Wearing his military outfit, JEAN-PIERRE VON DER BECKE made a striking impression. He had less of a colonial inclination after a few years of studies at Bercke-lay in the late 1960s, so he wasn’t a spit-and-polish enthusiast. Jean-Pierre felt best in blue pants and a baggy sweatshirt. Still, he marched back and forth, inspiring his new charges, in a precisely ironed outfit of unknown provenance, with his white hair and beard cascading.

The group of Rwandan park rangers confronting their new superior was distinctly diverse. The clothes were completely different from one another, and very few of the guards even wore matching slacks and shirts. Almost no one was wearing boots. I worked in a park for 10 months straight with rainproof gear that I did not possess.

They carried what seemed to be obsolete weaponry from the First World War—heavy, single-shot rifles that were little better than flintlock muskets. Although it was very difficult, the guards heroically attempted to pass as a professional corps in response to Jean-Pierre’s barking orders.

Bill would often attend this theater in late August 1979 before setting out to track the gorillas he had chosen for the MGP tourist program. The guards and Jean-Pierre would have departed by the time he got back, around mid-afternoon. In their stead, lyre-horned Ankole cattle were seen idly munching on the grass outside the crumbling structure that seemed to be the Parc National des Volcans headquarters.

A lonely Markhamia tree, its lower branches cut for fuel, accentuated the forlorn setting. It was easy for Bill to picture Jean-Pierre sipping a glass of good scotch in his Gasiza mansion, perplexed by his presence here. It was a very legitimate query.

It seemed like the Rwandans didn’t share Jean Pierre’s certainty. Even though the park only had four visitors per day on average, Camille, the conservator, was uninterested in training and exercises, preferring instead to stay in his warden’s office and attend to whatever official matters arose. Following the exercises, Camille would proudly display his uniform to his soldiers. Even if there were tourists around, he would make it clear that the gorillas are safe.

I shall personally put an end to the life of any poacher I come across in the woods. It was a confident and daring promise that was reiterated time and time again. Camille, luckily for the neighborhood poachers, hardly ventured into the woods. Till he drove the park’s only Land Rover home after a late-night binge, however, he was generally downing drinks at one of Ruhengeri’s several drinking spots by lunchtime.

The introduction of the MGP in the summer of 1979 caused a drastic shift in our circumstances. Coming up with suggestions to aid the mountain gorillas was easy; convincing hesitant listeners to implement those ideas was a whole other ballgame. Here we were, faced with a high-stakes environment where our solutions may succeed or fail.

Get your Laker tickets for half price on a first-come, first-served basis to aid stranded customers. At the height of the chaotic evening rush hour, we hurriedly said our goodbyes, gathered our belongings (including two big trunks with research data and plant specimens), and made a frenzied dash through the Underground.

Upon reaching Victoria Station, we joined the ever-increasing throng outside the British Airways office, where representatives said that no tickets would be sold until the next morning. We then took it in turns to sleep on the pavement beside our possessions while we staked out our spots in line. The previous day, we were asked by The Times of London for our thoughts and feelings on the mountain gorilla’s future. Our outstanding hosts lavished us with wine and food.

Our gala gowns were little more than rags when the clock struck midnight and we stepped out onto the chilly concrete of Victoria Station. Our position relative to the head of the line was the only thing that counted there. We were pleased to see that the cutoff for half-fare tickets had dropped seven spots the next morning, so we could finally board our trip home.