by John Crocker
I let myself relax and took a mental step back to view the entire scene in front of me from an evolutionary perspective. The chimps were thriving in this remote forest because they were doing the right things to survive. Over millions of years and significant changes in their environment, their genetics and their passed-down culture have kept them alive and reproducing in their Tanzanian habitat. Thinking about the footage I had watched back at Stanford, I wondered how many of Fifi’s mothering skills she had learned from Flo and how many were programmed from birth. It’s the age-old question: How much does environment shape behavior, and how much is inherited through our genes? To add to the mystery and intrigue, scientists have recently discovered that active changes can occur in our genes during our lifetimes in response to environmental events. These altered genes can then be passed on to the next generation. Whatever the combination, I could see that the chimps’ mothering techniques proved highly successful, and we can surmise that the long period of dependency allowed for plenty of nurturing.
The cultural differences among various communities of wild chimpanzees strongly support the idea that learning by observation plays an important role in their survival. One of the postdoctoral researchers spoke about this at dinner one night, saying, “Chimps in other areas of Africa learn from their elders how to break open nuts by hammering them with a rock. Since these nuts don’t grow at Gombe, ‘Jane’s’ chimps don’t demonstrate this skill; instead they’ve learned the skill of extracting termites from their mounds. Learned ages ago, the skills of termite fishing and nut cracking were and still are passed from one generation to the next by observational learning.” I was fascinated by the discussion.
In the larger evolutionary scheme, a young chimp’s long period of learning from his or her mother might also be helpful to chimp communities adapting to an environment that has changed over the centuries. As new environments emerge, creating different food sources, the chimps gradually learn to exploit their surroundings for the nutrients required to survive, and then they pass those new skills on to their offspring.
Whatever instincts both humans and chimps possess, it appears that new mothers of both species can benefit by watching competent mothers in action. When chimps are raised isolated in cages for research, they have difficulties with mothering, at least initially. In “Primiparous Chimpanzee Mothers,” author Mollie A. Bloomsmith discusses how female chimps raised apart from other chimps were totally incompetent with their first offspring. Even those raised in a socially and environmentally complex nursery without their mothers often lacked these all-important mothering skills. Only one-third were capable mothers.
Eight years later, I was able to use what I learned from Fifi and Freud when I was shut into a small examination room with a fussing two-month-old and her mother. With a grim expression and dark circles under her eyes, the young woman said, “This is basically what Jenny’s like all the time. I don’t know what to do. The house is a mess, and I can barely get anything—” Her voice cracked, and the baby started crying in earnest. “I can’t get anything done. I don’t—” The woman started to cry too.
I felt terrible. I patted her arm, and reached for the tissue box. I had no personal experience with colic at that point, but I knew that it could feel like a never-ending problem to an exhausted parent. I also needed to make sure she did not have postpartum depression in addition to her more obvious struggles.
“I’m sorry,” the mother said.
I opened my mouth to speak but suddenly had a flashback to Gombe. I remembered Fifi going about her day, performing her sometimes-challenging tasks with Freud clinging to her for reassurance.
“Do you have a baby carrier you can wear on the front?” I asked the mother as she dabbed at her eyes. She nodded. “I want you to try something. Put Jenny into the carrier and let her ride close to you while you work around the house.”
The woman looked interested but a bit skeptical, though she said she would try it.
When I next saw the pair, several weeks later, they both appeared more cheerful. “Things aren’t perfect of course,” the mother admitted, “but Jenny seems to be doing a lot better—and me too!”
Having witnessed the importance of close physical contact between primate mother and infant so clearly exemplified by Fifi and Freud, I had been able to help the human pair. The close contact, the movement, and the jiggling that can help expel a baby’s pent-up gas helped the mother get through her exasperating time. Since I had no children of my own yet, I had only my chimp observations from which to formulate practical parenting advice. Many new moms get helpful hints from relatives and peers, but I felt the need to contribute to the parenting formula when asked. Despite having some very progressive parents in my practice, I never revealed the true source of my practical recommendations.
Most of the mother chimps I observed at Gombe demonstrated a high degree of attentiveness and consistency with their offspring, but many researchers were critical of Passion. She traveled more on her own, away from the other mothers, and seemed to ignore—or at least respond slowly to—the needs of her daughter, Pom. Even the way Passion handled her two-year-old son, Prof, seemed rough. A researcher told me that Passion could clearly have used some “peer training.”
Later, the mother-daughter pair shocked Jane and others—for a period of time Passion and Pom snatched baby chimps away from their mothers and killed them. There was no clear explanation as to why they cannibalized at least three and probably more infants in the Kasekela community. One theory was that it was purely for ease of getting meat, since on one occasion, Passion even embraced Melissa after she had just killed Melissa’s infant, as if to convey that she hadn’t committed this act out of anger toward Melissa. Adult males occasionally cannibalize infants, but they take them from females of different communities—strangers. The cannibalistic behavior of the mother-daughter pair finally stopped after Passion and Pom both gave birth. Fifi was the only mother who had a surviving infant during those three years. I wondered if the seemingly unnatural behavior of Passion and Pom was at all linked with the lack of maternal warmth or if there was some other innate cause.
We never intervened if a chimp was in trouble. We wanted only to observe and record their natural behavior in the wild. However, Jane made an exception to this rule early on when polio spread from a human village to the chimps causing limb paralysis and even infant deaths. Since it had started with humans entering the chimps’ territory, she felt it made sense to insert polio vaccine into bananas that the chimps ate so their community wouldn’t die off from a human-transmitted disease. With this exception, we otherwise witnessed what our early ancestors likely faced in terms of the challenges to stay alive and reproduce.
At Gombe, I pondered human behavior in relation to the nature-versus-nurture theme. I couldn’t help but look at Jane Goodall’s own family history. Jane’s exceptional endurance, her focus, and perhaps her willingness to take risks might be traced to the genetics of her father, a successful race car driver. Since Jane’s father wasn’t around during much of Jane’s childhood, Jane’s mother, along with a nanny, played the major role in nurturing Jane during her childhood. Jane and her mother had in common their empathetic, strong interpersonal skills and sensitivity.
I even observed Jane using techniques that successful mother chimpanzees use. Just as Fifi and Flo mothered their young, Jane herself gently guided her then-seven-year-old son, “Grub,” in his exploration of the natural surroundings at Gombe. On a warm afternoon near the beach, I saw Jane place some dry pods from a bush on a rock near the beach as Grub watched intently. As the pods heated up in the sun, they would burst open, firing the seeds into the air as nature’s way of dispersing them. She asked Grub why he thought it was important for this to happen and I distinctly remember his thinking carefully about an answer.
When I was in Gombe, we didn’t know who the chimps’ fathers were, though DNA testing of stool samples now makes it possible. We knew that the mothers provided most of
the nurturing, regardless. Perhaps some basic mothering instincts are programmed from birth, but many of those skills are likely refined from young chimps observing their own mothers.
Three-year-old Gremlin watched Melissa closely and for long periods. She was clearly learning from her mother’s example. I even saw Gremlin gently holding on to her mother’s arm and staring intently as she learned to termite and build nests.
At about age nine or ten, a male chimp’s adolescent hormones surge, and his brain changes as well. These changes signal him to gradually leave his mother for longer and longer periods. He begins to hang out with the adult males or on his own. Just as we humans have a difficult time navigating adolescence, so do chimps. An adolescent male will experience some tense times observing the powerful adult males from a peripheral location. He will then return to his mother for affection and reassurance. While he begins to carefully interact with the adult males, he will still often retreat to the sidelines for safety. Just like teenage boys, the nine- or ten-year-old chimps can look like and seem like small adults, but they’re still preadults, their behaviors not fully formed. These preadult males may also start to occasionally behave aggressively toward adult females and, eventually, low-ranking males. Chimp males achieve full maturity at about sixteen or seventeen.
Females tend to separate a bit later. They often closely observe their own mothers raising a younger sibling. They begin to travel on their own for several hours at a time, but seek—and receive—intense hugging and grooming from their mothers when they reunite. Jane described Fifi at age nine getting separated from Flo during a rainstorm. The thunder kept Flo from hearing Fifi’s whimpers and screams while they remained separated for over an hour. After the storm, Fifi climbed high up in a palm tree to scan the forest and listen for her mother’s calls. She soon spotted Flo and scampered down the tree. When the pair finally reunited, there was prolonged hugging and grooming between them—and Fifi was reassured and made to feel safe once more.
In chimp society, families, including siblings and especially mothers and offspring, remain close throughout life. The numerous years that young chimps spend sheltered in close contact with their mothers create a bond that remains significant through old age. During adolescence, the closeness wanes, but even adult male and female offspring are known, as Jane notes in her talks, to spend more time with their mothers than with other adults in the community. Moreover, older mother chimps in threatening situations are often defended by their more able-bodied offspring. The pull of that maternal relationship remains strong even after the offspring leave and become independent.
The sun was approaching the horizon when Hamisi and I exchanged glances, knowing our workday was coming to an end. We watched as Fifi swiftly climbed forty feet into a nearby leafy milk-apple tree to search for a spot to build her nest. In a neighboring tree, Nova simply remade an old nest that had been previously built by another chimp. Using fresh leaves and small, pliable branches, she added more padding.
Fifi, however, managed to go far out from the trunk of her tree to a very bouncy location. Using all fours, she brought many flexible branches together by bending them into a platform. She broke off smaller branches and wove them in, then used her body to mash down the still-living long branches to continue the construction. After about five minutes, she rolled onto her back and sank into the nest. Freud immediately jumped on top of her and cuddled close. With the two comfortable and secure, no sounds other than breathing would come from the nest until morning, so as the sun began to set, Hamisi and I journeyed back to camp.
CHAPTER FOUR
OF CHIMPS AND MEN
While Fifi and other chimp mothers at Gombe provided examples of the importance of crucial nurturing behaviors in the wild, the males provided another key piece of the chimps’ story. Figan, Satan, Faben, and other adult males demonstrated raw male behavior from an evolutionary perspective—behaviors critical to the survival of this magnificent community. Following the males through the forest was definitely more anxiety-provoking for me than observing mother-infant interactions. A sudden display of aggression or an organized hunt and killing of a colobus monkey by a highly energized adult male could occur without warning.
I got to know then-twenty-one-year-old Figan better during a big storm. In Africa, storms have a sound and a feel all their own. I was at the waterfall with my field assistant Rugema watching the chimps. The plunging water hitting the rocks crashed behind me. Rain pelted down and winds howled. Just then, Figan managed to kick it up another notch. It may have been the sound of the waterfall itself that stimulated him to perform. The relentless sound of the falling water seems to stir a primitive instinct in the chimps. In humans, noise also can trigger a fight-or-flight response. It registers in our psyche as “danger.”
As Figan began his vibrant pant-hoot, I noticed other chimps moving out of his way. Rugema and I also moved back to distance ourselves from Figan’s dramatic display of aggression. “Stay here,” Rugema instructed. “Be like a tree and don’t move.” I continued watching, frozen to the spot where I stood.
With erect hair and a grimace, Figan grabbed low-hanging branches and swung powerfully out over the water. He landed on solid ground and continued to charge around, throw palm fronds, thump on tree trunks, and make increasingly louder pant-hoots that echoed down the valley. Melissa crouched nearby with Gremlin clinging to her torso. With a dropped jaw, I felt as if I were watching an action-figure movie, but it was more likely that I was witnessing a primal scene of an alpha male showing the community that he had not lost any of his power or confidence.
I could clearly understand why such high-energy displays evolved. Although the alpha male usually directs his displays toward the members of his community as a way of showing off his dominance, an aggressive swagger and dramatic display such as Figan’s would instill fear in even the most dangerous of other forest creatures. It certainly made me nervous when I was close by! I saw adult males constantly practice these impressive and hair-raising actions—charge down hillsides, hurl large branches, and often stand bipedal with hair erect to make them look taller.
Just as is the case in human families, relationships among chimp siblings could be charged and complicated. Figan was Faben’s younger brother. Faben often acted as a kind of foil for Figan, enhancing his displays of power. A few months before I arrived, Faben had helped Figan attain alpha male status by supporting him in fights. Figan and Faben worked on a coordinated attack on Evered, who was the main obstacle in Figan becoming the community’s alpha male. It worked, as Evered became submissive to Figan following this “ambush.” Fifi’s brothers had formed a stable coalition, and this tight, protective bond helped Figan maintain his alpha status for several years.
I was amazed by such complex relationships and alliances in the chimp community. They seemed similar to human coalitions formed for political and social purposes. The genes deeply embedded in our primate cousins related to aggressive tendencies are likely similar to our own, dating back to primitive times when they may have been more useful than in today’s modern world. Getting to know the chimps was like getting to know distant family members—it was a cross-species reunion of sorts.
Figan’s power play reminded me of the challenge we humans face in maintaining peaceful coexistence in the modern world. One of my professors, Dr. David Hamburg, has conducted fascinating research on primate aggression, which he believes helps us better understand such behavior in humans. His work has highly relevant real-world applications. He has served as a consultant to several US presidents, advising them on counterterrorism strategies. Dr. Hamburg successfully applied his knowledge when negotiating with Congolese rebels who kidnapped four students from Gombe a year after I left. He described moments of progress during a meeting with the kidnappers. They were making demands and then suddenly broke into a violent rage. During those moments, there was grave uncertainty about the safe return of the students. Drawing on his understanding of emotional flare-ups in non-human prim
ates, Dr. Hamburg remained calm and focused and was able to keep the dialogue going. I believe Hamburg’s comprehension of aggression and how it had evolved in humans helped him secure the students’ release after a month of agonizing negotiation.
Mike, a chimpanzee from Jane’s early days at Gombe, rose to the top of the male hierarchy by using brainpower more than brawn. He learned that hurling empty metal kerosene cans he had found in camp down a hillside produced a terrifying sound that intimidated other males. Jane’s former husband, the late wildlife filmmaker and photographer, Hugo van Lawick, caught some wonderful images of this behavior in the National Geographic film Miss Goodall and the Wild Chimpanzees. The footage shows Humphrey and some of the other males sitting peacefully on a hillside, and then suddenly leaping up and running helter-skelter when Mike’s loud banging starts up. Mike was able to maintain alpha male status for several years using his ingenuity with such props. This jungle scene evokes in the viewer a strong identification with the chimps, as we can see ourselves or other humans using the same creative skills to get our needs met. It can be startling—and illuminating—to see how closely we resemble our chimp cousins.
My second physical encounter with a chimp was with Figan, who was charging down a hillside. I didn’t have time to move out of his way. Terrified, I wedged up against a dense thicket, but I couldn’t escape his charge. I was frozen in terror. The powerful eighty-five-pound Figan was four times stronger than a human his same weight. With his hair erect and his face as fierce as any warrior’s, he dragged a large palm frond in his right hand; his left was free to swat me as he thundered by. It was more of a firm pat on my thigh than a blow, but I was so relieved that he didn’t run me over. Perhaps because of that, I developed a fondness for Figan, knowing he could have ripped me apart but didn’t.
