Following Fifi

by John Crocker

  To you, I was probably as significant as another bush you passed while journeying through the valleys at Gombe. A variety of curious human primates had been watching you since your infancy; however, you brought tears to my eyes when I pictured you struggling to nurture two-year-old Furaha during your final days of life. I would bet that you expended as much energy trying to keep her alive as you did fighting for your own survival. Perhaps Freud or Frodo was nearby to help you.

  You comforted me while I was at Gombe by showing up at my hut with Freud on Christmas morning in 1973. What a delight to walk out the door and see you two playing in the sun ten feet from my hut. Better than Santa Claus! Your exuberant play sessions with Freud reminded me later in life to spend lots of time wrestling, hugging, and just hanging out with my two boys. I tried to be patient with them and understand their periodic wild behavior. Our house has seemed more like a jungle at times than a civilized dwelling for bipedal primates.

  When I heard of your disappearance last month I took a momentary time-out from being a busy doctor and father and husband. I had really wanted to see you before you died to reconnect and observe the changes in both of us over the three decades since I last saw you. No one knows how you died or who was with you at the time.

  You are a legend to many. You are a hero to me. I will always remember how vigorous and competent you appeared the first time I saw you stride into the upper camp with Freud clinging to you tightly. I could tell that you were going to be around for decades to come.

  I hope your offspring and grand-offspring will thrive as you did in the forests of Gombe. I’ll never forget the privilege of studying you in the wild. I doubt most people would envision learning life skills from a fifteen-year-old chimpanzee mother living in the wild, but I am living proof.

  From the heart,

  Bwana John

  It may seem silly, but writing the letter helped ease my sadness. I had needed to articulate my feelings, and the letter seemed a good way to accomplish this. And now, another way of easing my grief was to spend time on this return trip observing two of Fifi’s sons: Freud, thirty-nine, and Frodo, thirty-four. Frodo’s successful hunt on this trip showed me that despite his age, he still displayed vestiges of his powerful alpha male days, reminding me of his mother’s incredible stamina while raising her nine offspring.

  Freud was the only chimp I was able to see in 2009 that I had also studied back in 1973. When I was reintroduced to him, one of the newer field assistants smiled at me and asked, “Do you still recognize him after thirty-six years?”

  I looked intently at his face, as he sat there, eating. I flashed back to him as a youth, swinging from vines and playing with Gremlin, and I suddenly saw it all: postures, expressions, facial features, and subtle mannerisms—they all help distinguish the individual chimps, just as they do humans. “Yes,” I said happily. If I observed closely, I could likely have picked him out of any chimp lineup.

  As I watched Frodo and Freud on this trip, I had seen in these two confident chimps the competence and wisdom of their mother. Although we don’t know the proportion of genetic versus environmental influence on upbringing, I am certain that Fifi’s exceptional mothering was vital in enabling her offspring to succeed.

  Now, sitting where Jane sat nearly half a century earlier waiting for the chimps to accept her, I looked out over the valleys one last time. I felt complete (nimeshiba satisfied) and ready for Tommy, Abdul, and me to leave the Peak. As we began our descent into the forest, I felt calm yet energized after reflecting on Fifi’s life and what I’d learned from her. While we hiked and enjoyed the views of Kasekela Valley, I started telling Tommy a story.

  “On one of my days off, I spotted Fifi near a hut just up from the beach,” I explained. “The chimps usually stayed high up in the valley, but there she was! I saw her reach through an opening in an otherwise screened window of the hut and snatch a plaid shirt belonging to one of the students.” Tommy laughed and Abdul chuckled quietly.

  “First Fifi draped the shirt over her back. After she walked around like that for a while, she used it to play tug-of-war with Freud.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. “Then she chewed on it and dragged it around until she finally discarded it on her way back to the valley.”

  Tommy said, “Oh man! Good thing it wasn’t your shirt!”

  “I wish it had been my shirt,” I owned. “Then I could have shown it to you kids when you were little and told you the story of a legendary chimp named Fifi slobbering on it during a tug-of-war game with her son.”

  “Good old Fifi,” my son said, smiling.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FINDING MY PLACE

  Through the course of the day, Tommy, Abdul, and I had traveled across several valleys, observed three different groups of chimps, and spent an hour at the Peak. At 6:00 P.M., however, we couldn’t find a single chimp to follow for nest building. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, Abdul and I knew we had to work fast to catch up with any group of chimps if we were to succeed in our quest to watch them settle into their nests for the night.

  I really wanted Tommy to witness the nest building. The chimps demonstrate extraordinary concentration and experimentation when they perform this essential survival task, and it reveals their amazing brainpower. Weaving the growing branches of a tree into a hollowed, springy platform high in a tree is an impressive feat. Occasionally a chimp remakes an old nest that happens to be there, but either way, most of the branches making up the nest remain growing, and the forest shows little sign of alteration from the activity.

  Abdul led us quickly through the underbrush, and I told Tommy, “Keep your eyes peeled.” I was feeling anxious—what if we missed this important ritual again?

  Soon, just below the Peak, pant-hoots rang through the forest. We stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see the chimps. “Twende!” Abdul commanded. “Let’s go!”

  We began to scramble across the valley floor at a running pace. The toughest portion of our mad race through the jungle was scampering up a steep hillside while ducking low-lying branches. Forget the mambas; we had to just keep our eyes straight ahead to avoid getting scraped by bushes or trees. Tommy laughed and I looked up at his retreating back; he seemed to be relishing the intensity of the moment.

  After forty-five minutes, Abdul and Tommy were neck and neck at the finish line, while I was fifty yards behind and hoping not to get lost. When we finally reached the top of the hill, I was breathing so hard I couldn’t talk. Tommy gave me a huge smile, and Abdul signaled a thumbs-up when we found ourselves completely surrounded by fifteen chimpanzees, on the ground and in the trees, some only ten feet away. I would have given a sigh of relief if I had been able to catch my breath.

  “Stay put,” Abdul whispered as we looked at him, wondering what to do next. At that moment, a young male researcher, moving quietly and carefully trying to blend into the landscape, also arrived on the scene and sat down in the grass to observe.

  I looked up and saw twenty-year-old Pax on branches right above me. Then Frodo strutted by, almost touching me. I felt a thrill travel down my back. Freud sat fifteen feet away, leaning against a tree trunk. We had entered their gathering without realizing it, and they seemed completely disinterested in us. The pant-hoots continued as the group began to shift and move, looking for suitable trees for nest building.

  “What do you think?” I asked Tommy, who appeared spellbound.

  “Amazing,” he whispered back, not taking his eyes off Frodo.

  Another adult male came within five feet of me and began to scale a tall tree. He reached around it with his hands and walked up it with his feet.

  “Is he building a nest?” Tommy asked.

  Abdul said, “He could be, or perhaps he is looking to see if other chimps are nearby.”

  We slowly tagged along behind Freud, who had begun to move away from the crowd. We eventually stopped halfway up a hill to watch a nineteen-year-old male named Zeus build his elaborate bed for the eveni
ng. He was twenty feet above the ground, but we were able to observe him at eye level because of our position higher up on the hillside. It was an extraordinary view. We quietly watched Zeus weave branches together with his hands, then mash them down with his feet. Periodically he would lean back and survey the growing nest and make appropriate additions and adjustments.

  From one of Tommy’s journal entries that evening, I was able to get a feel for his reaction to the scene we witnessed:

  The sun is low but still glowing orange through the trees. A gentle, balmy breeze sweeps off Lake Tanganyika, ushering in an undeniable calm. A group of about fifteen chimps goes about their evening routine, relaxing, scratching, and eating fruit high up in the trees. My dad, our guide, a researcher, and I stand in the center of this dusk ceremony, paralyzed by awe, afraid to move. One chimp ambles up the path headed directly toward me. He brushes my leg as he passes—an accident or a greeting?—before completing his journey to a resting place nearby. Some chimps groom one another by picking through their companion’s hair, while others simply rest.

  As the light fades, a slow procession begins. One by one, the chimps select a tree, climb up about twenty feet, and bend the limbs—a nightly ritual. While most chimps work outside our line of sight, one, Zeus, gives us a glimpse directly into his creation in a low-lying tree. He is deliberate, taking care with each branch he bends.

  After about ten minutes, he apparently finds the nest suitable and rolls onto his back to stretch out. As the others finish their work, Zeus emits high but gentle hoots, different from the anxious yells and hollers we heard throughout the day. Others respond softly and the air is filled with this mild banter.

  Eventually all is quiet. We have to leave to get back to camp before the darkness takes over. As I leave, I hope to take with me the sense of peace and ease that I saw in this community of chimps.

  After they were settled, Tommy and I left Zeus and the other chimps for the night and walked down to the beach with Abdul. We could see the fishing boats far to the north and feel the mild evening breeze. This had always been my favorite time of day at Gombe. Tommy and Abdul explored a bush with some ripening fruit and I stared out at the lake. I remembered being Tommy’s age, swimming, taking the boat into town, and enjoying the sunsets in the evening after a hard day’s work.

  This moment could have made me melancholy. So much had changed. I was no longer a naive, spontaneous young man, Jane wasn’t here on the beach with Grub, and so many of the field-workers I knew had retired. But instead of thinking of the past, I decided to take a deep look into the here and now. I watched Tommy and Abdul comb through a bush and taste the ripening fruit they found, listened to the calling of small birds near the lake, and watched as the sky changed color with the setting sun.

  I was part of the larger landscape, as I had been during my final months as a student at Gombe. I had no desire to try to control or direct the world around me. Instead, I saw myself as a privileged guest in an animal kingdom that tolerated my presence. There, on the beach, I was an observer of not only the chimps’ world but also my son’s and my own.

  I realized that one of the reasons I felt so at peace at that moment was that the chimps and the forest had helped me understand my life more completely. The chimps’ behavior had somehow helped me begin putting together the missing pieces of my own childhood and growing up with an alpha male father. My observation of these primate cousins added perspective and contrast to my life.

  My dad had worked hard as an executive in two different companies. I observed his drive and the stress that went with it, similar to what Figan, Freud, and Frodo endured to become number one in their community. Though my own more reserved nature didn’t lend itself to alpha male challenges, I recognized that a portion of my makeup included grandiose ideals from an early age. I saw myself contributing to society in a major way, but less conspicuously. During high school, I was a hard worker. Doing well at school was important to me, but I wasn’t interested in sports, the school newspaper, or even band, so my dad urged me to run for a leadership position instead. The only position none of my friends was running for was student body president, so I reluctantly ran. Even this was a level of competitive engagement that was out of my comfort zone. I didn’t have a real platform, but I did create very artistic posters. To my surprise, I won.

  Perhaps I was like the resourceful Mike, who, rather than fighting, became alpha male by banging kerosene cans to intimidate others. After all, my artistic and humorous campaign posters may have pushed me past my competition. I had run against the debate captain, who could speak forcefully and with great determination. My gentler approach may have created a sense of trust among my fellow classmates. Rather than conform to the standard model of a student body president, I had presented other traits that my peers responded to positively. It was a good lesson—to learn that I could succeed in a competitive environment without being a competitive person by nature. I had other resources that I could rely on. I enjoyed the leadership position and continued to incorporate creativity and inclusiveness while serving.

  Watching the chimps in their communities helped me recognize that my drive to accomplish something significant might be related to those genes that I saw in both my father and Figan. Even the chimps—male and female—that don’t reach a high rank in the community may still have a strong drive to achieve other goals. Faben, for instance, seemed driven to support his younger brother in reaching the top rank and in helping him hunt successfully. He sought a supporting role.

  My mother was a tremendous influence and helped model how to be a good parent. She wasn’t a competitive person by nature either. She was highly sensitive and always anticipated our needs. She instilled a feeling of comfort by giving us reassurance in times of illness or trauma. At age ten, after I fell onto a curb while roller-skating and severely broke my arm, she calmly summoned our neighbor to help get me to the hospital. She was at my side the entire time in the emergency room reassuring me and explaining what was happening, never getting anxious herself. Her nurturing and confident style made everyone in the family feel secure. That sense of security has been a lasting gift. My mom was attuned to our physical and emotional health, and she mirrored some of Fifi’s best mothering skills—attentiveness, patience, and encouragement.

  As a father, I wanted to instill that kind of confidence in Tommy and Patrick. Being a physician, I was always alert to the smallest physical changes in them—perhaps overly so. When they were young, I would worry that the slightest fever indicated a disastrous infection. I tried to keep that fear—and other doubts—to myself as much as possible. As any parent knows, the world can seem fraught with danger at every turn. Every sharp table edge, every hot cup portends injury.

  In the forest, though, on both of my trips, I didn’t obsess or worry about myself as much as I had thought I might. As the natural rhythms of the plants and animals become your mirror, you feel more certain of yourself. Organisms display their amazing capacities to heal and adapt to injury, adversity, and illness. Simply put, when it rains, you know you’ll get wet, and you also learn that you’ll eventually dry off. This time I was happy to also see Tommy confidently adapt to the multitude of new experiences he encountered: a new environment, new people, new species, and a new language.

  Standing beside the ancient lake at dusk, I felt profoundly content. Watching Tommy and Abdul as we shared the forest with our closest relative had added to my sense of personal peace. Understanding my own place in the big evolutionary picture was reassuring. I found it comforting to think of my son and myself as tiny links in a long, long, evolutionary story. It made me feel more closely connected to the chimps than ever. The spirit of the forest was alive within me again, and I knew that I would take its wisdom home and integrate it into my life and profession in deeper ways.

  I realized during my forest walk that Tommy and I both felt a stronger connection to nature and a sense of a more primal world with each passing day. As I had done on my first trip,
I pondered how to incorporate some of this primal nature into my life back in Seattle. I joked with Tommy about planting grass or giant ferns in my exam rooms along with some miniature palm trees. In fact, my officemate and I do have significantly more plants in our office than any of our clinic colleagues. But my Gombe world and my Seattle world seemed far apart at that moment. I knew when I went home I could escape to the Cascade Mountains or daydream about the African forest, but now I wondered what new insights still lay ahead—what would I take home from my current forest journey?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FOREST REFLECTIONS: HOW WILD CHIMPANZEES HELPED MAKE ME A BETTER FATHER

  We found the slab of concrete in the forest, and my heart sank. I wanted to question it, but I knew that this was it—I remembered the precise location of the place I had lived for eight months. A part of me had hoped it would still be standing. “Well,” I said solemnly, “this was my hut.” Abdul, Tommy, and I stood there and stared down at the dirty, twelve-by-ten-foot concrete rectangle. It reminded me of an abandoned dwelling in the countryside with grasses and bushes growing all around it, but no walls left. Or perhaps ancient stone ruins.

  It was our fourth day at Gombe. I had rejoined Tommy and Abdul after a solo forest walk and told Abdul I really wanted to see the hut I had lived in as a student, so he led us up the path to the chimp camp, a fifteen-minute hike into the forest. On the way, Abdul told me, “You should know there are no longer huts in the forest for researchers to live in. They decided everyone should live down on the beach, away from the chimps.” This change was meant to reduce the impact on chimp behavior. And it was for staff safety as well, following the May 1975 kidnappings of students whose huts had been more isolated in the forest. The research center was keeping to national park guidelines and reflecting local cultural wisdom, namely that safety is found in living close to your neighbors. Still, I felt a twinge of sadness when I realized that my small thatched aluminum structure with a view of the lake was gone.