by John Crocker
There were many aspects of Hamisi’s life that I didn’t learn about until my return thirty-six years later. I looked to him as a mentor because of his expertise in tracking animals, his knowledge of plants, his understanding of the chimps, and his extraordinary abilities in the forest. I later found out that, even though he appeared to be a few years older than me, he was actually five years younger. He was only seventeen when we worked together. Seventeen. I also did not know that his traditional name was Mlongwe. I’d never heard him called that, so I assumed he had been named Hamisi at birth. Mulongwe is also the name of a town on Lake Tanganyika, not too far northwest of Gombe in the Congo. Perhaps he was born there. The name Hamisi, which is a Swahili boy’s name meaning “born on Thursday,” was likely a nickname, though it’s a very popular name itself.
Growing up in a remote village without running water or electricity, Hamisi likely learned survival skills and independence at an early age. His humble manner, which other field assistants possessed but not to such a degree, may have arisen from living in the shadow of his older brother, Hilali, who was also a field assistant at Gombe—but Hamisi’s skills, abilities, and keen intelligence were all his own. When I found out his real age, I could only marvel at his maturity and think back to myself at seventeen. I could never have offered someone advice or guided them through a forest—or even a neighborhood, in my case. I had not been as composed, and easily blushed with the least bit of embarrassment, yet Hamisi and I shared common elements in our temperaments, such as sensitivity to our surroundings and wanting to be inclusive of the people around us.
During our time together, Hamisi and I became long-term friends, communicating nonverbally with knowing smiles, gestures, and glances, and transcending language difficulties. We had an innate understanding of each other and were able to work together as equals. We had established a strong sense of trust and familiarity. Though we didn’t groom each other as the chimps did, our bond was nevertheless profound and comforting.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KNOWING JANE
As I immersed myself in the life of the Gombe chimps, I gained a deeper understanding of Jane and her work. At times I even questioned my plans to go to medical school because of my growing passion for spreading Jane’s message about the importance of these wild primates.
Often, as I listened to Jane tell her stories at Gombe, I remembered our early experiences together. I had met with her for the first significant amount of time in the spring of 1972, soon after being accepted for the Gombe program. I was with a small group of students and faculty from the Stanford Human Biology program, gathered in the living room of a house in Palo Alto to discuss Jane’s research. Still awestruck by her presence, I wandered into the kitchen after lunch and before long found myself doing dishes with Jane and her mother, Vanne. Standing beside the mother-daughter team, witnessing their comfortable working rhythm, I easily pictured them setting up camp together at Gombe in 1960. This was my introduction to the Goodall teamwork that prepared me for my work in Africa.
Vanne had been visiting from England to help Jane with her busy schedule and care for Jane’s then-six-year-old son, Grub. I felt an immediate bond with Vanne, similar to the connection I later developed with Jane. She was very approachable, with a warm, welcoming, relaxed manner. Vanne usually remained in the background, attending to organizational details at these get-togethers, but she was always receptive to conversation, which I enjoyed immensely.
“How did you like living in England?” she asked, knowing I had spent time just southwest of London.
“I enjoyed the pubs and the people a lot.” I instantly regretted putting pubs first—not wanting her to think beer was the main thing on my mind. To my relief, she gave me a knowing smile.
Before I left for Africa, I spent more time with Jane at department picnics and meetings. Getting to know her a bit through these events, I wondered if both Jane and Vanne had developed more nonverbal communication skills than the average person as a result of spending time with the Gombe chimps. I enjoyed this feature of their communication and tried to integrate some of it into my behavior. In a moment of illumination, I realized that my mother used a lot of nonverbal communication too.
A subtle smile by Jane or Vanne with direct eye contact meant “I agree,” or “Good work”; Jane’s hand on my knee while she was leading a discussion meant, “I like your sitting next to me even though I can’t talk to you right now”; and a twinkle in Jane’s eye meant, “I am happy”—better than mere words could express.
One of the most remarkable things about Jane was her ability to listen. This sounds far simpler than it was. As an accomplished listener, Jane was able to take action by doing nothing other than watching and listening. The idea that the act of seemingly doing nothing could actually be doing a great deal was revelatory. Listening and watching were themselves forms of communication. My own patterns of communication seemed overly verbose to me, so I tried to emulate Jane’s more nonverbal style and keen observational skills, even after I’d left Gombe.
Later in life, this would influence my practice of medicine. As a doctor, I learned I could elicit better information from patients more efficiently if I talked less and listened and observed more. Channeling Jane, I would wait patiently and practice being receptive and observant. Rather than look at my computer screen and begin with, “I see you’re here for knee pain, is that right?” I would make eye contact and greet patients with, “How are you doing?”
Jane and her mother impressed me with the apparent ease with which they navigated through life. I had read all I could about Jane before leaving for Gombe. I knew about her life growing up in Bournemouth, on the southern coast of England, and about her childhood love of animals. I knew she had shared her research and stories through films, books, and riveting lectures, inspiring people across the globe. She continues to write, lecture, and work tirelessly to encourage humanity to care for all living things and to protect their—all of our—habitats.
In the first few years of her study, Jane withstood criticism from the scientific community for describing the chimpanzees as though they might have emotions, and for naming them instead of numbering them. David Greybeard should have been chimpanzee #1 and Flo, chimpanzee #3. But Jane’s approach helped people around the world to vividly picture the community of chimps at Gombe. Using the same letter for names within the same family, such as the F family, with Figan, Fifi, and Flo, helped people remember family lineage. It allowed people to connect with her work in a way that was enlightening. Chimps were not just cute and funny humanlike creatures in a zoo. The study of chimps wasn’t just a specialized science that had nothing to do with humans. Instead, Jane educated us about our connection to our primate cousins and the environment. Watching the Gombe chimps interact enabled us to see our own world through a new lens, and helped us recognize some of our own strengths and weaknesses. People learned to empathize with the chimps, remembering their names, their individuality, and their lives. For example, many years after the release of one of Jane’s Gombe films, Jane was approached by an elderly woman in a small town in China who asked, “Please tell me more about Flo, whom I admire so much!”
During her earlier years, Jane witnessed previously unknown chimpanzee behaviors that were both exciting and disturbing. She watched David Greybeard modify a branch to fish for termites in their mound, an observation that changed the prevailing notion that humans were the only primates who made and used tools. Jane also watched young chimps learn to build complex sleeping platforms in the trees. And in perhaps one of the most important discoveries, she observed signs of severe depression over the loss of a family member. This added much to our understanding of the complex emotional and intellectual capabilities of our primate cousins. We were able to fully recognize these humanlike reactions in chimps, deepening our knowledge of not just the chimps but ourselves as well.
As I mentioned earlier, in 1974, Jane was stunned to witness warfare between the male chimpanzees from Ka
sekela Valley and the southern community of chimpanzees dwelling a few miles south, in Kahama Valley. In discussing these attacks during one of her talks—attacks like the one I witnessed against Madame Bee and her daughters—Jane commented, “I used to think that chimpanzees were nicer than humans, but now I don’t think so.”
Even after fifty years of observations, the researchers at Gombe are still witnessing behaviors and events never observed before, including the chimp Gremlin’s feat of raising twins, Golden and Glitter, to adulthood in the wild. A few other pairs of twins were born at Gombe over the decades, but only one of the twins in each set survived past the first few years. This was because of the enormous energy and favorable circumstances required for success, such as having an older offspring to help. Gremlin was the first to accomplish this mother-infant success story. It’s hard to imagine her nursing twins as she searched for food, built a larger nest for three chimps to sleep in each evening, and carried them through the forest for the first two years of their lives. But do it she did.
At Gombe, Jane was most relaxed and at home. It was at Gombe that I saw her laugh, joke, gaze, wonder, and seem completely comfortable—more so than during her teaching in California. At Gombe, Jane could maximize her many talents in bringing people together in a cohesive fashion. I loved the way she included everyone in our group in her plans and activities. Her manner of speaking was so thoughtful that anyone of any background could connect and be enthralled. And I especially valued the times when just the two of us talked. I considered these times my “audience with the pope.” I wrote in my journal:
When she speaks, people listen. Jane articulates her thoughts so well that she instantly creates images in the mind of the listener, with both the details and the big picture clearly understood. Even when working side by side with her, I can’t figure out how she does it. I even tried adding an English accent when describing different chimp behaviors to my colleagues, but concluded that her speaking ability is more an innate talent than a learned one.
I felt a strong connection to Jane even when I wasn’t around her. I thought of her while I was following the chimps, picturing the long days she spent observing them from a distance in her early research. I imagined her patiently waiting for the chimps to finally let her observe them at close range. Most people would have given up after a few months of lonely waiting in that perilous setting, but Jane’s patience was rather like that of the mother chimps themselves. Patience, along with her determination and open, inquisitive mind, allowed Jane to recognize and interpret what others might merely have recorded.
One afternoon at the upper camp, midway through my stay, I had the opportunity to talk with Jane about the mother-daughter pairs I was studying. It felt like a chance to connect as both a friend and a researcher. As I stood next to Jane in the shade, discussing the chimps, she shared information about the behaviors of specific chimpanzee pairs, and, as is her style, she listened to my thoughts and ideas with total focus.
Jane described Passion’s nine-year-old daughter, Pom, and Pom’s reaction to the birth of her younger brother two years earlier. “When Prof was born,” Jane explained, “Pom exhibited signs of depression and showed little interest in her young brother, who was stealing Passion’s attention.” I nodded, squinting and thinking, and she continued. “I think Pom is now finally getting more involved in the care of Prof—and even starting to protect him.”
“I wonder if Passion’s somewhat aloof mothering contributed to Pom being more needy when Prof entered the family,” I cautiously offered.
Jane was always careful not to draw conclusions with just one or two anecdotal examples. “Why don’t you see how Pom continues to do with her little brother while you’re here at Gombe, and maybe we can understand it better over time,” she reasoned.
I felt a surge of energy from Jane’s open-mindedness and sense that there was more to learn. I vowed to monitor this family closely. As we talked, I realized this was probably the first time I had felt fully myself around Jane, without feeling inhibited by her fame. Looking back, I think she might have created this time in her wildly busy schedule to get to know me a bit better, which still means the world to me. Perhaps being the patient, listening mother that she was enabled her to recognize just what her example meant to me, and because of the openness she modeled, I was willing to relax and truly be myself, knowing she accepted me as I was.
While everyone at the camp appreciated the opportunity of working with Jane, a few of the Stanford students and other researchers challenged her on social and political issues regarding power and colonialism. A big controversy while I was there was whether the Tanzanian workers at the camp should provide us drinking water by carrying our hefty water buckets from the lake up to our huts once a week. Some students struggling with the Vietnam War and other political issues of the era thought we should carry our own water. I didn’t have a strong opinion either way. I admit that this was typical of me at that age; I wanted to avoid conflict in Gombe, just as I did in my family while growing up.
“I feel like a colonialist when the Tanzanians carry our water buckets up to our huts,” Bill stated in a secure and clear voice. “I think we are all strong and capable enough to do this ourselves.”
“They’ve done this graciously for the past fourteen years,” Jane said.
After spirited discussions, we did try carrying our own water for a few weeks; however, the Tanzanians felt bad when they saw some of the students, especially female students, hauling water up the path from the lake. The Tanzanians had taken pride in being strong and doing this work. In their own culture, the women carried the water to their homes in very large containers that they usually balanced on their heads, but at Gombe, the Tanzanians may well have been respecting what they had observed as a traditional Western view of female roles and duties—which didn’t include carrying heavy water containers. Ironically, the discomfort some students felt in being “waited on” by the Tanzanian staff was replaced by the discomfort the Tanzanians felt when we took over these duties.
In the end, I think Jane understood the local Tanzanians, their customs, and their beliefs better than most people born outside the country. When the researchers decided to haul their own water, the Tanzanian camp staff who had been responsible for the task felt a loss of purpose and were also concerned about a loss of income. Jane understood how deeply a sense of purpose is tied to a sense of identity and belonging, which helped us resolve our dilemma—we eventually returned to having the Tanzanians carry water to our huts.
I was privileged to see many other facets of Jane during my time at Gombe. I discovered, for example, that she had a keen sense of humor. One afternoon, a group of us found ourselves trying to eat cucumbers with our toes after Jane instigated a contest. She could reach her mouth with the cucumber slice held between her big and second toes. She was not the only one at camp to possess this skill—but I was at least a foot away from the goal.
During our trip to Mount Kilimanjaro, Jane invited Hamisi and me to stay with her and her husband-to-be, Derek Bryceson, at her home in Dar es Salaam. Derek was the director of Tanzania’s national parks. Jane was always gracious, but on this occasion she seemed to accomplish the impossible as a host with an unusually full house. Hamisi was not used to socializing with this group, and I was also a bit nervous. I had no idea how Derek would feel with all of us in the house during his budding relationship with Jane. In addition, Jane’s son, Grub, was there, along with Tony, the head of the baboon study and Jane’s right-hand man at Gombe. Jane helped all her guests feel comfortable by quietly making suggestions such as, “John and Hamisi might want to go with you, Derek, to snorkel off the boat. I think they would appreciate the beautiful tropical fish.” We appreciated the way she directed us to activities she thought we would enjoy the most. After this, I always felt welcome in the Goodall household, whether at Stanford, Dar es Salaam, or Gombe.
One day, after I had become more familiar with everyone, I found myself driving the par
k boat back from Kigoma to Gombe with Jane and Derek. Jane and her first husband, Hugo, had parted amicably, and her fondness for Derek was growing. Seated next to each other, they held hands and sipped plum wine. They spoke to each other a little, but seemed more content just to smile at each other with dreamy looks in their eyes. It was fun being close to their romance, and it was heartwarming to see Jane so happy. I could understand why she was attracted to Derek. He was a true gentleman, with a warm smile and a gentle spirit. With his rosy English cheeks and bright blue eyes, he also had an inviting manner. Most impressively, he had character, along with discipline and determination.
Born in China and educated in England, Derek enlisted in the Royal Air Force in 1939 at the age of sixteen, and immediately became a combat fighter pilot. Three years later, his plane was shot down and he suffered a shattered pelvis and legs. His doctors told him he would never walk again, but, to everyone’s surprise, with fortitude, endurance, and the use of crutches, he was eventually able to walk slowly.
Derek’s romantic spirit was in full display one day when he flew his small plane from where he lived in Dar es Salaam over Jane’s house at Gombe, and dropped a small package into Lake Tanganyika. Not knowing what was inside, Jane swam out and retrieved the rose he had wrapped for its free fall into the lake. Derek set a high standard of romance.
I was always amazed—during my student days at Gombe and in the years since—at how Jane made herself available to us and at her ability to stay connected with people, despite the demands on her. When Jane left Gombe for a while for one of her teaching sessions at Stanford, she occasionally sent handwritten letters to me at camp, describing both the excitement and challenges of her busy schedule. One of the most meaningful letters began:
