The very pioneers of great ape research were female. In the 1960’s, with all of the great apes in peril, anthropologist Louis Leakey hired three women to initiate long-term censuses and behavioral studies of these primates. Dian Fossey would study the mountain gorillas, Birute Galdikas the orangutans, and Jane Goodall was in charge of chimpanzees. No one considered bonobos (a.k.a. pygmy chimpanzees) their own species yet. Leakey unapologetically argued that women, with their undying patience, perseverance, and nurturing attitudes were the only ones that would be right for the job. Of course, such a statement would be politically incorrect today. Still, even if these female stereotypes are not nearly universal or instinctual, I believe they are at times culturally fostered, and therefore applicable. The unavoidable truth is that social differences exist between many men and women, both in the way we act and the way that we are treated. This creates different experiences for us in primate research.
As corny or unprofessional as it may be, as a twenty-five-year-old middle class female, I feel a sense of unity with these pioneers of primatology, and an ever growing respect for the trials they must have endured. This sense has been amplified this time around. When I arrived at our isolated station I was the sole female. I worked with a manager not much older than me and two male undergraduate interns. Also living here are a staff of four local men to maintain camp and one to two male rangers working for UWA (Ugandan Wildlife Authority). I only leave the station once every few weeks, so for most of my days I never encounter another female. I quickly started to notice subtle differences in my field demeanor and that of the guys: the ways we cope with isolation and boredom, the order of our tents and supplies, and the way we behave in the presence of chimpanzees. I’ve found that the older I get, the more of a grown woman I become, the more content and patient I am with simply sitting and watching primates. This skill is indispensible. Primate research is one of the greatest tests of patience: hours, even days of perilous hikes up mountains, over rocks, and through thorny vines; the moments where your boots skid and slide out from under you, forcing your calloused hands to break your forward fall with a painful grasp to a thorn covered vine or a mount of termites. Constant sweat dripping from your matted hair and tiny instects darting into your eyes and nose. All of this for that moment of shocking stillness when you finally encounter a chimp. Then you sit.
Chimps are not usually doing the things you see in nature documentaries. They don’t engage in daily cooperative hunts and wage heart-wrenching wars at all times. Females aren’t giving birth every week or handing over cute infants for your own entertainment. These are the moments people trade decades of their lives to experience first hand in the space of a few short breaths. They are incredibly worth the sacrifice, but in no way characteristic of the bulk of my work. Most of a chimpanzee’s life is spent feeding and resting. Being in their presence for such mundane moments is only rewarding when this has been accepted. I’ve found that when I grew up enough to relinquish control and release my culturally fostered desire for constant, intense stimulation, I realized that simply sitting and experiencing a quiet, slow motion moment can be gratifying.
So I sit and watch, sit and experience. I stare at faces and hands and subtle motions through my binoculars for hours at a time, trying to create a solid mental library of every individual and waiting for the moment one poops. I focus in on the very moment I’m in and realize that the simple act of watching and concentrating is the most productive, rewarding thing I can be doing. It is in these moments that I can begin to understand Louis Leakey’s politically incorrect sexist hiring – just a little though.
Of course, hiring patient young women to pioneer a study in East Africa in the 1960’s must have had its issues. Africa is not always friendly to women. I’ve written before (see Kenya blog) about my feelings on the place of local women in Africa. I’ve never mentioned that the perceived social inferiority of these women may have an effect on the way I am treated by Africans as well. That might be because in my working environment these attitudes have usually been subtle and easy to ignore. Also, I’ve worked with teams of female researchers before. We know from our own national history that the best way to earn respect is to stand together. Only recently was I forced to consider the constant, nagging, blindingly frustrating wall that early, solo female primatologists must have faced.
We’d recently been given a new armed ranger from UWA. They employ several rangers throughout the reserve. Some are military men, others hired specifically as wildlife experts. Al carry AK-47’s for protection from poachers, buffalo, and elephant. One to two rangers are rotated to our site to protect us and guide us through the forest daily. Jacob was one of the military men. He’d fought the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in northern Uganda and the D.R. Congo for years. Not much older than me, he’d also been sent to fight terrorism in Somalia. He spoke no English, only his tribal language of northern Uganda and Swahili.
After he’d been in the forest with the guys and I for about a week, a morning came when a 19-year-old intern and I were entering the forest alone. The manager was out of camp for supplies. I sucked down my coffee, stuffed a few more bites of oatmeal in my mouth and a hard boiled egg in my pack. Just as the pink sun rose above the smoky escarpment, I slung my binoculars over my shoulder, turned to Jacob, who was slouched in a chair, and said, “It’s time! Twende! (Let’s go!)” He just sat, motionless, legs sprawled onto the cement floor, one hand slung over his gun, the other holding a bright orange canteen, eyes blankly holding a perplexing gaze with my own. I knew my Swahili had been correct, and I knew he understood it, so I tried again. “Jacob, twende, the chimps are waiting.” The intern stood, ready to move, just watching this odd exchange. Finally, a smirk spread across Jacob’s face as he turned to a staff member named Justus and said something in hurried Swahili. Justus was quiet for a second, snickered, then turned to me with an uncomfortable smile: “I am supposed to tell you that this man will not be taking orders from a woman. This one (he pointed to the 19-year-old college freshman) will be your driver today.” I stood, speechless and paralyzed by this unexpected early morning confrontation, wondering what a good anthropologist would do. “Okay,” the intern said, “let’s go!” In one swift motion, Jacob jumped up from his seat and animatedly marched towards the forest. After five more seconds of paralysis, I thought, screw being a good anthropologist. I’m a Rich-family-girl and someone just dared say that to my face! I ran ahead of them, stopped, stared Jacob in the eyes and shouted, “I don’t care who you have a problem following! You are working for this project today. I am the graduate student, and you WILL listen to me!” I knew he didn’t understand all of the words, but the stance I’d just communicated to a Ugandan solider holding an AK-47 did not require English. He laughed, shook his head, and kept walking.
This went on for two weeks. Jacob would mock me, ignore me, refuse to give me food during snack times in the forest. The local men working for camp seemed to be torn between siding with their countryman and being nice to me. I knew I was making things worse by insisting on still walking ahead of him or responding with assertive postures and expressions. Still, I knew this was an attitude that I could not succumb to then walk away from with any self-respect. I knew I wasn’t changing his mind or improving conditions for women in East Africa.
Things have been chancing here though. Men are learning that they cannot beat their wives, that AIDS is not just spread by women, and co-ops are providing reliable female income. None of these changes have happened because of the women who kept their mouths shut for their own short-term good. These things happened slowly, because women risked their own reputations and even safety to make people think twice before they assumed things would never change. So I kept fighting him.
After a week or so of constant complaining from me and direct confrontations between Jacob and I, the manager went to the Semliki UWA office to complain and request a new ranger. When he told them why, the whole office erupted in laughter. Even the one female staff member joined in. Jacob stayed for another week, then was finally swapped out for a new ranger.
I doubt it was because of me. I’m sure I looked ridiculous to them, and everyone thought I made a big deal out of nothing. That single stance is not a symptom of nothing though. It is a symptom of a changing reality for women in East Africa. Uganda and Kenya are in a transition that the US had to experience for a better quality of life as well. Beating one’s wife was once considered a fundamental right of being a husband. Income served the husband’s desire’s first, and the wife and children’s nourishment second. Most girls still drop out of school by the age of first menstruation. They don’t get their own restrooms and face daily sexual harassment and threat of molestation from male classmates. They’re made to believe that this is just the way it is. Their education is not important anyway. Boys will get the jobs, make the money, control their futures. So they quit school, keep quiet, and accept their lack of a future.
This is changing though. I can see a new Africa emerging before my very eyes. Mustafa tells me of his smart 10-year-old daughter who attends priave school with the money he makes here. Justus tells me he would never dream of hitting his wife, and I know the future will be better for their children just like it was for my generation. And not because any woman kept her mouth shut.
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