From our Subic Bay terrace my worldview is shaped by greens and blues. A small yard extends from the carport beneath our elevated house. A banana tree occupies one corner. I yearn to shimmy up it like Ernie, our gardener, fetching bananas like he does coconuts, eating them fresh from the tree. That is wishful thinking. The troop of monkeys who spend their days on the fence separating our patch of grass from the hillside jungle will beat me to them every time.
I am warned not to go near the monkeys. Don’t feed them. Don’t look them directly in the eye. The Filipinos tell me they snatch babies and carry them away into the jungle. I am no baby. I am five years old, but I watch cautiously from my side of the fence. They groom each other, tails dangling provocatively into my yard, mothers with nursing babies clinging and feeding as they go about their monkey business. I practice hanging from my arms in case I must join them on jungle slopes, swinging from the canopy until I reach the deep blue-green of the South China Sea at the bottom of our mountain.
If the long-tailed macaque is not to be looked at directly or fed, how will I make one a pet? If I were allowed to toss them bread, I would gradually train them to safely meet me in the middle of the yard and take it from my hand. I’d read the expressions on their faces and see thankfulness in their round golden-brown eyes. I’d learn their language, a female-mini-Dr. Doolittle. They could tell me their adventures—of nimbly averting wild boars, of warning each other where Pythons hide—when I held court with them from my side of the fence.
My little brother, Andrew, has learned to walk on tile floors so slick with wax his feet slide from under him. He is relieved to feel the friction of the grassy patch in front of my swing. Our lungs fill with purest air, oxygen saturated by rain forest. I swing high enough to escape gravity’s green clothing into the expanse of blue sky. I close my eyes and imagine flying from my swing directly over the jungle and landing in warm tropical waters. I throw my head back; waist-long hair flows with my pumping legs.
Andrew squeals with delight and toddles toward the living brown toy he spies. Like me, he wants to pet and cuddle the cute baby monkey who fell into the yard. Monkey Mamma screams a warning and bares her teeth from the fence. She leaps toward the hairless boy approaching her offspring. A similar sound comes from the terrace where our own mother watches the scene unfold, too far to race her hairy adversary. Andrew nears the baby monkey. The mamma darts to intercept him. Ernie hears the noise, instantly dropping his manual reel mower and accelerating with astonishing fleetness, snatching Andrew the instant before Monkey Mamma can. She scolds us all, scoops her baby, and returns him to the fence for a once over. He is safe. So is my brother, returned to the terrace into quivering, anxious arms. I will not need to brave the jungle to find a man-cub raised by monkeys today.
Try This: Imagine the colors, smells, and feelings of your five-year-old-self. What story does that bring?
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