The View from Here:
Becoming a Monkey's Aunt: My Adventures at the Caribbean Primate Research Center, Cayo Santiago, Puerto Rico [Part 3]   **

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

As I finish my tale with the monkeys of Cayo Santiago, I wanted to tell you of what I truly learned in my research. Researchers on Cayo confirmed my findings and literature about other species of monkeys, apes such as chimps and gorillas, and also informed me that prosocial behavior such as altruism, sharing of resources, coalitions, defense and aid, helping, grooming, adoption or alloparenting, and friendship were a viable and important part of life for social primates. I also wanted to know that humans were highly capable of prosocial acts in their daily lives. Growing up in the islands of Hawaii, I met many prosocial individuals in my childhood. And decades later, in the highlands of Peru; I met people who went out of their way to help a sick person who ate bad fish.

The most wonderful acts of kindness occurred in South America right after I left Cayo Santiago. I left for a tour of Peru and Bolivia with my mother, meeting her in San Juan after finishing my research. I was worn out from long months in the hot, humid climate doing a lot of strenuous activity that I was unused to as a couch potato. I had grown thin and dark, my Spanish had become perfected with a Puerto Rican accent, and I little resembled the chubby mixed Oriental girl from Hawaii. When I spoke with South Americans, they murmured that I was speaking "Castilian" Spanish, was educated and was of Puerto Rican origin. Once in Peru and in Bolivia, especially in the highlands away from the big cities, a person who did not speak Spanish had a serious handicap.

In that year, the cholera epidemic was raging. After my return, I learned that all passengers aboard one airplane had grown sick from their meals, which contained infected shrimp, and an elderly man had died as a result. There were sign everywhere in Spanish that said, "Wash your hands. Do not eat raw vegetables and fruits. Avoid seafood." The signs were posted in the churches and in the streets. And yet, the locals were silent when it came to the subject of the "cholera." It was as if I had been transported into the volume of "Death in Venice," where the streets of Venice, Italy were infected with the cholera epidemic, due to the practice of dumping raw sewage into the canals during the turn of the century. The image of the lonely artist eating the contaminated strawberry burned into my mind.

And yet, in front of my very eyes, my own mother, knowing about the cholera, stuffed her face full of fresh fruit slices in the hotel's breakfast room. "Oh, pooh, the hotel is a first class one…they wash their stuff with filtered water," she mumbled after I warned her of the cholera.

But what if one of the workers had the cholera and had handled our food? I wondered. I could not sleep nor eat properly and subsisted on a diet of roasted meat and potatoes eaten piping hot, and bottled drinks. Although my daily diet usually consisted of fresh Hawaiian tap water, fruits and vegetables and seafood, in addition to meats and potatoes, I had allowed fear to rule. One day, my mother decided to visit a famous seafood restaurant that had been visited by celebrities from around the globe. Now it was nearly vacant. The waiter happily came to serve us. The chef gave us a complimentary ceviche, a concoction of limejuice and alcohol pickling raw fish. I looked at it and did not eat it. My mother inhaled it. Then she ordered a seafood paella. I ate the rice and the chicken, but not the seafood. "Stop your paranoia," my mother said, laughing. "They will be insulted. This is a first class establishment." And bravely, or due to a tougher nature, my mother continued to eat most of the dish, while I had only bread and rice that I gleaned from that frightening meal.

Finally, in the cholera-free highlands of Cuzco, I was able to eat more freely. But in the cold months of the South American spring, which was our fall, snow and ice remained on the ground. There were very little fresh fruits or vegetables. I was content to feed on the delicious varieties of corn and potatoes that had never seen the baskets of American supermarkets. I became a potato freak. I had always loved potatoes, but the US only has a few varieties, while Peru, the motherland of potatoes because the Incas had first cultivated them, had dozens of varieties, all fresh and hearty.

Traveling across from La Paz to Lima, via bus, my mother and I stayed at a deserted hotel on the edge of the Bolivian border. Much to our misfortune, this trip had been unplanned, because our direct flight back to Lima had been cancelled, and we had been cheated by the Bolivian travel agent that operated out of a very impressive modern building. Instead of booking us a tour bus and tour train back to Lima, Peru, they put us on a cheap local bus along with native people carrying pigs and chickens. It was rustic but clean, but unlike the modern Benz bus, it was rough riding. However, we found out later that the dangerously narrow and winding mountain passes were terrible with Benz buses. We passed a Benz bus that had almost gone down a cliff. Our rickety local bus was narrower and tougher, like an American school bus, with the capacity to go through flooded roads and uneven ground. Smelling of livestock and people, the local bus made it safely through the mountain passes that were often gravel-lined dirt roads. The bus was evacuated and we were shoved along with small livestock on to small boats to cross a lake, then the bus was positioned at an angle on a bigger boat and crossed the water after us. We watched the bus tottering on the large boat, wondering if our only form of transportion on land would sink before our very eyes. The water of the lake, fed by glacial ice that melted in the Andes, was crystal clear, and curious aquatic plants grew in its depths.

Finally arriving at the rest stop, which was also our hotel for the night, the rest of the bus passengers and I ate lunch. They eventually left us at the hotel as they moved on through the border to meet their fates. We were the lucky ones, being sickly in the highlands; we decided to rest before going on our journey. We remained in a deserted hotel with a room that had cracks in the doors. The evening would be deathly in the highlands, and already, the yellow fever vaccine I had received two days earlier had made me feel ill. My mother complained to the manager, saying that since the hotel was empty she needed a better room. The manager seemed surprised at the price the travel agent had charged us for the hotel room when my mother explained how much she had paid and how she had expected a nicer hotel. The new room was not drafty, but there was no hot water and the shower was ice cold. We did not bathe for two days, afraid to catch our death of cold.

I ate a hearty meal that day, a lunch and dinner, with fresh lake fish, cholera-free. Little did I know that the rolling blackouts in the area and in the rest of Bolivia and Peru had created an evil concoction of bacteria that poisoned the fish I ate. I began to feel slightly drunk and then itched near the belly. I stayed awake the whole night from cramps in my stomach, afraid to die of the "cholera." I crossed the border the next day with my mother after a tour of the Inca fountain and ruins in the town of Copacabana.

It was to our good fortune that we did not cross the border that dreadful day. The terrorist group, the Shining Path, had plowed through the border, killing a policeman and injuring the busload of passengers that crossed the border on the day we were meant to cross. Instead, I would get my share of bad luck in the form of fish poisoning.

Crossing the border after the tragedy was also a frightening adventure. I saw the flowers all over the area that had been the place of a massacre. Everyone, however, was mum. No one mentioned what had happened, and yet, we all knew.

The border police were also very strict, checking the Gringos carefully. But they turned a blind eye to the cocaine carriers in our bus. One was a short, small, harmless looking man who looked like someone with three or four children. He smiled sweetly and had a cargo of plastic dolls with neon green and pink hair that were stuffed with white powder. He guarded them fiercely and did not let anyone near himself or his cargo, which he had in the back of the bus. Two German-looking women, possibly Brazilian had double passports. They showed their Bolivian one at the Bolivian border and showed their German passports at the Peruvian border so that they left Bolivia but never entered Peru and entered Peru as German citizens. They brandished a bush knife that they used to cut avocado and other fruits and to threaten us and the others with possible death. The carried two books, which were hollowed out and carried a precious small cargo of white stuff. Others also looked at one another suspiciously, some carrying precious coca in pure form, others with other types of goodies. My mother and I ignored them and minded our own business, nudging one another if we made an observation of goods being shifted from place to place. The officials at both borders did not check any cargo and looked only at our passports.

Our philosophy towards organized crime was, "If they do not bother us, we do not bother them." My mother and I knew from our sad observations that many developing countries resorted to illegal trade and prostitution out of desperation. If they could hold on in the harsh world and feed their families and remain alive, it did not matter what they did. And until a better world arrived for all of us where resources, food, and other necessities can be evenly distributed to the citizens of the Earth, people will find a way to make a living.

As we entered the town of Puno, known to be a nest for drug-traffickers, we noticed that it was bright with lights, nice houses with well-kept gardens, well-dressed children, and a lack of beggars. However, the streets were so dangerous that no one walked outside, especially tourists. Poverty was the price that people paid for honest work. If one participated in the coca trade, their children could eat, have nice clothing, have safe homes, and be prosperous. I was saddened that individuals had to resort to this. The people were still as kind and caring as in the poor highlands. And yet, in the highlands, poverty did not disturb them, because they had land and food and shelter. In the towns, the cold months would kill someone without money and shelter. Illegal trade was the way for self-preservation. In Lima, where the slums lined the coast, families lacked clean water and suffered from the "cholera" and other waterborne diseases, children walked the streets, suffered from malnutrition, did not go to school, and lived in the depths of Hell called poverty.

As fate had it, I was able to experience prosocial behaviors in the best possible way. I suffered an illness and those around me in the dreaded town of Puno, infamous for the coca trade, helped me to get to safety. Each individual was involved in the drug trade, but still pure in heart. It was not the dreaded "cholera" that got me in the end. It was a bad reaction to fish that had been left in a fridge that lost power during the rolling blackouts. Instead of vomiting or diarrhea, I often develop severe hives. My throat started to close up after the bumps began to connect together into great maps of South America on my stomach, and on the rest of my body. I was unable to see clearly, and I had started to have problems breathing.

Only the day before, I refused a tour by our guide. The kind Indian guide, Fernando, had taken us to the ancient Inca sites on the day of our arrival and was hired to take us to more sites the following day. I felt sickly the next day, feeling feverish and weak. Fernando was concerned and decided to sell the train tickets we had since we could not travel as planned. He remained at the train station the whole day selling our discounted ticket to a traveler, so that we could have some money back. "It's not necessary, my daughter is ill and we simply want to stay another night here," my mother said. And yet, he did, giving us back some money that was not very much in dollars, but meant very much to his people. I was touched by the honesty and kindness of our guide.

"Every bit will help you on your journey," he said kindly.

As my illness progressed, the night became dark. The rolling blackout shut off all electricity, as it often did in the night when the blackout served to conserve electricity. The hotel manager came with a lantern and candles. The hotel waiter came with a free bowl of soup and bread. Someone volunteered himself as an interpreter for my illness and another had fetched a doctor, with his bag of medicines and shots. I received two horse needle shots in my bottom. The staff checked me throughout the night. When morning came, I was nearly recovered, just a mild rash lingering on my body. My guide came to visit downstairs. He was better than a travel agent. He created a travel plan that would get us back to Lima: "I reserved for you a small bus that will take you to the airport in Arequipa. This will fly you to Lima and you will avoid traveling on land because it is more dangerous by bus and by train," he told us, "And the plane will be much quicker."

I almost jumped for joy. I loved the highlands of Peru and Bolivia, but I needed to get back to the big city and to safety and then back to the States. In addition to my hives and the reaction to the yellow fever vaccine, I was also suffering from high-altitude sickness. My heart pounded every night, my stomach was always upset, and I had problems breathing. I had a headache that never left me. My hands and feet were also swollen.

Fernando and the hotel staff were very emotional as we said our goodbyes. We knew that although we had crossed paths those fateful days in Puno, we would never again meet, and yet, we had become friends. I looked at my saviors lovingly and thanked them individually. "How can I ever thank you?" I asked Fernando.

"When you help someone, maybe one of us," he replied, meaning one of his people. I knew that he and the people of Puno and of Peru lived in poverty and in hardships and depended on one another for survival. I envied them, feeling the loss of such friendships in my modern world where people were more aloof.

I knew that through the rest of my life I would do the same for all people in need. These events as well as many small but memorable events in my travels proved to me that prosocial behaviors were not waning in the human world. As population grew, and our towns became unfamiliar places, we had less chances to help one another. In the smaller town of the Honolulu of my childhood, which greatly resembles the town of Hilo that I now reside in, neighbors knew one another and shared food, stories, and hardships. We related to our neighbors and friends as great extended family. Children grew up together, listened to their elders, and associated with one another with a bond of trust. In the small groups we associated in at church, school, and other places, helpful behavior truly made a difference.

Today, in modern societies, especially in large cities, it is more difficult to extend a helping hand. Who knows what conman may lurk in the streets? Picking up a hitchhiker could mean being beaten to death and having one's car stolen. Being kind to a stranger could result in unimaginable problems. Who is to know that the coins or bills you drop into a can will reach the person who needs help?

And yet, as an adult, I try to become a good role model for my three monkeys, my nephews who are given coins at Thanksgiving and at Christmas to put into the pot to share with others. I explain to them the importance of charity, pointing out the legitimate charity groups that allow those in need to seek help so that we are able to share our good fortune with others. I also emphasize the importance of prosocial behaviors in our daily lives to my nephews.

"Always be kind and you will be rewarded," I say to my nephews.

I also try to live as an example of a prosocial indivdual. In my working day, I try to help students who are in need for our university. I try to repay acts of kindness to the people of Hilo town where I now live. I chose Hilo as my final home, because here, I could truly make a difference. When I help individuals in our town and on the big island, the faces grow familiar. Kind acts and kind words are remembered. My daily life is a pleasure as storekeepers, neighbors, coworkers, and the townspeople greet me each day. Poverty too, eats at our town and our people, but I can only see a bright future where those who help others will prosper. Sharing hardships, resources, and experiences strengthens a community. When a community grows apart, drug problems, juvenile delinquency, homelessness, and other vices begin to increase. Hilo too has problems with crystal meth and other drugs, but the town and the island has come together as an extended community to fight back. The older members and the adults of our community wish to watch over the children as they had done for generations past and to hand down the tradition of Ohana, or the family, and of aloha, the word that means love and caring.

The monkeys of Cayo Santiago taught me that prosocial behaviors are essential for the survival of a species that evolved as social creatures. Weak individuals that were neither great predators nor great grazers, formed groups to breeds, raise and protect their young, find food sources, and to share their daily lives. Acts of sharing and caring were passed on in their genes and as a result of learning, or what humans call culture. And those that shared and had been helped benefited from these sets of behaviors. Every individual, even in monkeys, are different, each contributing to the society that he or she lives in. Some hoard food, others share everything, some are strong and protective, and others are motherly. Some are neglectful, but they and their offspring benefit from those more prosocial. You may say, "let the selfish one's die," and yet, those selfish individuals may be more often your own relatives. And thus, as a whole, prosocial groups survive, going one generation to the next, a chain of helping hands, raising offspring and continuing the line in what I call a chain of love, or aloha, and hope. It is something that has always been essential in the Hawaiian tradition.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Puerto Rico where life was a fiesta. I cried when I left Cayo on the last day. As if knowing that I too was leaving as the other volunteers had before me, the orphaned monkey, the naughty little boy everyone adored, tugged at my clothes. Tears streamed out, for I knew I would miss him and his family and friends. Rhesus monkeys have short lifespans, and I knew that I would never see the same monkeys that I studied that glorious summer and fall in 1991. Perhaps their offspring or their grandchildren would be living if I ever decided to visit Cayo, but I knew that it was truly farewell.

I would miss the people too. The locals danced on the streets in the passionate Salsa, poverty and drugs were present, but the smiles and kindness made our daily lives sparkle. They taught me to live life to the fullest. And the workers on Cayo, the director and his assistant, the fellow volunteers, and myself all were touched by the magic of Cayo Santiago's monkeys and by the islet. The times we spent would carry us in many directions, many of us coming out of the experience as better human beings. In spite of the killing heat and humidity, the grueling work schedule, and the drudgery of fieldwork, we were better able to cope with the outside world and were forever inspired by the prosocial acts of the Cayo Santiago monkeys. And now, I am a monkey's aunt, with three monkeys of my own to carry on the tradition of prosocial acts so that they too will pass on this precious gift to those who come after them.

Dedicated to John Berard who invited me to Cayo Santiago, to Sophia, to the workers at Cayo, to the volunteers, and mostly, to the prosocial monkeys of Cayo Santiago who inspired me to become a prosocial human being. Also dedicated to all altruists in the world who inspire us daily, especially the policemen, firemen, rescue workers, and soldiers who sacrifice themselves for the rest of us. 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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