Gerald Durrell (30 page)

When I decided
that it was time he went to bed he refused to give back a handkerchief which he
had removed. He held it behind his back and passed it from one hand to the
other as I tried to get it. Then, thinking that the action would settle the matter,
he stuffed it hurriedly into his mouth. I realized that if I gave in and let
him keep the handkerchief he would think that he could get away with anything,
so for half an hour I sat there pleading and cajoling with him, until
eventually, very reluctantly, he disgorged it, now very sodden and crumpled.
After this I had no trouble with him: if he was playing with something that I
wanted I would simply hold out my hand and ask him for it, and he would give it
to me without any fuss.

Now, I had known
a great number of attractive and charming animals from mice to elephants, but I
have never seen one to compare with Chumley for force and charm of personality,
or for intelligence. After knowing him for a while you ceased to look upon him
as an animal; you regarded him more as a wizard, mischievous, courtly old man,
who had, for some reason best known to himself, disguised himself as a
chimpanzee. His manners were perfect: he would never grab his food and start
guzzling, as the other monkeys did, without first giving you a greeting, and
thanking you with a series of his most expressive “hoo hoos”. Then he would eat
delicately and slowly, pushing those pieces he did not want to the side of his
plate with his fingers. His only breach of table manners came at the end of a
meal, for then he would seize his empty mug and plate and hurl them as far away
as possible.

He had, of
course, many habits which made him seem more human, and his smoking was one. He
could light his cigarette with matches or a lighter with equal facility, and
then he would lie down on the ground on his back, one arm under his head and
his legs bent up and crossed, blowing great clouds of smoke into the sky, and
occasionally examining the end of his cigarette professionally to see if the
ash needed removing. If it did he would perform the operation carefully with
one finger-nail. Give him a bottle of lemonade and a glass, and he would pour
himself out a drink with all the care and concentration of a world-famous
barman mixing a cocktail. He was the only animal I have met that would think of
sharing things with you: on many occasions, if I gave him a bunch of bananas or
two or three mangoes, he would choose one and hold it out to me with an
inquiring expression on his face, and he would grunt with satisfaction if I
accepted it and sat down beside him on the ground to eat it.

Chumley had
three aversions in life: coloured people, giant millipedes, and snakes. Natives
he would tolerate, and he got a great kick out of attracting them within range
and then leaping at them with a ferocious scream. Not that I think he would
ever have harmed them; he just liked to watch them run screaming in fear. But
the trouble was that the natives would tease him if they got the chance, and
Chumley would get more and more excited, his hair would stand on end, he would
sway from side to side swinging his powerful arms and baring his great teeth,
and then Heaven help the native who came too close.

Giant millipedes
fascinated him, but he could never bring himself to trust them whole-heartedly.
The giant millipede looks not unlike a thin black pudding, with a fringe of
legs (a hundred or so pairs) arranged along the underside, and a pair of short
feelers in front. They were completely harmless creatures, that would glide about
on their numerous legs, their feelers waving about, and liked nothing so much
as a really rotten log of wood to feed on. However, their snake-like motion
made them suspect in Chumley’s eyes, although he seemed to realize that they
were not snakes. If I placed a couple on his box he would sit and watch them
for ages, his lips pursed, occasionally scratching himself. If one walked over
the edge of the crate and fell to the ground, and then started to walk in his
direction he would leap to his feet, retreat to the end of his chain, and
scream loudly until I came and rescued him from the monster.

Snakes, of
course, worried him a lot and he would get really most upset if he saw me
handling one, uttering plaintive cries and wringing his hands until I had put it
down. If I showed him my hands after handling a snake he would always examine
them carefully, I presume to make sure I had not been bitten. If, of course,
the snake slid towards him he would nearly have a fit, his hair would stand on
end, he would moan, and as it got closer, throw bits of grass and twig at it in
a vain effort to stop its advance. One night he flatly refused to be shut in
his box when it grew dark, a thing he had never done before. When I tried to
force him in, thinking he was merely playing up, he led me to the door of the
crate and, leaving me there, he retreated, pointing with one hand and “hoo
hoooing” loudly and in obvious fear. Investigating his blankets and banana-leaf
bed I discovered a small, blind burrowing snake coiled up in the middle. This
was a harmless creature, but Chumley was taking no chances.

Not long after
Chumley’s arrival he suddenly went off his food, lost all his interest in life,
and would spend all day crouched in his crate. He would refuse all drink except
about half a mug full of water a day. I was away at the time, and John’s
frantic message brought me hurrying back, for John was not sure what the ape
was suffering from, or how ill he really was. On my return I tried everything I
knew to tempt Chumley to eat, for he was growing visibly thinner. The staff was
sent to search the country-side for ripe mangoes and pawpaws, and delicate
fruit salads were concocted with great care by my own hands. But Chumley would
not eat. This went on for nearly a week, until I was really beginning to think
we should lose him. Every evening I would force him to take a walk with me, but
he was so weak that he had to sit down and rest every few yards. But I knew it
would be fatal to let him lose all interest in life, for once an ape does that
he is doomed. One evening before I went to take Chumley for his walk I opened a
tin of Ryvita biscuits and concealed a dozen or so in my pockets. When we had
walked some distance Chumley sat down and I sat beside him. As we both examined
the view I took a biscuit from my pocket and started to eat it. He watched me;
I think he was rather surprised when I did not offer him any, as I usually did,
but finished it up and smacked my lips appreciatively. He moved nearer and
started to go through my pockets, which was in itself a good sign, for he had
not done that since the first day he had been taken ill. He found a biscuit,
pulled it out, sniffed it, and then, to my delight, ate it up. He again
broached my pocket and got another, which he also ate. Altogether he ate six,
and for the next four days he existed on water and Ryvita. Then came the
morning when he accepted, first his cup of tea, and then two bananas. I knew he
was going to be all right. His appetite came back with a rush, and he ate us
out of house and home for about two weeks, and then he returned to normal. I
was very glad to have pulled him round, for we were due to leave for Kumba, and
he was certainly in no condition to face the journey as thin as he had been.

The day of our
departure from Bakebe dawned, and when Chumley saw the lorry arrive to load the
collection he realized he was in for one of his favourite sports, a lorry ride.
He hooted and yelled and danced on the end of his chain with excitement, and
beat a wild tattoo on his crate, making as much noise as possible so that we
should not overlook him. When everything else had been loaded his crate was
hoisted on board, and then he climbed into it, hooting delightedly. We started
off, and we had not gone far before the staff, all clinging to the back and
sides of the vehicle, started to sing loudly, as they always did, and presently
Chumley joined in with a prolonged and melodious hooting, which convulsed the
staff. In fact, the cook-mate found a singing chimpanzee so amusing that he fell
off the back of the lorry, and we had to stop and pick him up, covered with
dust, but still mirthful. It was a good thing we were not going at any speed.

On arrival at
Kumba we had put at our disposal three school-houses belonging to the Basle
mission, through the kindness of the Reverend Paul Schibler and his wife. On
moving in, as always happened when you made a fresh camp, there was complete
chaos for a while, and apart from numerous other things that had to be attended
to, there was the question of water supply. While a suitable water-carrier was
being employed, furnished with tins, and told to do his job at the double,
Chumley made it quite clear that he was very thirsty indeed. He was chained
outside, and had already attracted a large crowd of natives who had never seen
a fully grown chimp before. In desperation I opened a bottle of beer and gave
him that, and to my surprise he greeted its arrival with hoots of joy and
smacked his lips over the froth. The lower the level fell in the bottle the
more Chumley showed off, and the greater the crowd grew around him. Soon he was
turning somersaults, and in between dancing a curious sort of side shuffle and
clapping his hands. He was was covered with beer froth, and enjoying himself
hugely. But this drunken jig caused me a lot of trouble, for it took Chumley
several hours to sober up and behave properly, and it took three policemen to
disperse the crowd of two hundred-odd people who were wedged round our houses,
making entry and exit impossible. After that Chumley never had anything
stronger than tea or lemonade, no matter how thirsty he became.

It was not long
after we settled in at Kumba that Sue arrived. She was the youngest chimp I had
ever seen: she could not walk, and was the proud possessor of four teeth only.
She arrived in a basket out of which she peered with wide-eyed interest,
sucking her left foot. How she had been kept alive by her native owner, who had
been feeding her on a diet of mashed coco yam, I don’t know. Within an hour she
was sucking away at a bottle full of warm milk, liberally laced with sugar and
cod-liver oil. When I took her out to show her to Chumley he displayed no
interest other than trying to poke her in the eye with his forefinger, so my
hopes of a romantic attachment faded.

To any mother
who is sick of her squealing red-faced brat I would say, “Go and exchange it
for a chimpanzee like Sue: she will be half the trouble and give you just as
much pleasure.” She spent the night in a warm basket, and the day on my bed,
and there was never a murmur out of her. The only time she screamed, clenching
her little fists and kicking her legs in gusts of fury, was on those occasions
when I showed her the bottle and then discovered it was too hot for her to
drink straight away. This was a crime, and Sue would let you know it. She had
her first feed at about seven o’clock in the morning, and her last feed at
midnight. She would sleep right through the night, a trick that some human
babies would do well to adopt. During the day, as I say, she would sprawl on my
bed, lying there sucking her thumb or foot, or occasionally doing press-ups on
the edge of the bed to get her arm muscles in trim for feeding time. Most of
the day, however, she just slept.

Her face, hands,
and feet were pink, and she had a thick coat of wiry black hair. On her head
this looked as though it had been parted in the middle and then cut in a fringe
over her large ears. She reminded me of a solemn-faced Japanese doll. At first
sight her tender years (or months) had rather put me off, as I felt that she
would require endless attention which I had not the time to give her. But, as
it turned out, she was considerably less trouble than any of the other animals.
The animal staff were so captivated by her that they would fight for the privilege
of giving her a bottle, and I even found John, on more than one occasion,
prodding her fat tummy and muttering baby talk at her, when he thought I was
not within earshot.

Chumley was, I
think, a little jealous of Sue, but he was too much of a gentleman to show it.
Not long after her arrival, however, London Zoo’s official collector arrived in
the Cameroons, and with great regret I handed Chumley over to be transported
back to England. I did not see him again for over four months, and then I went to
visit him in the sanatorium at Regent’s Park. He had a great straw-filled room
to live in, and was immensely popular with the sanatorium staff. I did not
think that he would recognize me, for when he had last seen me I had been clad
in tropical kit and sporting a beard and moustache, and now I was clean-shaven
and wearing the garb of a civilized man. But recognize me he did, for he
whirled around his room like a dervish when he saw me and then came rushing
across to give me his old greeting, gently biting my finger. We sat in the
straw and I gave him some sugar I had brought for him, and then we smoked a
cigarette together while he removed my shoes and socks and examined my feet and
legs to make sure there was nothing wrong with them. Then he took his cigarette
butt and carefully put it out in one corner of his room, well away from his
straw. When the time came to go, he shook hands with me formally and watched my
departure through the crack in the door. Shortly after he was moved to the
monkey-house, and so he could receive no more visitors in his private room.