AT FIRST, I THOUGHT I WAS HALLUCINATING. But as I closed my eyes and concentrated every synapse I could muster, I could hear it. It was almost imperceptible through the whining drone of a million cicadas, but it was definitely there; a contented, low grunt surpassing in tone and resonance the deepest bass from any choir I’d ever listened to.
I peered into the gloom. Surrounding me was Marantaceae, a glossy, impenetrable mass of plant life that dominates the forest floor; above, most of the sky was obliterated by a tetris-like canopy of kapok, fig, ebony and Panda oleosa.
This was the Ndzehi Forest, in the north western reaches of the Republic of the Congo. A few metres ahead, my tracker, Zeferin, had turned from super-sensed ape-seeker to landscape gardener. Using his secateurs, he made a series of minor adjustments to our surroundings, bending a branch back here and clipping a leaf away there to free up just enough space for me to crouch down. A silent beckoning meant it was time to adorn my face mask; our quarry was close.
The stage was set and even the cicadas, as if anticipating the overture of a major stage show, fell silent.
