by John Crocker
I’m in the midst of a whirl of activity, which is fast gathering momentum. Gombe group meetings, office hours, research assistant and intern meetings, categorizing slides and stills, sorting notes, talking with students, visiting L.A. to look at baboon films, lecturing, and so on! Not to mention visiting Babu, which is another reason I had to write to you.
Jane knew of my concern for my old pal Babu after he had left his human family and entered a large compound with other chimps. Despite her many commitments in California, she was kind enough to let me know in writing how he was doing. She continued:
Babu is doing so well. I took a camera especially to get some pictures for you. Unfortunately, the group [of chimps] had many escapes the day before and so had been shut in all day for the repairs. Thursday, since it was a moonlit night, they all stayed outside half the night and Larry [the observer] watched them. Anyway, to see Babu climbing with Bashful, playing with Topsy, wandering off on his own, quite independent—it’s really super.
It’s hard to convey how influential Jane was to me during my time at Gombe. I was just one of thousands of students who found their lives shaped by Jane as a scientist and a human being. She continues to influence the way I view our world as a complex, interwoven landscape of species, cultures, and the codependency of all living things. Through Jane I learned to recognize the fragility of our planet and to understand how peril to one species is peril to all. Today, so much of the natural world seems to be in peril—and what we humans destroy might not ever return. But perhaps one of the most lasting life lessons I learned from my time at Gombe and from Jane herself was the title of her memoir, Reason for Hope. As a doctor I know that hope can be a powerful incentive to a patient—and a powerful part of how I practice medicine. Educators like Jane give me hope for humanity and for the world. Whatever our individual circumstances, we all need hope to survive and to meet life’s challenges.
CHAPTER NINE
LEAVE-TAKING
After six months at Gombe, I had become much more relaxed and secure with my fieldwork and at ease in my friendships with colleagues. Most importantly, I had acquired a deeper understanding of chimpanzee behavior. Beyond the knowledge I had gained observing mother-infant pairs, I was especially intrigued by the chimps’ capacity to express emotions. In the reassuring embraces and kisses of adults, the depressed behavior of young chimps in times of loss, and the joy of mothers and infants at play, I recognized feelings very much like mine. Though scientific doctrine taught all of us not to anthropomorphize the chimps, after observing them for many months, I concluded it was just as misleading to assume our two species didn’t share similar capacities to feel and express emotions.
Later, after leaving Gombe, I would learn more about studies on chimp emotions. I read about the work of Dr. Roger Fouts, who taught the chimpanzee Washoe to use American Sign Language and revealed the depth of complex emotions that chimps experience and can communicate to humans and to each other. Fouts described a young woman who was learning sign language with Washoe but who needed to leave suddenly because she was having a miscarriage. When she eventually returned to see Washoe, the chimp ignored her. After the student signed for Washoe the reason that she had left, the chimp placed a finger below her eye signaling crying and sadness for the loss. The student was astounded by Washoe’s empathy and ability to communicate emotions about this complex circumstance.
My own emotions kicked into play as the holidays approached and thoughts of friends and family naturally came to mind. Still, the lack of a familiar winter season prevented me from feeling melancholy or experiencing a strong urge to celebrate. By mid-December, however, some of the students had decided we needed some kind of Christmas-Hanukkah event, and so eight of us enjoyed a peaceful Christmas Eve with handmade gifts, walks along the beach, swimming, and a huge feast, including wine, duck, stuffing, mushrooms, cheese, and chocolate—luxuries we hadn’t tasted in months—bought by one of the researchers while on break in Nairobi.
Though I enjoyed the festivities with my tight-knit Gombe family, they were eclipsed early Christmas Day when I opened my hut door to see Fifi and Freud playing quietly just ten feet away. Chimps had never come this close to my hut. Freud made soft grunting sounds as Fifi gently tickled and wrestled with him. I could almost reach out and touch them, but of course I didn’t. I moved away to watch them from a distance, thinking about the extraordinary setting, of my entering the chimps’ world and not even causing a stir, thanks to Jane. As birds chirped all around, I was overcome by a feeling of connectedness to the entire community—the people, the forest, the lake, and these remarkable chimps. At that moment, any holiday homesickness eased. The warm sun relaxed me, and my two favorite chimps stole my heart.
As New Year 1974 dawned, I thought my time at Gombe was coming to an end, but just as I was preparing to return to the States, I was asked to stay on to fill in for a student who had to leave early. Without hesitation, I agreed to remain until his replacement arrived several weeks later. In fact, I was overjoyed to extend my stay.
This extra time enabled me to join Tony and three other researchers on an afternoon hike to the barren Rift Mountains, which form the eastern border of Gombe. With sleeping bags in tow, we enjoyed a memorable campout, sleeping on the bare earth high above Gombe with bright stars overhead. What stayed with me most of the night was my sense of feeling the divide. To the east, we could hear the voices of villagers and see their fires down in the valleys. To the west, we could hear chimp calls and baboon grunts. Then, after nightfall, we heard only the wind. I was resting between two worlds: the world of modern humans and the world of ancient primates. One world was changing rapidly, and one had likely changed very little over millions of years. I would soon leave the world of my ancient primate cousins and reenter the world I knew best. I would need to adjust.
In the morning, we all hustled back to camp to start following the chimps and baboons we were studying and feel the connections with the forest and the wildlife around us. It would not be long before all of these connections would become just memories, and I carried the weight of that knowledge with me as I went.
By February, I had become one of the most experienced student researchers at the camp, but I was also about to leave. The time seemed right for my departure. Jane too would soon leave to travel in the States. I would start medical school in Cleveland in six months and needed to begin preparations for that transition. I knew it was time.
During my last week at Gombe, I was allowed to follow the chimps without completing the usual check sheets; I could just relax and feel the pleasure of being a guest in their community. One afternoon, I was fortunate enough to find Fifi in a neighboring valley to do my final follow with her and Freud. They and several other chimps were feeding on ripe mbula fruit.
Very quietly, Fifi and Freud descended from their treetop perch and headed down a streambed into the lower part of the valley. The late-afternoon sun was soft and golden as Juma and I followed them to a location with sturdy trees whose flexible branches were ideal for nest building. Calls echoed across the valley from other chimps searching out nest sites.
While Fifi began to build a nest for herself and Freud, I watched the sun setting across the lake behind the hills of the Congo. As the sky turned a brilliant reddish purple, Fifi slowly rolled into the nest and sprawled on her back. Freud joyfully nestled in next to her warm abdomen and suckled at her breast.
I remembered the first time I had seen Fifi during my early days at Gombe. What had struck me most was the rich black color of her shiny hair, her strong, healthy appearance, and her agility. Observing her dark form against the deep green of the forest, I could appreciate the power and vigor of the fifteen-year-old primate mother. The pair nestled in for the night, creating a picture of warmth and security unmatched by anything I could imagine until I had my own children.
Fifi and Freud would rest in their leafy bed suspended high in the trees until sunrise. Fifi’s older brother Figan, and Melissa and Gremli
n were within voice range in nearby trees. Safe from roaming animals and snakes below, they appeared well protected and comfortable. All was well with the chimps. But a sudden sadness hit me in the gut, a glimpse of the homesickness for Gombe that I knew would begin as soon as I left this magical forest. In that moment I knew that someday I would have to come back.
As I made that last long hike away from Fifi and her family, I knew also that I would be entering a new phase in my life—one that would require me to be buried in books, indoors, and away from my friends of the last eight months—friends who had changed the way I viewed the world. I would miss everyone and everything about Gombe.
Though it was customary for the Tanzanian staff at Gombe to hold a farewell beach fire for people who were leaving, I assumed they thought my prolonged stay had served as the farewell party. I was mistaken. As I headed into the changing room near the beach after a lake swim, I ran into one of the field assistants.
“Bwana John, we are sorry you are leaving tomorrow. You must return someday. See you at the big fire tonight.”
Sure enough, they built a huge fire on the beach and eighteen of us danced to the conga drum until we couldn’t dance anymore. I remember seeing smiling faces pouring with sweat, lit up by the fire, moments before we jumped into the shimmering lake for a long rinse-off. My sadness about leaving was somewhat muted by the camaraderie of our celebration.
Finally I was ready to retire to my hut for a last night in the forest. When I reached my hut, that strange, lonely feeling returned, but I was so tired it was all I could do to blow out the candle before drifting into a deep sleep.
My departure from camp the next day was far from routine. Derek escorted me all the way to Dar es Salaam. I felt about as cool and important as anyone my age could feel traveling with Tanzania’s national parks director. I realized also that it was only partly coincidental that Derek and I were both leaving Gombe at the same time. Jane had likely orchestrated the whole thing to help make my trip easier.
“Are you ready to go?” Derek asked once I was standing by the boat. He could see that I was, but was really asking the bigger question: Are you emotionally ready to leave Gombe? Derek was more tuned in than I was; as was typical for me, my sadness didn’t fully register at the moment of departure. Instead, it hit full force after the boat was two miles away from Gombe, when I felt the deep ache of true sorrow.
We made our way by boat, small plane, and truck to Arusha, where Derek drove me to visit a vast park called Tarangire. “Our department just established this new game park,” Derek revealed, with an obvious sense of accomplishment. “I expect it will become a major tourist attraction in the next few years.”
I felt honored to see Tarangire in its infancy. The huge park seemed empty of all humans except the two of us bouncing along in a pickup truck alongside herds of elephants and giraffes. Tarangire did become, as Derek expected, a major tourist attraction.
Eventually we arrived at the airport in Dar es Salaam, where we parted. After a formal handshake, I said, “Thank you for going out of your way to see me off.”
“Don’t forget, you once piloted Jane and me in the park’s boat from Kigoma to Gombe so she and I could relax and enjoy the ride together,” he replied with a fatherly smile.
I smiled back, remembering Jane’s smiles and his quiet affection on that boat ride. It was an interesting experience for a young man, to watch a relationship develop between two older mentors. Though I felt appreciated by both Jane and Derek, I later realized that I was also experiencing an inward journey—one that had started in college and accelerated at Gombe. I was discovering that I could be myself around people I cared about and receive their unconditional acceptance and support. I realize now that what I felt then was a growing sense of value. To feel valued for who you are is a transformative experience and one that I would carry forward into the next stage of my life.
After leaving Derek, I flew out on an evening plane to Amsterdam and then on to Minneapolis. The long plane rides allowed time for my thoughts to percolate—from feelings of accomplishment to a deep gratitude for the people and chimps I had learned from. As the plane approached the Twin Cities, I reached into my carry-on and pulled out a treasured gift.
Holding the Tanzanian figurine on my lap, I immediately pictured “Gombe Jane” (not the more hurried “Stanford Jane”) walking toward me on the lakeshore just three days prior. Her eyes were sparkling and her gaze tranquil as she handed me the present, which she had just purchased in Dar es Salaam. “Your talisman represents a doctor,” she had told me. The beautiful, dark-wood carving was of a man embracing a child. Now, sitting on the airplane in the dim light, I examined it, thinking that it embodied the healing comfort of touch and reassurance. Indeed, I felt strongly reassured at that moment.
Whenever I look at the familiar figurine now, I summon up the spirit of Gombe. I remember the excitement of a time when all of us student researchers were discovering more about the world and ourselves. We struggled to make career and other life decisions and leaned on each other just as the carved child leans into the arms of the doctor.
Today, I still recognize myself in that figurine. At times I am the doctor and at times the leaning child. I wonder if Jane ever views herself this way—Dr. Jane, as she is known to the Tanzanians and to the scientific community, with her doctorate from Cambridge. Perhaps she too has been the leaning child during challenging times in her passionate mission to study and protect the Gombe chimps and their forest home.
Over the next decades the chimpanzees would need Jane’s protection, not only in Gombe but also all over the globe.
PART TWO
THE MEDICAL PATH
CHAPTER TEN
ENTERING THE MEDICAL FIELD
For three and a half decades after my return from the Gombe Stream Research Center, I concentrated on medical school, residency, and then work as a family physician at Group Health in Seattle. Yet I never forgot the chimps and always longed to return to Gombe. Daydreaming about Africa often kept me going through challenging times. My memories of Tanzania were reassuring and instructive. I found that I would often think of Fifi and Freud and their relationship as I practiced medicine. I remained close to the chimps, even though they were twelve thousand miles away.
Even during the grueling medical school years, I felt the need to share my unique experience, hoping this might inspire people to experience the great outdoors and focus on preserving wild species and lands in the United States and around the globe. Over the years, I gave talks with accompanying slide shows of the Gombe chimpanzees at high schools, medical gatherings, and even at the Museum of Natural History in Cleveland. I’m not sure the sophisticated museum donors were ready for my demonstration of pant-hoots and charging displays, but I probably woke up anyone who’d begun to fall asleep. I even hit celebrity status one day when I appeared on a morning talk show in Cleveland and returned to my medical school lectures to discover the entire class had watched the show as their first lecture of the day! Sharing my adventure with others became a way to keep the chimps fresh in my memory, even as more time elapsed. Now, forty years later, I recall not only the first time I saw Fifi termiting but also the laughter of the high school students in Cleveland watching films of Freud and Gremlin playing in the trees.
Fatherhood also brought both spontaneous joy and the stresses of parenting. My wife, Wendy, and I have two boys, Tommy and Patrick. Luckily for my sons, Wendy’s talents made up for my deficiencies in music and sports other than soccer. As is true for so many American families, we became overly busy. Wendy was a high school biology teacher with many demands, and my life as a family doctor did not allow for a lot of unscheduled time either. Getting home late for dinner was not ideal for family life. My workdays were long, and sometimes I was up all night helping deliver babies, but my memories of Gombe continued to refresh my spirit when work and family life were intense.
The future of the chimpanzees and their endangered habitat also stayed on my m
ind over the years. In one recurring nightmare, I returned to Gombe to discover that paved roads had displaced much of the forest, modern homes had been built in Kasekela Valley, and the chimps were confined to small, fenced-in areas. I awoke shaken by these images, until I realized it was only a dream—at least for now.
Since my first days as a physician, I’ve kept photos of Africa and the Gombe chimps on the walls of my exam rooms. These photos keep me in close touch with my adventure and give patients a glimpse of my days in Tanzania. In my physician bio, available to all new patients choosing a doctor, I list “cross-cultural interests” and “speaks Swahili.” Because of these interests and my experiences abroad over the years, I have many patients whose roots are in Africa, Asia, South and Central America, and other parts of the world. I recently met a new patient who told my nurse that after reading my personal profile, he thought I was African. I was profoundly flattered.
One spring afternoon I walked into my office to catch my breath between patients. “This is too much,” I said to myself, straining to stay on schedule and still devote enough time to each patient. Frustrated, I gazed out the window and caught a glimpse of sunlight dancing on the deep green leaves of a large maple across the street. With the shadows between the leaves changing shape in the breeze, I suddenly pictured three-year-old Freud swaying confidently in the branches as Fifi sat close by eating figs.
I then envisioned myself beneath the tree, contemplating their close relationship. I relaxed as I focused on this mother-infant pair communicating with each other through touch, gestures, and laughter. I imagined Melissa and her daughter Gremlin climbing up into the same tree to greet them. As I gazed out the window, the filtered sun warmed me, and I felt a familiar sense of joy and well-being.