There are a lot of monkeys here.  Yesterday, not-so-bright and early, I found myself shaking hands with the entire baboon field assistant staff and then slogging after one, a jocular, friendly man named Faridhu (I’ll check on that spelling) through the jungles of Gombe.  Faridhu walked steadily and surely up steep, muddy paths while I trudged behind him, eyes fixed at turns on the tangled ground below and the word “Walmart” embroidered on the back of Faridhu’s hat.  As if driven by a sixth sense, Faridhu broke off-trail and began bushwhacking through choking vines, stopping every minute or two to listen until we happened upon a mostly obscured troop of baboons, munching on tall grasses and slowly meandering down to the Lake.  We could only see a few from any one vantage and I thought, “Crap.  The visibility sucks here.”  After several minutes of watching and trying to locate individuals, we eventually found ourselves on the beach, hordes of baboons lining the shore, licking stones.  “For salt,” Faridhu said.  At least, I think that’s what he said.  He’s not really into English.  We walked among them and them amongst us — sometimes within mere inches — and Faridhu pointed to each in turn, saying a name.   I repeated the name and diligently wrote it in my little notebook.  But they all looked the same to me.  Throughout the day he would point to one and say, “Kumbuka?” — “Remember” — and I would guess a name at random and he would laugh, shake his head, and correct me.  But, I SWEAR, they all are identical.

At turns, watching was intriguing and mind-numbingly boring.  We weaved through individuals and followed them into the forest, me swinging between, “I CANNOT do this for 7 months,” and, “this is totally doable for 7 months”, every hour or so.  The little dramas intrigued me most.  Like poor White Thorn, a female with only one eye, lost in some battle long ago, who kept walking up to Sufi, a male who seemed to be in the final throes of ennui, and backing her rear into his face, as if to say, “Wanna?”  He didn’t even look at her.  Eventually, she just gave up and sat next to him, picking at her tail.  And then there were the two mothers, Wizara and Walidi, carting around babies, Wizara doing her damnedest  to make Walidi move over just because she slightly out-ranks her, just because she’s a bit of a bitch.  And Hamadani, an old tired, male, masturbating disinterestedly off to the left.   I feel like I’ve signed on to watch a foreign soap opera where the writers have been fired.

In fact, the drama continues now.  As I have been typing this (on my friend Deus’ laptop), a different troop of baboons has descended upon the offices and are carrying on battles above my head, screaming and scratching and thumping their little hearts out. Outside my door  a large male had gotten hold of a bottle of tomato juice and was gnawing it contentedly, trying to get it open, when another male, higher-ranking I guess, approached, made him drop it and, before stealing the bottle, mounted his inferior and gave a few thrusts just so he knew who was boss.  Then some chimpanzees appeared, the grizzled Frodo ambling by followed by another male and a female with a child.  Safari-outfitted wazungus and a couple researchers followed.  Before moving on, Frodo dropped a dookie right outside my door and a researcher diligently squatted to scoop it up into a little vial for later scientific use.  And now a baboon has just fallen off the roof.  Nearby a juvenile is rubbing the tomato sauce wrapper on the bottom of its foot. This all feels vaguely surreal and conjures up feelings of being in The Shining (probably because I just read it), like no one can see these animals but me.  Hopefully that’s where the feeling ends…