This summer we lost someone that, if I can quote a former
student and friend of mine (Dr. Michael Waller) was “one of the great
characters of my life”. Mboule Camara died in late June 2017. He was born in
Maragoundi, Senegal in the 1940s. I met Mboule in the year 2000, when I first
traveled to Senegal to conduct a survey of chimpanzees in this savanna habitat.
I was introduced to him by Peter Stirling, also a key part of the Fongoli
Savanna Chimpanzee Project. Without Peter I would not have met Mboule and
without Mboule, I don't think the Fongoli Project would have ever materialized.
We rolled on up to Fongoli and asked a bunch of men under a Saba tree if anyone
would take us out “en brousse” (to the bush) to find chimpanzee nests. Mboule
said he would. He was my first field assistant and my guide to the wonderful
world of Fongoli.
Since Mboule passed away, I have thought a lot about what I
might write, when it was not as painful to write about this unique man. There
is too much to write, in fact. And, many of the stories that I love about
Mboule and I know that others love might make him seem too much of a funny or
comical figure to those who didn’t know all aspects of the man. So, maybe I
won’t write about some of those moments, no matter how endearing they are to
me. Maybe I will ask those who knew him to have a private conversation on one
of the many messaging platforms we have these days, where we can reminisce about
the funny stories we have to tell about our times with Mboule. Because there
was so much more to him than that.
One thing that I do want to write about though is something
I heard at his funeral. Or, more specifically, at the sacrifice (we’d say
memorial in the U.S., I think, or feast or maybe even wake) held in his honor
three days after he passed. (I actually missed Mboule’s funeral, as I was out
following chimpanzees and didn’t get my messages until the end of the day when
I reached a high spot where my cell phone got a signal. He had died early in
the morning and was buried before noon. Missing his funeral is one of my great regrets in
life.)
I understood virtually nothing that was said at the
sacrifice, as most of it was in Malinke, Mboule’s first language. My project
manager, Dondo Kante – and Mboule’s longtime friend – translated some of what
was said to me. He mentioned the only woman who had gotten up to say something
about Mboule. Everything else was said by men. She was crying as she spoke,
which brought tears to your eyes, regardless of the fact that you couldn’t
understand her. Dondo told me that she related the story of how Mboule helped
her with finances while she searched for a place to live, and she talked about
what a big heart he had. Many of the things people said were along these same
lines. Most people I know from the United States would think that Mboule was a
very poor man; yet he helped others and he always put his family first. He was
about as genuine as they come.
Mboule was my first
field assistant and guide at Fongoli. He revealed a lot to me about the
chimpanzees and he learned a lot too. He laughed when I told him chimps ate
termites, and I saw him years later schooling students on how chimps ate
termites. He told me that chimps used caves, and many primatologists – and
others – found this fascinating. Without Mboule, it would have taken me years
to discover this. He took me all over the Fongoli range that first year, to the
point that I didn’t want to look for another chimpanzee nest. I’d written data
on hundreds of nests on one of those days, only to follow Mboule a little more
and have him stop and point up to yet more nests. He knew that “bush” like the
back of his hand. He had a GPS built into his brain. He could beeline it
straight home from anywhere in the 100km area we found the Fongoli chimps using
– and he could do it at night. He’d run after me when we were chased by angry
bees, hitting them out of my hair so that only he was stung. He helped me bury
our dog, Nyegi, something I’ll bet he never imagined doing in his life – and I
doubt many of his friends and family would have believed it either. He
introduced me to the cultures there, and he was responsible for making it
possible for me to work in Fongoli.
Mboule retired some years ago – at least from guiding
students and following chimpanzees. (Although he danced so much at our 10th
year anniversary of the project that I wondered why the man was retired!) But,
we’d always talk about the chimps when I got home from following them. I’d pass
by his compound on the way to ours, and he would always ask me if they were in
a large group and where they had nested. Then we’d discuss whether that was
near or far, what they were eating and if they had caught any monkeys or
bushbabies. He’d continue to ask about some chimps that were no longer in the
group, but I never had the heart to tell him they’d disappeared. He helped out
with orphan chimpanzee Toto and was always eager to learn news of him, even
after he went to sanctuary in Guinea. I think that’s one of the things I’ll miss most about
Mboule. Those conversations that weren’t even in very much depth because of our
language barriers. Still, they meant so much to me, as did Mboule. I will miss
him greatly.
(With thanks for photos to Erin Wessling, Maja Gaspersic, Clayton Clement, & Stephanie Bogart)
