Through a Window

by Jane Goodall

  Among non-human primates in the wild it is rare for adults to share food with each other, although mothers will typically share with their young. In chimpanzee society, however, even non-related adults frequently share with each other, although they are more likely to do so with kin and close friends. At Gombe sharing among adults is seen most often during meat eating when, in response to an outstretched hand or other begging gesture, the possessor may allow a portion of the flesh to be taken—or may actually tear off a piece and hand it to the supplicant. Some individuals are much more generous than others in this respect. Sometimes other foods in short supply are shared, too—such as bananas. A good deal of sharing is seen among captive chimps. Wolfgang Kohler, "in the interests of science," once shut the young male Sultan into his cage without his supper, while feeding the old female Tschego outside. As she sat eating her meal, Sultan became increasingly frenzied in his appeals to her, whimpering, screaming, stretching his arms towards her, and even throwing bits of straw in her direction. Eventually (when, presumably, she had taken the edge off her own hunger) she gathered a pile of food together and pushed it into his cage.

  Food sharing among chimpanzees is usually explained away by scientists as being merely the best way of getting rid of an irritation—the begging of a companion. Sometimes this is undoubtedly true, for begging individuals can be extraordinarily persistent. Yet often the patience and tolerance of the individual who has possession of the desired object is remarkable. There was, for example, the occasion when old Flo wanted the piece of meat that Mike was chewing. She begged with both hands cupped around his muzzle, for well over a minute. Gradually she moved her pouted lips closer and closer until they were within an inch of Mike's. In the end he rewarded her, pushing the morsel (well chewed by then) directly from his mouth into hers. And what of Tschego's feeding of young Sultan? Admittedly she may have been irritated by his noisy tantrum—but she could have walked away to the far corner of her enclosure. Robert Yerkes tells of a female who was offered fruit juice from a cup through the bars of her cage. She filled her mouth and then, in response to pleading whimpers from the next cage, walked over and transferred the juice into her friend's mouth. She then returned for another mouthful which she delivered in the same manner. And so it continued until the cup was empty.

  Towards the end of Madam Bee's life there was an unusually dry summer at Gombe, and the chimpanzees had to travel long distances between one food source and the next. Madam Bee, old and sick, sometimes got so tired during these journeys that she had no energy to climb for food upon arrival. Her two daughters would utter soft calls of delight and rush up to feed, but she simply lay below, exhausted. On three quite separate occasions Little Bee, the elder daughter, after feeding for about ten minutes, climbed down with food in her mouth and food in one hand, then went and placed the food from her hand on the ground beside Madam Bee. The two sat side by side, eating companionably together. Little Bee's behaviour was not only a demonstration of entirely voluntary giving, but it also showed that she understood the needs of her old mother. Without understanding of this sort there can be no empathy, no compassion. And, in both chimpanzees and humans, these are the qualities that lead to altruistic behaviour and self-sacrifice.

  In chimpanzee society, although most risk-taking is on behalf of family members, there are examples of individuals risking injury if not their lives to help non-related companions. Evered once risked the fury of adult male baboons to rescue adolescent Mustard, pinned down and screaming, during a baboon hunt. And when Freud was seized during a bushpig hunt by an enraged sow, Gigi risked her life to save him. The pig had seized him from behind, and Freud, dropping his piglet, was screaming and struggling to escape, when Gigi raced up, hair bristling. The sow wheeled to charge Gigi, and Freud, bleeding heavily, was able to escape up a tree.

  In some zoos, chimpanzees are kept on man-made islands, surrounded by water-filled moats. There are tales of heroism from there, too. Chimpanzees cannot swim and, unless they are rescued, will drown if they fall into deep water. Despite this, individuals have sometimes made heroic efforts to save companions from drowning—and were sometimes successful. One adult male lost his life as he tried to rescue a small infant whose incompetent mother had allowed it to fall into the water.

  In all those animal species in which parents devote time and energy to the raising of their young they will, when occasion demands, risk life and limb in defence of their offspring. It is much more unusual for an adult to show altruistic behaviour towards an individual who is not closely related. After all, if you help your kin, all of whom bear some of the same genes as yourself, then your action will still be of some benefit to your clan in its struggle to survive—even if you yourself get harmed in the process. From these basically selfish roots sprang the most rarified form of altruism—helping another even when you stand to gain nothing for yourself or your kin.

  As the ancestors of chimpanzees (and, incidentally, ourselves) gradually evolved more complex brains, so the period of childhood dependency became longer and mothers were forced to expend more and more time and energy in raising their families. Mother-offspring bonds became ever more enduring. The offspring of the most caring, supportive and successful mothers thrived and became themselves good and caring mothers who tended to produce many offspring. Youngsters who were less well cared for were less likely to survive, and those that did were often relatively poor mothers themselves and were less likely to produce large families. Loving and nurturing characteristics thus competed successfully, in the genetic sense, with more selfish behaviours. Over the aeons, tendencies to help and protect, which were originally developed for the successful raising of young, gradually infiltrated the genetic make-up of chimpanzees. Today we observe, again and again, that the distress of a non-related but well-known community member may elicit genuine concern in a companion, and a desire to help.

  Compassion and self-sacrifice are two of the qualities we value most in our own western society. In some cases—as when someone risks his or her life to save another—the altruistic act is probably motivated by the same inherent complex of helping behaviours that cause a chimpanzee to aid a companion. But there are countless instances when the issue is clouded by cultural factors. If we know that another, especially a close relative or friend, is suffering, then we ourselves become emotionally disturbed, sometimes to the point of anguish. Only by helping (or trying to help) can we hope to alleviate our own distress. Does this mean, then, that we act altruistically only to soothe our own consciences? That our helping, in the final analysis, is but a selfish desire to set our minds at rest? One can speculate endlessly on human motives for helping others. Why do we send money to starving children in the Third World? Because others will applaud and our reputation will be enhanced? Or because starving children evoke in us a feeling of pity which makes us uncomfortable? If our motive is to advance our social standing, or even to alleviate our own mental discomfort, is not our action basically selfish? Perhaps, but I feel strongly that we should not allow reductionist arguments of this sort to detract from the inspirational nature of many human acts of altruism. The very fact that we feel distressed by the plight of individuals we have never met, says it all.

  We are, indeed, a complex and endlessly fascinating species. We carry in our genes, handed down from our distant past, deep-rooted aggressive tendencies. Our patterns of aggression are little changed from those that we see in chimpanzees. But while chimpanzees have, to some extent, an awareness of the pain which they may inflict on their victims, only we, I believe, are capable of real cruelty—the deliberate infliction of physical or mental pain on living creatures despite, or even because of, our precise understanding of the suffering involved. Only we are capable of torture. Only we, surely, are capable of evil.

  But let us not forget that human love and compassion are equally deeply rooted in our primate heritage, and in this sphere too our sensibilities are of a higher order of magnitude than those of chimpanzees. Human love at i
ts best, the ecstasy deriving from the perfect union of mind and body, leads to heights of passion, tenderness and understanding that chimpanzees cannot experience. And while chimpanzees will, indeed, respond to the immediate need of a companion in distress, even when this involves risk to themselves, only humans are capable of performing acts of self-sacrifice with full knowledge of the costs that may have to be borne—not only at the time, but also, perhaps, at some future date. A chimpanzee does not have the conceptual ability to become a martyr, offering his life for a cause.

  Thus although our "bad" is worse, immeasurably worse, than the worst conceivable actions of our closest living relatives, let us take comfort in the knowledge that our "good" can be incomparably better. Moreover we have developed a sophisticated mechanism—the brain—which enables us, if we will, to control our inherited aggressive hateful tendencies. Sadly, our success in this regard is poor. Nevertheless, we should remember that we alone among the life forms of this planet are able to overcome, by conscious choice, the dictates of our biological natures. At least, this is what I believe.

  And what of the chimpanzees? Are they at the end of their evolutionary progression? Or are there pressures in their forest habitat that might, given time, push them further along the path taken by our own prehistoric ancestors, producing apes that would become ever more human? It seems unlikely; evolution does not often repeat itself. Probably chimpanzees would become ever more different—they might, for example, develop the right side of the brain at the expense of the left.

  But the question is purely academic. It could not be answered for countless thousands of years, and even now it is clear that the days of the great African forests are numbered. If the chimpanzees themselves survive in freedom, it will be in a few isolated patches of forest grudgingly conceded, where opportunities for genetic exchange between different social groups will be limited or impossible. And, unless we act soon, our closest relatives may soon exist only in captivity, condemned, as a species, to human bondage.

  19. OUR SHAME

  EVEN THE GOMBE chimpanzees are threatened by the relentless march of human expansion. I was thinking about this during a recent visit as I followed a large group of chimpanzees high up into the open wind-swept grasslands near the crest of the rift escarpment. I was out of breath when we arrived at our destination—a great stand of muhandehande trees. As the chimps, with loud calls of delight, began to feast on the rich crop of yellow nectar-sweet fruits, I settled on a rock, that, shaded by one of the low, stunted trees, still held the coolness of the night air. We were almost at the topmost peak of the chimpanzee's world, under the pale morning sky. Below us the ground fell away now steeply, now more gently, towards the blue-grey expanse of Lake Tanganyika. Lines and patches of green, starting just below the smooth golden-brown humps and ridges of the dry upper slopes, gradually became darker and thicker, then converged as they followed the maze of gullies and ravines that led down to the thickly forested valleys. To the north and to the south, valley succeeded valley, each leading its own swift-flowing stream westward, from the watershed, high in the hills, down to the lake.

  Gombe National Park, a narrow strip of rugged terrain, two miles at its widest, stretches for no more than ten miles along the eastern shore of the lake—a pitifully small stronghold, I reflected, for the three communities of chimpanzees living there. For, although they still roam free, they are effectively imprisoned—their refuge is surrounded on three sides by villages and cultivated land, while along the fourth boundary, the shore of the lake, over one thousand fishermen are camped. Yet these one hundred and sixty or so chimpanzees are safer than almost any other wild chimpanzees in Africa—except for those in the few remaining places, in the central part of the species' range, that are utterly remote. At least, in Gombe, there is no poaching.

  I sat there, cooling down in the fresh breeze, looking out over the chimpanzees' dwindled realm. When I arrived at Gombe in 1960 you could climb to the top of the rift escarpment and gaze out to the east over chimpanzee habitat stretching into the far distance. The forests and woodlands that offered sanctuary to wildlife stretched almost unbroken from the northern tip of the lake to the southwest border of Tanzania—and beyond. There may have been as many as ten thousand chimpanzees living in Tanzania then, while today there can be no more than two thousand, five hundred. But at least many of these remaining chimpanzees are protected in two national parks, Gombe and the much larger Mahale Mountains area to the south. There are also a number of forest reserves where chimpanzees still roam in comparative safety. Chimpanzees are not eaten by any peoples in Tanzania nor has there ever been a flourishing export trade in live chimpanzees. In most other African countries where chimpanzees still live their plight is far more grim.

  At the turn of the century chimpanzees were found, in their hundreds of thousands, in twenty-five African nations. From four countries they have disappeared completely. In five others, the population is so small that the species cannot long survive. In seven countries populations are less than five thousand. And even in the four remaining central strongholds chimpanzees are gradually and relentlessly losing ground to the ever-growing needs of ever-growing human populations. Forests are razed for dwellings and for cultivation. Logging and mining activities penetrate ever deeper into the natural habitats, and human diseases, to all of which chimpanzees are susceptible, follow. Moreover, the dwindling chimpanzee populations become increasingly fragmented and genetic diversity is lost until, in many cases, the small groups of survivors can no longer sustain themselves. In some countries in West and Central Africa chimpanzees are hunted for food. Even in places where they are not eaten, females are often shot, snared, chased with packs of dogs, or even poisoned in order that their infants may be captured for sale to dealers who, in turn, ship them off for the international entertainment and pharmaceutical industries, or sell them as "pets" to anyone who will buy them.

  In the tree nearest me I heard soft laughing. Fifi's two daughters, Fanni and Fiossi, the edge of their appetites dulled, had begun to play. As I looked up, Fifi's most recent infant, little Faustino, reached out to touch one of the yellow fruits that his mother was chewing, then licked his fingers. Several of the chimpanzees, their hunger satiated, had climbed down and were lying on the ground. Gremlin and Galahad were close to me and, even as I watched, the infant, relaxed by his mother's gentle grooming fingers, dropped off to sleep. They were five feet from where I sat and once again I was all but overwhelmed by the trust they showed, and poignantly aware of my responsibility towards them: that trust must never be broken. Galahad, dreaming perhaps, suddenly clutched his mother's hair. Gremlin responded instantly, holding him close, comforting him even as he slept so that he relaxed once more. Watching them I thought, as I so often do now, of the grim fate of hundreds of Africa's chimpanzees. Of the mothers who are killed, the infants who are seized from their arms and, shocked, terrified and hurt, dragged into a harsh and bitter new life. A life that is barren and cold because the ever-comforting arms of the mother, and the nurture and reassurance of her breast, are no more.

  The whole sickening business of capturing infant chimpanzees, for any purpose whatsoever, is not only cruel but also horribly wasteful. The hunters' weapons are, for the most part, old and unreliable. Many mothers escape, wounded, only to die later of their injuries. Their infants will almost certainly die also. Often youngsters as well as their mothers are hit, particularly when the weapons are old flintlocks stuffed with nails or bits of metal. And if other chimpanzees rush to the defence of the mother and her child—then they may be shot also.

  Just occasionally the hunters are thwarted. There is a true story of two hunters who set off in search of a young chimpanzee. After three days, during which they shot four mothers, three of whom escaped wounded and one who was killed along with her infant, they located and killed a fifth. She fell to the ground, her infant still living. Laying down the gun, the man went to seize the terrified, screaming infant as he clung, with the strength of
desperation, to his dying mother. All at once there was a great crashing in the undergrowth and an adult male chimpanzee, hair bristling, charged out towards them. With a swiping, grabbing movement he virtually scalped one of the hunters. Seizing the other he hurled him down onto some rocks, breaking several ribs. Then he gathered up the infant and disappeared, back into the forest. When I first heard the tale I assumed that the youngster would die. But that was before we observed how Spindle looked after little Mel. Let us hope that the avenging male showed similar parental concern and skill and that the youngster was as tenacious of life as Mel. The two men managed to get to a hospital—and then, when they had recovered, were sent to jail.

  Such incidents, however, must be rare. For most infants, the death of the mother brings their life in the forest to an abrupt end and leads to a succession of terrifying new experiences. After that brutal separation, the infant must first endure a nightmare journey to a native village or a dealer's camp. The captive, feet and hands often tied together with string or wire, is crammed into a tiny box or basket, or pushed into a suffocating sack. And, with each agonizing jolt, cramped and chafed by the bonds of his new captivity, freedom, comfort and joy are left further and further behind. And let us not forget that an infant chimpanzee will suffer in almost exactly the same way, emotionally and mentally, as a small human child would.

  Many youngsters do not survive these journeys, for they receive little if any attention and care en route. Those that do, arrive at holding stations in a sorry plight. Many are wounded, all are dehydrated, starving and suffering from shock. Yet it is unlikely that they will find relief or solace, for the conditions that prevail at such places are typically grim and standards of care atrocious. And as they await shipment to their final destinations, still more infants will die. The survivors must then face further travel to different places around the world. At airports delays are common and there is seldom anyone to nurture the crated captives. Often, indeed, their departure is illegal so that the dealers involved, and those in their pay, do their best to conceal the existence or at least the nature of the cargo. They are the evil ones, these dealers. With the blood of countless innocents on their hands, they grow fat and rich on suffering, like those who traded human slaves in years gone by.