From Confiscation to Care: Rescuing Chimpanzees from the Illegal Trade in Wildlife
It started with an email. Military forces were in possession of an infant chimpanzee in northern Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo) — an area so remote that, during my own field visits there years before, it had taken six days, 12 hours each day, by motorbike through muddy, winding, jungle trails to get there. It’s not an area many people visit, so getting this orphaned chimpanzee to safety was clearly going to be a challenge.
No one is quite sure how many chimpanzees actually live in DR Congo, because of difficult, isolated areas that have hosted only a handful of researchers. But in only a year of study, my colleague and I encountered 44 chimpanzee orphans in this northern region alone.
The Great Apes Survival Partnership (GRASP) receives reports of at least two apes being traded illegally each week, and as I sat in my office in Nairobi weighing the options for this latest seizure, I knew this would be another difficult task. Few orphaned apes once taken out of the wild can be returned easily. In the interim, sanctuary space is limited, and the logistics of relocating a confiscated ape are often the most daunting of all.
So, what happens when an orphaned chimpanzee, gorilla, bonobo, or orangutan is confiscated?
Since I began at GRASP three years ago, I have regularly helped to relocate orphaned great apes with the cooperation of the United Nations peacekeepers in DR Congo. Each transfer had its challenges, and, even when everything was in place, almost every one necessitated last minute finagling, usually over a poor mobile phone connection, involving my laughably rural Congolese French skills being put to the ultimate test.
None of these transfers have felt as harrowing as the “rescue” I undertook years before, when I brought five chimpanzees out of my study site in northern DR Congo by literally having to cut an airstrip from the thick jungle underbrush — so there is a certain strange disconnect to coordinate an ape transfer remotely Nairobi. Despite the ability to make solid arrangements, things can often go awry on the ground, so I have learned to compensate ahead of time in order to prevent as many mishaps as possible. Some variables are steadfast: there are only two sanctuaries for chimpanzees in DR Congo — one in the south of the country in Lubumbashi, a prominent mining town; and one in the east in Bukavu — so it is no surprise that they both run at or beyond capacity most of the time.
Since 2011, GRASP has collaborated with the U.N. peacekeeping forces to relocate chimpanzees and gorillas to permanent rehabilitation centres around Central Africa, based on the fact that U.N. forces fly regular plane routes between major cities and often have extra space on the cargo planes. As a result, GRASP is able place the crates containing the apes into the planes and helicopters at no cost, thereby creating a “feel-good” outcome for all concerned.
Though young orphaned chimpanzees are usually weak and vulnerable, they are given names like “Rambo” or “Cobra” — as this most recent chimpanzee was named — that belie the level of care that they will need to survive. GRASP was exceptionally lucky that the Lwiro Rehabilitation Centre in Bukavu was able to take in Cobra and give him that care, despite the fact that Lwiro currently cares for over 70 chimpanzees, in addition to other orphaned primates.
But how to get little Cobra from Bili, the town in the north, to Bukavu, all the way in the east? The two towns are separated by a distance of over 1,500 kilometres (1,000 miles) in a country where conflict and civil war have undermined basic functions like road maintenance and construction.
I was in luck — NBC had been filming wild chimpanzees in Bili, working with our wonderful partners, the African Wildlife Foundation, and the film crew had hired a plane that we could use. Good news! Bad news, however — the plane was scheduled to leave in just 10 days, and it was only going as far as Bunia, still nearly 800 kilometers (600 miles) from Bukavu.
Ten days might seem like a lot, but 10 days to get everything ready to move Cobra? Another, significantly more serious challenge.
Even when moving a chimpanzee within DR Congo, it is necessary to have an authorization from the Congolese wildlife authority (ICCN — Institut Congolais pour la Conservation de la Nature). I reached out to an ICCN colleague in eastern DR Congo, and he replied immediately, giving me hope that, perhaps, we would be able to meet our 10-day deadline.
My next task was to figure out how to get Cobra from Bunia to Bukavu. I contacted our U.N. peacekeeping partners, to see if they were willing — or able — to assist with another rescue. They were, thankfully, but they needed the dimensions of the crate that Cobra would be transported in, in addition to his weight, a veterinary certificate showing that he was in good health, and information about who would accompany him.
I had none of these things, as no crate had been built, no veterinarian had been able to check Cobra over, and the people who had alerted me to his situation in the first place were now deep in the forests, inaccessible via email or phone.
Ideally, one of them would have been able to accompany Cobra, but without the necessary documents, I could not register any of them for the U.N. flight. They would arrive back within range of contact only two days before the flight was scheduled to depart, so any planning would have to go through different routes.
I reached out to Itsaso Velez del Burgo, the manager of Lwiro, to see whether she would be willing and able to fly from Bukavu to Bunia to collect Cobra from the film crew and bring him back to Lwiro. Knowing too that she worked closely with an ICCN representative in Bukavu, who was also a veterinarian, I asked her to see whether he too would be willing to fly to Bunia and perform the check-up.
By having a veterinarian on-site in Bunia, I would be able to get the necessary medical check for Cobra before he was due to get on board a MONUSCO plane, and his presence would give us additional political support. It was impossible, given the timetable of flights between the two cities, to have our two chimpanzee chaperones go to and from Bunia in a day, so my next order of business was confirming if the U.N. hotel adjacent to the Bunia airstrip would be willing to host two — and a half — guests for the night between the flights.
At this point, I actually I felt lucky, because everything seemed to be coming together perfectly. All the arrangements were made for Cobra’s transport between Bunia and Bukavu. I had given the U.N. peacekeepers estimates of an — as-yet-nonexistent — crate’s dimensions and weight, the two chimpanzee chaperones were registered, booked on flights, and settled within a hotel that was, apparently, “orphaned-chimpanzee-friendly,” and I had legal transfer papers from the ICCN in eastern DR Congo.
But fate had other ideas.
It was late Saturday night, and the flight was due to leave early Monday morning, and suddenly a new bar was set: the Director General of the ICCN had to sign off on the transfer. It was an unusual request, as animals are transported with legal documents often without his direct consent, but it was a request that could not be refused. Though it was late, and I had already lost track of the emails, phone calls, WhatsApp messages, and SMSes sent on behalf of Cobra’s transfer, I logged dozens more.
My heart raced; everything else was in place, and to confront this roadblock when we were so close was terrifying. Once this flight left Bili, there would likely not be another for another six months — or longer. Every call I made tested my ability to keep my tone level, and not reveal the fear I had that, if this transfer did not go through on Monday, that Cobra’s fate, and very survival, would be uncertain. The older he got, the more dangerous he would get, and the less easy to transport.
At the 11th hour, late on Sunday afternoon, we finally received confirmation that the ICCN would permit Cobra to travel to Lwiro the next morning. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, but continued to liaise through the night with every party involved, making sure that all was in place. Finally, Cobra was handed over to the film crew without a fuss, and the crate that had been built for him at the very last minute, though only half of the actual dimensions that had been given, still gave him enough space for the journey.
The film crew arrived at Bunia early, but I had arranged for a UN employee to collect Cobra and bring him to the hotel, and watch over him while they waited for the arrival of the Lwiro manager. At last Itsaso arrived, with the veterinarian, and after deeming Cobra healthy and fit to fly the rest of the way, I felt a surge of relief.
After the stress of the arrangements, I could not help but smile as I received countless photos and videos from the sanctuary manager, showing a happy, calm Cobra, snacking on fresh fruits and snoozing. By Tuesday morning, the knot in my stomach had subsided, and I turned back to my regular tasks at GRASP — but there was a final coda to Cobra’s tale.
“Cobra” felt like a terrible, militaristic name, so Lwiro decided to rename him “Kimia,” which means “peace” in Lingala, the local language of central DR Congo. Once Kimia has finished his quarantine period, he will be able to join social groups designed to replicate those of wild chimpanzees, and enjoy the large outdoor enclosures that border the forests at the Lwiro compound.
To find out more or help support the Lwiro Primate Rehabilitation Centre, please visit: lwirosanctuary.org
Read more about this harrowing rescue at NBC
