the words hero and courageous are thrown around like confetti. The wife and children of the deceased are shown on CNN huddling in a pew while a parade of senators and Hollywood actors stop by to express their sympathy. The obligatory memoir written by the widow is destined for the New York Times bestseller list.
    These are all the thoughts that run through my mind as I watch General Busutu smile behind those sunglasses, his white teeth a stark contrast to his dark features. He drums his fingers over an AK-47 and stares at me as if deciding how long I should live.
    “I’m here to help,” I say, my open palms exaggerating the obvious. I’m unarmed. I’ve already been patted down and my guide beside me has been removed of his weapon.
    General Busutu on the other hand has a couple of dozen Hutu militia soldiers behind him, ready to fire their machine guns at the slightest nod from their leader. The rain is slight, but thunderclouds are threatening overhead and the jungle mist rises around us like a morning fog. This part of the Virunga National Forest is alive and thick with wildlife.
    “You’re here to help whom?” His accent on the word ‘whom,’ throwing around his high school education like a badge of honor.
    “The gorilla, of course,” I say.
    “I see,” the general says. “He call you and ask you for help?”
    This brings a chuckle from his soldiers and I can’t help think that it may be the last time I ever hear laughter again. We’re only ten miles from the Rwandan border where a million people were killed for much less than I was asking.
    Eastern Congo is thought to be the home of the last known mountain gorilla—a five-hundred-pound silverback named Kwendro. He is a myth in much of Africa, that’s why my magazine was offering a hundred thousand dollars for a photo of the animal. Not to mention a years salary for the Park Ranger to guide me up this steep mountain to Kwendro’s habitat. But that’s not my true motive and the general appears to sense this. Their rival militia, the Tutsis, control the region where the mountain gorillas once thrived and tourists paid almost a half-million dollars a year to the Tutsis for the privilege to glimpse the remarkable animals. Fourteen months ago the bodies of dead gorillas were discovered along the southern sector of the park. As the weeks went by more and more gorillas were found shot, not by poachers who would have taken body parts to sell on the black market, but by cold-blooded killers. It was rumored to be the Hutus who began a campaign to eliminate the gorillas, thereby drying up a lucrative source of revenue to their sworn enemy. I am here to discover the truth.
    Now it seems the general is considering how he can use me. It is the only reason I’m still alive. As the machine gun twitches in the crook his arm, my wife and daughter flash in my mind. Did I remember to leave that note for my daughter before I left?
    “Okay,” the general says with a wave of his hand, “you want to see the gorilla for yourself, go ahead.” He points his gun down a narrow dirt road to his left. “I am a conservationist. If you feel you can help him, then go. Go and tell the world what you find.”
    He steps aside to allow us to pass, but I am frozen. My journalistic instincts want me to ask for my camera back, but I know this would only accelerate my death. My guide moves quickly ahead of me and this propels my feet to act.
    As we walk down the dirt road, no one dares turn around. The only sound are the raindrops pelting the thick foliage around us. We both expect to be shot and every additional step gives us hope. After a hundred yards the road bends to the right. Finally, my guide, Armel, turns and for the first time I see the fear in his eyes.
    “We are dead,” he says.
    “No, we’re not,” I say. “If he wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already. He