The trip out of the jungle was less painful than the hike in. To get into the field site, first it is nearly 7 hours of driving to the village of Somalomo from Yaoundé.  Then the 27 km (17 mile) hike from Somalomo into the Dja forest reserve, to the field station at Bouamir.  This is pristine primary rainforest, where the trees are ancient, and the animals free. For the hike in, I wore my rubber boots: this was a mistake. These boots, that I have worked in so often before, are not meant for walking. They are heavy and probably by the fifth kilometer, I already had blisters on my heels.  It takes more than 7 hours of constant hiking to cover the distance. At one point, it starts raining and we get soaked. The trail is more or less clear, and relatively flat, so it is not strenuous, but I am glad that I started training with daily 5 km runs.  Thomas B. Smith, whom I worked with as a postdoc, established this place for field research, and I had heard about it since 1999.  The eco-guard carries a gun while he is accompanying us, just in case we run into any dangerous elephants, or worse, poachers.  Since my field site in the South West region of Cameroon is too dangerous because of the crisis, I have decided to seek other places to work. Here, I have joined with another team doing ornithological research.

We arrive exhausted, and I am instantly impressed with the accommodations. There are platforms for the tents, and netted enclosures for the kitchen, dining area, and work room. This is all within the deepest jungle, where I see the hornbills flying overhead; their wings making a whooshing sound. Monkeys jump among the verdant trees, which are colored alive with butterflies and strange spiders. I love to get into my tent early, just after dark, so that I can sleep and then wake up in the middle of the night to listen to the forest sounds. I hear buzzing insects, and frogs. The tree hyraxes scream their sorrowful calls. Lightning flashes and thunder roars far in the distance.

The field site is near a “rochè”, a large rocky hill covered with grasses. This is where the forest buffalo love to graze, and we count 10 or 12, including some babies. Unfortunately, no gorillas nor elephants are present, but we see plenty of fresh elephant tracks. Ants attack me walking back, climbing up my legs with their vicious bites. Only a bucket shower with water from the stream dissuades them. We catch some of my favorite birds with the mist nets: Cyanomitra olivacea, Stiphrornis erythrothorax, Alethe castanea, Spermophaga haematina, Bleda notata, Andropadus latirostris…  They are like familiar forest friends. I have been doing this type of work for 20 years now, studying how ecological change affects their malaria parasites.

The time goes fast and soon it is time for me to leave.  I am nervous about the hike out, because my legs still ache and my blisters appear to be painfully infected.  I decide to wear just my sandals, with two pairs of socks, and hope it doesn’t rain. Two Baka (Pygmy) porters carry my gear.  These guys are tough. They came in the night before carrying an extremely heavy gas tank.  They simply wear flip flops. They don’t carry water.  We set off, me with a good breakfast, and them without any food. I can’t possibly complain.  We walk steadily, and I love listening to their language. I learn to say “tamo djoko”, thank you very much, every time they clear the branches away with their machetes.  They pull the thorns out of my forehead when I run into a branch. They stop whenever they see wildlife; monkeys, duikers, or big birds, but the animals are gone by the time I pull out my binoculars. They pick up some forest mangos for a snack, and drink water at a stream. They have a very different sense of time: I asked how much further, and they said 10 minutes, so I drank my remaining water. After 70 minutes(!), we finally make it back to Somalomo. For their help, I give them 10000 CFA each (about $15), and I can see their smiles. They really have nothing, except their rich culture and the deep knowledge of the forest. I tell them, in my terrible French, how I will be flying in an airplane soon. How I will be in big cities. How I will miss the birds here. They laugh when I show them the photo I took of them. One carries my comfortable backpack within his Baka backpack made of forest vines.  I don’t know what I learn from these experiences, except that these places are precious, and that the wealth of experiences I have flying around the world may not actually match what these men have within the Cameroonian rainforest.