Chased By A Monkey

Yes folks that’s right, get ready folks for yet another installment of “crazy white girl joined the Peace Corps and went to Africa” here on your friendly world wide web sponsored by the lovely folks at Google. Apologies are in order once again for my empty promises of writing “soon”. If you understood Africa time and my current life situation then you would know that I am writing “soon”. However, I recognize that the people who are probably reading this are in a place that values timeliness and where yes means “yes” rather than yes, which actually means “most likely not”. I recently used one of my “weekends away” as the Peace Corps called them when we first arrived and spent a few days out in the bush with monkeys. That’s right folks…monkeys. Two of my fabulous friends, Sandy and Bruce, created a monkey rehab center (don’t think Amy Winehouse here) for monkeys that have been abandoned or kept as pets by humans. First of all, I would like to make the public service announcement that monkeys are not pets and should not be kept as such. If you want a furry, cuddly pet that wears diapers as an infant, drinks milk, slowly moves onto solids, and that you can love then I suggest having a baby. Babies, though a handful, are far less wild that monkeys and, in general, do not have razor sharp teeth to bite you. Moral of the story folks, don’t get a monkey because it can end up in rehab.

Monkeys come from all over the KwaZulu Natal region to the rehab center where they received a healthy diet of fruits, veggies, insects, and nuts to chow on at least twice a day, other monkeys who are also dealing with the same issues, a family environment, and the opportunity to become reintroduced into the wild. The 31 monkeys that were recently introduced back into the wild had been at the center for over two years. Finally, they seemed to have grasped the skills that will allow them so survive without human intervention. Tracking collars were put on seven of the monkeys before they were set free. We tracked the monkeys with the honing device and we recorded their behavior. It was amazing. The monkeys went nuts when we drove the 8.2 kilometers on rough dirt roads were snaky throughout the mountains to their indigenous forest area. The monkeys knew food was coming with us so they weren’t afraid. In fact three of the monkeys jumped on to the back of the truck and one tried to steal things from Bruce’s open backpack. After yelling at the monkey to get back into the tree and to stop stealing the bag, the monkey finally retreated. I calmly took the bag of the back of the truck and proceeded to walk away when the monkey decided it was time for a showdown. As my back was turned to the monkey (because I was walking away), the monkey leaped off the tree and onto the ground and began to chase me. Sandy yelled “Christi!” and I spun around to find the monkey galloping in my direction. So naturally being 4 feet taller than the monkey and weight over 100 pounds more than that primate, I screamed like a little girl and ran like hell. The monkey must have been scared by my girlish shriek because she stopped dead in her tracks. I ran behind my camping chair as Sandy tried to use hers as some sort of sword to ward off the vicious (okay well maybe not so vicious) attack. The monkey must have found all of this quite amusing and decided taking back the backpack wasn’t worth a camping chair to the head, so she scurried back up the tree and made lurching movements that I can only imagine meant “What now you stupid American. Try to take that backpack again. Go ahead. Do it”. Only in Africa would I get chased down by a 15 pound monkey with an attitude. Moral of the story folks, if a monkey wants your backpack, give it to him or be ready for an epic battle.

Besides being intimidated by small primates, I have been keeping very well and am very busy here. I must be honest; I am not practicing my Zulu much because my friend who I always speak with had a baby recently and is not back to work yet. I tell myself everyday that I will wake up and practice for an hour just like I tell myself everyday I will write in my journal. The last time I wrote in my journal was January 25 and I don’t want to admit when I last sat down to really practice Zulu. Ugh. I am expecting too much from myself and I am too busy to do all that I want. “Busy in a small town in Africa, how can this be?” you ask. Well, I work at school for 28 hours a week and also with the kids at the children’s home for another 10-20 hours a week so I am keeping very busy. Since I go to bed at 9 or 9:30 unless someone calls me, I do not have time for sleep-time-wasting activities like writing and learning a very necessary language. Nope, no time for that. In America, I could easily deal with working 24-30 hours a week at the Low Rises (including midnight to six am shifts) and then going to school full time. But here, oh no. I need my eight hours or else the kids say things to me like “you hair looks hlebe hlebe (wild and untamed) and “your face is falling” which I am taking to mean that either I look tired or gravity is taking its toll far too early on my young skin. Who knows? So be thankful folks when I risk premature aging to write you one of oh so enduring letters and take the time to address it especially for you from deepest, darkest Africa. Also be thankful because I do not have a mailbox at my house so in order to send letters, I must conveniently walk 20 minutes to the post office and 20 minutes back in the less than desirable heat. I risk heat rash and constant harassment about my accent just to make it to the South African Post Office in adoration for those who write me and I feel it necessary to finally respond to. Be patient, your letter is coming (Mom, Dad, Nida, Aunt Shelda, Mema, and Holly…I am a little backed up, right?). Until next time folks...