A PRIMAL CONNECTION

IN RECENT DECADES, A COMMUNITY OF 29 CHIMPANZEES IN AN ISOLATED UGANDAN RAINFOREST HAS BECOME CUT OFF FROM THE REST OF ITS SPECIES. GINA DECAPRIO VERCESI MEETS THESE REMARKABLE CREATURES AND THE CONSERVATIONISTS WORKING TO HELP THEM SURVIVE.

- GINA DECAPRIO VERCESI

I HEARD THE CHIMPS before I saw them—one lone call followed by a riotous chorus of pants, hoots, howls, and screams, until the entire forest reverberated with a primal din.

“They are disciplining someone,” explained Ruth Imalingat, the Uganda Wildlife Authority ranger leading my tracking excursion. “I suspect Mweya is giving a beating.” As the cacophony rose again, Imalingat turned towards the sound. “They are moving,” she said, looking back at me. Chimpanzees travel on foot when searching for food, but spend most of their time far above ground in the thick vegetation of the rainforest’s canopy, where they’re more difficult to observe. I fell into step as she trampled through the dense brush, rifle slung over her shoulder. The gun was a precaution. If we were to meet an elephant on its way to the river, she’d fire a shot into the air to scare it away.

My heart pounded as another round of hoots pierced the air. I searched the treetops for the howling primates, trying not to trip as we bushwhacked through the tangle of shrubs and saplings that sprung from the forest floor. I could just make out the camouflage print of Imalingat’s uniform through a ropy curtain of saba florida vines and scrambled to catch up, wiry branches snapping against my face. Just then, the caterwauling reached a third crescendo. This wasn’t a PBS documentary—we were in the midst of a bona fide chimpanzee fracas.