by John Crocker
Also, I think about another gift I’ve received as a physician, in addition to the privilege of being a part of my patients’ lives. I learned that what’s beneficial for the patient may be equally so for the physician. Early in my practice I scheduled weekly appointments at the end of the day to accommodate a college football player named Jake, who was having panic attacks and experiencing severe anxiety and wasn’t performing well in class or in his sport. Although I prescribed non-habit-forming medication to help Jake function during the day, I also taught him relaxation and stress-reduction techniques as tools to help manage and eventually reduce his panic episodes. The appointments followed a full day’s work and ended past the dinner hour (I was single at the time), but I realized that I always felt better on those days, perhaps because I too was benefiting from the techniques we practiced together.
Over decades of caring for patients at the same medical center, some of the patients I delivered were now asking me to deliver their children, I guess making me a “grand-doctor.” I was happy—my practice and my family were my life—but as I entered my twenty-eighth year of doctoring, I became aware of the need to physically reconnect with my past jungle experience, to see and feel the elements of the Gombe forest. I longed to see the chimps again. Work was fulfilling yet exhausting, and family life was fun but also demanding. Though it seemed impossible to pull away, I knew I couldn’t wait much longer.
PART THREE
RETURN TO GOMBE
CHAPTER TWELVE
GOMBE CALLING
Sadly, I didn’t stay in touch with Hamisi. After the first year, during which we wrote each other two or three letters in Swahili, I stopped corresponding. I didn’t feel good about this, but life was busy and it seemed difficult to keep up a long-distance friendship, especially in Swahili. I thought about Hamisi often, wondered what his life was like, and more than once made tentative plans for a trip to Gombe, but for a thousand reasons—once even after I had purchased an airline ticket—those plans were never realized.
Then, after thirty-six years of practicing medicine and helping raise my family, my daydream of returning became reality. It was 2009. I was fifty-eight years old. I had begun writing about Gombe, and even my family could tell that when I sat down at the computer I was excited and happy to immerse myself in my African memories.
It was my older son, Tommy, ever my inspiration, who broke through what had been wishful thinking on my part by saying, “Dad, why not go back to Tanzania and finish writing there?”
At age twenty, Tommy was now engaging as a young adult, having shed most of his adolescent aloofness with his parents. Like me he had a shy edge, but unlike me he could play high-level soccer with finesse and had also performed in high school musicals. He was beginning to adjust to his small-town college setting at Colgate University in snowy upstate New York after having attended a big, diverse public high school in Seattle.
I went blank for a few seconds, then turned to him and replied, “Great idea! Why don’t you come with me?”
To my surprise, Tommy looked impassive, and then reluctant when I suggested he come with me to Africa. I had thought he would jump at the chance to go—what young person doesn’t want an adventure? I used all the tactics I could think of to persuade him to come along, enticing him with visions of the two of us watching the chimps build nests and hiking to Bubongo Village. I loved the idea of introducing Gombe to my son. I had been Tommy’s age, in my early twenties, when I was a student researcher there.
But something was holding Tommy back, and I realized that I didn’t want to pressure him. It wouldn’t be fun to take a dream trip with a hesitant companion, and it wouldn’t be right for him either. Though Tommy remained cautious and didn’t show much excitement about the trip, he came and found me at my computer three weeks later, and said, “OK, Dad, I’ll go. I want to.”
Patrick, at age ten, would likely have jumped at the offer to come along as he was already skilled at making authentic-sounding pant-hoots, which he demonstrated during some of my presentations at his school. But chimps can be aggressive toward smaller humans and Gombe has strict rules preventing those under fifteen years of age from visiting.
As I began to make travel plans, I discovered that securing local plane reservations and guides in Tanzania was hit-or-miss. I often did not hear back from those I attempted to contact, and I was still uncertain about whether we would connect with people I’d known and some of the chimps I’d studied.
We would fly from Seattle to Arusha, Tanzania, and visit the vast Ngorongoro Crater. Next we would fly to Tanzania’s largest city, Dar es Salaam, and possibly see Jane, who knew we might be there when she was passing through overnight, then fly eight hundred miles west to Kigoma to catch a park boat to Gombe.
Though I’m usually more spontaneous with travel, I wanted to make a detailed plan to get the most out of the two and a half weeks I was able to be away from work. This was a big father-son event in our lives. Though we had no idea what we would see and do at each juncture, what mattered most was that we would experience this unique pilgrimage together.
In the weeks before we left, I thought about the dangers that could arise while we were tracking wild chimpanzees. Jane had reported brutal behavior among some of the male chimps after I left in 1974, and I wondered about the possibility of our being viciously attacked by aggressive chimps, which was rare but not unheard of at Gombe. Being far from civilization, I was also concerned about exposure to malaria and other diseases and infections, even though we would take all the necessary precautions. Compared to my first trip as a student, when I was more carefree, especially when it came to health issues, I now felt the extra responsibility of having my son with me. This time I was going as a father, and it was as a father that I would experience every moment of this trip.
Deep inside, I realized that I was also concerned about being disappointed. I wasn’t sure if I would still feel at home in a place where I’d had some of the most intense experiences of my life. Unfamiliar park staff would greet me; the landscape might have changed; and the young chimps I studied in the 1970s would now be in their golden years. How would I react if it just didn’t seem like the Gombe I’d once known? Finally, I worried that Tommy, not having the same emotional investment, might wish he had stayed home with his friends. I wanted my son to love Gombe as I had, but I couldn’t force that to happen—Tommy’s experience would be his own.
All those worries aside, it was clear to me that I wanted to make this journey with Tommy. To be with my son on a return to Gombe was especially meaningful, since Tommy represented the next generation, the young men and women who would become the future stewards of the natural world. A strong internal voice was saying, “I have to do this!”
As for Tommy’s concerns, he finally voiced his fears on our plane ride to Africa, confiding, “Dad, I’m not sure I can go very far into the jungle to see the chimps. It’s the poisonous snakes—the black mambas.” I turned to look at his face, which was full of emotion: fear, but also a desire to please, and maybe some shame.
He continued, “I heard that black mambas roam the Gombe valleys where we’ll be hiking and crawling around after the chimps.” He was terrified of them. I suddenly realized that my son’s initial reluctance about joining me wasn’t from the embarrassment a young guy might feel about spending weeks with his father, but instead from true anxiety and fear.
I tried to practice what I always preached—listening and patience. After Tommy was done talking, I said, “You can choose not to go into the forest to see the chimps and still experience the other parts of Gombe that are incredibly beautiful and interesting.” Just not as interesting as the chimps, I thought, my heart falling a bit. But my feelings couldn’t dictate how Tommy might feel. I thought for a bit. I didn’t want to dismiss his worries, but also didn’t want to encourage his fears. So all I said further was, “You might have the chance to understand your fears better when we get to the camp.”
That opportunity arose
sooner than either of us could have imagined. Just before we left Arusha, our first stop in Africa, our curiosity was aroused by a sign that read SNAKE PARK. We hesitated a moment and then decided to tour the park. When we reached the black mamba exhibit, Tommy stopped. We read that a black mamba can travel as fast as fourteen miles per hour as it chases its prey, keeping its head and the first third of its body poised above the ground. The longest venomous snake in Africa, it averages eight feet in length, and some reach fourteen feet long. Mamba venom contains neurotoxins, and the mortality rate is close to 100 percent unless the antivenin is given immediately. Also known as the “seven-step snake”—you only have seven steps left after being bitten—the black mamba preys on birds, rats, small chickens, and bush babies; its main predator is the mongoose. Humans are sometimes bitten if they inadvertently corner the snakes or startle them.
As I moved ahead to the next exhibit, Tommy stayed with the caged mamba. He watched the snake closely through the glass as it watched him. The stare-down lasted several minutes. Later that day, Tommy proudly announced, “I figured out a way to alleviate my fear of the mambas. I envisioned myself today as a snake warrior attacking the mamba with some primitive tool just before it could strike me.” The strong visual image of himself with power and determination allowed him to venture into the jungle days later without such paralyzing fear. His exposure to the snake in a controlled environment helped him imagine it in an unpredictable environment. He also understood more about mambas, which gave him a greater sense of calm.
When I was Tommy’s age in Gombe, I was just too naive to understand the risks of being around this snake, or perhaps I was overly confident because no one at the camp had ever been bitten. Now, as Tommy’s fear of mambas waned, my previously muted fears intensified. I had to wonder, on many levels, what was I getting myself—and my son—into by venturing back to this captivating but unpredictable and sometimes dangerous land.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REUNION WITH JANE
Mostly for Tommy’s sake, I planned to start our African adventure in a more natural setting than the big city of Dar es Salaam. Consequently, we landed in Arusha and spent a day in the Ngorongoro Crater, where more than twenty-five thousand wild animals roam. The crater lies close to the Olduvai Gorge, the steep-sided ravine in the Great Rift Valley where Louis and Mary Leakey discovered fossils of early humans from nearly two million years ago, and where Jane Goodall joined the couple for her first work in Africa.
When we laid eyes on the crater, I thought, There is a sense of romance here. The stark beauty of the acacia trees, the brilliantly colored birds, and the vast savanna filled with lions and herds of giraffe were nearly unbelievable. In our lodge room the first night, we heard the hooves of buffalo, and spotted elephants hiking up out of the crater in the moonlight, to Tommy’s delight.
As expected, Ngorongoro contrasted sharply with our arrival the next day in Dar. To get to our hotel near Jane’s house, we took a three-hour cab ride from the airport through congested downtown streets in rush-hour traffic with numerous clunky trucks spewing sooty exhaust into the humid air. Pedestrians seemed to be constantly dodging between the vehicles on the road. We finally made it to the hotel and I realized my neck muscles were as tight as boards. Despite all our efforts, there was still a good chance we would spend the night in our hotel room and leave the next day without seeing Jane. I had a strong desire to see Jane on this “homecoming” trip, but didn’t want to get my hopes up, since she had warned me that her plans could change at a moment’s notice. She would be passing through Tanzania during the second week of July, so we had a small window of opportunity to meet up with her.
Both Tommy and I relaxed when we got to the hotel and Tony, the Scotsman in charge of the baboon study and my past Gombe comrade, walked right up to us. Wow! A thrill shot through my spine as his kind smile and familiar manner brought me immediately back to Gombe. I had always felt safe and relaxed around him. Lots of hugs and smiles ensued. Tommy loved meeting him, and Tony commented how similar Tommy was to the younger me at Gombe. The three of us drove on narrow, unpaved streets with mud-and-brick houses and small markets on our way to Jane’s house, north of the city. We arrived just before 10:00 P.M. Though Jane had visited our family several times through the years, I felt tremendously nervous.
Jane’s modest wooden house, located on the shores of the Indian Ocean and surrounded by mango trees, hadn’t changed much since I had last visited. As we walked up to the house, the smell of the salty beach, mango blossoms, and burning candles hurled me back thirty-six years to when Hamisi and I had stayed here on our way to climb Kilimanjaro.
Knowing Jane would likely be in deep thought or in conversation with someone, we quietly walked through the open entryway door and then headed toward the kitchen, where we heard voices. When I peeked in, I didn’t recognize the three people there, so we headed to the living room. Tommy gave me a nod as he spotted Jane talking to a few friends and staff in the screened dining room. We walked slowly toward her.
Jane, wearing a sweater and casual cotton pants, continued talking but acknowledged us with a smile. I noticed I felt a little shaky as we approached. She opened the circle of people and announced in an incredibly warm voice, “John and his son Tommy are here to join us.” She greeted me with a hug and received my kiss on each cheek.
“It’s great to see you, Jane, especially here in Tanzania,” I said excitedly.
Tommy, looking enthusiastic, was very gracious as Jane said, “It’s nice you could come with your father on his trip back to Gombe.”
So began a two-hour reunion with Jane, Grub, Tony, and three people who worked for the Jane Goodall Institute in Tanzania. Sitting around a large wooden table, we sipped whiskey and shared stories, memories, and updates on our lives. The sea breeze coming through the screens and the dim lighting reminded me of evenings at Gombe back in 1973 with Jane, Tony, and other researchers, talking at the end of the day near the beach on Lake Tanganyika. I wasn’t sure how much Tommy was getting out of all the stories, but he took it all in, seemed quite relaxed, and drank whiskey for the first time in his life.
The conversation turned to the Gombe chimps, and Tony described the developmental milestones of twin chimpanzees Golden and Glitter. I enjoyed hearing about these successful offspring of Gremlin, whom I had studied at Gombe for eight months.
Tony recounted one of their recent adventures: “Golden and Glitter were in the treetops feeding on fruit when a cloud of termites flew by. They both stood up on the springy branches and began to snatch the tasty insects out of the sky and devour them. They looked like they were waving to the world. A cinematographer caught great footage of their acrobatic performance.”
Jane was thrilled, laughing and clapping as Tony reenacted the scene by waving his arms and pretending to eat the morsels he was reaching for. Despite her travel fatigue, she carried on as though nothing could stop her from enjoying the evening, especially hearing the latest news about Gombe.
Turning to Tommy, she asked, “What are your interests at college?”
“I’ve decided not to pursue medicine,” my son explained. “I really like philosophy.” Then he added with some pride, “I enjoy being a resident dorm counselor.”
Jane listened to him closely, her bright eyes fixed on him.
At that moment, I wished I were more like my son—authentic and natural. Instead of always worrying about what to say, Tommy was simply being himself. He was totally present, whereas I felt happy but anxious, wanting everything to go smoothly, as if that were up to me. I remembered my dad displaying responsibility in social situations and how he would insert his directives to gain command and feel in control. Here I was doing the same, at least in my thoughts. Stop it, I told myself. Learn from your son. Let the evening be the way the evening chooses to be. Be patient. Be present.
Jane talked about her memories of Tommy growing up, as she had seen him at various times over the years, and also of my younger son, Patrick. �
�I remember the pillow fight I had with Patrick on my stop in Seattle,” she said, smiling. “How is he doing? And how is Wendy? It’s a shame they couldn’t come too.”
I appreciated Jane asking about my family and remembering details of past events in our lives. Finally, I felt myself relax as the conversation turned to other people in the room. Perhaps the whiskey was also contributing, but I realized it didn’t really matter what Jane or Tommy or I said from that point on. We were together. There was a simple communal joy from just being in the same room, watching the evening pass, hearing the ocean waves, and remembering our times together. Tommy, Jane, and I were reunited once again, this time in Africa, on our individual journeys in life at ages twenty, fifty-eight, and seventy-five. Indeed, one April a few years earlier, I had wished Jane happy birthday and she quipped, “I will always be seventeen years older than you.” But to me she would always remain ageless.
I loved talking with Jane’s son, who was now a father. People still affectionately called him Grub in place of his more formal name, Hugo Eric Louis. I had not seen him since I left Gombe when he was only seven years old. This evening I observed him sitting quietly in a chair close by, and he smiled as I approached. He had a calm and inviting presence and was very comfortable with himself. With his rugged Dutch/English looks and excellent physical condition, Grub looked younger than his forty-three years.
I began telling Grub about a day I spent with him at Gombe in 1973. “We were on the beach when you showed me how the pods from a particular bush would burst open when heated by the sun, scattering the seeds yards away. I remember you telling me, ‘You pick off the pods when they’re dry but not yet open and place them in the hot sun.’ You then grabbed my hand to take me to the perfect large rock to place them on.” I assumed he wouldn’t remember the day in question, but in fact he went on to describe even more details.
