The Girl With No Name: The Incredible Story of a Child Raised by Monkeys

by Marina Chapman

  Why? I thought. Why, why, why, why had this happened? Why hadn’t my mother come to find me? What had I done to deserve this? And if this was a punishment for something I’d done wrong, then what was it? I looked down at my dress, which had once been pure white with pink flowers and was now a ragged grey thing, stained with soil and blood. I had no shoes and my bare feet were worn, cut and filthy, and both my stomach and mind cried out hopelessly. I slumped down into a pitiful heap on the ground, smelling the grass in my nostrils and the ever-present tang of soil. I could think of nothing else to do but just lie there and weep. I wanted home, I wanted my mother, I wanted to be comforted and cuddled. But I had nothing and no one to cling on to.

  I curled up there, on my side, for what seemed an eternity, and I might even have fallen asleep for a bit. Certainly, it seemed I was experiencing nightmares. Strange jungle sounds made me jump, and loud whoops and calls seemed to taunt me. I could hear the sound of branches thwacking, grasses moving, sharp snaps and thumps.

  All I wanted was to die. But eventually my hopelessness and fear turned to hunger, and the sheer physical ache from deep down in my stomach made me accept that I wasn’t going to die any time soon.

  I opened one eye, just a little bit. The sunlight still bathed me. I opened it a bit more, my sightline tracking straight along the ground. And what I saw almost stopped me from opening it any further. So I closed it and, as gently and noiselessly as I could, turned my head to face the other way.

  A tiny peek from the other eye confirmed I hadn’t dreamt it. I had company. In fact, I was surrounded.

  3

  All trace of sleep had gone now, and as I opened my eyes fully I realised I wasn’t just surrounded, I was being watched. All around me, at a distance of several paces, were monkeys. Motionless and afraid again, I tried to count them. Now I was nearly five, I could count up to ten, and it seemed there were lots more than that number ranged around me, and perhaps more behind me, out of sight, which scared me even more.

  But as I watched them, and they watched me, I felt my fear ebb a little. They looked like a family. Though they were all different sizes, they looked related. Big ones and little ones. Old ones and young ones. All with the same chocolate-coloured fur and paler belly, and ranging from what looked like the size of a small dog to no bigger than the parrot who’d bitten me. I knew they were wild animals and, after my experience with that parrot, I couldn’t trust them, but some sense made me feel they wouldn’t hurt me.

  That feeling didn’t last. After a short time, one of the monkeys left the circle and began to approach me. He was one of the biggest, with a coat that was greyer than the others, and there was something about the way he loped towards me so boldly that made me think he was the one who ran the family. Afraid again now, because I didn’t know what he might decide to do to me, I shrank back into a ball, trying to make myself as tiny as possible, tucking my head tight to my chest and hugging my arms around my knees.

  I was just about to squeeze my eyes shut when I saw him reach out a wrinkly brown hand and, to my surprise, with one firm push, knock me over onto my side. I quivered on the soil, tensed for the second blow that was surely coming. But it didn’t, and after some seconds I dared open one eye again, only to find that the monkey had lost interest. He’d now returned to the circle, squatted back on his hind legs and resumed watching me, along with all the others.

  It wasn’t long, however, before a second monkey — another of the bigger ones — began walking towards me. It approached slowly on all fours but without a trace of uncertainty. This time I instinctively scrabbled to my feet, but as soon as the monkey got to me it reached out, grabbed one of my legs and yanked it from under me, causing me to fall back on the soil again with a thump. I curled into a ball again but felt the animal begin to dig around in my hair and move its leathery fingers over my face. Now I was frightened and wriggling, trying to free myself from its questing fingers, but, like the other monkey, it seemed to have decided I was a plaything; once again, I was firmly pushed over.

  This action seemed to give the other, smaller monkeys confidence. Having decided I posed no danger to them, they all seemed to want to inspect me. They had been chattering to one another — using sounds that almost seemed like they were goading each other and laughing — and in no time at all some had come to check me over. Once upon me they began to prod and push me, grabbing at my filthy dress and digging around in my hair.

  ‘Stop it!’ I pleaded, sobbing. ‘Get off me! Go away!!’ But they took no notice and I had to wait, cowering and whimpering, until they’d finished their inspection. I could feel myself relax just a little, however, because if they’d wanted to hurt me then surely they would have done so by now. They hadn’t and now they seemed to lose interest altogether, returning to whatever it was that they had been doing in the dense undergrowth from which I presumed they’d come.

  Having nowhere to go, and still fearful of running, in case they chased me, I sat in the clearing and watched them. They climbed the surrounding trees, they played and dug around in one another’s coats, they picked up things and popped them in their mouths. Nuts and berries? Grubs and insects? Small lizards? It was difficult to see at a distance. And, I quickly noticed, they copied one another. A big one would do something and a smaller one would copy it. As I watched this, something my mother often said popped into my head: monkey see, monkey do.

  I sat and watched them for a long time. I was mesmerised and felt somehow reluctant to leave them. There was something about the way they seemed to enjoy one another’s company that made them feel like a family. While close to them, I felt like I wasn’t alone any more.

  They were so pretty too, with their milk-chocolate fur and camel-coloured bellies, their tufty grey ears and their dark, bushy tails. I was especially enthralled by their hands, which intrigued and bewildered me because, though they weren’t human, they looked just like mine. They were the same colour and size as my own, with four fingers, a thumb and hard fingernails.

  And they were constantly active, leaping high and low, chattering and chasing one another round the trees and shrubs. They seemed to love playing and, in the case of what looked like the young ones, play-fighting and squabbling as well. They were watched over by the bigger monkeys, who would shriek and pull faces as if they were telling them off when things got too rough. This was just what the grown-ups in my world would do, and somehow this sense of order and family made me feel better.

  4

  After a while, I was distracted again by the gnawing pain in my stomach. It was my third day in the jungle and I badly needed food. As I continued to watch the monkeys, I became fixated on how much they were eating. Whatever else they were doing, they seemed to be constantly feeding. I needed to do that too, I knew, or I would die of the pain.

  Startled by a siren shriek from above me, I looked up to see a small monkey swinging above me, swooping from one tree to another smaller one close by. The leaves of the tree were dark and shaped like slender teardrops, deep green and glossy, and about the size of a man’s shoe. The tree also bore flowers — pretty purple flowers that seemed to transform themselves into banana-like bunches, except that the fruits pointed up rather than down. The fruits looked unripe, as they were still tiny — about the size of my finger — and were also an unappetising shade of green. Bananas at home were yellow, but these little ones definitely looked similar, and as the monkey dropped a bunch in his haste to grab a handful, I quickly darted over and snatched them up from the forest floor.

  I had already watched the monkeys eat them, which they did differently from the way my mother had taught me: peeling the skin off in strips from the top end. The monkeys would either just break them in half or, starting at the bottom, peel the skin up from there, sometimes using their teeth to help, too. I watched a nearby monkey who was feasting on the contents and, with my mouth watering, copied him.

  The flesh was delicious. Soft and sticky and so incredibly sweet: better than any banana I had ever
eaten. It was my first taste of jungle food, and I wolfed it down greedily. But no sooner had I done so and picked up a second, than another monkey, who had clearly been waiting for its moment, swung over on a vine and, in a deft, practised fashion, stole the rest of the precious bunch from right under my nose.

  Ah, I remember thinking, so this is how the game works. But it didn’t matter. I looked around to find a stick and had soon snagged another small bunch of the delicious fruits for myself. I had found company — a family of sorts, even — and something that I knew I could eat till my mummy came to find me and take me home. As I dived into my second bunch of tiny bananas, I felt my spirits lifting just a little.

  *

  Though I had worried all day that my new companions might scamper away and desert me, they didn’t. This patch of forest seemed to be their home. And for the moment, I decided, it would be mine as well, so I spent my third night in the jungle with the monkeys. Though they seemed to prefer to sleep high up in the canopy, I had to be content with curling up on the bare earth far beneath them, in a tight space between two shrubs. Part of me was desperate to return to the safety of the hollowed-out tree, and I later would. But that night, I was so frightened of losing the monkeys that I chose to stay and take my chances. Just knowing they were there made me feel a little safer. And as the night came rushing down to cloak everything in inky blackness, the sound of them calling to one another gave me comfort.

  But I still lay there quivering with fear. The jungle was once again full of murderous shrieks and howls, and the bushes around me kept shaking and rustling. I was filled with a cold, intense terror. What was out there?

  Then I held my breath as I felt movement: a steady pressure from behind me. A gentle, slow shove that pressed into my back. I had no idea what it might be, only that it was smooth and warm and felt frighteningly big. It also seemed to slither.

  Was I imagining it or had a snake come and found me? Was it slithering alongside me, intent on making me its dinner? My imagination ran wild. Unable to see what was behind me — even if I’d dared to open my eyes — the picture in my mind grew steadily more terrifying. I could hardly dare to breathe, let alone roll over to try to see it, so I just lay there, my heart pounding, my ears straining as the sound it made — a kind of truffling, groaning, creaking — seemed to begin to move above me and the pressure lessened. It was a giant snake, I was sure. One that was now ascending back to wherever it had come from.

  Knowing the creature was up there made it impossible to sleep. It didn’t seem to matter how exhausted I felt, I was simply much too afraid of being eaten. Yet eventually I must have drifted off, because the next thing I remember was waking up to see the sky bright once again. To see the sunshine-dappled ground and feel the heat on my limbs was a huge relief, and all thoughts of the snake vanished. But with the sun and the rising mists came thoughts of home. Why had my mother still not come for me? Surely she should have been able to find me by now? But my only companions, now as yesterday, were the monkeys, who whooped and chattered and swung among the branches up above me, as playful and carefree as I was dispirited and scared.

  Now they were used to me, the troop didn’t take a lot of notice of me. Apart from the older ones, who acted as the parents and who seemed to want to keep an eye on me, most of the monkeys ignored me. There were more of them than I’d first seen — looking back now, perhaps thirty — and though they seemed happy enough with my constant presence, they didn’t include me. They had no idea that to me they were lifesavers, friends. They just allowed me to stay close, and I was grateful.

  I was also able to watch them and learn about my surroundings. Where food was concerned, I made a habit of copying. I assumed that the seeds, nuts and fruit they favoured would all be acceptable for me to eat too. Some things were spiny, some were bitter and unpleasant, but I generally just copied, trying things I saw them relish.

  Not that I ate everything the monkeys did — far from it. At no point did I ever even think about trying to catch and eat a lizard. The idea made me gag. I also found out by trial and error that I didn’t like the taste of flowers, grass or insects, and that fruit, nuts and berries were the best things to go for. But not all of them. Almost immediately, I learned my first crucial rule: that brightly coloured berries, however enticing they looked, were, without exception, to be left alone.

  Figs seemed to be prized over any other foodstuff, and a monkey with figs was a monkey who was hounded. Most of the thieving seemed playful, but where figs were concerned, no one was left alone. And I shared their love. Those first days in the jungle gave me one lifelong passion. To this day, prepared in traditional Colombian style, figs are still among my favourite fruits.

  Not all foods gave themselves up easily, and watching the monkeys made me realise another truth: that you had to work for some of the tastiest morsels on offer. There were many different kinds of nuts in our patch of the rainforest, and though I could see from a distance that the monkeys could obviously find their way into the shells, it wasn’t clear to me how they went about it.

  But there was one monkey who always seemed to let me get a little closer than the others. It could have been a boy or a girl — I had no idea how to tell the difference — but in my mind, he was a boy monkey, a medium-sized animal who stood out to me because of a spot of grey fur on his belly. He was playful and bold, but most important for my purpose he seemed very good at breaking into nuts. I would watch him for ages, trying to see what he was doing, and then hit upon the idea of leaving nuts for him to ‘steal’ from me, in the hope that I could work out how he did it.

  Sure enough, he obliged, snatching up the nut I had ‘dropped’, putting it to his ear and shaking it, presumably to check if it was ripe. I didn’t know what sound would tell him this but whatever it was, it was the right one because, as I trailed him, he then seemed to cast around the forest floor, looking for something hard on which to crack the nut. Finally he found a rock that seemed to serve his purpose, because it had a dimple — a small hole in it — in which the nut could be placed, enabling him to whack it open with a piece of branch, without it rolling away as he struck it.

  I watched this simple yet clever process several times. It would vary: sometimes the resting hole would be in the fallen trunk of a tree, other times the tool in his hand would be a piece of rock. But every time the result would be the same. The nut would split, and the monkey would pop a tasty prize into his mouth. Monkey see, monkey do! I remember thinking to myself as I searched for a tool with which to crack my own nuts.

  Those first couple of days with the troop saw me spending almost all of my time trying to satisfy my hunger. The jungle was generous in her offerings, and as well as the bananas, figs and nuts there were all sorts of different fruits to try.

  Once again, I learned from the monkeys. They loved uchuva, guanabana and guava unreservedly, but with other fruits they were clearly more picky. One particular fruit, the lulo, they would always seem to test first: shaking and sniffing the big orange globes before deciding whether to pick them from their bushes. I would come to learn there was a good reason for this. The unripe fruits were incredibly sour. It was the same with the curuba (which looks a little like a fat gherkin). They would only touch the yellowish-brown ones, leaving the green ones well alone. The monkeys also ate leaves, which I found I couldn’t stomach, and a variety of insects and grubs.

  But life in the jungle in those first days wasn’t just about feeding. Or playing and grooming and chattering, come to that. For the monkeys, it was also about survival. To my new family, this meant having territory, and, crucially, protecting it from intrusion by other monkey troops. And this, I soon came to learn, meant fighting.

  The first time I saw the monkeys fight with intruders, I was terrified. I simply couldn’t understand what was going on. One minute they were all playing, above and around me, and the next there was the clatter and crash of breaking branches as they massed in the canopy and fought. On this occasion it was with monkey
s that looked different from the ones I knew. They had reddish fur and had come from I knew not where. The sound of the violence above me was petrifying, the noise of their screams as they fought so intense and horrific that I scrambled to escape it, hiding under a bush and clamping my hands over my ears. And when they came down again, the intruders presumably having being beaten, I was shocked by the sight of the blood around many of their mouths. Had they eaten the other monkeys? Or had they just wounded them to frighten them? And if I displeased them in some way, might they decide to turn on me?

  It was a stark reminder that I was in a dangerous place, with dangerous animals, but when I thought about how the monkeys had treated me since stumbling upon me, I decided they must have accepted that I posed no threat. Why else had they not driven me away with screams and bloody violence? Why else had they let me stay so close to them?

  Ever anxious for reassurance, I decided that perhaps they had seen me being abandoned. Perhaps they had seen how the men had so callously dumped me, and, understanding my plight, had taken pity. It was comforting to think that they seemed to accept that I wished them no harm and only wanted to be their friend. And, as I watched them start cleaning the blood from their mouths, I could only hope they didn’t change their minds.

  5

  No one came.

  The day passed, as did the next day, and the one after that, and still there was no sign of my parents. There was no sign of anyone. No one human, at any rate. My hope of rescue, which had been at the front of my mind since I’d been abandoned, was fading as fast as the flower pattern on my dress.