The View from Here:
Becoming a Monkey's Aunt: My Adventures at the Caribbean Primate Research Center, Cayo Santiago, Puerto Rico [Part 2]   **

Lynne K. Fukuda
Distance Learning Specialist, University of Hawaii at Hilo
lfukuda@hawaii.edu

Once at the docks, we were greeted by the weaker morning sun. Like a fire that is tended and blazes more strongly, we knew that as the day wore on the pleasant light would turn blindingly bright and we, like the monkeys of Cayo, would hide in the shade as much as we could. The ruins of the sugar cane storage, the lift, and the tracks to the edge of the docks reminded me of Kauai, where I spent my summers and winters. Kauai had the ruins of a once booming sugar trade as well. And like Punta Santiago, many places on Kauai lay in ruins, abandoned because the trade no longer was worth the transport to other lands when there were areas of the world that could use cheaper labor and raise sugar more successfully than we could. The proud plantations and farmlands of Puerto Rico now exported its youth to the military and to the US mainland, leaving the rest of the population in poverty, but preserving the old ways as did those in the Hawaiian Islands.

I would always be drawn to the silhouette of Cayo--two humps, like the back of a camel. It was covered with lush growth; parts were swamp with mangrove and land crabs, other parts were covered with coconut trees, and some parts were bare cliffs, and the rest was covered with tropical vegetation. In spite of Hurricane Hugo that had devastated the island and washed off a lot of its topsoil a few years earlier, Cayo was vibrant and green. Yet there was not much in the way of food for monkeys. Thus, the monkeys of Cayo were provisioned twice daily with monkey chow. The gathering place for their feast was the corral, where metal fencing and metal sheets surrounded the food bins. The corral was used for two purposes, feeding monkeys and capturing them once a year to tattoo their chest and inner thigh with a number/letter name. It reminded me of what is done to jailbirds. The identification was essential, since monkeys did tend to look alike. Babies associated with their mothers would be tattooed in the first year of life when everyone knew what baby belonged to what mother. We did not know the paternity of the babies back then, since rhesus monkeys practice what is called "promiscuous" mating, where females pick a few males and males pick a few females as mates in the mating season. DNA testing would be done in the successive years after I left Cayo.

Watching the monkeys at the corral, feasting on monkey chow, reminded me of a fiesta. Some were playing with their chow, others hoarded them in their cheek pouches, and some ran in to get some and hide in a tree. Others remained on the ground and shared amicably. One of the orphans, who was raised by his sisters, carried an armful of monkey chow and scurried away on two feet like a small boy with his booty. The squabbling, screaming, and satisfied grunts reminded me of people at mealtime and at parties. I imagined them dining on pate and caviar on small pieces of toast and crackers and drinking cocktails while chatting. It was here, among this unnatural abundance of food, where they socialized. Primatologists might say that provisioning monkeys creates an unnatural condition for them, since they are usually foraging in small numbers or alone in the forests in natural conditions. And yet, like for Ms. Goodall, food provided the observers with an opportunity to have a closer look at the primates, so they would not be hidden by vegetation when they interacted with one another.

In spite of the terrible heat and discomfort, all of the observers found humor in the monkeys. We would take our observations home and share them in the balmy evenings over a pina colada or a beer. It was in the quiet evenings when the chirping sounds that I mistook as birds, but later found to be that of the coqui frogs, that we cooked, drank, and shared our findings and learned more as a team about the quirks of rhesus monkeys and their behavior.

"You should have seen that monkey," one of us would remark. "It was the funniest thing." Amazing stories of human-like behavior observed by each of us added zest to our otherwise uncomfortable life as monkey watchers. It was hard to stand for hours in semi-shade, follow monkeys when they ran across rocky, uneven ground, and write notes copiously without falling down or being harassed by some of the other monkeys. Hunger and thirst gnawed at us. Sleepiness from the midday heat, tiredness, and aching muscles bothered us daily. We looked forward to our short lunches in the shed, away from curious monkeys, and drank from our canteens as if they contained sweet nectar. We appreciated, most of all, the ride back to Punta Santiago after work. The sun would be setting, the waters would be calmer, and the town would be muted in sound and color. The residents would be in their homes with a few lights on, having their suppers. All of us from Cayo would be covered with the smell of monkey poop and various other monkey odors, wearing grimy shoes and sweat covered skin and clothing. And in spite of all this, we felt satisfied with a productive day of observation.

In the evenings, we sat in the parlor of our housing complex, which had cooled down, as harmless mosquitoes bit us under the table. Our windows were all open to the air, with no screens, and mosquitoes entered and exited at will. "If we had screens on our windows, the mosquito that came into our houses would never leave," one of the Puerto Rican workers told us when I expressed my fear for dengue fever carried by mosquitoes and present in Puerto Rico. I knew that hemorrhagic dengue fever existed on the island, but luckily, none of the residents of Punta Santiago seemed to have caught it.

"Some truck comes and sprays the streets once in a while," Kristin, a doctorate student, told me. "I never knew what it was for. No one even mentioned dengue fever to me when I moved here a year ago."

I shuddered, wondering if the residents kept silent, afraid of scaring tourist away. Thankfully, it was not cholera, typhoid, malaria, or some other horrible tropical fever that lingered on the island. I was lucky that my research base was not in South or Southeast Asia or South America.

I was used to waking up late in the mornings back home, since I tended to study at night. But in Puerto Rico, the humidity and the heat acted like an alarm clock. I felt the lingering heat, in spite of the open windows and the never-resting ceiling fans. The tile floors were a relief, and yet, I never felt cool or cold as I did in my growing up years in Hawaii, where the mornings were fresh and chilly like a nice glass of guava juice from the fridge, and the evenings were chilled like a goblet of wine cooler. Here there was no difference in temperature between day and night, winter and summer, and yet, the advantage was that I never caught cold. The drastic temperature change in Hawaii often made me ill, and in Puerto Rico, although I wished at times that I were ill because the heat wore me out and made me sluggish, I did not catch cold or run a fever, or ever hear anyone coughing in the streets or in the town. I suppose the warmth is why primates do so well in Puerto Rico. Not many monkeys or apes existed where snow and ice covered the ground.

I loved the street that I lived on, but I never found out its name, because it was such a small town in Punta Santiago. The mini islet off its coast was Cayo Santiago, or the island of monkeys, as the locals called it. The townspeople were supportive of the University of Puerto Rico and its research facility that was dotted with rhesus monkeys. Some sped past it on their motorboats, others cruised slowly to see as many monkeys as they could. They knew that the island was off-limits, both because it was private property and for the purposes of the health of the monkeys; since the monkeys could catch human diseases, such as hepatitis and TB, the locals did not venture to explore the island. The researchers had special permission to be there, and had to pass the TB exams as well. I knew that in Southeast Asia, where rhesus monkeys originated, they were notorious carriers of human diseases.

I felt bad that the residents of Punta Santiago were not given free tours of the island, and yet I knew that they saw the little islet with pride. During a food shortage many years before, when the funds for monkey chow had run dry, the residents of the surrounding area had donated boatloads of food in the form of bananas and other fruits that they raised. They had sustained the population of monkeys on Cayo and prevented mass starvation. I knew the residents were kind, good people, for when I shopped in the neighborhood, or took walks in the evenings, they had only kind words to say. They were often curious and spoke to me in Spanish, since many of the older people did not speak very much English in the countryside. I spoke my rusty, child-like Spanish, and they nodded encouragingly. They were glad that a dark-haired gringo wanted to speak their language and appreciated their culture. My roommate, Christina, and I even attended the local Catholic church when we were not too busy, and were even invited into an evangelistic church where the members all held hands and cried and played the maracas.

The next-door neighbor's rooster crowed at all hours of the day. The dogs and cats of the neighborhood were also friendly, because the residents all treated them as neighborhood pets. Sometimes I would see fresh chicken feet on the side of the road on pieces of newspaper with some leftover for the stray dogs and cats. There were no biters like in my own neighborhood in Hawaii. The dogs ran loose and were petted by all, although many, unfortunately, suffered from mange, a disease Hawaii dogs never had.

The beauty of nature inspired me. When the rainy season arrived after summer, I took photos of the vegetation. In almost every water puddle on the side of the street, frog eggs, tadpoles, and eventually frogs grew to adulthood. The water from the Heavens was still pure. In spite of the pharmaceutical and other factories that dotted the coast, the rain was still clean enough for frogs to spawn their young. The forests also came to life, and the thick vegetation that would overpower the Hawaiian environment, grew briskly here, to sustain the numerous creatures of Puerto Rico.

The months grew cooler and better for observing the monkeys on Cayo. I was becoming attached to them, although it was policy not to mingle with monkeys. They were cute and gentle as babies and juveniles, but could potentially become dangerous to humans if they did not fear humans and decided to scratch and bite them at will. I was afraid of simian herpes. I did not want my guest to say, "Did you know what Lynne died of?" And there would be whispers as they viewed my casket: "It was simian herpes. However did she catch it?" And rumors of bestial relations with monkeys would spread among my colleagues. I did not want to be treated with AZTs either. The drugs that treated HIV positive patients were also used to treat monkey-bitten researchers. I could image the furtive looks of the pharmacists as they handed me my medication.

Instead, I lived cautiously. I felt at times as though I were in the jungles of Vietnam. The monkeys could jump on me from the trees or from the bushes. One of the researchers was attacked from behind and had a bite in the middle of his back. Another researcher was scratched across her calf, because she was not wearing long pants. I was wrapped up in camo pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and a hat. My shoes were thick hiking boots that no teeth could sink into.

One day I thought, "Why am I living in fear of monkeys? They're making a monkey out of me." Some juveniles decided to tease me and bared their teeth and tried to jump at me. Others grabbed my ankles when I walked past the bushes. I lost my cool. I threw everything I had in the direction of the monkeys, and threw a gigantic tantrum. I jumped and stamped and screamed as loud as I could in a language I did not know I remembered. I vaguely recalled swearing in Spanish. The monkeys looked at me aghast. I took them by surprise. Like the chimpanzee that became the dominant male of his group through scaring off the other large males by rolling a tin trash can down a hill and making a lot of noise--called bluffing--I, too, had thrown my bluff up into the air.

After that fateful day, I was not grabbed, threatened or followed by monkeys. They kept their respectful distance. I, too, was the dominant monkey. I knew then, that they would not dare to bite or scratch me as they had done to the others.

I was learning something new every day in the field. Each monkey had a personality. Although, as a scientist, I was not allowed to anthropomorphosize monkeys, I felt that each individual acted differently in their prosocial behaviors. Not every individual was inclined to go above and beyond to help others. Some individuals, such as the infertile female that mothered her sister's children and most of the children of her group, would be up at the battlefront fending off hostile groups of individuals that started fighting with her group. Others, such as the strawberry-blond grandmother that raised her two orphaned grandchildren, were giving and sharing, allowing other members of the group to peacefully share the water and food and shade. A particular older male that immigrated into the group about the same time as my arrival on Cayo Santiago, was highly prosocial, baby-sitting the infants and juveniles of the females of the group, helping the males of the group in the coalitions against a hostile group, and, finally, sharing resources with other members after constantly showing loyalty to his new group. This male was quickly accepted into the group.

There were other individuals that wished to be left alone. Some immigrant males lingered on the periphery or the edges of the group, eating alone, grooming infrequently with other periphery males, and mated with a chosen few females. They did not stay long with the group, moving on when they felt that it was not advantageous to remain. Others did not seem to have what we call ambition. They did not curry favor with the high-ranking individuals, did not act prosocially, and kept to themselves. Some hoarded their food and did not share, often chasing any other group members away while they ate or drank.

I knew that prosocial behavior was essential for survival. Immigrant males that needed to form bonds with their adopted groups showed loyalty and selfless behavior to other monkeys for approval. Integration into the group was a slow process. Some individuals, such as my favorite prosocial male, were integrated in a matter of months. Others took anywhere from half a year to two years. Some were never completely integrated into a group and left for other pastures. I saw the anticipation of young males as they tried to attract the females at first, then the older males. Like humans wishing to belong to a group, I saw the look of hope in their eyes. Females of low and high rank also differed in their treatment by others. High-ranked females were often privileged, having first choice in food and drink and grooming. Low-ranked females ate last, and were often subjected to harassment by others, as were their offspring. And yet, friendships between high-ranked and low-ranked individuals offered protection for the low-ranked individuals. Thus, low-ranked individuals often curried favor from their higher-ranked friends by grooming them, a form of relaxation, socializing, and hygiene. Close bonds formed between the groomer and the groomee. Grooming was also one of the components of prosocial behavior, which included altruism, adoption or alloparenting, coalition, defense and aid, sharing of resources, and friendship.

I began to see similarities in humans and in monkeys. People may laugh at me for the comparisons, but as social creatures, humans, too, wish to belong. Immigrant humans show their adopted people the sacrifices they are willing to give. Some join the military, others help in church groups, some give donations. Eventually, they and their offspring form friendships with their neighbors and friends, and through intermarriage, forge strong bonds. And, in humans, the love of their newly adopted land, too, allows them to survive hardships so that they will pledge loyalty to their countries and remain there and leave successful descendants.

As a world traveler, I loved all lands I visited. I often made friends, studied and appreciated their cultures and languages, and adopted, in my heart, the land and the people. I too wished to belong to the land and the people I visited so that, as I grew up, I became not a citizen of any one country but a citizen of the planet Earth. I still miss each country where I spent parts of my life. When I listen to the music of the Salsa and Meringue, even two oceans away in Hawaii, I still love and long for Puerto Rico, as I will all my life.

I also experienced the sadness of death that summer on Cayo. Another group had to abandon an infant that had been attacked. When a low-ranking group moves on because a higher-ranking group chases them out of the area, each group has a chance in a given area to eat and to drink. And yet, there are bursts of fighting that result in injury. Infection sets in, and eventually death comes. In the case of this baby monkey, the mother had been attacked, but the attacking monkey had bitten the baby that was on the back instead of the mother. She eventually abandoned the baby and moved on. I found the baby under the tree as the lizards had begun to feed on its blood while it was still breathing. Curious monkeys hovered and tried to touch it. I angrily chased the lizards and the other monkeys away. Seeing this baby monkey painfully reminded me of Elf, a monkey at the lab that I had loved briefly. I named Elf, and he was sacrificed for a dengue fever vaccine. I saw his lifeless body lying on the counter. It was dear Elf who touched me with his furry hand through the bars of his cage, who had inspired me to study monkeys, especially the rhesus monkeys of Cayo Santiago. It was that brief and magical moment when a monkey and a human became one; I no longer made the distinction between humans and non-human primates.

Sometimes I still have trouble recalling whether I had spoken with the monkeys of Cayo or had just observed them. And then I recall that they were not verbally expressive as humans. Their body language, their grunts and squeaks were their spoken language, and immersed in the intense communication, I had forgotten that Cayo Santiago monkeys did not speak Spanish at all.

In spite of the fighting, death, and other realities of life in Cayo, I never lost my love for monkeys. I still love them and have photos, mementos, mugs, stuffed animals and other paraphernalia of monkeys in my room. I even imagine at times that my three nephews are reincarnations of the monkeys I knew on Cayo Santiago. My experiences with monkeys, I feel, have made me a better parental figure and have inspired me to become a more prosocial human being. After all, what good is a human if he or she is not part of a human society, helping others so that others can help him or her in an extended family filled with love.

Dedicated to Elf and all other rhesus monkeys in the lab that gave their lives in the name of science. LF

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader responses to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

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