Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Don't Touch My Monkey




I was in the Amazon, checking out jungle lodges for a guide book I write. The tourists had gone out on their piranha fishing expedition for the afternoon. Fishing bores me, as does being in boats with tourists, so I borrowed a dugout from the lodge and set out for a paddle.

August in this part of the Amazon is the beginning of the dry season. Treetops that have spent four months submerged are beginning to poke out of the water. In previous Amazon visits I’ve found the flooded forest a magic place to paddle. I pointed my canoe towards a grove of half-submerged trees at the far end of the lake.

Amazon dugouts are dished on the bottom, which means every stroke sends the nose veering to one side. J-stroking helps, but with no keel whatever, you still have to switch sides every three of four strokes. I’m paying attention to my paddling, so I don’t really scan the treetops until my canoe is almost nosing into the forest. And that’s when I see the monkey, far up in the treetops.

Primates can’t swim. I know this from Mutual of Omaha shows and from reading up on biodiversity and theories of speciation. Was this little guy stranded when the waters rose? Stuck here living on…what? Fruit. Not much of that. Leaves? Fish? Can primates swim after all? Did Marlin Perkins lie?

I stop padding (careful, don’t scare the wildlife!), the canoes drifts in between the tree boles, the monkey comes crashing arm over tail down through the branches and plonks into my canoe. He huddles in the damp patch on the bottom, forearm over his eyes, occasionally taking covert glances at me then looking quickly back down again.

You’re not supposed to ascribe thought and emotion to animals. In the scientific world that’s a sin known as anthropomorphism. But I could tell what this little monkey was saying.

“I am the sweetest, most lovable, best-behaved little monkey you’ve ever seen. If I just sit here quietly, won’t you please, please take me in your canoe off this island? You won’t even notice I’m here. Promise.”


I set off paddling again. Unnoticed-in-the-bottom-of-the-boat monkey transformed fairly quickly into curios George. Poking canoe parts, peering over the gunwhale at the water. I paused by the last tree at the edge of the island, in case he changed his mind about staying. He didn’t.

I continues across open water towards what looked like a narrow channel between two large islands on the far side of the lake. As we approached the shoreline, Curious George became mad with excitement George. He hopped up and down on the seat. He jumped up on my shoulders, wrapped his tail round my neck for support and leaned forward like the maiden on bowsprit, his gaze fixed on the approaching forest. The second we came under the trees he leapt, grabbing the first branch and swinging himself limb to limb ever higher through the forest.

“Thanks for the ride.”

I paddled for a few more hours through the forest, the turned back to the lodge, moored my dugout by the floating dock, climbed up the wooden steps and made my way along the elevated boardwalk towards the big palm-covered kitchen gazebo.

I heard screams. I accelerated. There by the kitchen door was my monkey. The cook had a broom in her hand, using it as a shield to ward off his attacks. Sweet little bottom of the boat monkey had become Linda Blair, ripping at the thatched roofs, hopping back and forth on his hind legs, shrieking at the cook and terrifying the chambermaid.

“Did you bring him back?!” the cook demanded glaring at me.

Turns out they had exiled crazy monkey to that island after he started attacking guests. They brought out fruit to feed him once a day. Now thanks to me, he was back.

“Sorry,”
I stammered. “I didn’t know.”