PART FOUR June-September 1964
Alene
Alene is located about one hour south of Oyem on the road to Libreville. It is in the heart of the Fang area and entirely composed of heavy bush with scattered farms along the road. This was my last school site in Gabon and the one that I cherished the most.
Bob Anderson and Dick Schuster (both from Miami) were my first two housemates. We got along very well until we had a major argument on where to locate the school site. Bob supported the choice of the chief, right near the road where everyone could see the school but on a steep incline which would double our time and cost to construct. Dick and I wanted to build the school near the present one that was on level ground but away from the main road.
Bob was our leader so we followed his orders.
Later, the chief came to me and said, "Thank you for putting the school where I wanted but I did not dream you would do it. Your choice was better but I had to try to save face with my villagers."
I first met Valentine at a party held in our honor by the chief of Alene. The chief invited all the unmarried girls in the village. We had been in the village already for about a month and the chief became concerned that we did not have a women to cook, clean, wash our clothes, etc. for us.
The chief had four wives and spent portions of each night with each of his wives. I asked the chief one morning what was the matter with his back. He was grimacing and rubbing it.
"Monsieur Robert", he replied, "If you had four wives, you would have a bad back, too!"
Early in August, an American who had been touring West Africa on a BMW motorcycle stopped by our house..
He said, "I have to sell my bike as soon as possible to get enough money to return to the States. If I don’t get home and get into school before September my draft board will get me."
I had about ten weeks remaining on my Peace Corps service contract so had been wondering what I would do between leaving Gabon and returning to the US. With a cycle I could tour West Africa or maybe drive down to Pointe Noire, Congo and then catch a ship to Cape Town where the women were said to be very "hot".
Also, with a cycle, I could visit the small villages in the area that did not have automobile or truck access. This would make a great opportunity to learn the culture of remote Fang villages and possibly provide me the opportunity to purchase some ancient Fang artifacts. I bought the cycle.
After (instead of) work each day, I toured the region on the BMW being able to reach many villages that never evidenced vehicles since they were only footpaths to the main road. Within a few weeks, I had been able to find and purchase a Fang harp and drum, a number of Fang masks and crossbows, gorilla skulls and ancient chains. Most prized of my possessions were three beautiful leopard skins, each with skulls to make beautiful floor coverings.
Elephant Charge
While exploring the area on my BMW, I came to a village that looked like it had gone through a bombing raid. Several thatched houses were destroyed and the surrounding plantation of banana trees, sugar cane and manioc fields were trampled and ruined.
I asked the chief, Kasmir, what had happened.
"Last night, two young male elephants came into our plantation and destroyed most of it. Then they knocked over one of our houses."
I said, "I know an elephant hunter in Oyem. I will tell him to come here and meet with you."
That night I drove to Oyem and met with the Belgium hunter, Ron Betram. I explained the situation at the little village and asked him if he would meet with the village chief.
Ron replied, "Sorry Robert but I am returning to Belgium tomorrow and will not be back for three weeks".
"OK, Ron", I said, "can I borrow one of your rifles and buy a few shells?" I figured that with a rifle I could at least scare the elephants by firing a few shots in the air.
"Under one condition", he replied. "The rule of the jungle is that inexperienced elephant hunters always have an experienced hunter at their side."
Ron went on to say, "There are only three good shots against an elephant. The best is the heart located right behind the shoulder blade. When the elephant is charging you have only two options. Either shoot between the eyes or aim for the front kneecap. A front knee shot will down the elephant and then you can finish him off. And never run from a wounded elephant. He is fast and will hunt you down and kill you."
"Merci Ron." He loaned me his rifle and I bought some gun shells.
At the village that night, Kasmir and I waited three hours for the elephants to arrive. We saw nothing and I told the chief I would be back the next morning.
Last night, I dreamed of only elephants and woke several times soaked in sweat. Out of bed at 5:30 AM, got dressed and a goodbye from Valentine, my girlfriend. I loaded up the Scout with the rifle, cartridges and one passenger, Valentine’s father.
When we arrived at the village, the chief Kasmir and one other hunter were waiting my arrival. I noticed they were only carrying shotguns with a few spears.
"What are you going to do with those", I asked. "How can you stop a charging elephant with a shotgun?"
The chief answered, "No problem." We put a spear down the barrel of the shotgun and shoot the elephant with our spears".
I had been on a few hunting trips with Gabonese hunters and was aware that these guys had an intimate knowledge of the bush and hunting but to defend against a charging elephant with just a shotgun was too much to believe. All I had was a 375 caliber rifle and about a dozen shells and absolutely no skill in surviving an elephant charge.
I replied, "OK, but we only defend ourselves if attacked. We want to scare them so they do not return." The chief agreed.
Valentine's father remained in the village and the three of us went to the plantation area and saw the destruction of that night’s elephant feedings. More banana trees, sugar cane and manioc fields had been trampled throughout the plantation that night.
Immediately, off about a kilometer away, we heard the trumpet blast of a male elephant. We tracked him for about an hour through the tough bush. Up and down hills, through streams amidst the morning rain. Just as we neared him he smelled our presence and sped off.
Shortly later, we heard some movement in the bushes ahead. Sounded to me like a pack of mandarins (chimps?), ground-traveling apes called "suks" in Fang. Don’t want to mess with the suks. They can gang up on you and tear you to pieces if they want. I quickly ejected my hard-nosed shell used for elephants and inserted a soft-nosed shell.
When I looked up, I saw what I perceived as gray masses through the dense foliage, about 15 meters away. I still thought they were suks (large baboons) but, damn, they sure looked big!
I leveled my rifle but "they" ran off. I ran after them but could not catch another glimpse.
"Why didn’t I shoot the elephant", Kasmir asked.
I replied, "Elephant, I thought they were suks."
We sighted our second elephant soon after. To get near him we had to crawl over and under thick vines and brush and then his gray mass appeared before us at about 10 meters distance through the dense green.
Kashmir fired his shotgun, thrusting the lance into the side of the elephant. The elephant grunted and fell to his knees with his tusks sinking in to the ground.
He got up quickly and I zeroed in, just as Ron had told me, right behind the shoulder blade. I slowly squeezed the trigger and all I heard was, "click".
"Must be a bad cartridge", I thought. I quickly ejected the cartridge and slammed another into the firing mechanism. I looked up at the elephant and saw that I no longer had a side view of him. He was charging hard towards us.
Moment of truth in one’s life. It’s either him or me. I could have fled but fuck it, zeroed in between his eyes and pulled the trigger- another "click".
I looked behind me for Kashmir and the chief. They had vanished. It was just I and one useless rifle against the angry charging bull.
So, I did what any scared-ass person would do, I ran like hell through the angry bush and got cut to ribbons by the hanging vines and thick brush.
I dropped to the ground after a few minutes of mad flight. Fortunately, after coming to the area where we first stood and shot, our wounded pray scattered off. "Kashmir, are you there", I shouted.
"Ouis, Monsieur Robert, nous sommes ici."
We went back to the area where the elephant was first struck. We found about one-third of the blood-soaked lance. The rest laid buried deep into the side of the elephant.
Kashmir followed the bloody trail for about two kilometers and then returned to say, "It is too dangerous to follow the wounded elephant any further so I come back."
I looked at my carbine and cursed. I then turned towards a tree and pulled the trigger, bam! The rifle worked now, why not before? I realized then it was because the day before I had lain my rife on the floor of the Scout and the firing pin had dirt in it.
At least we hoped the elephants had been sent a strong message that it was dangerous for them to go near the plantations of this village.
On the ride back home to our house in Alene my head swam with conflicting images and thoughts. What right did I have to enter these forests and help take another’s life? Hadn’t I just recently met with Le Grand Doctor Albert Schweitzer who lived a life of reverence for all creatures? Was I being of service to the village or simply acting out my savage instincts to hunt and kill? I vowed then and there that I would never pick up a rifle again.
(20 years later my vow was tested. My son and I were in the wilderness of San Carlos de Baroloche, Argentina, near the Chilean border, visiting the ranch of some friends. On the ranch were thousands of wild deer, boars and jackrabbits. We toured the ranch in our host’s four wheel drive vehicle and came upon a splendid buck only about 25 meters away. Our host offered me his rifle. My mind immediately shot back to the mortally wounded elephant in Gabon. "No, gracias", I answered")
Hunting Buffalos by Doug Hawkins.
A local hunter invited me along on his hunts for fresh meat. This group from our crew at Mimongo wanted to go and I went as often as invited (6-7). At sundown we began the trek out into the savanna with the hunter, a 12 gauge shotgun, (single shot!), 6-10 shells (buckshot melted into slugs), a 3-4 foot spear with metal tip, and a miners lamp (battery powered) on the hunters head. Finding a herd of Cape Buffalo by sounds of the herd feeding, stomping their hooves (because of flies), snorting, coughing, making any kind of noise we stalked (me last) until the hunter could locate one or we spooked the herd. BOOM. The ground shakes from the running animals and you smell a lot of dust. Your feet tell you to run but your mind tells you that you might be running into them. The lamp goes on and 20-40 feet away (not 200-300 yards like colonial big game hunters with rifles) an angry, wounded buffalo is bellowing and looking for his enemy to charge. Boom! A second and generally last shot, (a box of shells cost about a months worth of Peace Corps wages). In the light of the lamp the buffalo was blinded while Pierre or Jerome came in from the side with the spear. One night we got 2 and that was when the picture was taken. Walk home and send the women out to butcher the buffalo and carry the meat home to be distributed to the village, PCV's included( for a very small donation). There is another picture that shows the women coming in the next day with very heavy loads of meat in their baskets. I don't know how they lived past 30, they were worked to death just surviving and losing children to malnutrition and disease. My service did nothing to ease their burden. Neither has Bongo.
African "Frenchman"
This story was told to me by a wise local that lived in a splendid home just outside of Oyem. He related that when the French ran the country, one had to be extremely careful of offending them.
This man had spent his whole life building a beautiful plantation by damming up a brook for a pond to raise fish, fencing his land to raise and sell cattle, tilling the soil for groves of banana and orange trees and constructing a huge house decorated in the Western style with a wide front porch and beautifully landscaped with bushes, flowers and planted trees.
Then, one day, the local French Prefect came by to see what had been reported to him to be a white man’s plantation being occupied by a Gabonese. He surveyed the house and grounds and asked the Gabonese owner, "Who is the owner of this house".
"I am", said my friend.
The Prefect then called to his accomplices to torch the structure down, break the dam to destroy the fish pond, tear down the fencing and scatter the cattle.
His parting remark, "Never act as a white man you fool".
Leaving Gabon
Bill Wilkes and I never got along. I had sent him several letters during my service in Gabon offering suggestions and, quite naively, some criticism. I was a thorn in his side. The day before I left Gabon, he asked me into his office and said, "Utne, let's let bygones be bygones. Give me one of your leopard skins and I will take care of you". I didn't give him one. Wilkes retorted, ""Utne, dismissed."
To this day, I have not received any of the personal effects that I had arranged for the Peace Corps to send to my home. These included the autographed book by Albert Schweitzer, the Schweitzer stamp , all my personal correspondence and all the Gabon artifacts (large collection of masks, drums, slave chains, etc). I contacted the Peace Corps in Washington and in Gabon to trace the shipment and even contacted VP Humphrey. Nobody could help find my "lost" shipment. 37 years later, Bob Anderson told my wife and me in our home that Bill Wilkes did not send me my personal effects since, "In combat, booty is not sent home". Where they are to this day remains a mystery to me.
