The Attack of the Killer Rhododendrons (22 page)

Having been fought over for so long, it is no surprise that Gibraltar is littered with the detritus of military conflict. The town has defensive towers, walls, and gatehouses, and the cliffs are perforated by caves and tunnels that harboured thousands of troops during times of war. Even today, many military personnel are stationed in Gibraltar, and the highest reaches of the Upper Rock are still home to the skeletons of cannons and anti-aircraft guns of earlier conflicts. It isn’t pretty.

It had been about two hours since I left the hotel, and as I reached the summit, Gibraltar was coming alive. When I looked over the east ramparts and down toward the Mediterranean with its slight matte finish from a gentle breeze, the only sound to reach me was the serenade of hundreds of Yellow-legged Gulls. However, when I peered over the west side and down onto the town, the distant roar of metal on metal from the shipyards and vehicular traffic drifted up to me like acrid smoke. More than two dozen cargo ships sat in Gibraltar Bay awaiting loading, unloading, or repair. I could also see where new land was being created for the next generation of high-rises.

At the top of the King’s Stairs, I came across a group of ten apes. A couple were picking at the remains of the repast provided the night before, which consisted mainly of onions, cabbage, and oranges. Everywhere I saw a macaque, I also saw a sign warning that, for their own good, the monkeys were not to be fed by visitors. One pair proved themselves up for a little early-morning lovin.’ She urged him on, reaching behind her to grab his left leg, encouraging him to thrust.

It is truly amazing what you can discover if you are willing to spend enough time in a library. In a 1998 volume on primate sexuality, Alan F. Dixson reported that, during the mating season, adult male Barbary macaques ejaculate an average of 2.28 times an hour, with a minimum refractory period of just thirteen minutes. Females, it seems, are happy to solicit copulations from as many as ten males in a day. According to a 1974 monograph by W. C. Osman Hill, the scrotum of an adult male Barbary macaque is 63 millimetres by 50.5 millimetres by 32 millimetres, and the penis is 40 millimetres long. The baculum, a bone inserted into the penis to make it rigid, is “short and thick.” In describing the appearance of the external genitalia of young females, Hill explained that “the callosities are contiguous, with the rima pudendi at the lower end of the intervening sulcus and the clitoris, with its praeputium, projecting below the lower limit of the calloused area.” How romantic.

Continuing a little further down the path, I came across a heartbreaking scene. A female macaque sat on the road next to her newborn, its umbilical cord still attached, stone dead. Her head hung as though she had lost the last of her vital spirit. I said aloud, “Oh, God. I am so sorry. I am
so
sorry.”

A young macaque joined the scene, and touched and smelled the newborn corpse. The mother allowed the contact. Then an adult male approached the dead infant, and the mother attacked him, screaming with fangs exposed. But then she ran out of steam and lay down flat on the road, face to the ground. The adult male walked over and began to groom her, working systematically from front to back, turning over one bit of hair after another, searching
for anything to pick off. The mother would open her eyes for a moment and then gently close them again.

Part of my training as an animal behaviour specialist was to avoid reading too much into the actions of non-human animals. We are taught not to visit the emotions of a human on them. But to claim that this female was not deep in mourning would be heartless. I wanted to toss the small body into the bush so that it wouldn’t be flattened by the first passing vehicle, but it probably would have earned me a savage bite, and more importantly, I didn’t think I had any right to do so. Gulls would make off with the corpse when the mother was able to tear herself away.

Globally, Barbary macaques are not doing particularly well. Although they formally had a wide distribution in North Africa, they are now restricted to fragmented forests in Algeria (with about 3,000) and Morocco (with fewer than 8,000). Besides those living in Gibraltar, three captive colonies in France and Germany account for 900 individuals, with another 200 spread amongst all other captive groups. In the past twenty years, the world’s population of Barbary macaques has halved, with the blame going to all the usual culprits, including habitat destruction from overgrazing by sheep and goats, and predation of young macaques by shepherds’ dogs. There is also a large illegal trade in macaques; infants are captured and sold to tourists or to Moroccans living in Europe. More than 300 infants per year are sold in Europe, which represents fully 50 percent of all macaques born in Morocco. In its latest assessment, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) categorized the Barbary macaque as endangered on the basis of its small population, recent population declines, and the expectation that they will continue to decline in number. Six other macaque species are also endangered.

A narrow zigzag path brought me to O’Haras Battery, the highest point on Gibraltar at 426 metres. From there, everywhere was down, and the Mediterranean steps provided a 1.5 kilometre, two-hour opportunity to experience “the peace and tranquillity of this area,” as described by one of the signs put up by the GONHS.
Indeed, in more than five hours of tramping, I saw just two other people. Along the steep trail, I was disappointed by the amount of litter—mainly empty water bottles, but with quite a few beer cans and cigarette ends. Frankly, I was surprised that a smoker would have the wind to complete the steep hike.

I
WAS WORKING FROM A GUIDEBOOK
optimistically entitled
The Best of Gibraltar.
In third spot and earning it the maximum three out of three stars were the Barbary macaques. Back in fifth place, but still managing three stars, was Europa Point, reputedly the southernmost spot in mainland Europe. It isn’t; parts of Spain hang lower. But with the sky just beginning to lighten, I set off to see this most splendid spot with the promise of soaring seabirds and cavorting dolphins.

It really is an atrocious dump. Fair enough—full marks for the panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea, which was magnificent, despite the complete absence of seabirds and dolphins, but the rest of it is really quite crap. It is a small, flat region above some low cliffs, covered in litter. If it was in a mood to boast, Europa Point could brag about its cricket pitch, although it was sloped and gravelled instead of flat and grassy. The spot has a small lighthouse, now automated, that couldn’t be visited “By Order of the Corporation of Trinity House.” A small tile-covered pyramid at the site explained that the ancients considered Europa Point to be the edge of the world. The ancients must have been a bit thick—I could see bits of Spain to the west and chunks of northern Africa to the south.

I walked to the Shrine of Our Lady of Europe only to find it closed. Our Lady must have had a late night. I walked past the Mosque of the Custodian of the Two Mosques, which serves the needs of Gibraltar’s sizable Muslim population. My guidebook described it as a spectacular landmark and provided a photograph to prove it. The photo had benefitted greatly from retouching. Which left me with the point itself. Two billboards offered “conceptualized images of the Europa Point project … works to start in January 2008.” They were late. From the conceptualized images,
I gather planners envisioned a grand promenade, a children’s play area, and a range of shops. At present, there was only one shop, promoting itself as “The Last Shop in Europe … Much Cheapness … Free Gift With every Souvenir you buy here!” It was closed, a derelict building with broken windows.

In an act of unadulterated optimism, public transit buses pulled up every fifteen minutes. Each arrived, idled for ten minutes while its driver had a cigarette, and then pulled away to be replaced by its successor five minutes later. I saw seven buses arrive and depart, and never saw a passenger. This may be the loneliest bus stop in the world.

And then, amazingly, a fellow outfitted in a yellow reflective jacket came by with a broom, scoop, and garbage bag to have a go with the accumulated litter. Dear God, there was a lot of litter for him to tackle. In places it had drifted into great piles. He carefully swept up cigarette ends and candy wrappers, leaving beer cans, spools of wire, and a discarded industrial-strength cappuccino maker. He left after an hour, and without a reason to stay, I left too.

On the Barbary ape theme, I felt there was one more task that I had to get stuck into. I had already watched the monkeys interact with each other, but I hadn’t seen them interact with tourists. So back up the hill I went. Anyone walking to the Upper Rock from sea level is in for a reminder of how “up” up really is. Gravity isn’t keen on “up.” Since I was on foot, I avoided the £8 toll levied on cars and had to pay only 50p. From Europa Point, a zigzag path took me past a lot of construction sites to the Jew’s Gate, so named because of a nearby Jewish cemetery.

I climbed and climbed to St. Michael’s Cave, attraction number four in my guidebook and a spot where I was told I would see Barbary apes interacting with visitors. I wasn’t interested in a tour of the system of caves and caverns, but I was gasping for a cup of tea. Arriving at the café at ten o’clock, I was told that I was too early for tea. It seemed I was also too early for tourists and so too early for human-monkey interactions. A little further along the track, at a roadside
pullout, a plaque explained: “At this spot HM Queen Elizabeth II and H
RH
Duke of Edinburgh stood and looked out over Gibraltar during their visit to the Rock May 10th–11th 1954.” I’d bet that HM didn’t have trouble getting a cup of tea.

I walked along the Royal Anglican Way and saw a grand assortment of military leftovers and an awful lot of gulls that screamed and dive-bombed without actually striking me. Several had been holding their bowels all morning and tried to splatter me, but only one managed to do so. It takes a bigger and meaner bird than a Yellow-legged Gull to scare off an ornithologist.

Tracking downhill, I came across a group of eleven macaques at the last turn before the Apes’ Den. I sat on a wall to watch them; none had any reservations about plonking themselves down next to me, and when one female took a run at another, I had to quickly vacate my spot to avoid being knocked over. They spent most of their time picking at wild plants and grooming themselves and each other. If a younger individual wanted to be groomed by an older one, it backed into it. Older individuals invited attention by lying in the road and exposing itchy parts. It is no surprise that road accidents are the leading cause of death among Barbary apes in Gibraltar.

For immature apes, the favourite game seemed to be
will-this-branch-hold-me-if-I-swing-from-it?
For the smallest ones, the best game was
what-will-happen-to-me-if-I-stick-this-in-my-mouth?
The oldest individuals have the most expressive woolly eyebrows. Fluttering raised eyebrows seemed to imply interest, whereas slamming them down showed disdain.

I walked to a level spot that served as a pullout for tour buses. Here I met Ernest, the most contented man in Gibraltar. As I approached, he was broadcasting small seeds over a wide area but acting as though he wasn’t really supposed to. He told me that he had been feeding the macaques since 1954, first as a member of the military, and now as a hobby.

“Have you ever been bitten?”

“Never!” he said with pride. He explained that the troupe at
the top of the Rock was inclined to be a bit aggressive, but not this group. One might bite if it was grabbed, but otherwise they were pretty passive. Research has shown that adult male macaques are the ones most likely to bite, and adult male humans are the ones most likely to be bitten.

Not that the macaques at the Apes’ Den relied exclusively on Ernest for their daily bread. Between 1918 and 1992, the responsibility for provisioning the macaques fell to the British Army. In 1992, they became the responsibility of the Gibraltar government through the Gibraltar Tourism Agency; then, in 1999, their feeding was assigned by contract to the GONHS, who provision them daily with water and fresh fruit and vegetables. In an average year, the apes of Gibraltar might be expected to eat their way through four tonnes of potatoes, seven tonnes of carrots, five tonnes of cabbage, four tonnes of tomatoes, two tonnes of pears … for a grand banquet in excess of forty tonnes. The Gibraltar Veterinary Clinic joins in with regular vaccinations, treatment for internal parasites, and testing for a wide range of diseases.

Ernest explained that his wife didn’t want him to spend his days on the hillside attending to the apes, particularly after his recent heart surgery. But he wasn’t keen on sitting at home watching television, preferring to be out in the fresh air, meeting new people, and sharing his day with the apes. And after all, he had given up smoking six months before, so where was the harm? He liked to talk to visitors and sold ape trinkets.

Suddenly the monkeys and Ernest roared into action as the first tour buses of the day arrived. One bus after another pulled up and disgorged its passengers until the contents of nine buses were making a fuss over the macaques. Cameras popped everywhere, and monkeys sitting on the shoulders of tourists provided the best photo opportunities. This seemed to me to be a very clear violation of the International No-Touch-Monkey Rule. Signs everywhere warned of the potential dangers, both to monkeys and humans. Other signs warned about a £500 fine for feeding the apes, and the drivers of one bus company seemed pretty good about trying
to maintain decorum. However, drivers of another bus group had monkey treats in their pockets and used them to lure monkeys onto the shoulders of tourists, and then to lure them back off again. One of the drivers was eating the treats himself, whatever they were.

A young woman with long blond hair sported a monkey whose chief ambition seemed to be avoiding falling off. This was chiefly accomplished by grabbing her hair in big handfuls. I suspect that the woman was de-matting days later. I didn’t tell her that 50 percent of Gibraltar macaques have lice.