Captivated

Natural History, Nov, 2003 by Meredith F. Small

I'm sitting on a bench in New York City's Central Park, waiting for the zoo to open. I have spent years observing macaque monkeys in the field, but these days I only teach and write about what they do, and I miss them. So whenever I'm in Manhattan, I hang out here with the snow monkeys (Macaca fuscata).

I've been visiting this troop for years. I have seen them in sunshine and snow; stood in the rain and watched them lick drops of wetness off their fur; held short business meetings in front of their exhibit; forced friends to meet me here. Unbeknownst to them, these furry gray monkeys from Japan have become my primate touchstone.

On this visit it's clear and sunny, and through the entrance gates I see the macaques jumping around their island exhibit. A path of rocks breaks the surface of the retaining pond that surrounds their enclosure, and a young female hops from one to another, leapfrogging over her troopmates as she goes.

Finally the gates open, and as I approach the group, my professional observing skills click in. By the time I reach them, my training as an observer--and that touch of magic I always feel in the presence of monkeys--has locked out the world; all that matters is the movement of these animals.

Today I count nine adults, one juvenile, and no babies. I know that fall is breeding season, and the females are signaling their fertility with red behinds. To my right a status interaction is unfolding--a female turns her rear to another female, indicating her lower position. I lean across the rail and get into the Zen of figuring out what these monkeys already know about each other: who is related to whom, how do they rank, which pair will be the next to mate?

My primatological reverie is interrupted by a crowd of visitors. I hear one woman call a male "she," and I'm compelled to correct her. "It's the shape of his face," I tell her, "and his size--and those bright red testicles." But I should know better than to be so patronizing, such a know-it-all. Several years ago, on one frozen January day, I asked some of the zoo's wild-animal keepers why the snow monkeys were indoors. After all, I told them, these monkeys are accustomed to crawling through snowdrifts in their native Japan. "If the pond froze over," they patiently responded, "the monkeys would simply walk out of the zoo." Humbled, I went to see the polar bear.

When I have the monkeys to myself again, I walk up the hill behind the exhibit and lean over the granite wall overlooking their enclosure, focusing on a pair of females. One is stretched out on a rock, arms and legs splayed in relaxation. Her eyelids droop. She is at peace. The other methodically moves a hand across her partner's belly, separating each strand of hair, gently touching each exposed patch of skin. Monkeys have done this to me, sitting on my shoulders with their handlike feet pressed against my neck, picking through my hair. I know it feels like heaven.

Concentrating on the grooming females, I stretch my own arms across the wall and feel the reflected warmth of the sun seep up from the granite slab. I, too, let my eyelids droop in contentment. For a few precious minutes I pretend that I have done nothing for the past few months but watch this group, that we know each other intimately, observer and observed. Monkey noises, their barks and calls, fill my ears. The familiar, musty odor of monkey fur at close quarters fills my nostrils.

I am, once again, renewed.

Meredith E Small is a writer and professor of anthropology at Cornell University.