Through a Window

by Jane Goodall

  As a youngster gradually becomes more independent, his (or her) relationship with his mother changes. It is still close, the mother is still affectionate and supportive, but the onus of maintaining proximity increasingly falls on the child. Whereas the mother, even if she is ready to move on, will wait for an infant—or go and fetch him if she is impatient—an older child must keep his eye on his mother. This does not mean that she always sets off without her child—far from it. But it does mean that the two will, from time to time, become accidentally separated. When this happens, the child usually becomes very upset. The loud, frenzied screams, interspersed with whimpering calls, that are uttered by lost youngsters are very characteristic. Mothers usually stop and wait when they hear such crying, but for some reason almost never give an answering call. And so the youngster learns two things: first, that he must keep alert to prevent the recurrence of similar experiences; second, that temporary separation from the mother is not, after all, the end of the world—sooner or later they will find one another again. Thus the time eventually comes, earlier for a male than a female, when the child begins deliberately to leave the mother for short periods.

  Even after this the youngster is likely to become quite distressed when accidentally separated from his mother. Moreover, on those occasions when he and his mother want to travel in different directions, he may try very hard to persuade her to change her mind: if she follows him, separation will be at least temporarily averted. One day in 1982 I was with Fifi and her family: Freud, Frodo and one-year-old Fanni. They had been resting for an hour or so when Freud, eleven years old at that time, sat up, glanced at Fifi, then gathered Fanni to his breast and set off to the north. Fifi, who was grooming Frodo, looked after them, got up and followed. Soon Fanni wriggled free and started back towards her mother, who sat down again, presently rejoined by Freud. After five minutes or so Fifi got up and moved southwards, very slowly, allowing Fanni to totter behind her. Instantly Freud, seizing his chance, reached out to his little sister, gathered her up, and set off once more in the opposite direction. Fifi stopped, gazed after them again, then turned and followed. It was not long before Fanni left Freud, but as she took a few steps towards Fifi, Freud pulled her back and, with little shoves, persuaded her to move on ahead of him. They travelled thus for a few yards, then, as Fanni again tried to escape, Freud grabbed her ankle, drew her close, and groomed her until she relaxed. Fifi just watched. After a couple of minutes, Freud got up and took hold of one of Fanni's arms. Quick as lightning Fifi took hold of the other and pulled gently. Freud soon gave in and Fifi, placing Fanni firmly into the ventral position, set off southward. Freud looked after her for a while, gazed, wistfully perhaps, to the north, then turned and trailed after his family. Much later, as the family was feeding, they heard excited calling from chimpanzees to the east. Freud at once began to travel towards the sounds, but Fifi continued to feed. Freud returned, gathered up Fanni, and set off again. Fifi soon followed. After about seventy-five yards Fanni dropped down and went back to her mother but this time Fifi went with Freud, and the family joined the large group.

  All of the above—weaning, the birth of a new baby, temporary separation—upsetting as they may be at the time, are as nothing when compared with the death of the mother, the final and irrevocable breaking of the bond. Infants who are less than three years old and still quite dependent on their mother's milk will, of course, be unable to survive. But even youngsters who are nutritionally independent may become so depressed that they pine away and die. Flint, for example, was eight and a half when old Flo died, and should have been able to look after himself. But, dependent as he was on his mother, it seemed that he had no will to survive without her. His whole world had revolved around Flo, and with her gone life was hollow and meaningless. Never shall I forget watching as, three days after Flo's death, Flint climbed slowly into a tall tree near the stream. He walked along one of the branches, then stopped and stood motionless, staring down at an empty nest. After about two minutes he turned away and, with the movements of an old man, climbed down, walked a few steps, then lay, wide eyes staring ahead. The nest was one which he and Flo had shared a short while before Flo died. What had he thought of as he stood there, staring? Memories of happy days gone by to add to his bewildered sense of loss? We shall never know.

  It was unfortunate that, for the first few days after Flo's death, Fifi had been wandering further afield. Had she been there to comfort Flint from the start, things might have been very different. He had travelled for a while with Figan and, in the presence of his big brother, had seemed to shake off a little of his depression. But then he suddenly left the group and raced back to the place where Flo had died and there sank into ever deeper depression. By the time Fifi showed up Flint was already sick, and though she groomed him and waited for him to travel with her, he lacked both the strength and the will to follow.

  Flint became increasingly lethargic, refused most food and, with his immune system thus weakened, fell sick. The last time I saw him alive, he was hollow-eyed, gaunt and utterly depressed, huddled in the vegetation close to where Flo had died. Of course, we tried to help him. I had to leave Gombe soon after Flo's death, but one or other of the students or field assistants stayed with Flint each day, keeping him company, tempting him with all kinds of foods. But nothing made up for the loss of Flo. The last short journey he made, pausing to rest every few feet, was to the very place where Flo's body had lain. There he stayed for several hours, sometimes staring and staring into the water. He struggled on a little further, then curled up—and never moved again.

  Other youngsters, though, have been cared for by their older siblings. And these adoptions provide us with some of the most touching stories, illustrating clearly the nature of the affectionate, protective attitude of juveniles and adolescents towards their infant brothers and sisters. Young males, it transpires, can be just as efficient caretakers as females. Certainly they are as tolerant and affectionate. This first became clear in Passion's family.

  Pax was but four years old when his mother died. She had been ill for some weeks, moving more and more slowly, becoming increasingly emaciated, crouching to the ground from time to time as though in pain. Though I had hated her four years before, during her infant-killing days, I could not help but feel sorry for her at the ending of her life. On the last evening she was so weak that she trembled when she made the slightest movement. She managed to climb into a low tree where she made a tiny nest, then lay, exhausted. The next morning dawned cold and grey with rain pouring steadily from a leaden sky. Passion was dead. She had fallen during the night and hung, caught by one arm, from a tangle of vines. Her three offspring, who had been her constant companions during the last weeks of her life, were around her now. Pom and Prof, for the most part, just sat staring at their mother's body. But Pax repeatedly approached and tried to suckle from her cold, wet breasts. Then, becoming increasingly upset, screaming louder and louder, he began to pull and tug at her dangling hand. So frenzied was he in his distress that eventually he succeeded in pulling her loose. As Passion sprawled lifeless on the sodden ground, her three offspring inspected her body many times. Occasionally they moved off a short distance to feed, listlessly, then hurried back to their dead mother again. As the day wore on Pax gradually became calmer and no longer tried to suckle, but he seemed ever more depressed, crying softly and, occasionally, pulling at Passion's dead hand. Eventually, just before darkness fell, the three moved off together.

  For the next few weeks Pax showed many signs of depression. He was listless, he played not at all, and, like all young orphans, he soon developed a pot belly. But he recovered amazingly fast. For about a year the three siblings spent almost all their time together. When Prof ventured to travel for a while with the adult males, Pax usually stayed with Pom. But although they kept close together, and although he invariably ran to her for protection, Pax for some strange reason would never ride on his sister: not even when, as they travelled with a group of fast-moving
adult males, Pax got left behind and whimpered; not even when she reached out, begging him to climb aboard. Initially, her maternal instincts roused, Pom had tried to force him to climb her back. But Pax had clung to the vegetation, and screamed hysterically until she stopped. Prof had tried to carry his little brother too, but Pax had rejected those offers in the same inexplicable way. And it was just the same when his elder siblings invited him to share their nests at night. He utterly refused, even when they reached affectionately towards him. And so they had watched as Pax, whimpering sadly to himself, made his own small nest nearby. How much we have yet to learn.

  One year after Passion died, Pom emigrated and joined the Mitumba community in the north. She probably did so because, after losing her high-ranking mother, she had been at the mercy of the Kasekela females many of whom, without doubt, retained hostile feelings towards her: chimpanzees have long memories. But even before his sister left, Pax had attached himself to his brother, following Prof, like a small persistent shadow, wherever he went. The relationship between the two had always been affectionate, for Prof had been fascinated by Pax from the start, and had often carried and played with his little brother. I remember once when Pax, suffering from a wet-season cold, sneezed loudly and messily. Prof hastened over and gazed intently at Pax's runny nose—then picked a handful of leaves and carefully wiped the snot away.

  Now, a year after Passion's death, Prof, in many ways, cared for Pax as a mother would, waiting for him in travel and protecting him. Even when Pax was six years old he became extremely upset if he was accidentally separated from Prof. And Prof was concerned, too. Once, for example, a full two years after losing their mother, the brothers went off in different directions when the big group in which they had been feeding split up. When Pax noticed that Prof was not there, he began to whimper and cry. Repeatedly he climbed tall trees, crying louder and scanning the countryside all round. But Prof by then was out of sight and hearing, and so Pax stayed close to Jomeo, making his nest close to that of the big male. Even so he cried, on and off, throughout the night. Prof, for his part, left the other chimps as soon as he realized what had happened and set off to search for Pax. I didn't see the reunion, but by noon the next day they were together again.

  One incident I shall always remember. The brothers were travelling in a small group with Miff, who was pink, and Goblin, who was jealously asserting his rights as alpha and preventing other males from mating with her. He paid no attention when Pax courted Miff—the youngster was no threat. Miff, however, seemed irritated by the courtship of this puny suitor and when he persisted she kicked back at him. He was hurled head over heels into the vegetation behind him. Poor Pax! He threw one of the most violent tantrums I have ever seen. Tearing at his hair, he threw himself about on the ground, screaming louder and louder. Goblin, obviously irritated by the noise, glared at Pax, and his hair began to bristle. At that moment Prof, who had been feeding some distance away, came hurrying up to see what was going on. For a moment he stood surveying the scene then, realizing that Pax was in imminent danger of severe punishment, seized his still-screaming kid brother by one wrist and dragged him hastily away! Not until they had gone at least twenty yards and were well out of danger did Prof let go: at that point Pax stopped screaming and agreed to go off with his brother.

  Gimble was eight years old when Melissa died and, although still tiny for his age, was well able to fend for himself. Even so, he was upset and a little dazed when he lost his mother. He turned to his siblings for comfort and, of the two, it was Goblin whom he sought most often, and soon he was following his elder brother everywhere. Often they fed side by side in the same tree and Gimble made his night nest close to Goblin's. Most important, from Gimble's point of view, Goblin usually supported his small brother if he was threatened or attacked by any of the others. Thus Goblin, alpha male and thirteen years older than his brother, in many ways filled Melissa's place in Gimble's life.

  When Winkle died, Wolfi was adopted by his elder sister, Wunda: the story of the nine-year-old female and her three-year-old brother is truly remarkable. Wolfi, despite his young age, showed fewer signs of depression than the other orphans and almost certainly this was because, long before Winkle died, the relationship between the siblings had been unusually close. Wunda had carried him frequently when the family travelled, not only because, like all elder sisters, she was fascinated with her small brother, but also because, from the time he was able to totter, Wolfi had wanted to follow her wherever she went. Again and again Wunda had set off about her own concerns, only to return when she heard the sad cries of her small brother as he tried, most desperately, to keep up. Then she would gather him up, and off they would go, together. It should not be thought that Wolfi's close relationship with his sister reflected adversely on Winkle's maternal abilities: she was a caring, affectionate and efficient mother from whom Wunda, undoubtedly, had learned much concerning child care. When Winkle died Wunda took over all her caretaking duties as a matter of course. Most amazing of all, this young female, not yet sexually mature, may have actually produced milk for her infant brother. Certainly he suckled, for several minutes every couple of hours or so, and he became very upset if Wunda tried to stop him. But even when we got very close to them we still couldn't be sure that he was actually getting milk from his sister. Perhaps he just found it reassuring to put his lips to her nipples.

  Skosha was a firstborn child and had no brother or sister to care for her when her mother died. For the first two months, this five-year-old spent most of her time with one or other of the adult males. But then she became attached to Pallas, a female who had, a few months earlier, lost her own first child. Pallas had been a very close companion of Skosha's mother, and we had often wondered whether, perhaps, the two were sisters—if so, then Pallas was Skosha's biological aunt. Be that as it may, the two became inseparable. Pallas was a wonderful foster mother. She carried Skosha during travel, waited for her, shared food, and was remarkably patient with this child, who, when things went wrong, often threw violent tantrums. Within the year Pallas again gave birth—to an infant who, almost certainly, fell victim to Passion and Pom. The following year, however, Pallas had another baby, who survived, and by that time Skosha was a fully integrated member of the family. And it was a delightful family, too, for Pallas, although she was not a very social female, was an affectionate and playful mother, and little Kristal, outgoing, adventurous and tough, became a favourite of us all. But ill luck dogged Pallas: she fell sick and died when Kristal was just five years old. And so Skosha, having lost her own mother, now lost her foster mother too.

  I arrived at Gombe soon afterwards. It was heartbreaking to see the two orphans. Skosha was doing her best to look after Kristal, but the child was depressed and lethargic, and Skosha herself, now ten years old, seemed forlorn and bewildered. She clearly found it difficult to decide on any course of action. Where should they go next? What should they eat? When should they make their nests? Kristal kept very close to Skosha as the two of them wandered aimlessly through the forest, two lost babes in the wood. We all hoped that Kristal would survive, but she remained listless and never recovered her former gay spirit. Nine months after Pallas died, Kristal disappeared for good.

  In 1987 an epidemic of a pneumonia-like disease swept through the Gombe chimpanzee population. Many members of the Kasekela community fell sick, and although some, like Evered and Fifi and Gremlin, made wonderful recoveries, nine chimps died. Jomeo, Satan and Little Bee were among my oldest friends to go. Another was Miff, whom I had known since she was a juvenile in 1964. Just a few years before she died, Miff had a flourishing family. But first Michaelmas (whose limp, incidentally, had quite gone), became sick and died of a heavy infestation of internal parasites. And then juvenile Mo had vanished after a long sickness. And now Miff herself was gone, leaving a sickly three-year-old, little Mel. He was all alone in the world—Miff's eldest offspring, daughter Moeza, was still alive, but she had emigrated, three years earlier, to the
Mitumba community.

  I was in the States on my annual spring lecture tour when I had a letter from Gombe telling me the news. Mel, I heard, was very weak. He was wandering around after various individuals, mostly one or other of the adult males and, although all were tolerant, none showed special concern. I never expected to see Mel again. Even before Miff's death he had been so skinny and pot bellied and lethargic that I had sent a faecal sample to be analysed, and the report, listing very heavy infestations of several different types of internal parasites, had not been encouraging. But then I had a telegram— Mel adopted by Spindle. I was amazed, for Spindle, twelve-year-old son of old Sprout, was quite unrelated to Miff so far as we knew. Surely such a relationship couldn't last?

  Soon after that I returned to Gombe to find Mel still alive, and still with Spindle. Looking at the little orphan, with his pot belly, his skinny arms and legs, his dull, sparse hair, I marvelled at the gallant fighting spirit that had enabled him, against all odds, to cling to life. I marvelled, too, at the concern and affection shown by his caretaker. Spindle was in a sense an orphan himself, as Sprout had died during the same epidemic that had claimed Miff and so many others. Spindle, of course, was well able to care for himself: but was it, perhaps, his sense of loss, a feeling of loneliness, that had led to his unlikely liaison with an unrelated motherless infant? Whatever the reason, Spindle was a wonderful caretaker. He shared his night nest with Mel, and he shared his food. He did his best to protect the infant, hurrying to retrieve him when the big males became socially aroused. When Mel whimpered during travel, Spindle waited and allowed him to clamber onto his back or even, if it was raining and cold, to cling on in the ventral position. In fact he carried him so often that, where Mel gripped Spindle with his feet, the hair became quite worn away and Spindle had two large, white hairless patches, one on each loin!