The Girl With No Name: The Incredible True Story of a Child Raised by Monkeys (12 page)

Though I was spared, that day marked the beginning of the end of my innocence and the start of a long period pockmarked by fear. I don’t know if it was new – had our jungle land just been discovered? – or something that had been going on for many years, but from that day on I became used to the sound of a machete swishing through the nearby undergrowth and the feeling of terror it evoked.

And I was right to be frightened. One time, when I was quaking in fear in my tree hollow, one of the hunters came right up to my tree trunk. He stood so close to me that I could clearly see his black boots and the khaki of his trousers, and hear the click of his rifle trigger. In the silence he’d created, it was the worst sound imaginable, and it’s one that has remained with me to this day. Then he lifted his rifle and BANG! I was almost deafened. I had no idea what he had aimed at, much less if he had shot it; all I could hear now was the wild thumping of my heart, while my hands began to shake uncontrollably.

I have been frightened many, many times in my life, but the fear I felt that day, being so small and helpless, was of a kind all its own. It’s something I will never forget.

Sometimes the hunters came by day and sometimes by night. Other times they’d pounce just as dusk had begun falling, shining their torches into the eyes of tired, sleepy creatures whose shrieks of terror when caught or injured, or when dying, would rip through the darkness and wake us all. Worse than that, though, was that they sometimes came for monkeys.

In theory, the monkeys should have been too clever for them. With their early-warning calls and their strong sense of community, they had a system that should have kept them safe. But the hunters were too clever. They would pick off the youngsters. They knew there was a chance the young ones would be too distracted by their games to see and react to them until it was too late. They were still an easy target even when they’d heard their mothers’ calls, a tranquilliser dart being too fast for them. They would simply be shot out of the trees like sitting ducks and then imprisoned in black sticky nets.

I don’t think I can fully explain how much pain those hunters caused me, or how murderous my feelings were, and still are, towards them. But the image of a baby monkey taken from its screaming mother is one I shall remember for the rest of my life. The mothers with babies would often hide in hollow tree trunks, as I did, and to see a tiny infant snatched from the grip of its desperate mother feels as appalling to me as if it had been any human mother and child.

Worse still was to watch the mothers suffering in the weeks afterwards. Their pain and sense of loss were unbearable to witness, especially when nothing could be done to ease it. More than once I saw bereft monkey mothers simply lie down and die from the pain. The hunters took mothers too: shot them out of the trees and stuffed them into sacks. And, of course, their babies would then die as well, from starvation.

*

The spree of hunting ended as dramatically as it had arrived. Nature had obviously seen enough of the activities of these evil humans and decided to wash them away. I was used to rain by now, of course. Heavy, intense, hammering rain. The rain fell regularly, too: perhaps once a month, maybe twice. And once it had rained, the intense heat set about removing all trace of any downpour. The jungle floor almost never felt soggy or boggy; my overwhelming memory is of it being dry. But from time to time came a storm of such power and magnitude it was a very great event, one which impacted on every creature in the jungle.

This storm was one such, and it came without warning. Well, almost without warning. The monkeys seemed to know exactly what was coming. The day before had been particularly scorching. Was that a sign they’d already noticed? I didn’t know. What I remember most clearly was that almost as soon as I woke I saw one of the adult monkeys performing an unusual dance. I assumed at first that it was just part of an early play session, but the reaction of the monkeys nearby suggested it had some meaning.

I knew then that something was about to break the normal routine, and as soon as I got a taste of the wind and saw the strange hue of the sky, I realised that this might have been some sort of rain dance. I had seen torrential rain before, but only once, perhaps twice. And I’d loved it. It had been a little terrifying at first, yes. But once the rain had started dancing on the forest floor, I realised how wonderful it was to suddenly feel so cool. I had danced, feeling the ground beneath my feet turn to mud, loving the way it squidged between my toes. Yes, my home in the tree had become a little boggy, but it was a small price to pay for the glory of mud on my scabby, itchy skin. I remember I had even rolled in it.

And here came another storm, I remember thinking with anticipation. I was half scared, half excited by the impending sense of danger. And it wasn’t just me who felt the thrumming, swollen air. It wasn’t long before all sense of normality had left the jungle. One by one all the animals, birds and insects slunk away, hiding in whichever places were best suited to their protection, while the leaves began to rustle as the wind started to whip through them. The whole jungle, it seemed, became one heaving, moaning mass, as if bracing itself for the coming ordeal.

Or adventure! Sudden whistles of wind seemed to fork and dance through whatever gaps were available, causing fruit, leaves and small branches to spear down to the ground. And then – in what seemed like a drum roll that began rising to a crescendo – Mother Nature unleashed her deluge upon us.

Strangely, I recall little of the period of the storm itself. I just waited it out, enjoying the maelstrom outside, from the comfy cocoon of my precious tree. I watched the needles of water drive their way into the undergrowth and the earth all around turn to a big slushy muddle. I remember the feeling of excitement about when the storm had passed and I could clamber out to investigate this sodden new world.

But perhaps the main reason the storm itself is a blur in my memory is because what happened as a consequence was of so much more importance: the hunters, unable to cope with such conditions, seemed to have disappeared as surely as the peace they’d destroyed. And, for a while at least, we gratefully grabbed it back.

Though I can’t be sure of anything in terms of dates and times and details (my own age included), I remember that period after the hunters had moved on as being one of the happiest of my childhood. I had given up my yearnings to be part of the human village, and perhaps it was a good thing that we were stalked by the hunters, because this reminded me how cold and cruel my own species could be.

For a period, at least, I ceased to even see humans as my own species, because the older I got, the more I felt the love of my monkey family and learned to cherish them all as individuals. And, like anyone, I also had my favourites.

Of the younger monkeys – the ones I would naturally spend the most time with – my favourites were Rudy and Romeo and Mia. I didn’t give them names then, as the concept of names was long lost to me, but whenever I think of them these days, it is with names attached to them, because long after I left them I would remember them so fondly and gave them names which reminded me of their characters – based on the personalities of people I encountered in my next life.

Rudy was distinctive because he had so much energy. He was always chasing other monkeys and invariably catching them, at which point he would pull their ears. This was his second-favourite pastime, his first, without question, being peek-a-boo.

He loved it if I hid behind a tree trunk, waited for his plaintive ‘where have you gone?’ call, then sprang out again and made him jump. He loved it so much he soon learned to do his own version, waiting in all sorts of places – high on branches, in deep cover – before leaping out and terrifying whichever dazed monkey was the target of his mischief on that occasion.

Rudy was always full of mischief. He was always the monkey making an awful lot of noise just for the sake of it, sounding the warning cry for no apparent reason and generally irritating the older monkeys in the troop. He could also be a bit of a drama queen; if he got cross, every other monkey had to know about it. He was affectionate, however, and I was always happy to let him groom me, even if, due to his ineptitude, it wasn’t very useful – my hair always ended up knottier than it started.

Romeo, in contrast, was a very gentle animal and liked nothing better than to be physically attached. I don’t know how he wangled it but, even though he had long since been too big for it, he could invariably be seen hitching a cheeky ride on someone’s back. He was a peacemaker and a sweetheart, always wrapping his arms around your shoulders, and would chatter so beautifully that you were never in any doubt that he was delivering a sonnet that declared his undying love for the entire monkey community.

Perhaps my favourite – aside from Grandpa – was Mia. She is probably the character I missed – and still miss – the most. Like Romeo, she was affectionate, but unlike him she was also shy, and it took her a while to gain the courage to be near me. I first won her round – even though that wasn’t particularly my intention – when I got cross and indignant about the way she was sometimes bullied and would use my size and strength to stop some of the more aggressive young monkeys from poking and shoving her and pushing her around. As she never stood up for herself, I felt I had to do it for her, and so began the closest of my friendships.

Mia liked to climb on my shoulders and was often with me as I went about doing whatever I was doing, both her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. Unusually for the monkeys, she also liked to lick me. And a lick on the cheek felt like a sure sign of her love.

But all the monkeys had their own endearing ways. Several would enjoy poking a finger up my nose or making a thorough inspection inside my ears. One in particular – a teenage male – just loved digging around in ears generally, and why not? After all, an ear was as likely a place as any other in which to find a nice juicy grub.

Again, I didn’t mind. It was really quite relaxing – and it also made me shiver! Neither did I mind any of them rooting behind my ears – if it was somewhere dirt collected, there were always rich pickings to be had.

Of course, I also saw the circle of life in action. I especially recall Lolita, an older female monkey, who in my time there gave birth to several babies. I never actually saw Lolita, or any other monkey, give birth in the jungle – they always seemed to disappear from sight to do that – but I think in general they might have done so approximately once a year. What remains, though, in terms of memories, was what a wonderful mother Lolita was: one who taught her children discipline and respect. A diplomat, she always made peace after their squabbles.

I miss Lolita, too. I learned such a lot from her. Though perhaps I learned the most of all from Grandpa. He’d saved my life that fateful day with the bad tamarind and had watched over me ever since. He was very wise and intelligent, and seemed to be the oldest of all the monkeys. He kept things in order and could often be seen prowling around the floor of our territory keeping watch, like a security guard. Sometimes, however, he just sat and watched, as grandpas do, while the youngsters – me included – larked about.

Every day seemed to bring opportunities for adventure and often some unexpected bounty. On this particular morning, I had woken up early and was down on the forest floor, foraging for fruit and nuts before the rest of the troop got up. After a while, a series of whoops and howls drew my attention upwards, and I noticed a small parade of them had decided to gather for a communal breakfast outing. The captain of the team – a monkey who behaved as if he always knew the best trees in the jungle – had amassed a school of several others for the tour.

I watched as they proceeded along the rooftop of the jungle, keeping in a single-file, tightly packed line. I followed their progress along a twisted branch that belonged to a large fruit tree, until the whole gang was on it, their fearless leader at the very tip. At this point he paused, as if deciding on the best cluster of fruit to go for, getting visibly irritated that the monkeys behind him kept shuffling up, each with their hands on the shoulders of the monkey in front and bobbing up and down for a better view.

The hesitation was his undoing. Perhaps more in the mood for mischief than breakfast, the last of the monkeys gave the line a firm shove, which sent their leader into free fall from the branch. Naturally, because monkeys like nothing better than to laugh, the whole jungle erupted with hilarity.

But it didn’t last. Not once they’d seen their leader, who’d now regained his composure, climbing angrily back up the tree again. Wisely, they scattered, each now intent on hiding while I, keen to capitalise on this convenient development, took the opportunity to scamper across and collect as much fallen fruit as I could hold. A very satisfying way to get my breakfast!

The ends of the days too, I remember with great fondness. There would always be a big grooming party up in the canopy, and I loved the physical contact that meant. The little ones enjoyed digging around under my fingernails and opening my mouth to see if there might be something to eat hidden inside. I saw nothing revolting in any of this – it was normal and sociable, part of the bonding process that created such a close and happy family. But for all my immersion in, and love of, monkey life, my days in the jungle were numbered.

*

It was another day, another sunrise, another busy morning. It had been a busy period, one that happened every so often in the jungle, when a bounty of fruit had been shed.

Though there are no seasons in equatorial regions, as there are nearer the poles, there are still rhythms of life taking place. There were periods of intense growth, and periods of shedding of leaves, fruits and flowers, and though each species had its own plan, these often coincided, bringing a little novelty and excitement to our days. My favourite time was when we’d be treated to a mass shedding of flowers, and the whole jungle would be carpeted by showers of delicate petals that would cover the drabness of the dead leaves with beautiful, myriad, eye-popping colours.