by John Crocker
“Why would Godi and Sniff attack Madame Bee?” one of the new students asked. “What was the point?”
Though no clear answer came from our group, I began to realize that all the adrenaline circulating in these powerful chimps—necessary to defend themselves and hunt for food—could also have destructive consequences when randomly directed. The attack had looked terribly fierce, but the chimps had used only a portion of their force against the Bee family. I knew they could have killed them outright.
After leaving Gombe, I learned about intentional attacks by the northern Kasekela males, who annihilated the southern Kahama males—the ones I observed attacking Madame Bee. This kind of “gang warfare” had not been seen during the first fifteen years of Jane’s study. Were these vicious attacks on their own species also related to primal survival behaviors? There had been a few years of peaceful interaction between the two groups, but then the northern adult males began to patrol the border and make reconnaissance missions on the smaller southern group. Months later they started to single out individual southern males and attack them viciously. Eventually, they killed all the adult males and took over their territory. They did not, however, hurt the adolescent females, who eventually became part of their Kasekela community. Some of the adult females were killed and some likely joined other chimp communities.
These brutal attacks may have occurred as a result of changes in food and water supply or due to human destruction of the corridors through which chimps travel and widen their gene pool. They also may have occurred simply because of episodic behavior we don’t yet understand. In a natural environment, aggressive behavior by single individuals—or even gang warfare—might be adaptive over time. It would allow the violent behavior to be emphasized in the gene pool. Barring some exceptions, the more-dominant males usually mate more frequently than the less-dominant males. These aggressive actions might be needed for the species to ensure that the “aggressive genes” are passed on to the next generation to help them survive the dangers in the wild.
At our table that evening, Jane was impressed that Madame Bee had survived the attack while still protecting her daughters. “Good old Madame Bee,” Jane said. “I know she is strong to have survived polio.”
That night I contemplated the range of chimp behavior I’d seen that day. From male violence to the determined female protection of the young, the similarities between our human family and our chimp relations were impossible to ignore.
CHAPTER SIX
TRUST AND SECURITY
By the time I reached the halfway point in my stay at Gombe, the other researchers and I had settled into a routine—if you can call studying a beachside baboon troop, as some of the researchers were doing, or scampering after chimpanzees routine. Along with our Tanzanian field assistants, we shared fieldwork, chores, conversations, and adventures. Spur-of-the-moment forest excursions to the waterfall or Rift Mountains also provided extraordinary highlights to the already amazing endeavor of tracking primates. On the one hand, I felt unique and privileged when writing home to my friends about hearing the thunderous sound of Cape buffalo and feeling the earth shaking below my feet. On the other hand, climbing a tree to safety to escape their approach, as I had been warned I should do, and nervously waiting for the giant beasts to move on made me fleetingly wish for the safe haven of a cozy college library cubicle.
In our potentially dangerous surroundings, the greatest sense of safety came from having my colleagues around me for support, bolstered by the thirteen-year history of safety that previous Gombe groups had enjoyed. My anxieties about the dangers were eased by the steady companionship of the field assistants during the day and by hearing the staff’s drumming around holiday beach fires at night. Both gave me reassurance. And Jane’s confidence in the world around her was like a sturdy anchor in a storm.
Still, who would think a young man could discover trust and security living in a small hut in Africa among wild animals, in unpredictable terrain, and exposed to tropical diseases and other hazards? Harboring vestiges of my dad’s overall untrusting nature, I found myself gradually stripping off my paranoia and letting my surroundings provide comfort instead. This transition occurred over time at Gombe, the result of my widening forest experiences, and often with the help of close human companionship.
Because of everything from Jane’s warm welcome when I arrived at camp to a researcher, Tony, reading poetry to me while I experimented with spending a night in an abandoned chimp’s nest, my confidence to navigate in the wild forest grew steadily. Even today, I recall the comfort it brought me when Tony came by to check on me with his flashlight as I lay curled and cramped in the nest. The empathetic Scotsman in charge of the baboon study had known I might need reassurance, being high up in the swaying tree branches in the dark, and he began reading poems from the ground below. His Scottish accent echoed through the forest, and I was soothed enough to remain in the nest until morning. Tony had returned to the comfort of his human bed back at camp shortly after midnight, but his reassurance was long-lasting.
The field assistants certainly provided me with both emotional and physical security. Mostly men in their twenties from local villages, they were very kindhearted yet tough as could be. I watched them play soccer on the dirt with their bare feet. They were chosen for these prestigious positions at Gombe because of their keen observational skills and knowledge of the local flora and fauna.
When I first arrived, Esilom, a field assistant I came to know well, confidently pointed to a chimp fifty yards away and said, to my amazement, “That is Figan.” I knew at that moment that my field notes and observations were going to be accurate thanks to Esilom, Hamisi, Rugema, Hilali, Yahaya, and others.
In the early years at Gombe, a female researcher had fallen to her death while in the forest alone, so it was required that students and graduate researchers be accompanied by a field assistant whenever they followed the chimps. I felt completely safe with all of them because of their expertise in understanding the animals and topography of the Gombe forest.
However, one night we were put to the test. Esilom and I headed back to camp as usual after our chimps got settled into nests several valleys away from the camp. After we had walked a while, we passed a tree that looked familiar.
“Hey, have we been here before?” I asked Esilom, pointing.
We stopped walking, and he looked at me and frowned. “Hm,” he said. “Yes, maybe.” I waited while he looked around a bit.
We resumed walking. It was growing dark, and the forest was very dense. The moon wasn’t visible, and our one flashlight had only a faint glow of light remaining. Esilom shook it and banged it against his hand, but to no avail. I had a sinking feeling we might be spending the entire night in the forest without any walls around us for protection. My tired, hungry body was feeling a bit weak.
“Let’s find the beach to get our bearings,” Esilom said, but after we had walked a while in what we thought was the right direction, we seemed to be going in circles and getting nowhere.
I was worried about being lost, but at the same time I felt secure about Esilom’s navigational abilities. He’ll get us back on track, I told myself. “How are we doing, bwana?” I asked Esilom.
“Sawe sawe,” he replied, meaning OK—just OK.
We were both more edgy than usual. When a nearby bush pig grunted loudly, we startled simultaneously, leaping side by side away from the sound. I felt awkwardly jumpy, tired, and hungry all at the same time.
The forest seemed to be getting even darker, and it was becoming more difficult to locate trails. An hour later, we ran into a creek. Esilom said, “Let’s follow this! It will lead us to the beach.”
“Yes, OK,” I said, and we set off again. Scampering blindly down the valley next to the stream—and sometimes in the stream—I had no idea what I was stepping on. At least nothing was biting or stinging me between the straps of my plastic sandals. I was so relieved to know we could now find the lakeshore that nothing else seemed
to matter. Our built-up adrenaline provided us with such energy that we essentially ran the entire distance to the beach. Going downhill also helped.
When we arrived at the beach, Esilom let out a laugh. Next thing I knew, we were both laughing so hard we had to sit down. We laughed for several minutes without saying a word, releasing more of the built-up tension. It was a huge relief to be on the beach with more visibility and the secure feeling that we would get back safely. Then we walked the rest of the way back to camp, planning what we would tell the group to save face. I favored a story about encountering several chimps treed by a circling leopard and having to stay to make sure they were safe.
After this intense adventure, some of my free-floating anxiety about jungle dangers seemed to dissolve; my restless fear of something happening to me dissipated. Perhaps I simply recognized for the first time that any time I was out in the forest, my safety would be my field assistant’s paramount concern.
Of the ten field assistants, I was most in awe of Hamisi Matama. Hamisi gently guided me through the forest and gave me confidence in myself as a chimp observer. I admired his deep understanding of nature as well as his wisdom about life. Hamisi was always quiet and relaxed while following the chimps. He constantly detected sounds, smells, and movements in the forest as he pointed out specific birds, chimp behaviors, and a diversity of plant life. He was the first person I had encountered in my twenty-two years who was so extraordinarily sensitive to his natural surroundings.
Hamisi’s calm in the face of challenging chimp encounters was made clear to me early on. Just two weeks after my arrival, the alpha male, Figan, and his brother Faben killed a colobus monkey, and I found myself in the midst of screaming chimps and baboons who had arrived at the scene hoping for scraps of the prized meat. Noticing the uncertainty on my face, Hamisi walked over to where I stood and simply nodded his head. Just having him next to me was all the reassurance I needed.
On our chimp follows, Hamisi knew the terrain as well as how to avoid hidden dangers. One day I was concentrating hard on the chimps as I ran along the trail. Suddenly I was jerked to a halt; Hamisi had grabbed me by the shirt to prevent me from going over a drop-off not far from the top of the waterfall. I looked down, my heart pounding with the exertion and the realization of how close I had come.
“We have to stop here and let them go,” Hamisi said calmly, but with a concerned expression.
“Wow.” I needed to be more aware of the topography on our fast-paced travels. “Thank you,” I told him, as I heaved a deep sigh. I also needed to be sure to let him go first.
Hamisi’s forest posture was something to emulate. He could be completely focused and home in on a single chimp while never losing sight of the larger environment. He had a kind of double vision, able to see both the forest and the trees simultaneously.
My fellow researchers added another level of trust and security. After a night of sleeping poorly, I awoke to find that my right leg appeared twice its normal size. I simply stared at it in horror for several minutes, but then finally hauled it out of bed. I struggled to get my shorts on, and then headed down to the dining hall for breakfast.
When I walked in, Emilie did a double take. “Whoa, what happened?”
I said, “I—I’m not sure. It looks infected.” Several people came over to inspect the swollen, tender limb. Caroline—a chimp researcher—and Tony also looked worried.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Emilie announced.
“No, no, it’ll be OK. I figured I’d just see how it did today,” I told her. She looked unimpressed. I looked down at the leg. I didn’t want to miss out on a day with Hamisi and the chimps. But it did look pretty awful.
“Come on, tough guy. We’re going to the hospital,” she said, and I reluctantly agreed.
It turned out I had a bacterial and fungal infection in the leg, caused by my plastic sandals rubbing my skin raw; it was a good thing that Emilie had made me go see the doctor in Kigoma. After my six-hour trip to the local hospital and back, I had to spend time recuperating in my hut. The worst of the treatment was a stiff brush the doctor insisted I use to firmly brush and cleanse the open wound on my foot where the infection started. It caused excruciating pain. But it worked! Bill, Caroline, and Tony brought me food and helped me care for the swollen leg by bandaging it and reminding me to take the handful of antibiotic and antifungal pills each day.
Though very shy about all the fussing over me, I gained a deeper understanding that this community was not going to let one of its members suffer alone. Nobody revered a self-sacrificing martyr when it came to injuries or illness. The community had to trust every member and be able to work as a group to care for each person. An untreated illness or injury could escalate to an emergency requiring heroic efforts or even impact the future of the program if its safety record was called into question.
One day while I was working in the clinic, a nine-year-old girl came in with her father. Julie examined the girl, and then called me over. She gestured to the expressionless child’s firm, distended abdomen. I wondered if the girl had a parasitic disease with a possible blocked intestine. “John, would you take Rashida and her father to Kigoma? She needs to go to the hospital.”
The town of Kigoma was three hours south of camp. The route was familiar since I’d already made several trips in the camp’s small, wooden, gas-powered boat to buy food at Kigoma’s markets, and our trip there together was uneventful.
I walked Rashida and her father to the local hospital, a one-story cinderblock building a few blocks up from the main part of town. The fact that it was 9:00 P.M., dark, and bedtime for most of the town did not keep people away, as a line of people waited in the holding area to be seen. Personnel in white uniforms looked very solemn and official, and we received short, crisp answers from the doctors and nurses, all of whom were quite busy with other patients. It took a while for her to be admitted, but once she was, I left them there, giving her father a reassuring pat on the arm. I headed the boat back to Gombe alone—in the dark.
The first part of the trip felt mystical. Ramadan was being celebrated in the villages, and all along the shore small fires flickered. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I listened to chants and songs echoing over the water. There was no moon. The sky was pure black, and the brilliant stars and fishing-boat lantern lights reflected in the lake. There seemed to be no distinction between sky and water. Even the temperature felt the same when I let my fingertips dip in. The blackness and lights and chants were hypnotic; I began to feel as if I were traveling through the Milky Way.
Eventually coming out of my reverie, I looked around and my heart leaped into my throat. I was lost. I could no longer see landmarks along the shore for navigating, and I imagined submerged rocks damaging the motor. In an instant, my serenity had transformed into panic. Where is camp? I wondered frantically. It was late, and everyone at Gombe was likely asleep. Will it occur to anyone that I might be in danger?
After what seemed like an eternity, I noticed that there were no more villagers’ fires along the beach. That meant I must be getting closer to Gombe—or that I had already passed it.
Finally, at around midnight, I made out Jane’s house just beyond the boat landing area. With a shout of relief, I turned the boat around and brought it ashore. I saw a figure approaching—it was Esilom. I felt like crying with happiness and relief when I recognized him. He came down to the water, helped me secure the boat, and made sure I was OK. Knowing I would be back late, he had waited up for me. A warm feeling of close friendship and brotherly support washed over me.
Though afterward I knew better than to try to navigate the lake alone at night, I had also learned to appreciate the “village” of trusted individuals around me. Esilom’s conscientiousness and kindheartedness in watching out for me that night will always remain etched in my heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MY FRIEND AND MENTOR: HAMISI MATAMA
Working on such a remarkable project and living together in su
ch a remarkable place created a strong sense of identification and community among the field assistants and researchers. We all felt extraordinarily lucky to be working with Jane Goodall, and I felt particularly lucky to be experiencing the world beyond my own. I made many friends, but of all the field assistants, it was Hamisi Matama who became my closest one.
Initially, Hamisi’s field style puzzled me; I thought he was a bit detached as he gazed at the trees and animal life, showing little emotion. I felt engaged and exhilarated while watching the chimps—every nerve ending buzzed. Hamisi had a preternatural calm that seemed at odds with the emotional intensity of following and observing the chimps, but I soon realized that I was misreading him.
The turning point occurred on a trek one day a few weeks after my arrival. We were sitting quietly, side by side on the ground, and I thought he was daydreaming. Then, seemingly out of the blue, he looked at me and asked, “Bwana John, unataka kuona nyoka?” meaning, Do you want to see a snake?
We stood and walked about fifteen feet. Then he pointed to the ground to show me what I thought was a narrow log in the brush—until it started slowly moving. It was an enormous python! I startled and backed away as it crept on. Hamisi had been listening to movements in the grass and perhaps had caught a glimpse of the reptile as we were sitting together. I had misread his silence as boredom or disinterest, when in fact, he had been attuned to all the visual and other sensory cues in the surroundings. He was a superb tracker of forest animals. The huge smile he flashed at me as I scrambled away conveyed his humor and love for this arduous and rewarding work.