Through a Window

by Jane Goodall

  I felt immensely proud to have been responsible for bringing this group of people together, and the quality and quantity of information that was being gathered was extraordinary. Yet there were times when I thought back to my early days at Gombe with real nostalgia—the very early days, when my only companions were my mother, Dominic the cook, and Hassan who drove the little motor boat into Kigoma for supplies. I had worked incredibly hard, forcing myself to climb to the Peak at dawn and remaining out until the mountains were already shadowed by the coming night. There were no weekends, no holidays. But I was young and physically fit and I gloried in it. And I was on my own. I could travel through the forests knowing that the only beings I would meet all day would be chimpanzees, or baboons, or some of the other wild creatures that inhabit the lush valleys or the more open mountain slopes. But change had been inevitable: there was no way in the world that one person, no matter how dedicated, could have made a really comprehensive study of the Gombe chimpanzees. Hence the research centre, the growing number of people moving about in the forests, the decreasing likelihood of spending hours at a time in absolute solitude.

  In truth, by 1972 I was spending only very short periods with the chimpanzees, despite the fact that, apart from the three months a year that I spent teaching a course in the human biology programme at Stanford, I was living permanently at Gombe. This was because, after spending the previous few years watching chimpanzee mothers raising their infants, I was trying my hand at bringing up a child myself. It had become quite clear to me that a close, affectionate bond with the mother was important for the future well-being of a young chimpanzee. I suspected that the same was true for humans, and the work of men such as Rene Spitz and John Bowlby confirmed this. I was determined to give my own son the best start I could. And so, while the students spent most of their time in the field, I spent most of my time with Grub. (Although his real name is Hugo, he is still known as Grub to his family and closest friends even now.) I usually worked at administration and writing in the morning and did things with Grub in the afternoons.

  Of course I kept abreast of all that was going on in the chimpanzee community. The conversation each evening, in the mess, was very rarely about anything other than chimpanzees and baboons. I was able to follow, albeit vicariously, the dominance rivalry between Humphrey, Figan and Evered. I received daily bulletins on the adolescent exploits of Flint and Goblin, Pom and Gilka, and on Gigi's sexual adventures. Moreover, I almost always saw at least one or two chimps during my daily visits to camp.

  Occasionally Grub and I had chimpanzee visitors at our house on the beach. Once Melissa and her family wandered along the veranda and peered through the weldmesh windows of the living room, just after someone had brought Grub two pet rabbits. There are no rabbits at Gombe, and the chimpanzees were clearly fascinated. Goblin, filled with the intense curiosity of adolescence, continued to hang onto the window, staring and staring, long after his mother and little sister had lost interest and left. Incidentally, they were terrific pets, those rabbits, quite housetrained, very affectionate and extremely entertaining. And they taught me a lot—I had no idea until then, for example, that rabbits enjoyed meat. And I was even more startled to watch them hunting and eating spiders!

  Chimpanzees have been known to seize and eat human infants, and so that Grub would have maximum safety Hugo and I had built our house on the beach as the chimpanzees seldom went there. The baboons, however, were often on the lakeshore, and our house was in the heart of the range of Beach troop. As a result, I spent more time watching baboons than I ever had before. This was not only a good learning experience in itself, but it gave me a new perspective on chimpanzee behaviour, pinpointing ways in which it differs from that of monkeys, such as baboons. Chimpanzees are clearly more "intellectual" than baboons—as demonstrated by their use of objects as tools, for example. But baboons are very much more adaptive than chimps. There are baboons all over Africa, from north to south, east to west, whereas the chimpanzees, with their cautious and conservative natures and their much slower reproductive rate, are found only in the equatorial forest belt and surrounding areas.

  From the very first, the baboons at Gombe, bold and opportunistic, were quick to try any imported human foods they could get their hands on—and almost without exception, they found them highly desirable commodities. There has been a constant battle of wits between the humans at Gombe on the one hand and baboons on the other—a battle won, only too often, by the baboons. In vain did we make rules: no food to be eaten outside; no food remains to be thrown out except in covered rubbish pits; food that has to be carried from one place to another must be covered; house doors must be closed at all times. Everyone tried to obey the rules but there were always times when someone forgot, or was in a hurry, or thought, "Well, there aren't any baboons around now." And those are the moments baboons wait for.

  The baboon Crease was an inveterate thief. He used to sit patiently for hours, concealed in some thickly foliaged tree behind one of our houses, far from the rest of his troop. If we forgot to latch the door, even for a few moments, he would seize the opportunity to make a quick raid. Many a loaf of bread, handful of eggs, pineapple or pawpaw did he snatch from the shelves before we imposed heavy fines on careless behaviour that led to such depredations. Once he stole a two-pound tin of margarine, newly opened, and sat, consuming the contents slowly and with apparent relish, for the next two hours.

  One day Grub, highly excited, told me an epic Crease story. It began when a water taxi (as we call the little boats that carry passengers up and down the lake) broke down near the research centre. The boat was pulled up to the edge of the beach, the outboard engine was taken off for repair, and the passengers got out to stretch their legs. Somehow Crease got wind of the fact that there was a load of cassava (manioc) flour on the empty boat. Without hesitation the old reprobate jumped aboard. But even as he ripped open one of the sacks, and began stuffing the food into his mouth, the boat started to drift out into the lake. Then, suddenly noticing that the shore was receding, Crease panicked. As he leaped from one side of the boat to the other he kept bumping into the ripped sack so that clouds of white dust rose from it, making him sneeze. Finally one of the students took pity on him and, weak with laughter, pulled the boat back to shore. Crease disembarked with undignified haste, frosted like a Christmas decoration.

  In fact baboons, unlike chimpanzees, can swim. Sometimes, when the water is calm, the young baboons go into the lake for fun, even diving down and swimming underwater. During aggressive incidents a baboon will sometimes escape from its persecutors by running out into the lake and waiting there until things have quietened down.

  Lake Tanganyika is said to be the largest body of uncontaminated water anywhere: it is the longest lake in the world and the second deepest. Great storms sometimes sweep its length, stirring the surface into huge waves. Almost every year a few fishermen are blown miles out towards Zaire, some never to return. And there are other dangers, too, lurking in the crystal depths of the lake. The crocodiles have gone now, but there are water cobras living among the great rocks that march out into the water at the headland of each bay. There is no anti-venom that will save you if you are bitten by one of these long, sleek brown snakes, with black bands around its neck. That was why I always worried about Grub when he was swimming in the lake. Yet in most ways Gombe was a wonderful environment for bringing up a child.

  Grub spent much of his early childhood pottering about on the shores of the lake, and it was probably there, surrounded by traditional fishermen, that he acquired his passion for fishing. As a small boy he showed unbelievable patience when it came to untangling some hopelessly snarled fishing net. Whereas I would have given up after the first few minutes, he would persist for a whole morning, and sometimes into the afternoon, until at last the net was neatly laid out on the veranda, complete with floats, ready to set before nightfall. And then, after the excitement of examining the catch the next morning, the whole laborious process had
to be gone through again.

  When Grub was five years old, he began a school correspondence course under the direction of a series of tutors—young people filling in a year between school and university, glad of the opportunity to see Gombe and the chimps in return for their services. But there was still much opportunity for fishing and swimming in the lake. It was at this same time that Maulidi Yango came into Grub's life. Maulidi, who was employed to help with the cutting of trails through the forest, has a splendid physique and is as strong as an ox. Newcomers to Gombe would sometimes be startled to see what appeared to be an entire tree moving ahead of them along some trail: and then, somewhere under the tree, they would see Maulidi! Easy-going, with a great sense of humour, Maulidi became Grub's childhood hero. Indeed, Grub maintains that Maulidi had more influence in shaping his character than anyone else outside the family. It was a commonplace sight at Gombe to see Maulidi stretched out on the sand while Grub swam, Maulidi paddling a canoe while Grub fished—or Maulidi eating his midday meal and enjoying his midday siesta while Grub waited. They have remained firm friends.

  One morning Grub came to tell me that Flo and Flint were near the mess. By this time Flo was a very old lady indeed. Her teeth were worn down to the gums and she had trouble finding enough soft foods to eat. We gave her extra banana rations in camp and when she came near the house I always gave her eggs. But even so she gradually became more and more frail. Still, from time to time, she showed flashes of the indomitable spirit that, undoubtedly, had enabled her to live to such a ripe old age.

  So it was that morning. I found her sitting on the ground, hunched and looking cold and miserable, for it had rained a short while before—one of those short, heavy deluges that sometimes catch one unawares in the middle of the dry season. Close by, Flint was teasing Crease. The old baboon was minding his own business, but Flint kept shaking rain-laden branches above his head, showering him with drops. In the end Crease, who had been bowing his head as though trying to ignore Flint, lost his temper and leapt up at his tormentor, threatening him. Flint screamed, and at once Flo sprang into action. Sticking her few remaining moth-eaten hairs on end she charged at Crease, uttering fierce waa-barks of threat. And Crease fled!

  A few weeks later, Crease tried to take one of the eggs I had just given to Flo. She bristled up at once, stood upright, and ran at the baboon, flailing her arms and actually hitting him. And Crease withdrew and sat watching from a respectful distance as the ancient female slowly savoured the eggs, one at a time, chewing them with leaves.

  Sometimes I followed Flo and Flint when they wandered past the house. From time to time, Flint still tried to ride on his old mother and she would have carried him, I believe, had she been physically strong enough. As it was, she collapsed under his weight and so he had to walk. Even without him on her back Flo had to sit and rest frequently during travel, and Flint often became impatient, moving on and then whimpering when she did not immediately follow. Sometimes he went up to her and, with a sullen pout on his face, pushed her vigorously, trying to force her to move on. When she insisted on resting he gave her no peace but constantly pestered her for grooming, pulling her hands towards him, crying petulantly if she refused. Once he even pulled her out of a low day nest, so that she tumbled ignominiously onto the ground. Often I felt like slapping him. Yet it was clear that Flo would have been very lonely without him. She moved so slowly that even her daughter Fifi seldom travelled with her, and by then Flo had become almost as dependent on Flint as he was on her. I remember once, when they came to a fork in the trail, Flo went one way, Flint the other. I followed Flo. After a few minutes she stopped, looked back, and gave a few low, sad whimpers. She waited a while, hoping I suppose that Flint would change his mind. When he did not appear, she turned and went after her son.

  It was a bright, clear morning when I received news of her death. Her body had been found, lying face down in the Kakombe Stream. Although I had long known that the end was close, this did nothing to mitigate the grief that filled me as I stood looking down at Flo's remains. I had known her for eleven years and I had loved her.

  I watched over her body that night, to keep marauding bushpigs from violating it. Flint was still nearby, and his grief might have been the worse had he found his mother's body torn and partly eaten. As I kept my vigil in the bright moonlight, I thought about Flo's life. For nigh on fifty years she must have roamed the Gombe hills. And even if I had not arrived to record her history, to invade the privacy of that rugged terrain, Flo's life would have been, in and of itself, significant and worthwhile, filled with purpose, vigour, and love of life. And how much I had learned from her during her long acquaintance. For she taught me to honour the role of the mother in society, and to appreciate not only the immeasurable importance to a child of good mothering but also the utter joy and contentment which that relationship can bring to the mother.

  4. MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  MANNERS MAKYTH MAN," wrote the poet William of Wykeham. Ah—but what makyth the manners? We might, perhaps, venture "Mother makyth manners"—along, of course, with a dash of early experience and more than a little spicing of genetic inheritance. The relative roles of "nature" versus "nurture" caused much bitter argument in scientific circles in recent years. But the flames of the controversy have now died down, and it is generally accepted that, even in the lower animals, adult behaviour is acquired through a mix of genetic make-up and experience gained as the individual goes through life. The more complex an animal's brain the greater the role that learning is likely to play in shaping its behaviour, and the more variation we shall find between one individual and another. Information acquired and lessons learned during infancy and childhood, when behaviour is at its most flexible, are likely to have particular significance.

  For chimpanzees, whose brains are more like those of humans than are those of any other living animal, the nature of early experience may have a profound effect on adult behaviour. Particularly important, I believe, is the disposition of the child's mother, his or her position in the family, and, if there are elder siblings, their sex and personalities. A secure childhood is likely to lead to self-reliance and independence in adulthood. A disturbed early life may leave permanent scars. In the wild almost all mothers look after their infants relatively efficiently. But even so there are clear-cut differences in the child-raising techniques of different individuals. It would be hard to find two females whose mothers had treated them more differently during their early years than Flo's daughter Fifi and Passion's daughter Pom. In fact, Flo and Passion are at opposite ends of a scale: most mothers fall somewhere between these two extremes.

  Fifi had a carefree—a wonderful—childhood. Old Flo was a highly competent mother, affectionate, tolerant, playful and protective. Figan was an integral part of the family when Fifi was growing up, joining her games when Flo was not in the mood and often supporting his young sister in her childhood squabbles. Faben, Flo's oldest son, was often around too. Flo, who held top rank among the females when I first knew her, was a sociable female. She spent a good deal of time with other members of her community, and she had a relaxed and friendly relationship with most of the adult males. In this social environment Fifi became a self-confident and assertive child.

  Pom's childhood, in comparison with Fifi's, was bleak. Passion's personality was as different from Flo's as chalk from cheese. Even when I first knew her in the early sixties she was a loner. She had no close female companions, and on those occasions when she was in a group with adult males her relationship with them was typically uneasy and tense. She was a cold mother, intolerant and brusque, and she seldom played with her infant, particularly during the first two years. And Pom, being the first surviving child, had no sibling to play with during the long hours when she and her mother were on their own. She had a difficult time during her early months, and she became an anxious and clinging child, always fearful that her mother would go off and leave her behind.

  Thus it is not really surprising th
at Pom and Fifi reacted differently to the various challenges that a young female must face as she grows up in the wild.

  All chimpanzee infants become upset and depressed during the difficult time of weaning when the mother prevents her child, with increasing frequency and determination, both from suckling and from riding on her back. This usually takes place during the fourth year. Fifi became noticeably less cheerful and less playful for a few months and she spent more and more time sitting in close contact with her mother, looking hunched and sad. But she got over her depression quickly, and by the time her infant brother Flint was born, was back to her old self—outgoing, confident and assertive.

  Pom's depression, however, seemed to go on for ever. Interestingly, sometime during her daughter's third year, Passion's attitude towards her had softened: she had become more patient and more playful. And Pom, presumably as a direct result of this, had gradually become less anxious. But these signs of improved psychological well-being disappeared during the trauma of weaning. It was clearly a far more disturbing experience for Pom than it had been for Fifi, despite the fact that Passion, to my surprise, was remarkably tolerant. She almost always responded to Pom's frequent requests for grooming and even allowed her to ride on her back with a minimum of protest. For weeks after we were sure that her milk had dried up, she let Pom sit close, a nipple in her mouth, her eyes often closed, for as long as twenty minutes at a time. But nothing seemed to help. Pom's inability to cope with weaning was almost certainly due to the harsh treatment she had received as an infant. So often her only succour had been her mother's milk and now, when this was suddenly denied, her early sense of insecurity returned. It was not until a few weeks before Passion gave birth to her next infant that Pom finally quit trying to suckle from her mother.