And now for something completely different. A monkey story.
"Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above."
—Katharine Hepburn, as Miss Rose Sayer, in "The African Queen"
If we're above nature, it's only in the sense that a shaky-legged surfer is above the ocean. Even if we never slip (and we all do), it can still reach up and pull us under at any moment. Those of us raised in the Western tradition have been repeatedly assured that we are special, unique among living things, above and beyond the world around us, exempt from the humilities and humiliations that pervade and define animal life. The natural world lies below and beneath us, a cause for shame, disgust, and alarm; something smelly and messy to be hidden behind closed doors, drawn curtains, and minty freshness. Or we over-compensate and imagine nature to be floating angelically in soft focus somewhere above, innocent, noble, and wise.
This lesson was brought home to me in a big way on a muggy afternoon in Penang, Malaysia some years ago. A couple of men were selling peanuts just inside the entrance to the botanical gardens, where my girlfriend and I had come to walk off a big lunch. Seeing our confusion, they gestured to explain that the peanuts weren't for us, but to feed irresistibly cute baby monkeys like those rolling around on the grass nearby. We bought a few bags.
Just inside the gardens, we came to a little guy hanging by his tail. His oh-so-human eyes focused imploringly on the bag of nuts in Ana's hand. We were cooing like teen-aged girls in a kitten shop when the underbrush exploded in a sudden simian strike. A full-grown monkey flashed past me and then was gone - along with the nuts. Ana's hand was bleeding where he'd scratched her. We were stunned, trembling. I doubt we'd even managed to scream.
As the adrenaline ebbed, my fear curdled into loathing. I felt a deeper sense of betrayal than any human deceit had ever caused me. Along with that cheap bag of nuts went precious assumptions about the purity of nature, of evil as a uniquely human affliction. I wasn't just angry; I was philosophically offended.
Something shifted inside me. I felt my chest swell. My arms felt stronger, my eyesight sharper. I felt like Popeye after downing a can of spinach. I glared into the underbrush like the heavyweight I now was, vowing to take no more abuse from these lightweight primates.
Yes, I should have known better. I'd been traveling in Asia long enough to know that monkeys there were nothing like their trombone-playing, tambourine-banging cousins I'd seen on TV as a kid in Pittsburgh. Free-living Asian monkeys possess a characteristic I found shocking the first time I saw it: self-respect. If you make the mistake of holding the gaze of a free-living monkey in India, Nepal, or Malaysia, you'll find yourself facing an eerily intelligent creature whose expression says to you, with a Robert DeNiro-like scowl, "What the hell are you looking at?" Forget about getting one of these guys to wear a funny hat.
Of course, it wasn't long before we came to another imploring, furry face hanging upside down, and by now, Ana was ready to forgive and forget. Though fully hardened against cuteness of any kind, I agreed to give her the nuts, as we were safely in the middle of a small clearing, with no underbrush nearby from which we could be ambushed. As I pulled the bag out of my sweat-soaked pocket, the cellophane rustle rang through the jungle like the clang of a dinner bell.
In a heartbeat, a large, arrogant-looking brute appeared at the edge of the clearing, about twenty yards away. He gazed at us, seeming to consider the situation. He yawned, casually displaying impressive though yellowing fangs. Feeling I was being sized up, and determined to fill any power vacuum without delay, I picked up a small branch and tossed it casually in his direction, just to make the point that these nuts were definitely not for him - and that I was no innocent tourist to be trifled with. He watched the branch land harmlessly a few feet in front of him, not moving a muscle. Then his forehead seemed to crinkle in thought. He looked up at me, right into my eyes. His gaze held no hint of fear, respect, or humor.
Then, as if shot from a canon, he leapt over the branch I'd tossed at him, long yellow dagger fangs bared, emitting something between a low growl and a high scream as he charged straight at us.
Something snapped in me that afternoon, between the attacking beast and my terrified girlfriend. In movement far quicker than thought, my arms flew open, my legs flexed into a wrestler's crouch, and my own coffee-stained, orthodontia-corrected teeth were bared with a wild shriek of my own. I went into a hopping-mad, saliva-spraying dominance display that would have made any red-faced baboon proud.
I was as surprised as he was. He pulled up and stared at me for a second or two before slowly backing into the underbrush. This time, I'm sure I saw a hint of humor in his eyes.
Above nature? Not a chance. Take it from Mr. Allnut.
