The Monkey Poop Chase: Boabeng-Fiema, Ghana

My neck ached from looking up, and sweat ran down from my hands grasping binoculars to my oversaturated armpits. The jungle shimmered through through waves of humidity, accentuated by pulsations of the chorus of a million insects.

Was that number 32 or 21 on that branch? I consulted my monkey identification sheet. The biologists had told me the differences were obvious if you took into account facial features and tail lengths, but the every monkey looked the same to me. Also, every time I thought I was getting close to identifying one, it would jump away quickly.

“Drop 32!” Mary shouted. Through my binoculars, I followed the projectile of colobus monkey poop falling from monkey 32 until I could see where it landed, then joined Mary, Sara, and our local guide Adwoa in running after it like it was a prize, our binoculars whacking our chests along the way. My toe caught a vine, and I was flying through the air. Thump!

Stunned, I patted myself down and searched for major damage. Just a bunch of scratches, I decided, and some strange burning sensation on my calf... holy shit! A line of the biggest ants I had ever seen were crawling up my pants. I started screaming and hitting my leg. Adwoa came over to me and started whacking my leg even harder, trying to crush any ants inside my pants and brushing down to remove them. It seemed like she was using more force than necessary. I looked over at Sara and Mary, but they were still intently searching for the monkey poop.

“All good now!” Adwoa gave my legs one more pat. “You’re lucky they didn’t climb up into your nose, they would have eaten out your insides!”

Mary came over, triumphantly holding a vial containing the monkey poop. “Got it!”

My legs and hands were shaking; I felt nauseous. “Hey, Mary, I think I need to take a break.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. If I wasn’t going to be a field biologist, what would I do with my life? The study sounded so exciting: analyzing how primate female aggression varies with estrus cycle phase, kind of like searching for a “monkey PMS.” But the day-to-day work was uncomfortable, boring, and at times terrifying. I thought about taking the first tro-tro (mini-bus taxi) to Accra in the morning.

I checked my phone, it was 1 AM. Above the rusty whir of my ineffective fan I could hear birds call outside. I needed some air. I got up and walked the path from my hostel to the jungle. The smell was incredible: green, flowers and dirt throbbed in the air to the rhythm of the insomniac insects. My toes squished in the soft soil and I felt hugged by the whole living landscape, every inch pulsing with life. Then I realized my feet were unprotected, and the army ants were probably lurking, waiting to invade. I quickly retreated back to my room.

In the morning as I sat in the Accra-bound tro tro, I felt a wave of sadness and failure. Why was I leaving this beautiful place? Perhaps I could have hung on until the study concluded. My eyes fell on a long black pipe on the dirt road. Suddenly the pipe bent in half and stood up. It was a huge black mamba, even taller than our van! I panicked and slapped the leg of the huge chicken-holding lady sitting next to me. She glared at me, annoyed. I pointed out the huge snake to her. She shrugged her shoulders.

It was a good time to head back to the city.