I grew up surrounded by monkeys.
Walking past the zoo on Cup Day, I heard what sounded like a bunch of yobs hollering. Surely it was a bit early for drunken race goers, I thought, before I realised it was the monkeys. Their deep, echoing, ‘whoop whoop whoop’ took me back. Way back.
My first home, which I can’t consciously remember, on account of leaving when I was 12 months old, was right on the banks of the Tapti River in western India. Next door was a temple to Hanuman the Monkey God – he of Ramayana fame, who saved the day for the man-god Rama. Food was put out there for the monkeys every day, and the direct route to their mealtime spread was over our house.
My older sister came into the bathroom one day to find a large monkey preparing to fight its reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mum told a story of a neighbour’s baby who was on a verandah in its cot and was plucked up by a monkey passing through, who proceeded to drop it straight back into its cot. Unlikely, I know, but my mum was not one to exaggerate, let alone make things up.
The monkeys in Gujarat and Rajasthan in western India are Langurs. Growing up with them as part of everyday life, you soon learnt to respect them, to keep your distance. They are fascinating to watch, especially the ones with tiny, human-looking babies clinging to their chests as they bound from tree to rooftop to temple parapet, but get close to them at your peril.
The males can be large; their fur is pewter grey; their tails are supple and longer than their bodies; their faces are black and startlingly human. They stare at you, completely unafraid and chillingly fierce. And yes, they love bananas, and they peel them just like we do. And peanuts.
I was sitting with my dad on a local bus one day, stopped at a bus station, munching on peanuts, as we often did. His left hand was held out, full of nuts which he picked at with his right. Suddenly a long, skinny grey arm crept from the seat behind and helped itself to his pile of nuts. We didn’t argue.
Another time I was back in India as a young woman. I should have known better, but I suspect I was showing off to my new husband. We were on a flat roof, surrounded by a troop of monkeys, and I decided I’d hold out a banana for them to take, so that I could get up close, so that he could get an impressive photo.
Big mistake. The monkey that got the banana was happy enough; the rest of the group approached threateningly, expecting their share. My gallant husband had disappeared by this stage – maybe he thought that being a local I would have effective monkey-management techniques. I didn’t, but I screamed, very loudly, and while the startled monkeys were collecting their wits, I made a lightning getaway to the steps and downstairs to safety.
All these memories came rushing back as I walked my little dog past the high red brick walls of the Royal Melbourne Zoo. Of a childhood in a wild, unpredictable country. Of the fierce, bewildered grief at being torn from there and brought to Melbourne in the seventies, where life seemed very bland and dull. Where there were no frightening, captivating troops of monkeys in the streets.