Through a Window (34 page)

But the question is purely academic. It could not be answered for countless thousands of years, and even
now
it is clear that the days of the great African forests are numbered. If the chimpanzees themselves survive in freedom, it will be in a few isolated patches of forest grudgingly conceded, where opportunities for genetic exchange between different social groups will be limited or impossible. And, unless we act soon, our closest relatives may soon exist only in captivity, condemned, as a species, to human bondage.

E
VEN THE GOMBE
chimpanzees are threatened by the relentless march of human expansion. I was thinking about this during a recent visit as I followed a large group of chimpanzees high up into the open wind-swept grasslands near the crest of the rift escarpment. I was out of breath when we arrived at our destination—a great stand of
muhandehande
trees. As the chimps, with loud calls of delight, began to feast on the rich crop of yellow nectar-sweet fruits, I settled on a rock, that, shaded by one of the low, stunted trees, still held the coolness of the night air. We were almost at the topmost peak of the chimpanzee's world, under the pale morning sky. Below us the ground fell away now steeply, now more gently, towards the blue-grey expanse of Lake Tanganyika. Lines and patches of green, starting just below the smooth golden-brown humps and ridges of the dry upper slopes, gradually became darker and thicker, then converged as they followed the maze of gullies and ravines that led down to the thickly forested valleys. To the north and to the south, valley succeeded valley, each leading its own swift-flowing stream westward, from the watershed, high in the hills, down to the lake.

Gombe National Park, a narrow strip of rugged terrain, two miles at its widest, stretches for no more than ten miles along the eastern shore of the lake—a pitifully small stronghold, I reflected, for the three communities of chimpanzees living there. For, although they still roam free, they are effectively imprisoned—their refuge is surrounded on three sides by villages and cultivated land, while along the fourth boundary, the shore of the lake, over one thousand fishermen are camped. Yet these one hundred and sixty or so chimpanzees are safer than almost any other wild chimpanzees in Africa—except for those in the few remaining places, in the central part of the species' range, that are utterly remote. At least, in Gombe, there is no poaching.

I sat there, cooling down in the fresh breeze, looking out over the chimpanzees' dwindled realm. When I arrived at Gombe in 1960 you could climb to the top of the rift escarpment and gaze out to the east over chimpanzee habitat stretching into the far distance. The forests and woodlands that offered sanctuary to wildlife stretched almost unbroken from the northern tip of the lake to the southwest border of Tanzania—and beyond. There may have been as many as ten thousand chimpanzees living in Tanzania then, while today there can be no more than two thousand, five hundred. But at least many of these remaining chimpanzees are protected in two national parks, Gombe and the much larger Mahale Mountains area to the south. There are also a number of forest reserves where chimpanzees still roam in comparative safety. Chimpanzees are not eaten by any peoples in Tanzania nor has there ever been a flourishing export trade in live chimpanzees. In most other African countries where chimpanzees still live their plight is far more grim.

At the turn of the century chimpanzees were found, in their hundreds of thousands, in twenty-five African nations. From four countries they have disappeared completely. In five others, the population is so small that the species cannot long survive. In seven countries populations are less than five thousand. And even in the four remaining central strongholds chimpanzees are gradually and relentlessly losing ground to the ever-growing needs of ever-growing human populations. Forests are
razed for dwellings and for cultivation. Logging and mining activities penetrate ever deeper into the natural habitats, and human diseases, to all of which chimpanzees are susceptible, follow. Moreover, the dwindling chimpanzee populations become increasingly fragmented and genetic diversity is lost until, in many cases, the small groups of survivors can no longer sustain themselves. In some countries in West and Central Africa chimpanzees are hunted for food. Even in places where they are not eaten, females are often shot, snared, chased with packs of dogs, or even poisoned in order that their infants may be captured for sale to dealers who, in turn, ship them off for the international entertainment and pharmaceutical industries, or sell them as "pets" to anyone who will buy them.

In the tree nearest me I heard soft laughing. Fifi's two daughters, Fanni and Fiossi, the edge of their appetites dulled, had begun to play. As I looked up, Fifi's most recent infant, little Faustino, reached out to touch one of the yellow fruits that his mother was chewing, then licked his fingers. Several of the chimpanzees, their hunger satiated, had climbed down and were lying on the ground. Gremlin and Galahad were close to me and, even as I watched, the infant, relaxed by his mother's gentle grooming fingers, dropped off to sleep. They were five feet from where I sat and once again I was all but overwhelmed by the trust they showed, and poignantly aware of my responsibility towards them: that trust must never be broken. Galahad, dreaming perhaps, suddenly clutched his mother's hair. Gremlin responded instantly, holding him close, comforting him even as he slept so that he relaxed once more. Watching them I thought, as I so often do now, of the grim fate of hundreds of Africa's chimpanzees. Of the mothers who are killed, the infants who are seized from their arms and, shocked, terrified and hurt, dragged into a harsh and bitter new life. A life that is barren and cold because the ever-comforting arms of the mother, and the nurture and reassurance of her breast, are no more.

The whole sickening business of capturing infant chimpanzees, for any purpose whatsoever, is not only cruel but also horribly wasteful. The hunters' weapons are, for the most part, old and unreliable. Many mothers escape, wounded, only to die later of their injuries. Their infants will almost certainly die also. Often youngsters as well as their mothers are hit, particularly when the weapons are old flintlocks stuffed with nails or bits of metal. And if other chimpanzees rush to the defence of the mother and her child—then they may be shot also.

Just occasionally the hunters are thwarted. There is a true story of two hunters who set off in search of a young chimpanzee. After three days, during which they shot four mothers, three of whom escaped wounded and one who was killed along with her infant, they located and killed a fifth. She fell to the ground, her infant still living. Laying down the gun, the man went to seize the terrified, screaming infant as he clung, with the strength of desperation, to his dying mother. All at once there was a great crashing in the undergrowth and an adult male chimpanzee, hair bristling, charged out towards them. With a swiping, grabbing movement he virtually scalped one of the hunters. Seizing the other he hurled him down onto some rocks, breaking several ribs. Then he gathered up the infant and disappeared, back into the forest. When I first heard the tale I assumed that the youngster would die. But that was before we observed how Spindle looked after little Mel. Let us hope that the avenging male showed similar parental concern and skill and that the youngster was as tenacious of life as Mel. The two men managed to get to a hospital—and then, when they had recovered, were sent to jail.

Such incidents, however, must be rare. For most infants, the death of the mother brings their life in the forest to an abrupt end and leads to a succession of terrifying new experiences. After that brutal separation, the infant must first endure a nightmare journey to a native village or a dealer's camp. The captive, feet and hands often tied together with string or wire, is crammed
into a tiny box or basket, or pushed into a suffocating sack. And, with each agonizing jolt, cramped and chafed by the bonds of his new captivity, freedom, comfort and joy are left further and further behind. And let us not forget that an infant chimpanzee will suffer in almost exactly the same way, emotionally and mentally, as a small human child would.

Many youngsters do not survive these journeys, for they receive little if any attention and care en route. Those that do, arrive at holding stations in a sorry plight. Many are wounded, all are dehydrated, starving and suffering from shock. Yet it is unlikely that they will find relief or solace, for the conditions that prevail at such places are typically grim and standards of care atrocious. And as they await shipment to their final destinations, still more infants will die. The survivors must then face further travel to different places around the world. At airports delays are common and there is seldom anyone to nurture the crated captives. Often, indeed, their departure is illegal so that the dealers involved, and those in their pay, do their best to conceal the existence or at least the nature of the cargo. They are the evil ones, these dealers. With the blood of countless innocents on their hands, they grow fat and rich on suffering, like those who traded human slaves in years gone by.

It is surprising that any youngsters leave their cramped air cargo crates alive, yet, against all odds, some do. Like the survivors of the concentration camps of the Third Reich, these little chimpanzees show an amazing tenacity for life. But even their arrival overseas is not necessarily the end of the road—some must travel on via tortuous routes so that their country of origin can be concealed. This is so that they can be imported as
captive-born
chimpanzees into countries that cannot legally import
wild-born
chimpanzees from Africa. And so the grim score of lives wasted continues to mount. Those youngsters that do, eventually, reach their final destinations alive, are often so weak, so emotionally damaged, that it is impossible to restore them to health. It has
been estimated by those most familiar with the trade that between ten and twenty chimpanzees will die for every infant that survives to the end of the first year at its ultimate destination.

My thoughts were interrupted as the chimpanzee group, well fed and well rested, started to move down the slope. As I followed Fifi and her family my pleasure at being with them was tempered by a nagging depression. Just watching Faustino as he enjoyed the attentions of his mother and two elder sisters, constantly reminded me, after the musings of the morning, of all the unfortunate infants snatched, so abruptly, from similar family groups.

What happens to the few battered orphans that survive the horror of capture and transport? What do we offer them as reward for their endurance? Alas, only too often their lives will be so grim and wretched that it would have been better for them had they died during those bitter months when first they fell into human hands. Many infants born in captivity face an equally bleak future. The best they can hope for, these chimpanzee prisoners, is to end up in a good zoo. And zoos offering really good conditions to chimpanzees are, sad to relate, still few and far between. Because adult chimpanzees are so strong and so good at escaping, enclosures large enough to provide a proper environment are expensive. Thus countless chimpanzees languish in small cement-floored, steel-barred cells in all parts of the world. Some of these unfortunates have one or two companions with whom to share their incarceration; others must suffer alone through up to fifty years of utter boredom. They become frustrated, apathetic and, eventually, psychotic. Conditions tend to be particularly grim in many African and other Third World zoos—hardly surprising in view of the fact that hundreds of humans there must also endure deprivation and misery. But there is no excuse for the shocking conditions that still prevail in many zoos throughout Europe and in the United States.

Nor is there any excuse for the abuse of young chimps in the
coastal resort areas of southern Spain and seaside areas of the Canary Islands. These youngsters, smuggled illegally into the country from Africa, are subjected to years of misery at the hands of a group of photographers who ply their trade during the holiday season, offering tourists the opportunity to be snapped holding a cute young chimpanzee dressed in children's clothes. The photos serve as reminders of a pleasant holiday in the sun—in a country that seems more exotic because of the presence of wild animals. There are, after all, no chimpanzees to be seen on the promenades of Brighton or Blackpool, or the French Riviera.

The casual tourist has no idea of the suffering inflicted on these pathetic infants. During the day they are carried or led around in the hot sun. At night many are taken into nightclubs and discos where their eyes become inflamed in smoky atmosphere and the noise must be anguish to their sensitive eardrums. Their feet are crammed into shoes that are quite the wrong shape for chimpanzee toes. They wear nappies (seldom changed) under plastic pants so that their bottoms become raw and painful. Most of them are heavily drugged. They are disciplined with blows, and some, in addition, with pressure from the tip of a glowing cigarette. As they get older their milk canines, and sometimes other teeth as well, are pulled out so that there is no risk of a customer being bitten. When they are five or six years old they are usually too big and strong for such work and they are either killed or sold to dealers.

Largely thanks to the persistent efforts of a British couple living in Spain, Simon and Peggy Templar, new legislation has been passed that enables the authorities to confiscate chimpanzees who have no permits. I was present when two of these youngsters were moved from the Templars' holding station in Spain to a sanctuary in England.

One of them, Charlie, had only been rescued a few weeks before we arrived. He was six or seven years of age. All his teeth save for three canines and the molars at the back, which were
just coming through, had been knocked out. He was thin, emaciated almost. And his movements were slow and deliberate, those of an old man; he seemed knowledgeable beyond his years and weighed down by what he had learned of life. His eyes appeared to look only inwards, back at his suffering.