Quest: Mountain Gorillas: Discovery Channel

Memorable Patients

Lori Wark — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 14:12:34 -0400

Dear All,

I am leaving the gorilla doctors project team as of the end of July 2009. Dr. Jan Ramer, also an American zoo and wildlife vet, will be taking my place as regional field veterinary manager, and I know she will be blogging. So please stay tuned for Jan’s updates. She arrives in Rwanda in early August.

In the meantime, I’ve got several stories I haven’t had time to write about. I’ll post these over the next few weeks.

So what am I doing next? My chief concern is to continue to promote and practice one-health medicine. From my work with the gorillas and people of central Africa, I’ve learned what it takes to make this approach work.

For example, the health of the mountain gorillas is tied to the health of everything in their ecosystem, including humans. Healthy gorillas mean healthy ecotourism, which in turn translates into a more prosperous economy and improved health for the local people. The key is to recognize that funds need to be invested in every aspect of a one-health program. The gorillas need doctors; their forest needs to be better protected. The people who live near the gorilla parks need better medical care; they also need better education about avoiding the spread of diseases by practicing good personal hygiene; they need sustainable agriculture and improved farming practices. As long as people are poor and hungry, they’ll sneak into the forest to set snares or cut wood for charcoal. Obviously, no one institution can meet all of these needs. We must work together.

As I see it, the way to achieve a healthy planet is to meet the needs of all species, including humans. By making decisions that benefit more than one species, we can create a healthier environment for all.

In the short term, I’m going to be a college professor! I’m sure I’ll learn as much as my students, since all this will be new to me. For the 2009-2010 academic year, I’ll be serving as visiting Associate Professor at Brown University, where I’ll teach two seminar courses for undergraduates. The first is "Comparing Primates: From Lemurs to Gorillas," the second "One-Health Medicine: Connecting the Health of People, Animals, and the Environment." I’ll also be looking for opportunities to work in the field as a wildlife vet — and writing a new book.

Lastly, I have a new blog called "Animals in Peril" that will be launched on Discovery Channel’s website on Aug 1. There I’ll report about current events in wild animal health. I hope you’ll all check it out, and that it can somehow be linked to Wildlife Direct.

Meanwhile, here’s my next post. A slide show focused on interventions — the gorilla patients on whom I did hands-on work along with various members of the MGVP team.

Umoja Grown Up

Lori Wark — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 10:33:38 -0400

Umoja seemed fine the last time I saw him, the day after his mother left the group. That was a little over a month ago. I remember thinking he looked suddenly very grown up for a three-and-a-half-year old. Even so, I was concerned that he might show signs of weaning stress, and had planned to check on him again within a week or so. But things got busy after Magda left for vacation. There was the snare in Pablo Group, the orphans were coughing, and I had to do the year-end accounting. Fortunately, the reports from the trackers were all good. They made a point of telling me that Umoja had a huge appetite.

We found Kwitonda Group easily this time. The gorillas were in the bamboo zone, just inside the park boundary. The adults were foraging for the few remaining bamboo shoots, while the infants — including Umoja — raced around on the forest floor. At one point, he glanced in my direction with what I thought was a hint of recognition, then spun around on his heels and rejoined the game.

Not long after we reached the group, the gorillas began to move purposefully in the direction of the park boundary. The trackers told me Kwitonda, the lead silverback, wouldn’t accompany them. His old teeth weren’t sharp enough to scrape the eucalyptus they were bound for. But the others were on their way. We sprinted to get ahead and scrambled over the stone wall just in time to see a dozen gorillas emerge into the bright sunshine. To my surprise, Umoja was in the lead!

Umoja ran right past me, heading straight for a eucalyptus tree. From the side, I could see that his belly nearly touched the ground. His entire body shape had changed dramatically — something we’d expected. Once they’re weaned, infant gorillas rely solely on plant food for their calories, and their bellies fill up with all that fiber. They need to eat a lot of leaves, bark, berries, flowers, and branches in order to extract the same number of calories from plants as they were getting from their mothers’ milk. I also got a good view of the scar on his right flank from his surgery a year ago. And he was using his right wrist normally.

Umoja started in on the tree. He smelled the bark, then stripped off a piece with his thumb and index finger as if peeling a banana. If a silverback gorilla is ten times as strong as a professional football player, I’m guessing that Umoja is at least as strong–in his arms and hands, anyway.

Umoja chewed for a few seconds, then plunged his nose into the soft dirt at the base of the tree. Maybe the bark is softer or tastier here? Within seconds he had a mustache of dirt, which made him look suddenly a lot younger. At that point, I asked the trackers about his mother, Nyiramurema. We’d been right. She’d been unable to keep up with Nyakagezi Group, and after a few days, she went missing again. Then she appeared in Hirwa Group, but the females drove her off. Now she hadn’t been seen in a week.*

When the blackback in the group appeared at Umoja’s tree, he pushed the infant out of the way. Umoja sat back and watched while the larger gorilla took his turn at the bark. I couldn’t help but feel the gorillas were in a vulnerable position. They were completely absorbed in their special meal — heads turned toward the tree trunks, backs to the farmland. From where I stood, I could hear the voices of farmers and their children behind us, not far away.

Umoja, three-and-a-half years old and one year after surgery to repair herniated intestines and torn ligaments in his right wrist; he also had a broken right leg.

Just as I began to worry that the gorillas might eat eucalyptus all morning, they suddenly filed back into the forest. This time, Umoja was last.

*Note: Nyiramurema rejoined Kwitonda Group two weeks later. Though she and Umoja do spend time together, the trackers report that he has retained his independence.

Another Snared Mountain Gorilla, Part 3

Lori Wark — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 10:30:56 -0400

I kept looking at the cloud-choked sky as we hiked through the farmland on our way to the forest. It had poured rain overnight, and I could only hope it wouldn’t start again until after I’d had a chance to dart Nyandwi. Pablo Group had moved up to the area known as Bikereri (as high as 3300 meters); it would be cooler there. When it rains at that altitude, my hands turn numb, no matter how many layers of clothing I’m wearing.

By the time we reached the area where the gorillas were foraging, the skies were brighter, my eyeglasses were fogged, and I was dripping with sweat from the climb. Though the sun looked as though it might win out over the clouds, the air was damp. I quickly exchanged my wet hiking jacket for a dry one, first putting on a wool turtleneck and fleece pullover. I would have added my fleece hat except that Elisabeth thought Nyandwi might recognize it. The trackers smiled as they watched me get ready, wondering, no doubt, how many more articles of clothing I had stashed in my bag.

Ten minutes later we were with the gorillas. As planned, the darting team (two trackers, Elisabeth, myself, and Jean Felix) entered the group first in order to check on Nyandwi — or rather to check on her reaction to me. She was eating celery, and barely glanced in our direction as we approached. I didn’t think she’d seen my face or the dart gun the other day, as I’d been well hidden behind by the trees. If she remembered anything it was more likely to be the fact that something scary had happened while a cluster of people stood nearby. When she finished her meal, Nyandwi flopped down on her back for a rest. Clearly we were not making the patient nervous.

Next we held our briefing, as planned, for the trackers. There would be two lines of defense this time: six trackers ready to enter the group and make calming gorilla vocalizations (ah-hum, ah-hum) if Nyandwi screamed — as we expected her to do — and six more armed with wooden sticks to follow behind in case it was necessary to scare off the silverbacks. If the gorilla didn’t scream, Elisabeth would call for help only if we needed it. The protection team would stay together, led by Bosco, keeping as close as possible to the darting team without disrupting the gorillas. I’m not sure just how many teams we’d ended up with earlier in the week, but on this day we had just two. Elisabeth and Bosco checked that all radios were set to the same channel, and we were off.

Nyandwi had moved closer to the main group while we were made our final preparations, so much so that we walked right by Cantsbee on our way to find her. He and most of the group had just settled down for a rest. This was fine as long as Nyandwi kept moving, which she did. We followed her as she continued slowly down a steep slope into even thicker vegetation. One other silverback passed by to our right; then a blackback to our left. We needed to wait until she gained some distance from them as well. After almost an hour, Nyandwi crawled into the middle of a dense thicket of thorny bushes and sat down to eat berries and leaves. With branches screening us from her view, knowing we were a reasonable distance from Cantsbee, I was ready to dart. Elisabeth checked with Bosco. His team was ready, too.

I didn’t consciously think, "Okay, now Nyandwi is about to scream," but in the back of my mind I was sure this would happen, given her reaction two days earlier. At least we were ready for it. I pulled the trigger, the dart hit as intended on her left thigh, and she took off running uphill — without a sound!

Nyandwi knew, of course, where Cantsbee and the rest of the family were resting, and that’s where she headed. As we struggled up the hillside after her, I was pretty certain she’d fall asleep before she got all the way back to the group. But I worried that she might meet another gorilla along the way and that our mission would no longer be a secret to the rest of the group. Elisabeth immediately called Bosco and asked him to send the first six trackers quietly to help us look for Nyandwi — as well as protect us in case Cantsbee figured out what was happening. At one point, I climbed up a small ridge, expecting to find vegetation in front of me, and instead found myself looking up at one of the other silverbacks. He was yawning and stretching. He had no clue.

After ten minutes, we found Nyandwi lying under a clump of bushes. She was heavily sedated but still moving a little. I gave her a supplement of anesthetic, using a syringe, then asked for help to position her on the tarp and move her out into the open. I couldn’t believe we were going to get away with doing the procedure right under Cantsbee’s nose. But we did.

Concerned that moving our operation to a flatter, easier place to work (with fewer thorns) would alert the group, I decided to make the best of where we were. It was uncomfortable and awkward working on the hillside, yet the next part was the easy bit. I monitored anesthesia while Elisabeth and Jean Felix removed the snare and collected the usual set of blood samples. It rained lightly for a little while but stopped before we got too wet. Then Nyandwi began to wake up. Unfortunately, we hadn’t weighed or measured her yet. Given the difficult circumstances, I chose not to give her more anesthetic. We were done. The snare was off. Her group wasn’t far away.

I gave Nyandwi the anesthetic reversal that would help her wake up faster and more completely, and watched as she tried to stand up, only to tumble downhill a short distance, right into a thicket. Given the steep slope, the berry bushes were now a blessing; they’d kept her from rolling more than a few feet. She pulled herself to a sitting position, obviously trying to focus on all the people in front of her. Suddenly we were rushing again, to clean up and move our medical bags before she woke up enough to be afraid — and scream.

Now we were at the point in the intervention where it’s easy to become complacent. The patient appeared fine, she was only 70 meters from her group and almost fully awake. But everything could change if she went the wrong way, or hurt herself by falling farther downhill. For the next half hour, we stood quietly in the bushes to one side, waiting for her to become alert enough so that we could encourage her to return to the group.

Finally we decided to help her move. She might simply have been waiting for us to leave, but we couldn’t take the chance that she’d go downhill instead of up. Sure enough, when the trackers approached her, she got up, found a recent trail, and followed it downhill. We formed a half-circle below her so that she was forced to stop and think about which way to go. Our strategy worked. Soon we were following her uphill, all the way back to the group. Not a single gorilla seemed to notice that she’d been missing. They were scatted over the hillside in front of us, and in contrast to the other day, seemed indifferent to the fact that there were a dozen people watching them. Whew! Mission accomplished.

Another Snared Mountain Gorilla, Part 2

Lori Wark — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 09:17:12 -0400

Several film crews have documented the lives of the mountain gorillas since I began working here, and each has asked if they could follow the vets at work in the forest. I’ve always said yes for a routine health check, but no for an intervention -- at least if I’m the one doing the darting. I know just how much coordination and communication is required to do this well, and as hard as we all try, when we intervene to treat a gorilla the operation is never as smooth as we’d like it to be. This is partly because we intervene as seldom as possible; apart from the vets, many of those involved may be helping for the first time. Our biggest concern is to avoid upsetting the gorillas to the point where we lose our opportunity to treat the patient — and in the process, compromise human safety.

The best way to maximize our chances of success and minimize the risk of injury is to limit the number of people involved, and if possible include only those with whom the gorillas are already familiar. Even then, there will be moments during the procedure where not everyone knows what is happening, particularly right after the darting — while the vets wait for the animal to fall asleep and the trackers keep their distance — and again during recovery, when only some of the trackers know the location of the main group. These are the times when injuries happen.

We’ll never be a perfect team; we’re a mixture of people with different skills, speaking different languages. But if everyone knows the gorilla group and has the same clear objective, which is to treat the patient, we have a good chance of doing an intervention safely. This is not something you can teach a film crew in a day, or even in weeks. And of course their goal is different: they want to get anything and everything that looks like action on film.

Even the friendliest, most well-meaning, and experienced crew can be hugely disruptive. This is a built-in problem: what they need is a clear view of what’s happening and some dialogue to explain it — which isn’t at all what the sick or injured animal needs. When the patient is a wild animal, the cameraman becomes someone else to worry about, another person whose location must be known and whose safety must be ensured. It’s hard enough in a zoo setting. But here, in the so-called wild with the gorillas, it’s especially tricky because of the terrain and the fact that the animals are habituated to only a certain number of people at once.

This is a long way of explaining why I was not pleased with the decision to send a film crew along for Nyandwi’s snare removal. Although I fully understood the rationale — to publicize the harm done by poachers by showing what it takes to treat a wild gorilla caught in a snare — I believed Pablo Group was a poor choice. This particular film crew had been in Rwanda for some time, and planned to return. I suggested they wait. It wasn’t my decision, however: it was up to park officials. They pointed out that this group had already filmed within the group, and promised to stay out of our way. The best I could do was get an agreement that the location of the film crew would be up to me, that the cameraman would be allowed to film Nyandwi with her snare only for five minutes, and that he would leave until she was safely anesthetized. He would leave again during her recovery. I knew we’d need a bit of luck in order for it to all work out.

The day started off fine. It wasn’t raining, and the gorillas were only an hour into the forest. I’d already prepared my dart, and within minutes of joining the gorillas, had a perfect darting opportunity. The cameraman was with me as planned. I was calm — I don’t feel anxious until after I’ve fired the dart, at which point my heart rate doubles — and so was Nyandwi. She was contentedly eating celery. There was one juvenile near her and another in the vegetation to our left. Cantsbee and the rest of the group were at least 100 meters away, downhill. Figuring it would be more disruptive if the cameraman left, I told him he could stay until I either darted or had to shift my position. Now all we had to do was wait for the protection team to get into position. Their job was to protect us (the darting team) from Cantsbee and the other silverbacks if necessary, after Nyandwi fell asleep.

Nyandwi was amazingly calm even as she heard a bunch of people moving through the forest — I wished they could have been quieter, but we were in very steep terrain. Then my target moved, meaning I’d lost my first precious opportunity to dart. I motioned for the cameraman to leave, and readjusted my position behind Elisabeth and the lead tracker. A few minutes later, I had another good shot. But the protection team still wasn’t ready. Meanwhile, the cameraman had crept up the hillside to hide in the bushes, aiming his camera at Nyandwi and me. Jean Felix appeared as planned. I would have preferred he join us, but my patient was beginning to get nervous, so I asked him to wait out of sight.

Then Nyandwi craned her neck, looking past me, and I turned to see the red running light on the camera shining through a gap in the bushes. This was too much for her (and for me.) Nyandwi moved away in Cantsbee’s direction. Only the three of us followed — Elisabeth, the lead tracker, and I — leaving everyone else to follow along quietly through the vegetation. Having wasted 30 minutes of darting opportunity, I couldn’t help feeling annoyed. I hoped the cameraman would leave as he’d agreed to do. Yet I also knew that I was responsible, in the end, for what did or didn’t work. It seemed as if we had too many people in too many different places.

An hour later, after struggling along a steep hillside with Elisabeth and the tracker, I had another easy, clear shot. Nyandwi stopped to eat. Though Cantsbee was still far downhill, we could see three gorillas to our left. Soon Nyandwi would be on her way to join them, meaning this would be our last chance for the day. I took aim just as she walked back up the trail, then spun around to sit down again — even closer. I pulled the gun down quickly, just in time. She hadn’t seen it, but we were now only a few feet away and far too close for the pressure in my gun. If the dart hit too hard, it would bounce.

I had two choices. Given that the gauge wasn’t always accurate, I could empty the air chamber and refill it. This takes 30 seconds or so, and makes a long hissing sound. I didn’t think I had time, so I compromised by letting just a little air out until the gauge read what I hoped was the right pressure, then fired. The dart barely popped out of the gun. It hit Nyandwi anyway, just hard enough to stick in her leg but too softly to inject the anesthetic. She jumped; the medicine sprayed, she pulled out the dart and screamed. Then the three gorillas to our left screamed.

Before we could even begin to follow Nyandwi to make certain she was all right and confirm that she hadn’t received any of the anesthetic, we heard a lot of yelling and crashing. It was the protection team, coming to our rescue because of the screaming. Knowing Pablo Group, the trackers were concerned for our safety. Normally we’d wait for the gorilla to fall asleep before calling the team for help. In response to the racket produced by the humans, the gorillas fled to the opposite hillside. I could see Cantsbee glaring at us from a distance. I noticed that the cameraman was still with us, filming.

I asked the trackers to search the hillside to make sure there wasn’t a sleeping gorilla out there somewhere. They felt this would upset the group too much, so we waited for a while, figuring if Nyandwi wasn’t with the group, at least one gorilla would stay with her and we’d be able to spot them. Finally, Nyandwi, acting normally, was seen with several other gorillas. There was no point in staying any longer. We’d upset Cantsbee enough for one day. The only question remaining was whether Nyandwi would recognize me as the bad guy when we tried again. I didn’t think so, since we’d been well hidden in the trees. If she did remember me, someone else would do the darting. Nevertheless, I was disappointed in myself. I shouldn’t have rushed. I usually don’t.

Elisabeth, the trackers, and I decided to wait at least a day before trying again. Much would depend on Cantsbee’s mood. In the morning, we met with the chief park warden to evaluate the situation and explore new strategies. Although we couldn’t predict the gorillas’ reaction to a darting, there were a number of variables we could control, particularly those that related to communication and coordination.

We concluded that there should never be more than two teams, the darting and the protection team. We decided that, for the most part, only two people should talk to each other over the radio: Elisabeth for the darting team and Bosco for the protection team. The darting team should include four, if not five, people, including the darting vet, Elisabeth, one other vet, and two trackers. We also agreed that the key people involved should meet in person the day before, rather than conferring by phone, and again in the forest to brief everyone involved before entering the group. Toward the end of the meeting, we got reports that the group was calm again. We agreed to go back up the next day, and put our new protocol to work.

Another Snared Mountain Gorilla, Part 1

Lori Wark — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 10:00:05 -0400

Last week we dealt with yet another snared gorilla. The victim was Nyandwi (ne-an-dwee), a six-year-old female in Pablo Group.

When the trackers found the gorilla caught in a snare, they were able to cut the rope without fear of being attacked by her family. The rest of the group was foraging some distance away, unaware that she was in trouble. Had Nyandwi cried out when the trackers approached, the gorillas would have answered her alarm by running to the scene. This is dangerous for all involved. A protective silverback can cover the length of a football field full of nettles and thorns in no time. Fortunately, the young gorilla was so exhausted that she barely reacted — other than to run away in the direction of the group as soon as she was free.

The group must have figured out about the snare when Nyandwi appeared wearing a new rope bracelet. Soon they were extremely agitated, so much so that the trackers couldn't even enter the group to check on her for fear of being charged by the silverbacks.

Pablo Group is notoriously difficult when it comes to interventions. This is mostly because of the group’s large size — 49 gorillas — and the fact that there are four silverbacks and several blackbacks. With so many protectors, it's almost impossible to intervene without being noticed. There have been several instances in Pablo Group when the trackers were unable to run the group off after the patient was anesthetized. In one case, an infant with a snare had been darted and had just fallen asleep when another gorilla picked it up and carried it off before the vets could begin the procedure. On that day, a tracker trying to recover the infant was severely injured.

Additionally, the group's lead silverback, Cantsbee, has a reputation of being intolerant of anything out of the ordinary, including vets with dart guns. Because his group is so big, there have been more than a few interventions over the years — and more opportunities for Cantsbee to learn that scary things sometimes happen when unfamiliar people do strange things. I knew it might take us several days to get this particular snare off without upsetting him. But unless the snare was a tight one, we could take our time. I decided to join the trackers the next day to get a close look.

As anticipated, the gorillas had travelled a considerable distance in reaction to the snare incident the day before. It took us nearly three hours to find them, and just as long to return, walking a long way through the fields to get back to where I'd parked the truck. As usual, I spent much of the hike focused on my feet, trying not to wipe out in the thick mud or trip over slippery stalks of bamboo and celery.

And I couldn't stop fuming about the snare. The fact is that even when they're caught red-handed, poachers often get off easy, spending no more than a year in jail. The trackers know who some of them are, but can't say anything without firm evidence. If they do, they put their own lives at risk. The underlying problem, though, is that there's a market for bushmeat — even in Rwanda.

When we finally reached the group that day, we found Nyandwi resting near Cantsbee. She picked at the rope around her right wrist a few times, but I couldn't see any swelling in the hand. So far so good. Apart from the shredded length of rope dangling from her arm, she looked no different from any of the other juveniles in the group. I peered at the snare through my binoculars and snapped a dozen photos, hoping to find a reason to think it might slide off on its own. But the rope was so snug, there seemed little chance of that.

After an hour, or so, Cantsbee got up to eat and soon disappeared into the vegetation. Most of the group left the rest area at the same time, but Nyandwi stayed back with a few other youngsters. I was glad to see she was independent of the adults and calm in her demeanor. That would make her easier to dart. She favored her right arm a little, but ate normally with both hands. At one point, another gorilla sat down beside her to investigate the snare, sniffing it. He didn't seem to have any intention of trying to remove it — or any clue why he should. I left the group knowing we'd need to intervene. We made a plan to try the next day.

The Newest Orphan: Amani

Lori Wark — Sat, 30 May 2009 18:36:44 -0400

Though I haven’t met our newest orphan in person, I feel as though I know her. She’s the sixth gorilla our team has helped rescued in the two and half years since I started work for the vet project. That’s six too many. All three of the mountain gorillas survived, one of the two Grauer’s did not.

So when Eddy called to say that park (ICCN) officials in DRC had asked for his help to confiscate a baby gorilla, I said yes, of course. Unfortunately, this was all very familiar and we knew what to do. Eddy made sure the park staff had arranged a place for the new gorilla to live, temporarily, while I got on the phone to Magda and Sandy. I wasn’t sure how many of us should go help Eddy. Much would depend on the orphan’s age and strength — as well as how afraid she was of people.

Amani Arrives

I also knew from experience that we had to wait until the gorilla was safely in hand. Sadly, we’ve been on alert for orphans that never made it to us. Sometimes it’s misinformation. At least one gorilla turned out to be a goat. In most cases, though, the poachers get away and the fate of the orphan is unknown.

Amani was definitely not a goat.

The moment Eddy got the gorilla out of the plastic bag, he called me. She was alive, weak, thin, and gasping for air. He described a wound on her leg draining pus. She had all of her deciduous (baby) teeth but no molars, and she weighed just eight kilograms. Then he added what he knew about her history: she’d apparently survived for at least a month on bananas. This meant that she had to be at least two years old. A younger gorilla wouldn’t survive that long without milk, nor would it eat enough bananas to stay alive. This was the good news. It can take a new orphan several days to bond with the caretakers and accept a bottle. It makes a big difference if the gorilla is old enough to eat at least some solid food until it can adjust to milk. The bad news was she weighed half what she should, and had an infected leg.

I suggested that Eddy call me back in another twenty minutes or so, after a he had a chance to observe the gorilla’s behavior a bit more. My sense was that Sandy should go right away to help get things set up with new caretakers (we weren’t sure just who at that point) and try to get her on a bottle. We all have a tendency to want to do something immediately for an injured animal, but we’ve learned with the gorilla orphans that the main thing they need when they first arrive is fluids, calories and comfort. Unless she was so weak that she couldn’t eat anything, the best thing was to give her a little time to adjust and not poke her with needles. Nor would it be wise to anesthetize her right away to deal with the leg. Given the stress she’d been through, both physical and psychological, we could put her over the edge.

Amani is alive, but not well.

Sure enough, the new orphan began to perk up and move around a bit in the warm sunshine. She even showed interest in eating small amounts of banana. Eddy felt she was fairly strong — she could push his hands away. Unfortunately, she couldn’t sit up or use her right leg. She could, however, pick at the wound below her knee. Eddy described it as a deep hole draining copious amounts of cream-colored pus with no swelling of the bone or soft tissues. There was no fracture, only a hole. There were other scabbed over wounds on the same leg and on her arms. It sounded strange, and I immediately thought of the dreaded TB, which it wasn’t (we tested it in the lab in Rwanda the next day).

Armed with baby bottles and a supply of milk, Sandy headed straight for Goma. Meanwhile, Eddy and I talked on the phone and exchanged text messages. We decided to start conservatively with one dose of dewormer and one dose of injectable ceftriaxone, an antibiotic that can be given once every few days. If she continued to show signs of pain, we’d add ibuprofen, but I didn’t want to give her everything at once. It was important to know how she was reacting to each drug. I also wanted to make sure she was producing enough urine, since anti-inflammatory drugs are cleared by the kidneys and can affect their function. If she started to take milk from a bottle, the worst would be over for her. If not, Magda or I would drive to Goma the next day and go to plan B: intravenous fluids.

Sure enough, thanks to Sandy, Eddy and a new caretaker, Thierry, the little gorilla did drink some milk that afternoon. She fought the nipple and would turn her head away once her mouth had some milk in it, but she was definitely swallowing. By the next morning, she looked brighter and the plan was to offer her a variety of foods in addition to the bottle. When I checked in at noon, however, the progress wasn’t quite as good. From Sandy’s description, it sounded as if the orphan was simply too uncomfortable to do much of anything. She was also yawning at times — a sign of pain. At least her blankets were wet, which meant we were hydrating her. It was time for the ibuprofen. Forty minutes later, she sat up and properly took her bottle!

By the next day her attitude and appetite was even better. She also had a name: Amani, or "Peace." Andre had joined the caretaking team by then and they chose this name in the hope that the war in DRC might truly be possible. Unfortunately, Amani’s leg wound continued to drain. Then I saw my first pictures of her (from Pierre at ICCN, thank you!), and could see she had another problem: signs of rickets, or metabolic bone disease. Not only was she thin, but her knees in particular were enlarged and knobby, a sign that the growth plates were not getting the calcium they needed to lengthen normally. This was evidence that she’d been in captivity — deprived of milk and sunlight — for longer than a month.

On day five, Magda joined Sandy and Eddy in Goma to give Amani a complete exam and treat her leg. The details are on the gorilla.cd blog — in short, she has osteomyelitis, or a bone infection, due to one or more pieces of dead bone deep inside the wound. This could be a bullet wound, or a bite wound. Amani is also a little anemic and, contrary to what we expected, has a very low white blood cell count. Given her poor nutritional status and all of the stress she must have been under, we’re wondering if the bone infection is partly the result of abnormal bone and a weakened immune system, in addition to whatever started it in the first place. Magda was able to remove several pieces of dead bone; they alone might be the source of the persistent infection.

Amani gets a thorough exam.

Our plan is to see how the wound does over the next few days and, if it continues to drain, arrange for a set of X-rays and perhaps a more extensive surgery. Sore leg aside, we’re optimistic that Amani will now have a few good days in a row.

Umoja Weaned

Lori Wark — Sat, 30 May 2009 17:46:31 -0400

I have a special feeling for the young gorilla Umoja, since I was the one who had the honor of naming him two years ago, at the annual ceremony in which infant gorillas who’ve survived their first year are given the names by which we know them. Umoja means "unity" — chosen because I was there as a representative of the non-profit conservation agencies working together in Rwanda.

Umoja (as yet un-named) at the age of one year and two months, after recovery from respiratory disease, with Nyiramurema in April 2007.

April and May have been full of drama for Umoja — for three years in a row! I was on my way back from a routine field check the other day when the radio chatter in Kinyarwanda suddenly intensified. After the word "silverback" came through loud and clear, I asked for a translation, expecting to hear details of an injured gorilla, or worse. Sure enough, there’d been an interaction between Umoja’s family, Kwitonda Group, and a visiting group from Uganda, Nyakagezi Group.

Umoja with Nyiramurema just before the naming ceremony on June 8, 2007, surgery April 26 2008

This is bamboo-shoot season in Kwitonda’s home range and this is probably the reason for Nyakagezi Group’s annual visit to the area. Since these two groups often interact peacefully at other times of the year, it seems the prized bamboo shoot is the source of aggression. Nyiramurema’s behavior may also have been a factor. Maybe she’s been trying to transfer for some time. I held my breath, waiting to hear more, and glanced at the date on my watch: April 27, 2009. It had been almost exactly a year (April 24, 2008) since Umoja nearly died in a fight between the same two gorilla groups.

I’ll always remember that day vividly, along with those that followed. Somehow Umoja survived his initial injuries: two canine wounds in his abdomen that left two loops of bowel hanging outside his body; a partially severed right wrist; and a broken right leg. Because such interactions are a natural part of life for wild gorillas, we were unable to intervene — and in any case, the two groups were still very close to each other. We visited the Kwitonda group briefly, long enough to see the injured Umoja from a distance. He was whimpering, unable to keep up with the group on his own. Using his left arm and leg, he could only pull himself along the ground. I felt heartsick, knowing that he would suffer. His injuries assured him of a slow death, rather than an immediate one. I’d treated an infant zoo gorilla once for herniated intestines and knew that if we could do surgery right away, Umoja would survive. But I had to agree with our guidelines that this wasn’t a case for intervention, at least not on that day.

Three days later, all was calm, and Umoja was still alive. It was amazing to watch his family take care of him, cleaning his wounds and carrying him around. He was lucky that his intestines weren’t actually damaged and continued to work, even with a portion hanging outside his body. We worried about abdominal infection; moreover, the puncture wounds were healing and would soon begin to constrict the gut. Given the quiet mood of the group, we decided to try surgery in the field after all. It took me a day and a half to get the darts off, since we knew that family members were primed to pick Umoja up if they saw him on the ground. I had to wait until his mother, Nyiramurema, was more or less alone. When I finally fired, most of the family was all around us eating in the trees. The vegetation provided perfect cover.

Umoja before surgery April 26 2008

The day of the surgery was both exhausting and exhilarating. I had a challenge keeping two gorillas anesthetized — Umoja and Nyiramurema — while Magda did the surgery and Elisabeth did everything else. We worked quickly, especially Magda, who skillfully dealt with both the herniated intestines and the severed wrist in little more than an hour. The procedure went well to the point where we woke up mother and infant together. The reversal drugs had worked perfectly; Nyiramurema was alert and Umoja holding onto her in normal fashion. Then came the really scary part: Nyiramurema began the search for her family, but followed an old trail. She went downhill instead of up.

Nyiramurema’s eye injury

It didn’t help that Nyiramurema was blind in one eye and lame (she’d lost a foot years ago, probably to a snare.) Between these disabilities and the after-effects of the anesthetic, she was very unstable. As she wobbled and tumbled through the forest, searching for her family, Umoja hung on as best he could. We hated to think of his being dragged through the heavy vegetation, but there was nothing we could do at that point except try to redirect his mother. The trackers fanned out to head her off while Magda, Elisabeth and I struggled to keep up. We pushed through a clump of bamboo in time to see Nyiramurema pause, looking for a new trail. Umoja, tired of hanging on and drenched from the wet vegetation, slid off her back onto the ground. His mother glanced at us, at him and then at the trail ahead, and took off. For whatever reason, most likely a combination of confusion and fear, she left Umoja there on the ground. Her group was now at least a kilometer away. We waited a few minutes to see if she would return. Meanwhile, Umoja lay on the ground with his hands on his head, losing body heat. We had no choice but to pick the infant up and make our way to the group as fast as we could, hoping to intercept his mother.

An hour later, I finally put Umoja down on a fresh gorilla trail, and in less than a minute, Nyiramurema appeared from a clump of trees to my right, with the rest of the group not far to my left. The mother picked up the infant on her way by us as if nothing had happened! From that point on, he healed steadily. Within a month, Umoja could walk, and within two months he could use his wrist almost normally.

Umoja in July 2008, 3 months after surgery using left arm

Now, a year later, it seemed that Umoja was in trouble again. I drove quickly back to the office, though I knew we wouldn’t be able to intervene immediately in this case either, no matter what had happened. Then came the good and bad news. Umoja was fine, but his mother Nyiramurema was gone. She was with Nyakagezi Group. Though it’s not the image we have — a big male gorilla pulling a female along with him — this transfer was largely Nyiramurema’s choice. When there’s a desirable silverback in the vicinity, it’s the female that decides whether or not to change groups. Her immediate family fights to keep her. I wondered if this had been the reason for Umoja’s injury a year earlier. Perhaps his mother wanted to leave the group, and little Umoja had gotten caught in the middle. This time, he must have known to keep his distance.

Had Nyiramurema transferred a year ago, Umoja would have died. At two years old, he was still completely dependent on his mother for milk. If she’d left with him, the silverbacks in Nyakagezi group would surely have killed him — and had he stayed without her, he would have starved. My first reaction when I heard this latest news was to wonder if he was old enough now to survive without her. I tried to calculate Umoja’s exact age. Three-year-olds can handle sudden weaning, though they do undergo considerable stress. If they’re younger, the chances of survival go way down.

Umoja in July 2008, 3 months after surgery

I was almost sure Umoja was old enough to survive. My history with this infant had begun in April 2007, when he (as yet unnamed) and Nyiramurema were both ill from respiratory disease, along with every other gorilla in Kwitonda Group. When the pair suddenly went missing, we pulled the whole team together and finally found them after five days, still coughing but alive, and guided them back to the group. This effort led to the honor I mentioned early — the naming of Umoja at the annual ceremony.

I ticked off the months in my mind. Gorilla infants are never named until they’re at least a year old, so he had to be almost three by now (the naming ceremony in 2007 had taken place in June). Nevertheless, I didn’t stop worrying about Umoja until I got back to my office and checked his birth date: February 2006. Whew. Three years and two months.

Umoja (right) in November 2008, 6 months post-op, with Sulibika (left)

This was another hard fact of gorilla life. Group interactions and female transfers occasionally do result in premature weaning, and there’s nothing we can do about it. The infant must suddenly survive on calories from plants instead of calories from milk, and without their mother’s warmth, they burn even more energy at night. What we usually see even in the older weanlings — those weaned at a normal age — is a change in behavior. Instead of playing, they eat incessantly, and pout. Their body shapes change, too, as their bellies enlarge and they lose their baby fat. When the stress of the change is severe, they develop edema (fluid) in their face and hands, a sign of mild hypothermia.

Umoja eating near Kwitonda, April 28 2009

Of course, I went to check on Umoja the next day — not because we’d intervene if he showed signs of weaning stress, but to document it. The second silverback and a blackback in Kwitonda Group had also been injured during the fight, so I planned to check them, too. As it turned out, Nyakagezi was still around, which made for a bit of tracking confusion. We could hear three different chest beats from three locations, and found ourselves following multiple trails that crisscrossed each other.

After we’d tracked for three hours, the first gorillas we found were making no noise at all. Indeed, we didn’t even find them. It was the Nyakagezi Group trackers who called us to their location. After checking nose prints, we confirmed that these four juveniles indeed belonged to Kwitonda Group. But the silverback, Kwitonda, was not with them, nor was Umoja or the rest of the family. The Nyakagezi trackers continued uphill in the direction of the most distant chest beats, and soon confirmed by radio that they’d found the group — and Nyiramurema. Meanwhile, we continued to follow various trails that seemed to go in circles. Finally, we found the main trail and most of Kwitonda Group in a dense cluster of bamboo.

Umoja eating April 28 2009

Kwitonda was eating bamboo shoots in company with his remaining five adult females and their offspring — as well as Umoja. I was relieved to see Umoja sitting calmly next to his father, as he often did. On my last few visits to the group, I’d rarely seen this infant with his mother. He’d grown up quickly, perhaps because of his injury and her disability, and was already very independent. Even so, his expression was not as relaxed as it normally was. His lips were pursed, his eyes wide. The same thing was true of the other gorillas we’d seen. I’m sure they’d all been covering much more ground than usual.

Over the next hour, Umoja spent most of his time eating bamboo, as did the rest of the family. He didn’t play much; but the whole group had clearly been through a stressful morning. It’s too early to tell how much his behavior will change as a result of his sudden weaning, or if he’ll develop the facial swelling I mentioned earlier.

We finished our check by looking for the third set of chest beats. We finally caught up to one of the young silverbacks and two blackbacks from Kwitonda Group. As the tracker explained, they were still on patrol looking for Nyiramurema. One had a minor scrape on his back and the other had lost his little toe (ouch!) but these were minor wounds for male gorillas. Either they hadn’t fought very hard to keep Nyiramurema or realized they didn’t have much of a chance. Maybe they figured, as we did, that she’d try to come back. Because of her handicaps (one eye, one good leg), it’s doubtful that she can keep up with Nyakagezi Group. These gorillas routinely travel far and fast, from Uganda to Rwanda and back again, and then into Congo.

Though I hate to think so, maybe Umoja is simply an infant destined not to survive. If he has trouble now, as a result of his sudden weaning, there’s nothing we can do. We’ll know in another week or so.

Mushya and Icyizere Healthy Again

Lori Wark — Sat, 30 May 2009 09:27:45 -0400

Every hike up into the forest feels different to me, despite the fact that I now have a pretty good idea of the terrain and "at least in Rwanda" the gorillas. I think it's because no two visits are ever the same. I'm bound to learn something new, for one thing. For another, my mind is usually focused on the purpose of my visit. If it's a routine health check, I'm thinking about when I last saw the group, their names, and medical histories, if any. When there's a patient to see, I'm filled with anticipation.

Mushya with her mother Icyizere

On my most recent visit to check on the infant Mushya, I couldn't wait to get there. I knew he was doing well, so well, in fact, that I had a feeling this would be the last time I'd have an excuse to visit him as a "patient." It was time to take him, and his mother, Icyizere, off the case list. I also knew there was a new baby in the group that I hoped to photograph for the park service. It's the time of year when they're assembling baby pictures for the upcoming naming ceremony.

I also spend a fair amount of brain energy paying attention to where I step and what the clouds are doing. Rain isn't so bad as long as we keep moving, but it makes photography impossible. This was a bright clear morning after a hard night's rain, which meant the trail would be steep, muddy and sunny. As usual, the trackers seemed to be gliding through the mud while I struggled, slipped and sweated. It was hot! Just as I thought I'd better sacrifice my arms to the stinging nettles and take off my jacket, we'd arrived! It had been only about an hour and twenty minutes walk from the wall. Not bad. Even better, I recognized our location and knew there were a number of very steep hillsides in front of us.

We found the silverback, Isabukuru, first. He was eating thistle, two-fisted. I was surprised to learn that he'd had a cough for three days. Sure enough, he coughed several times within the first few minutes and he had a little nasal discharge. Had I known about the dreaded cough, I would have worried the whole way up the trail -- not for him, but for Mushya and the newest baby. (Isabukuru got over it within a few more days and none of the family caught whatever it was -- or maybe it was an allergy.) Fortunately, he seemed to be feeling just fine, well enough to stop eating long to mate with a female, and then resume his meal. I moved on to check the rest of the group.

Icyizere and Mushya were nearby. I couldn't get over Mushya's shiny black hair coat. Icyizere, too, looked the picture of health. I also noted a hint of recognition in their expressions. I'm sure they recognize me for all those hours I sat staring at them trying to decide if the infant was getting stronger and less itchy in the days after we intervened. But it's also possible they have some memory of the intervention day. Icyizere had definitely seen my face close up (though I was wearing a mask) for a few seconds -- I'd had to grab hold of her arm for a split second as she sat up in order to give her the reversal drug.

Regardless of their initial reaction, both gorillas then proceeded to ignore me, as usual. Icyizere soon repositioned herself to feed and Mushya climbed down from her back to explore around a bit. He made several advances in my direction, even strutting a bit up on his knuckles, elbows straight. I wish I'd had better light to photograph him during those few minutes since his antics gave me a great view of his entire body. On his skin and hair I could see no evidence whatsoever of his former problem, and when he yawned, I could see that his gums were bright pink. He does have a distinctive cowlick on the top of his head -- the result of an entirely new head of hair. I wonder how long that will last.

As if to remind me of his past, Mushya climbed up on his mother's back as she began to move and then scratched his rear end a few times. This was, without a doubt, a normal gorilla itch! I have two distinctive images of this infant in my head from the days when he was very sick. The first was that he was never on Icyizere's back; he would sit in the crook of her arm. When he began to improve, this was the first change in his behavior: he felt strong enough to try to climb up on her shoulders, at which point she'd swat him down like a fly. I don't think she was accustomed to normal infant behavior. The second was that he was so terribly itchy, pulling out tufts of hair while he scratched his unhealthy skin.

Icyizere, of course, was the more important patient of the two, even though we hadn't considered her to be nearly as ill as her infant until we did her exam. We still do not understand why this particular mother ended up with such an overwhelming load of parasites that then affected Mushya. But it's very clear that our one dose of the anti-parasiticide drug, ivermectin, did wonders. These days, she has plenty of milk, and Mushya has obviously benefitted. He not only looks good, he's strong, so much so that he had the nerve to pig grunt at me as he and Icyizere climbed into a berry patch. He obviously wanted to let me know that those were not my berries!

It was great to see Mushya acting like a normal infant gorilla. Though he's still on the small side, he may very well catch up. We also think he's likely to have quite an attitude. Finally, I did get a photo of Isaro's new baby. At less than a week old, it was too little to hold its head up for very long, so the best I could do was a nursing photo, followed by a sleeping baby photo.

Orphan Exams

Trisha Creekmore — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 13:03:15 -0400

Finally, it was time to give all three “Goma orphans” their annual exams. This would be Mapendo’s second exam under anesthesia and Ndeze and Ndakasi’s first. Fortunately, the gorillas had no idea what was about to happen. Ndakasi simply wanted to play with Eddy, not realizing he held a syringe in his left hand.

Anesthetizing the gorillas is, in many ways, more stressful for us. We know that their lives are in our hands. Even with the captive-living orphans, we try not to intervene with anesthesia. It helps that we can play with them a bit and see most of their body parts, but there are several things we cannot do without anesthesia, including collecting blood samples and administering TB test tests. The results of these tests are essential for us to assess their health status. Additionally, all three orphans had long ago become moving targets when it came to trying to listen to their heart or lungs.

Ndakasi is just about to realize that Dr. Eddy is poking her in the rear end. When Eddy skillfully gave Ndakasi her anesthetic, she looked surprised for a few seconds, but quickly got over it.

We also needed to give each gorilla another round of vaccines while under anesthesia (their measles booster shots.) In recent weeks, we—Magda and Eddy—had already given the two mountain gorillas their tetanus and polio vaccines so that we could measure their immune response at the time of the exam. I also try not to vaccinate young animals with a bunch of vaccines at once as it’s harder for their immune systems to respond fully. Since they’d had a few surprise injections from people, we weren’t sure if they would figure out what was happening. Fortunately, they didn’t—at least, not until they felt the pinch of the needle!

Andre comforts Ndakasi after her injection of anesthetic, which she’s already forgotten about.

Andre picked up Ndakasi and played with her gently (in the photo she is “smiling” with her mouth open because he is tickling her) while she fell asleep under the effects of the drug. We use the same anesthesia for the captive gorillas as we do the free-ranging ones, a combination of a sedative, medetomidine, mixed in the same syringe with an anesthetic, ketamine. Not only is this a tiny volume, which helps when we need to use a dart, but there’s a reversal (antagonist) drug for the sedative which we give when we’re finished with the procedure. The effect is dramatic—within fifteen minutes the animal is mostly back to normal, though they may feel a little groggy (i.e. hungover).

Ndakasi is missing a number of deciduous (baby) teeth as a result of rambunctious play on hard ground.

Anesthesia is also the only way we can properly exam the gorilla’s mouths. Though they open them often enough while playing, a split second view isn’t enough. During Ndakasi’s exam we confirmed that she is missing three of her deciduous incisors. She and Ndakasi play hard, as do all infant mountain gorillas, but they’re also playing on hard ground instead of piles of soft vegetation and volcanic soil. Andre and the rest of the caretakers try to keep the orphans from climbing too high in the trees or from getting too rambunctious on the climbing structure but they do inevitably fall down. The games happen so fast that it’s impossible to catch them every time.

At rounds a few days later, we reviewed the dental eruption chart for great apes. Based on what is known in lowland gorillas, Ndakasi’s permanent incisors will not appear for several more years (she is just two-years-old and the first permanent incisor erupts at age five-and-a-half.) One thing is for sure, a few missing teeth won’t keep her from smiling during her play sessions.

Ndakasi is anesthetized during her annual exam with Drs. Jacques Iyanya, Eddy Kambale and Magdalena Braum.

The anesthetic combination we use gives us about 40 minutes to complete our exam, and although we can give a supplemental dose, we prefer to work in a team so we can do more than one thing at once and finish within this relatively short time frame. In the forest, we often need to keep the gorilla down longer, especially if the procedure is at all complicated. Plus, the logistics are more difficult. At least with the Goma orphans, we could work outside on a table with shelter in case it rained. For Ndakasi’s exam, I monitored anesthesia (and took photos); Eddy did the TB test, collected blood with Jacques’ help, and then a set of routine measurements; Magda collected urine and a skin biopsy for genetic analysis. And we all had a chance to do a thorough physical exam.

We also had help from Sandy Jones who is the new orphan care manager hired by DFGFI (Diane Fossey Gorilla Fund International) to work in partnership with us (MGVP) on the day-to-day care of the orphans. These exams were a great opportunity for her to meet “the babies” up close—and she was immensely helpful in writing everything down. It’s amazing how many people it takes to examine, sample, and record data from a 15 kg gorilla in 30 minutes or less!

Simon Childs was the first to fill the orphan care manager position, and at the time, his job was a little different. There was no experienced team of caretakers, for one thing, or even a facility. For another, there were fewer orphans. Simon helped get everything started and also helped to raise several gorillas. Sandy joins us at a time when the caretaker routines are well-established and (knock on wood) we don’t have any new orphans, so she’ll be focused on the specific needs of the orphans—both in Kinigi, RW and Goma, RDC. For example, she’s putting together an enrichment program for them, and as of this set of exams, will also help make adjustments in milk amounts, forest food, and market food. I’m sure she’ll soon get involved in the plans for where they will live in the longer-term.

Originally from Great Britain, Sandy has worked with great apes in Cameroon, both Limbe Wildlife Center and CWAF. Not only has she hand-raised orphan apes, so she knows what it entails, she is very keen that they should live in natural social groups if at all possible. We’re all very pleased that she’s joined our team (and at some point I’ll post a photo of her without a mask!)

Ndakasi’s tonsils are prominent but not inflamed.

Among the three Goma orphans, Ndakasi is the youngest and we found that she also had the most prominent tonsils. Both she and Ndeze had also recently recovered from an upper respiratory tract infection—sneezing, coughing, fever—their first in many months. So this could explain their increased size, but it’s also normal for young gorillas (and children) to have prominent tonsils. These structures are like lymph nodes; they are part of the immune system. Among the Kinigi orphans, who are due for their next annual exams in a few more months, the two youngest, Dunia and Tumaini, also had prominent tonsils during their last exams. As in people, upper respiratory and pharyngeal (throat) infections cause this tissue to turn red. Pink is normal.

Ndakasi has just been given her reversal drug and will soon start moving; her right eyelid is swollen from her TB test.

As with any animal waking up from anesthesia, we do all we can to minimize the stress so they don’t react by feeling scared or disoriented. In the forest, we pack up our kit as soon as possible and retreat, leaving only one vet and the group’s usual tracker to watch the recovery. In a captive situation, the orphans feel most comfortable with their caretakers. So as soon as we finished and gave the reversal drug to Ndakasi, we asked Andre to help her recover.

Andre helps Ndakasi recover, friends as always.

Aside from a swollen right eyelid from the TB test (it’s normal to swell right away, the test is one of delayed immunity and is read at 72 hours—they were all negative), one suture on her chest from the skin biopsy, and the shiny remnants of eye lubricant left on her face, Ndakasi was sitting up and acting normal within thirty minutes. It was time to move on to Ndeze.

Now it’s Ndeze’s turn, and she has no idea.

Ndeze had been playing during the hour-and-a-half we’d been working on Ndakasi. She, too, had no idea what was about to happen. While Eddy was getting the anesthetic ready, I photographed her last play session for the morning. Ndeze’s dose would be only a little higher than Ndakasi’s. Though she is at least three months older, Ndeze now weighs only 1 kg more than her younger companion.

Magda is helping Ndeze to spin around on her back, a game this little gorilla loves.

One of the orphans’ favorite games is to be spun around on their back. Both Ndakasi and Ndeze (as shown in the photo with Magda) will throw themselves to the ground and stick up an arm or a leg, waiting to be twirled. Magda also helped fool Ndeze into thinking this day was just another one full of fun.

Eddy with Ndeze, waiting for her to fall asleep.

Eddy had to be the bad guy again and inject Ndeze by hand when she wasn’t looking. This is one of those situations were I’m particularly happy to be the mentor instead of the injector! We all have bonds with these gorillas, and Eddy works most closely with the two mountain gorilla orphans, while Jacques works with Mapendo. I watched both of them clench their teeth just at the moment he gave the injection. It’s not easy being mean.Eddy had to be the bad guy again and inject Ndeze by hand when she wasn’t looking. This is one of those situations were I’m particularly happy to be the mentor instead of the injector! We all have bonds with these gorillas, and Eddy works most closely with the two mountain gorilla orphans, while Jacques works with Mapendo. I watched both of them clench their teeth just at the moment he gave the injection. It’s not easy being mean.

On more than one occasion, I’ve relayed to them what I was taught by my mentors: sometimes you have to be “mean”. And this is one of them. If you’re not, and you don’t poke hard enough, or push the plunger on the syringe fast enough, the animal will jump away, and the drug will either be lost, not given, or only partly injected. Then we’ve all made more work and worry for ourselves. There’s nothing worse than a partial injection of anesthetic. You have to wait and see what happens before it’s safe to give more. And then, if the patient gets nervous or upset about having to get another injection, then the effect of the anesthetic can reduced. The same thing happens with darting, and it’s for this reason that I myself practice the afternoon or morning before the intervention and ask the other vets to do the same. It’s just not worth making a mistake that can be avoided.

Like Ndakasi, Ndeze was only momentarily surprised. She started to play but then began to feel sleepy. As her favorite blue ball toy rolled away from her, she could only look at it.

Ndeze still has a full set of deciduous (baby) teeth

Unlike Ndakasi, Ndeze still has a full set of her deciduous teeth. She plays just as hard, so it’s not clear why she hasn’t lost or broken them, other than the fact that until recently she was definitely the stronger and bigger of the two. We often had the sense that Ndakasi was a little clumsy as well, and that this could be a result of the really tough time she had as an infant when she nearly died of pneumonia. Eddy plans to make a dental chart for each orphan so he can note when their permanent teeth come in.

The gorilla doctors give Ndeze her annual exam: Magda, Eddy, and Jacques.

We each had the same assignments for Ndeze’s exam, and found that she too was in good condition except that we all had the impression that her hair coat was a little rough. We’d already discussed with Sandy that she could help with the transition of the orphans to select vegetables and fruits purchased at market. We’d been hoping to keep them only on milk and forest food, but the deliveries of such have been intermittent. Though the road to Rumangabo where the trackers collect food for the orphans is now safe, it’s still quite a difference. If we’re right that they need a more varied diet, we expect to see their hair coats turn shinier.

Eddy and Jacques take measurements of Ndeze during anesthesia.

Alternatively, what these orphans may really need before they look the picture of health is to move out of Goma. This is, as I’ve mentioned before, something we’re planning for, but nothing is final yet. But PLEASE, if you want to help secure a future for the Goma as well as the Kinigi orphans, make a donation here, on the MGVP website, or the ICCN website. If you mark your donation as restricted for the orphans’ care, then that is what it will go to! If we can build up a fund for them, we will have more options.

For these two, Ndeze and Ndakasi, there’s virtually no way they can return to the wild, for several reasons. They were rescued too young; by the time they reach the age where they could survive on their own (at least three years from now), it’s not likely that their families—the gorillas that remain of the Rugendo (Ndeze) and Kabirizi (Ndakasi) groups—will remember them. Moreover, they will have lived so long with humans that, despite all our best efforts to keep them in quarantine, they will have been exposed to diseases in a way that would never happen to them in the wild. It would be a risk to put them back out there, not only for their own health and safety, but because it could put the existing healthy population of mountain gorillas at risk. Finally, they will be strongly imprinted on humans for years to come—at least until they can live with a family of their own. Even so, we’re determined to work with our partners to move them to a place that feels more like home.

Like Ndakasi, Ndeze woke up comfortably in the arms of Patrick, who closed his eyes during this photo, making him look as if he were about to go to sleep.

After making certain that both Ndeze and Ndakasi were well recovered, we moved on to Mapendo. Magda, Jacques, and I had discussed whether or not we should begin by trying to hand-inject Mapendo, or simply begin with a dart. Not that one is necessarily easier than the other, but she’d been hand-injected before by Magda. She’d never been darted. Magda felt she might remember her and we didn’t want to upset Mapendo. Jacques, however, had never been the bad guy. He was confident that he could give the injection and preferred to try.

Sure enough, it couldn’t have gone better. In fact, after watching all three orphans be hand-injected by their regular vets, I was extremely impressed at how well it worked. Once again, Jacques knew he had to be quick and firm. He sat on the edge of the bet and let Mapendo give him a hug, then when she turned away from him for a split second, he jabbed her.

Mapendo looked shocked when she felt the poke, though not much more so than Ndeze or Ndakasi. The caretakers laughed, and the gorilla came running over to me. But instead of showing any sort of aggression or anger, she simply wrapped her arms around my legs up and looked curiously up at me. I hadn’t seen Mapendo in months and didn’t think she’d remember me. She must have, or I don’t think she would have behaved so calmly. She also could easily have run to her caretakers for comfort. Indeed, after I didn’t reach down to pick her up (she’s too big for me, plus I had the camera, and I wouldn’t trust her not to bite) she looked to them for a hug.

Dr. Jacques Iyanya collecting a blood sample from the anesthetized Mapendo, with Sandy recording.

Since her arrival in Goma, Mapendo has been the picture of health. She’s had only a one-day bout of diarrhea and never any sign of respiratory illness. This is interesting and important, as it shows that a young gorilla with a healthy immune system that is kept in a clean, quarantined area, can indeed escape illness.

Mapendo lives in a small room and fenced in enclosure with only her caretakers coming and going. The tin wall is so high that no one can see over it. Ndeze and Ndakasi, by contrast, live in a house that is better in some ways because it has more room and a yard with trees, but it also is more exposed since the wall around it is not all that high. There are not supposed to be any visitors to either location. Unfortunately, we know this rule has been broken from time to time (though not by our staff) and it makes sense that the younger gorillas with the less-developed immune systems will eventually come down with respiratory illness. This is one reason it’s so difficult to plan for their long term care. Cleanliness and hygiene are crucial to the day-to-day health of the gorillas—as well as to our own. Proper care for the orphan gorillas is a 24-hour operation.

Mapendo’s teeth show no change from last year.

Mapendo has a full set of deciduous teeth as well, plus one permanent set—her first molars (the last tooth in the back on either side). She had these when we first examined her a year ago, and it was for this reason that we said at the time that she had to be at least three-and-a-half-years-old, or a little older. This makes her almost five now.

Jacques is collecting a blood sample from Mapendo while she is anesthetized using a “butterfly” needle placed in the femoral vein; the monitor reads Heart Rate 79 and Oxygen Saturation 100%; there’s also a thermometer in place, which read 98 degrees F.

In our lab in Musanze (Rwanda), we can run basic blood tests like a blood cell count and serum chemistry analysis, as well as a urinalysis, but we also arrange to export the samples for more testing.

Ultimately, a laboratory in the United States that runs tests for antibody levels to various organisms will analyze the orphans’ blood samples. This is how we know how well our vaccines are working in the case of the orphans; for wild gorillas, it’s how we learn what they may have been exposed to, since we don’t vaccinate them.

On the subject of vaccines, people often ask me why we don’t do so for the wild gorillas, given the risks presented by their proximity to humans. The reason is that we’d have to dart about thirty percent of the habituated gorillas on a routine basis—basically yearly because all new infants would need a series of shots. The babies are too small to dart so we’d have to anesthetize mothers, which would put perfectly healthy animals at risk. Though we’re prepared to vaccinate in the face of an outbreak of, say, measles or polio, we absolutely believe that our focus should be on prevention. Moreover, some diseases, like tuberculosis and the common cold, have no vaccine. This is why I often sound like a broken record: only healthy people should visit gorillas. A cough means your sick!

Mapendo woke up from her anesthesia with Babo just as quietly as she had gone asleep.

Overall Mapendo was in excellent health, and, once again, a little overweight. In her case, the problem isn’t exercise in that she’s constantly on the move playing with the caretakers and on her climbing structures and ropes. We think she’s simply getting too much “market food”—especially bananas. Sandy plans to visit again soon and help make some adjustments to her diet, while also start Ndeze and Ndakasi on market food.

While we continue to work out the future for the orphans, the good news is that they’re all healthy, and they have an excellent set of caretakers.

Update on Mushya

Trisha Creekmore — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 15:27:21 -0400

In recent weeks, Mushya has taken me on a roller coaster ride. I've been visiting Isabukuru Group regularly to check on him and his mother, Icyizere. He's looked better each time, yet his fragile condition has worried me.

Only now, five weeks after treatment, am I convinced that he'll survive, at least in the short term. The reason: Icyizere. She is strong and active — and producing more milk. None of us imagined that one dose of ivermectin would make such a difference, especially since we hadn't believed that she herself was ill. Mushya had been our target.

We'd suspected all along, ever since Magda's first check, that Mushya wasn't getting enough milk. A mother gorilla with a 1-year-old infant would normally have bulging mammary glands. Icyizere's were almost flat.

Mushya eating and playful, four-and-a-half weeks post-treatment.

We'd concluded that her lack of milk production was due to one of two things. It could be a natural phenomenon — maybe she wasn't producing adequate milk simply because this was her first infant. Alternatively, Mushya's itchy skin and stunted growth could mean he was too weak to nurse strongly enough, or often enough, to stimulate her mammary glands. But we were wrong. Icyizere's parasites were part, if not all, of the problem.

Icyizere's mammary gland size increasing three weeks post-treatment.

When she's feeding, Icyizere tends to sit in one place and eat all she can within reach, turning slowly as she does so, which makes it easy for us to see Mushya — unless they're sitting among dense vegetation. Like all infant gorillas, he's also interested in watching me while I observe him.

On my three-week post-treatment visit, we arrived early enough to find the two of them still in the night nest. Icyizere was picking at a few plants and chewing on bits of bark while the infant clung to her hip. When she turned, I noticed something distinctly different: her mammary glands looked bigger.

Mushya with Icyizere in dense vegetation, three weeks post-treatment.

It's not easy to retrieve a fecal sample from an infant, so I was pleased when the tracker found one of Mushya's in the night nest. We collected a sample from Icyizere as well. Meanwhile, she'd moved into a clump of thorny berry bushes, where she stayed for the better part of the next three hours. It was a cool cloudy day and the gorillas were up high, at about 3,300 meters. I could see Mushya's hands reaching out for bits of food, but he huddled so close to his mother to keep warm that it was difficult to judge his overall condition. As rain approached, I left with icy hands and feet.

Mushya four weeks post-treatment.

Hiking back down the mountain, I found myself dreading the fecal exam results. From what I'd seen of Mushya, he didn't look much different. In fact, his hair coat looked even scruffier. I couldn't decide if the bare patches of skin were just more obvious because he'd grown some patches of newer, longer hair, or if his skin problem had taken a turn for the worse. The parasite load could be increasing again.

At one point, he'd stuck his tongue out while grabbing at a piece of plant, and I'd thought it looked pinker. On the other hand, he didn't seem nearly as bright and active on this day as he had on the day right after the intervention.

Mushya chewing on thistle, four weeks post-treatment.

But the fecal results revealed surprisingly good news: both mother and infant were negative for parasites! Indeed, I hadn't imagined the change in Icyizere. Without a load of worms competing for calories, her nutritional condition was better, accounting for the increase in her milk.

Our findings also indicated that there was little more we could do for Mushya. Not only was he no longer burdened by a heavy load of parasites, his mother's improved condition was giving him access to more milk. Icyizere was the key to his future health.

Mushya still itchy, but stronger, four weeks post-treatment.

A week later, there was no question about Icyizere. She looked the picture of health. But Mushya was scratching — nonstop. He'd also developed several circular, crusted scabs on his back, hips and left shoulder. Though some of these lesions were in the areas where we'd taken the skin scraping, others looked new, or at least newly apparent.

I couldn't decide if he was itchy because the skin problem was recurring — perhaps as part of the healing process — or if the mosquitoes and flies were bothering him. But after 10 minutes, he began to look a lot better, playing, eating and climbing all over his mother. Maybe he was just feeling well enough to scratch harder!

Mushya nursing, four-and-a-half weeks post-treatment.

I went back to check him four days later, figuring that although there was no new move we could make, we should at least document the return of the itchiness. This time we found the mother and infant resting in a day nest. It was a bright sunny day, and Icyizere seemed to be enjoying the warmth.

Seconds later, Mushya began to nurse. He wasn't just letting the milk dribble into his mouth the way I'd seen in the past; he was really drinking, and he kept it up for several minutes. Less than two hours later, he nursed again. This time he changed sides twice and even made gurgling noises! My roller coaster was on the way back up.

Mushya chewing on gallium, four-and-a-half weeks post-treatment.

On my most recent visit, five weeks after our initial treatment, Mushya looked even better. Isabukuru had moved the group to Bikereri, a steep hilly area on the slopes of Karisimbi volcano, a site full of wild celery and scattered hygenia trees. The gorillas were all feeding in hazy morning sunshine, with rain clouds on the horizon. I sat down on a soft clump of plants to watch.

Icyizere was eating thistle, carefully folding the leaves and flowers into her mouth. As bits of uneaten food dropped in her lap, Mushya was there to grab them, stuffing them into his own mouth. He glanced in my direction, opened his mouth wide and stuck out his pink tongue.

Mushya chewing on a leaf, five weeks post-treatment.

Our plan is to continue checking on mother and infant, at least until Mushya looks as healthy as he's been acting. But even then, his long-term future is uncertain. His growth has been stunted and his immune system may not be strong enough to fight off future infections. In the meantime, we're still wondering why the parasites caused such a problem to begin with. I'm reminded once again of just how much we have left to learn.

[Rwanda, 2009. Pictures: Dr. Lucy Spelman/MGVP]