Rafiki: An unlikely friendship with a mountain gorilla

By David D Minier

     When Fresno City College professor David Durfee signs on for a medical mission to Kisoro, Uganda, despairing over the recent loss of his wife and son, he receives more than he bargained for.

     In Uganda, while exploring nearby Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, Durfee encounters a fearsome silverb

• Language: English
• Publisher: david minier
• Release date: Feb 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780985981310

David D Minier

David Minier is a California judge, educated at Princeton University and Stanford Law School. He has travelled in over one hundred countries, served with a medical mission in East Africa, and tracked mountain gorillas with the legendary Reuben Rwanzagire. Minier resides in Fresno and Santa Barbara, California, with his wife Rickie.

Book preview

1

Kwaheri

(Goodbye)

I SAT ON THE FALLEN hagenia trunk, as I had many times before, waiting.

The clearing—the place Thomas had named my bandari—was unusually quiet. The surrounding vegetation sparkled with beads of water that refracted the tropical sunlight into tiny rainbow prisms. It had rained on my run from the town, as it did frequently, although this was not yet Uganda’s rainy season. Patches of shadow moved across the ground as the forest canopy resisted the sun. The air, usually cooled by the canopy and the elevation, today was dank from the rain.

I heard movement in the forest, close to the clearing, and my pulse quickened.

Was it him? Would he come today?

A gray mountain squirrel peered at me, half hidden by a flowering veronica at the clearing’s edge, then disappeared. African green broadbills winged from tree to tree high above me.

Minutes passed. He almost always came, but never entered the bandari unless I was present.

A sudden panic gripped me. What if he didn’t come? I had to say goodbye. Several times I had put it off, avoiding the emotional toll I knew it would take. Would he understand? Would he care?

I remained still, waiting, hoping and fearing.

It seemed an eternity, but may have been only minutes. I heard another noise, branches parting in the bush, the movement unhurried, cautious. It stopped, and I had a feeling of being observed by one unseen. This had happened countless times, but the anticipation was always the same—a warring dread of the unknown and hope for the familiar.

The forest parted at the bandari’s edge, just enough for me to see the familiar face. George’s face. My heart leaped as I stood to greet my rafiki, my friend, as always: right arm held up, palm outward, then placed over my heart.

"Jambo," I called, greeting my friend in Swahili.

George entered the clearing and mimicked my greeting. I smiled broadly, but George’s eyes betrayed his anxiety, a fear that something was wrong.

He crossed the clearing slowly and sat on the ground before me, and the dread returned. How could I explain to George that I was going away—forever?

2

Mwanzo

(Beginning)

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

I WATCHED MY STUDENTS file out of the classroom. Spring was finally at hand, the San Joaquin Valley was awash with sunshine, and the college was vibrant. Gushing fountains and lush flower beds welcomed the students as they left Room 105, Math, Science & Engineering Building, Fresno City College. Room 105 is where I, David Durfee, teach, or rather taught, classes in honors physics and calculus. I had done so for twenty-six years, making me, at age fifty-two, one of the senior faculty members.

I noticed an orange backpack, bulging with books and whatever else a student carries, under a chair. Desks and chairs were of a single unit, with book racks beneath the chairs. The classroom door opened and Miss Wimberley—her first name was Wananda, but I never addressed students by their first names—appeared.

I think I left my backpack . . . oh, there it is, she said. Miss Wimberley was all of twenty, sporting the standard unisex uniform of shorts and a T-shirt. She disappeared as quietly as she entered with a generous smile and a Bye. She had told me earlier she was a transplant from Vardaman, Mississippi, so she pronounced bye in a Southern drawl.

I sighed. If only I could trade places with them. Young minds in young bodies with bright futures, looking forward to the term’s end and summer vacation. And although my students looked like the rest—white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and variations thereof, all clad in a manner intolerable when I was at university—they weren’t the same. They were the cream of the crop. After two years in my classroom, they would head across town to Fresno State University for their bachelor degrees, then, for most of them, on to graduate schools. Their preparation complete, they would settle into well-paid employment in industries, laboratories, or, for a few, less well-paid jobs in classrooms like mine. They tolerated my physics and calculus classes as required steps in their academic advancement.

I stared at the pale green door through which Miss Wimberley had vanished. How I envied them, young, bright and ambitious, with never a thought that they might fail to achieve their goals.

I had not achieved mine. Or had I? A master’s degree in physics from U.C.L.A. had earned me a job at Pasadena’s prestigious Jet Propulsion Laboratory, helping design and develop space satellites. Another newly minted scientist, Jackson Smart, introduced me to his sister, Ellen, a honey blonde California beauty, who taught first grade at nearby Saint Andrews Grammar School. Ellen wasn’t Catholic, but she held strong views about teaching, and opted out of public schools. She didn’t want the state to tell her what, when, and how to teach, so she put principle over paycheck and signed on with Saint Andrews.

Three months after meeting, Ellen and I were married at People’s Church in Ellen’s home town of Fresno. I was raised only two hundred miles away in Ventura, then a small coastal California town north of Los Angeles, close enough for a large group of family and friends to attend. After a big wedding, we honeymooned in Puerto Vallarta and then returned to Pasadena to pursue our careers.

After three years at Jet Propulsion Laboratory, I tired of playing assistant to an assistant, and Ellen and I decided to raise a family in the more relaxed atmosphere of Fresno, a sprawling city in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, often referred to as the nation’s breadbasket because of its tremendous agricultural yield. Where Pasadena was old money, Ivy League degrees, ballet and symphonies, Fresno was middle class, blue collar, and country western concerts. It was a better fit for Ellen and me.

Ellen found a teaching job in nearby Clovis, at Sierra Vista Elementary School. It was a public school, but in a prestigious school district, and Ellen decided her generous salary helped compensate for having to adhere to a state mandated curriculum. I was hired to teach math and physics at Fresno City College, the oldest, and certainly one of the most attractive, community college in the state.

We bought a seventy-year-old two-story home, long neglected but rich in character, on Van Ness Avenue, just three blocks from the campus. It had once been owned by a Fresno City College President, and was still called the President’s House by the real estate community. Not bad, I thought, for a small town kid from Ventura, the grandson of oakies who had escaped the dustbowl of the nineteen-thirties and migrated to the Golden State.

Life was good, and even better when Jason came along. He would be the first and last of the family we planned to raise. We learned that when Dr. Mohammed Ashraf told us, Another pregnancy will likely be fatal for Ellen.

Jason, who took his good looks from his mother and his six foot height from me—we argued over who gave him his talent for straight A’s—graduated second in his class from Fresno High School. The only B he received was in English, and he never did master the distinction between who and whom, not that it made much difference in the San Joaquin Valley.

Jason’s only sport was basketball, but he played it with a passion and was a standout by his junior year in high school. On weekends and during the long, hot valley summers, if Jason wasn’t playing pick-up basketball with his friends he was at nearby Millerton Lake with Ellen and me. We had acquired another teacher’s 20-foot Catalina sailboat, almost stealing it for twelve hundred dollars. The two best days of my life, he told us with a huge grin, were the day I bought this boat and today, when I’m selling it to you. I christened the sailboat Pythagoras, after the ancient Greek mathematician whose equation governs the dimensions of triangular sails. The three of us spent countless hours at the lake sailing Pythagoras, camping, swimming, and just enjoying life.

I had been running since I was fifteen. I had a runner’s build, but was only an average member of my high school track team. Jason was a better runner, even though it was not his sport. We ran together in many of the local races, and every year travelled to San Francisco to join the huge Bay to Breakers run.

Jason moved on to Fresno State University after high school, living at home and making the short commute to campus in the used Toyota Camry we gave him for graduation. At Fresno State he majored in physics and, as his mother liked to say, minored in girls. He was a four year letterman in basketball, and told us he was debating two post-graduate options—doing graduate work in physics at my alma mater, U.C.L.A., or playing professional basketball with one of the European teams that had scouted him.

Jason did neither. Our country was in its fifth year of war in Afghanistan, and the day after his graduation ceremony Jason stunned his mother and me with an announcement—he would join the Army to do my duty for my country.

For years I have blamed myself for not dissuading Jason, not that I could have. But despite my warring emotions of pride and fear, I congratulated him on his decision. I had become a weekend warrior in the National Guard’s 40th Infantry Division while at U.C.L.A., mainly to help with expenses, and Jason had heard my exaggerated stories of fun-filled drill weekends and summer training at Camp Roberts, just north of Paso Robles. And, although Ellen and I were outwardly non-political—the safest choice for educators—Jason learned from us that patriotism and support of our nation’s military were givens.

So I congratulated Jason on his courage and dedication, and told him his Army service would not only be a great experience, but would look good on his record. Ellen just cried and asked me repeatedly, Why don’t you do something?

Eleven months later the world as Ellen and I knew it came to an end. The day I saw the olive-green government sedan pull to the curb of our Van Ness Avenue home, and the two Army N.C.O.’s exit the vehicle and walk slowly to our doorway, was the worst day of my life. There would later be another day almost as bad, but nothing can break your heart like losing a child.

Ellen and I buried Jason at Mountain View Cemetery in Fresno. He could have been laid to rest at the San Joaquin Valley National Cemetery in Santa Nella, a windswept and barren place eighty-five miles away in the middle of nowhere, but we wanted Jason to be close to home.

We tried to get on with our lives, because that’s all one can do, but nothing was ever quite the same. I was in my twenty-fourth year at Fresno City College, and the satisfaction of teaching the laws of nature and higher mathematics to bright, eager-to-learn students, with the joy of every so often having a truly brilliant student who could challenge his or her professor, was beginning to wane.

Our sailboat, Pythagoras, which Jason grew up with, was moved from its slip at Millerton Lake to the side yard of our home, never to sail again, and never to be sold.

Even more cherished in memory is the name bracelet Jason wore at the time of his death. Silver links holding a nameplate engraved JASON, it was Ellen and my gift to him on his sixteenth birthday. He told us it would be his good luck piece when he left for Afghanistan. The Army returned it to us in the small box containing his possessions three months after their officers knocked on our door. From that day on, I wore the bracelet on my right wrist, a constant reminder of our loss.

Eighteen months and three days after Jason died, the second worst day of my life devastated me. Ellen died suddenly.

A one in 25,000 probability was how the neurologist described the ruptured brain aneurysm that killed her. We had been at the Limelight restaurant for dinner—Ellen lost interest in cooking after Jason died—and left early when Ellen complained of a headache. By the time we reached home it had become the worst headache I’ve ever had.

We didn’t wait for an ambulance. I drove Ellen across town to St. Agnes Hospital without regard for traffic laws. She cried, complained of blurred vision, vomited and lost consciousness before we arrived. Ellen was dead less than ten hours later.

The world that had been shattered by Jason’s death was now completely destroyed. Ellen, kind and loving wife, best friend, and gifted teacher, was now taken from me also. The funeral at People’s Church was a barely-remembered blur of mournful organ music, the pastor’s generic praise (this beloved woman) and lamentation (taken before her time), and the countless so very sorry’s of friends and relatives.

Then I was alone.

The Van Ness home now seemed a funeral parlor, with reminders everywhere of Ellen and Jason. It was too much for me to bear. I listed the place for sale and moved into a small apartment on Wishon Avenue. It was still close to the college, but in a location where I could avoid travelling down Van Ness past the old house.

I knew I was in a downward spiral, but I seemed powerless to halt it. A deepening malaise enveloped me, and the only question was when it would end.

3

Baadhi Ya Ushauri

(Advice)

DAVID, WE MISSED YOU at the last two faculty meetings. I know you’re going through a very rough time, and I sympathize. But I wonder if you might want to take the next semester off?

I sat in the cramped office of Dr. Allen Hardy, Dean of Fresno City College’s Math, Science & Engineering Department. For a few moments I studied Hardy’s framed certificates that covered the wall behind his cluttered desk—Bachelor of Arts from University of California, Berkeley, Master and Doctor of Arts from Wayne State University in Michigan, Phi Beta Kappa, Fresno City College Professor of the Year, Fresno Rotary Club President, and so on. I didn’t focus on the display, but tried to guess the reason for Hardy’s inquiry.

Had a student complained? I knew I was far off my game as a teacher. In the past, I had always scored high in the dreaded student ratings that occurred at the end of each term. Or had the Dean noticed that I was tardy in filing paperwork, that I returned calls or e-mail from colleagues late, or not at all?

I couldn’t divine the answer, so I lowered my gaze and met his. Thanks, Allen, but I’m okay, I lied.

Hardy was a large man with close-cropped gray hair that had once been red and full. A neatly trimmed white goatee added length to his face. He wore a neatly pressed blue Oxford cloth shirt with button-down collars and a silk repp striped tie in the colors of his first alma mater, blue and gold. His slacks were tan khaki and his shoes penny loafers. A blue blazer hung on the corner coatrack. As usual, I felt under dressed by comparison, wearing a polo shirt, jeans and sneakers. But then, I wasn’t the Dean.

Hardy regarded me skeptically. As always, he delayed a difficult discussion with his pipe ceremony—pushing back and swiveling his chair, carefully selecting the desired pipe from its rack on the bookcase behind him, then packing the bowl with tobacco from the pouch that waited in his desk drawer. He would light the pipe only after I left, because smoking in campus buildings was prohibited. A can of air freshener, kept in another drawer, would disguise the lingering scent of tobacco smoke.

The pipe ceremony completed, Hardy got to the point of why he summoned me. My advice to you is to get away for the summer. His voice was deep and firm, which served him well when chairing department meetings. Allen and I had known each other since we both arrived on campus the same semester, fledgling college professors full of enthusiasm. He had worked his way up the administrative ladder and was the odds-on favorite for appointment as college President when the aging incumbent retired the following year. I had neither the interest nor the political skills to take the same path, preferring the more placid environment of the classroom.

Try something completely different, Hardy continued, removing the pipe before he spoke. Then come back refreshed to start the Fall term.

I stared at my friend of over twenty years. Once avid tennis players, we had enjoyed countless games in earlier days, our wives had been friends, and as couples we had entertained each other. But now Allen was Dean, this was college business, and I could read between the lines—as my boss, he was telling me to get my act together, or don’t come back.

I sat still for a long moment, composing myself. Good advice, Allen, I will . . . thanks, I finally said, rising to leave.

As I left the room, I heard the Dean light up.

4

Nafasi

(Opportunity)

THREE WEEKS LATER

THE FINAL THREE WEEKS before summer vacation were always the most hectic for me. This time, catching up with classroom instruction, reviewing the semester’s work with students, and preparing for final exams all were a tonic for me. It kept me busy, even if it didn’t improve my lackluster performance in the classroom.

The week before finals, panic over a looming decision gripped me—how would I spend the summer recess? How would I keep busy, keep myself from spiraling further into depression? It was too late to volunteer for summer session teaching. I had no plans, and I dreaded the thought of vegetating in my lonely apartment. Allen Hardy was right, I should get out of Fresno, do something new. Good advice, but a decision was too burdensome to attempt.

It was at the bookstore where my life would change, although I didn’t know it at the time. Clovis, Fresno’s trendy and more charming neighbor city, boasted a large used