Kanzi: The Ape at the Brink of the Human Mind (2 page)

Roger called me later to thank me for the opportunity to visit. I was happily surprised. He told me that he had been deeply impressed with all that he had seen and urged me to write a book that would convey much of what I had been compelled to leave out in scientific research reports. I agreed that it was important to attempt, but saw no time window. Caring for all of the apes, while attempting to accomplish research, was already more than a full-time job. I asked if he would help. He agreed. I was surprised yet again, and much pleased. So enmeshed had I become in the work that things to which I no longer gave a second thought took others by surprise and required explanation. I knew I needed someone to work on the story with me; it was too all-encompassing to tackle alone. And so we set about the task together. The book that follows, though written in the first person, represents a joint effort to
portray a story we have both come to understand and appreciate far better by working together. Although the firsthand experiences were mine, in sharing them with Roger they became, in a sense, our joint experiences, interpreted through four eyes instead of two. Roger never walked in the woods with Kanzi, but the story quickly became his as well as mine because he understood it, and then we worked to make it ours. I hope we have succeeded.

Sue Savage-Rumbaugh

Many people have played a role in this story over the years, each with his or her own attraction to and insight into the mind of the ape. Four stand out very clearly as having been an integral part of all that has happened and all that continues to unfold each day. Duane Rumbaugh has provided constant drive, constant encouragement, and constant support. He has made me believe that what is being learned is worth the effort and will, someday, be of value. Rose Sevcik has been with me and with all the apes through every problem and every crisis, and there have been many. Without her aid and steadfast courage, there are times that I could not have gone forward. Her belief in what Kanzi can do and who he is has made all the difference. Liz Pugh has been there as well. She has gotten me out of cages when Austin and Panzee locked me in, and she has shown Kanzi and Panbanisha they can do a thousand things they thought were impossible. She has raised a child as well as four apes, and no one knows better than she how close we really are. Mary Ann Romski has made everything we have done and learned real, as she has worked more responsibly than anyone will ever know to translate the best of what we have learned into real and pragmatic help for human children. But her efforts have not stopped at help, they have gone far into the scientific documentation of why what we have learned really works.

Brent Swenson, or “Dr. Brent” as we refer to him, has kept Kanzi and many other of our apes alive on more than one occasion. He has seen them through air sac infections, severe allergy attacks, heart defects, herpes, strep, flu, injuries, pneumonia, abscessed teeth, and many other ailments that befall man and
ape alike. He has done it with far less “information” than most medical doctors have at their disposal, for the apes do not cooperate so willingly with regard to standard medical inspections. He has also done it with a patience that is extraordinary.

Without his wealth of knowledge, his keen eye, and his sensitivity to all that apes do when they are ill, we never could have succeeded in learning about Kanzi. The first bonobo that was studied in captivity by Robert Yerkes died around four to five years of age. By contrast, the advent of modern medicine, when practiced by a person of great sensitivity, skill, and special concern for bonobos, has made possible research that surely would have been terminated in an untimely manner in an earlier day.

While I was working on the book, many people provided advice, encouragement, and support. Shelly Williams made certain that the lab continued to run effectively and that Kanzi and the other apes were not only happy but involved with life and with research in a creative and positive way. Iain Davidson, Patricia Greenfield, Duane Rumbaugh, Mary Ann Romski, Rose Sevcik, and Nick Toth all participated far beyond the ordinary in helping with the manuscript itself, in its detail and its story. Some of the excellent photos have been provided by Nick Nichols, taken with insight and intensity out of concern for the plight of apes everywhere.

Solid encouragement that the story being told was worthwhile and that its philosophical implications could be successfully conveyed has been provided by Stuart Shanker.

Many people continue to try to make certain each day that the apes in our laboratory receive every opportunity to express themselves both to human beings and to other apes, and to live lives full of social interchange and self-dignity. To the people who give themselves so selflessly to these apes and who are trying hard to see through the rough exterior that apes project to the depths of the gentle souls that rest underneath, I am deeply grateful. Thank you Adrea Clay, Angela Fox, John Kelly, Linda McGarra, Julie Meitz, Jeannine Murphy, Skip Haig, Jane Patton, Phillip Shaw, Dan Rice, Ryan Sheldon, and David Washburn.

The apes at the Language Research Center, with the exception of Matata, have all been born either at the Yerkes Primate Center or at the Language Research Center of Georgia State University. Without the trust and confidence of the Yerkes Center, which permitted us to work with these apes, this story could never have begun to unfold. Without the unflagging support of Georgia State University, which has built our facility, provided us with a forest, and stood by the value of our work through attacks from animal rightists as well as those who believe apes have no business learning language, the story of these apes would have vanished long ago. And without the peer support provided by panel after panel of site visitors from the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, we would never have had the funds to make any inroads into the area of ignorance that surrounded our understanding of the intellectual capacities of apes.

And without Lana, Sherman, Austin, Mercury, Panzee, Panbanisha, Kanzi, Neema, Matata, and Tamuli—well, without them, my life would have been stripped of meaning. They have shown me what it means, and what it takes, truly to be a human being. I thank them for the countless lessons they have given me on becoming a window through which others may shine.

1

Threading my way along the sandy path toward the ocean shore, I sought out the rhythmic sound of shifting surf. The faint light of predawn arrived and I could see the rocky coastline ahead, then the silhouette of the distant mountains behind which the sun would soon rise. I was near the small coastal village of Cascais, Portugal, attending a meeting organized by the Wenner-Gren Foundation, a group lengendary in anthropological circles.

Scientists invited to Wenner-Gren conferences are kept away from the rest of the world and encouraged to examine each other’s views in small and intense conferences. Until recently, such conferences had always taken place at “The Castle,” in Burg Wartenstein, Austria. But times being as they were, even the Wenner-Gren Foundation could no longer afford the luxury of a castle and its attendant staff, solely for the purpose of getting scientists to talk meaningfully to one another.

Having forfeited its beloved castle, the foundation located a small hotel near Cascais, not least because the hotel, though relatively new, was constructed as a castle. Ancient stone had been formed into thick heavy walls with arched windows, enclosing restful courtyards. This modern bastion was poised
high on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. The setting rivaled that of the original castle—especially in its isolation.

Early morning is the time I try to bring order to the flood of thoughts running through my mind upon waking. Once the bustle of the day begins, I must constantly be prepared to respond to others and usually have little or no time to reflect. Thus I find it best to try to seek a bit of solitude before the day arrives, when I can. Walking along the beach at Cascais, I mused over the discussions of the past few days. Bill Calvin, a neurobiologist at the University of Washington, Seattle, had been talking about the extraordinary accuracy and power with which humans can throw. Chimpanzees and gorillas can throw, too, as visitors to zoos sometimes discover, to their chagrin. Apes do not enjoy being stared at and frequently throw things at visitors in an attempt to make them leave.

Calvin was among the most thoughtful of the scientists gathered about the round table overlooking the ocean where we spent most of our daylight hours. Unlike others who could not wait to disagree, Calvin took in information and permitted it to “interact” with the vast pool of knowledge he already had stored. Only when some new insight arrived as a result of this process did Calvin wade into the constant fray that was taking place around the table. He, more than the rest of us, knew how brains worked, and he was very good at letting his own brain have the room it needed to do its job. It took a while to realize this, but when I did, I made certain to listen carefully whenever Bill Calvin decided to speak.

The development of throwing, Calvin had pointed out, was clearly important during man’s evolution from an apelike ancestor. In particular, the accurate hurtling of stones became a valuable means of hunting and self-defense against predators. Another scientist, Nick Toth, was also interested in throwing, but for a different reason. Nick, unlike the rest of us, actually knew how to make the stone tools that our prehuman ancestors had utilized.

Nick was not a typical scientist. I recognized this right away when he sat down with his briefcase and began pulling fist-sized rocks out of it. He then casually mentioned that the
most monumental decision of his life had been whether to be a rock musician or an anthropologist. Interesting dilemma, I thought, the only commonality being that both professions focused on rock.

The previous day, Toth had riveted the group’s attentions with his display of stones and demonstrations of how rocks can become tools. He explained the physics of conchoidal fracture, by which good, sharp flakes can be made, and he challenged us to accompany him to the beach to try to make the “crude” stone tools of our two-million-year-old ancestors,
Homo erectus
. That afternoon I gained a newfound respect for the feats of my “prehuman” ancestors. No longer did I deem it appropriate to apply the word
crude
to their tools.

It was my first attempt to emulate a Paleolithic stone knapper, and I did not find it an easy task. Neither I, nor most of the other “educated scientists,” could coax even a single flake from the pebbles on the beach during our first half hour of trying. We even resorted to placing one stone on the ground and slamming another against it, but to no avail. Finally, instead of just watching Nick, I began to look closely at what he was doing. Why did the stones break so easily when he struck them together with such little force, while they just made a loud “thud” when I slammed them together as hard as I could?

I finally recognized that Nick was not really hitting rocks together; instead, he was throwing the rock in his right hand against the edge of the rock in his left hand, letting the force of the controlled throw knock off the flake. The “hammer rock” never really left his right hand, but it was nonetheless thrown, as a missile, against the “core,” or the rock held in place in his left hand. What had I been doing? Just slamming two rocks together as though I were clapping my hands with rocks in between.

Once I realized how Nick was actually flaking stone, I grasped the profound similarity between the activities of throwing and stone knapping. In each activity, you must be able to snap the wrist rapidly forward at just the right moment during the downward motion of the forearm. This wrist-cocking
action produces great force, either for achieving distance in throwing or for knocking a flake off a core pebble. I also knew that the wrist anatomy of African apes prevented them from making this kind of movement. Chimpanzees’ wrists stiffened as they became adept knuckle walkers. They cannot bend their hands backward at the wrist as we can, but they can put weight on their hands for long periods without injury to their wrists.