Shortly before we left our hilltop hut at Bakebe and travelled down to our last camp at Kumba*, we had with us a most unusual guest in the shape of Cholmondeley, known to his friends as Chumely.
Chumley was a full-grown chimpanzee. His owner, a District Officer, was finding the ape’s large size rather awkward and wanted to send him to London Zoo as a present, so that he could visit the animal when he was back in England on leave. He wrote asking us if we would mind taking Chumley back with us when we left and depositing him at his new home in London, and we replied that we would not mind at all. I don’t think that either John or myself had the least idea how big Chumley was. I know that I visulalized an ape about three years old, standing about three feet high. I got a rude shock when Chumeley moved in.
He arrived in the back of a small van, seated in a huge crate. When the doors of his crate were opened and Chumley stepped out with all the ease and self-confidence of a film star, I was considerably shaken. Standing on his bowlegs in a normal slouching chimp position, he came up to my waist.
He stood on the ground and surveyed his surroundings with a shrewd glance, and then he turned to me and held out one of his soft, pink-palmed hands to be shaken, with exactly that bored expression that one sees on the faces of professional hand shakers.
He seated himself in a chair, dropped his chain on the floor, and then looked hopefully at me. It was quite obvious that he expected some sort of refreshment after his tiring journey. I roared out to the kitchen for someone to make a cup of tea, for I had been warned that Chumley had a great liking for the cup that cheers.
As I poured the tea and milk into Chumeley’s mug and added three tablespoons of sugar, he watched me with a glittering eye and made soft “ ooing” noises to himself. I handed him the mug and he took it carefully in both hands. He tested the tea carefully with one lip stuck out, to see if it was too hot. As it was, he sat there and blew on it until it was the right temperature and then he drank it down.
Chumley’s crate was placed about fifty yards from the hut (next to a great gnarled tree stump to which I attached his chain) From there he could get a good view of everything that went on in and around the hut, and as we were working he would shout comments to me and I would reply.
That night, when I carried Chumley’s food and drink of tea out to him, he greeted me with loud “ hoo hoos” of delight, and jogged up and down, beating his knuckles on the ground. Before he touched his dinner, however, he seized one of my hands in his and carried it to his mouth.
With some trepidation I waited as he carefully put one of my fingers between his great teeth and very gently bit it. Then I understood: in the chimpanzee world, to place your finger between another ape’s teeth is a greeting and a sign of trust. To place a finger in such a vulnerable position shows your confidence in the other’s friendliness.
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 as possible.
Not long after Chyumley’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 mugful of water a day. I was away at the time, and frantic message from John brought me hurrying back. On my return I tried everything I knew to tempt Chumley to eat for he was growing visibly thinner.
One evening before I went to take Chumeley 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 that 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 though my pockets, which was in itself a good sign. He had not done that since the first day he had been taken ill. He found a biscuit, got it out, sniffed it, and then to my delight, ate it up. I knew he was going to be all right.
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.
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.
The only times she screamed, clenching her little fists and kicking her legs in fury were 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 let you know it.
Her face, hands, and feet were pink, and she had a thick coat of wiry black hair.
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, the London Zoo’s official collector arrived, and with great regret I handed Chumley over to be transported 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.
I did not think that he would recognize me. 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.
When the time came to go, he shook hands with me and watched my departure through the crack in the door.
I never saw Chumley again, but I know his history: he became a great television star, doing his act in front of the cameras like an old trouper. Then his teeth started to worry him, and so he was moved from the monkey house back to the sanatorium to have an operation. One day feeling bored with life, he broke out and sallied forth across Regent’s park. When he reached the main road he found a bus conveniently at hand, so he swung himself aboard. His presence caused such horror among the occupants of the bus that he got excited and forgot himself so far as to bite someone. If only people would realize that to scream and panic is the best way of provoking an attack from any wild animal! Leaving the bus and its now bloodstained passenger, Chumley walked down the road. When a member of the sanatorium staff arrived on the scene, he took his keeper’s hand and walked back home.
After this he was branded as not safe and sent back to the monkey house. But he had not yet finished with publicity, for some time later he had to go back to the sanatorium for yet more treatment on his teeth, and he decided to repeat his little escapade. He broke open his cage and set off once more across Regent’s Park. At Gloucester Gate he looked about hopefully for a bus, but there was not one in sight. But there were some cars parked there and Chumley approached them and beat on the doors vigorously, in the hope that the occupants would open up and offer him a lift. Chumley loved a ride. But the foolish humans misunderstood his actions: there he was asking for a lift, and all they could do was to wind up their windows and yell for help. Before he had time to explain his mission to the car owners, a panting posse of keepers arrived, and he was bundled back to the Zoo. Chumley had escaped twice, and they were not going to risk it happening again. From being a fine, intelligent animal, good enough to be displayed on television, he had suddenly become a fierce and untrustworthy monster, who might escape again and bite some worthy citizen. To avoid this risk, Chumley was sentenced to death and shot.
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