THE THING ABOUT YOUR SECOND SET OF MONKEY BITES IS, THEY’RE A lot like your second child. With the first one, there’s a lot of fanfare; everyone comes to see, you take too many photos, and everything it does is cause for discussion. But by the time your second rolls around, it’s old hat. You wash it by yourself. You’re lucky to get a single picture. Your daughter doesn’t faint. No big deal.
I was heading over to the tour grounds to start the day and was maybe a hundred yards down the beach when I happened to glance behind me. I was thinking maybe Logan would be there, he was running a little late that morning, but Sweetie was there instead. When she saw me, she stopped and we just looked at each other. On the wide expanse of sand, she appeared tiny, like a kid at the beach looking for her mom. But after a few seconds, she headed back toward the Human Kitchen and disappeared into the trees. I turned and continued on my way.
Thirty seconds later, as I walked carefully over the damp rocks in my sandals (a path we used at low tide), Sweetie appeared out of nowhere and climbed up on my chest. This was our typical greeting: I extended my hand, she took it, swung herself up, and put her face a few inches from mine. Her expression looked fierce, as if she was pissed off: She squinted, puffed out her lower lip, stuck her chin forward. And she made a quick chirping sound that seemed to say “Where do you think you’re going?” but that really just meant “Hello.”
The only problem was … I really didn’t want Sweetie at the tour grounds with me anymore; she could be a bit of a playful pest over there and didn’t allow me to get anything done. So, for everyone’s sake, I decided to carry her home. Back over the slippery rocks I went, step by step, letting Sweetie use my right arm as a perch.
What happened next was entirely my fault. My sandals were made of leather and were not ideal rock climbing gear. Since I was concentrating on my feet, I didn’t see an overhanging branch that had dropped low across the path. I hit it so hard with my head that I lost my footing, and when I lurched forward to keep from falling, Sweetie got scared and flipped out. She bit me on the left forearm and—in violation of all monkey codes—I pushed her off me, practically threw her.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” I shouted. “Please!”
Sweetie wasn’t listening. Like a spring-loaded set of teeth with arms, she dived back at me in a single bound, ripped open my left triceps, then chomped into my left elbow. A stream of blood dripped onto the rocks at my feet.
It’s a curious bit of primate programming, but spider monkey bites always come in threes. And they don’t just snap their jaws and bite-bite-bite, either. Each bite is more like rapid-fire gnawing that lasts for maybe two seconds. Once the bite switch is thrown in their brains, the monkeys appear to be on autopilot, totally absorbed in their work, unable to stop. Their bodies stiffen, their strong fingers grip, and off they go.
Unlike the first attack, I was all alone for this one. When she was done, Sweetie sat down placidly on the rocks and looked at me; she wanted to climb back up, started toward me—but my legs were shaking and I didn’t trust them to carry me, and her, safely to the sand. “Stay! No! Give me a minute!” I begged, and she did. But if Sweetie had wanted to climb up, I couldn’t have stopped her. Hell, if she’d wanted to lick my bleeding arm, there’s not a thing I could have done about it.
Pincho arrived at the perfect moment. Pincho was one of the sanctuary workers, and he was amazing with the animals. He walked into cages where I would be shredded, cuddled carnivores like pets, and wrangled even the most dangerous monkeys without consequences. He was a small Costa Rican man with dark skin, a thick black mustache, and a smile that lit up his whole face all day long—though he was not smiling as he stepped onto the rocks. When he saw my arm and sized up the situation, he knew just what to do. Without a word, he grabbed Sweetie at the base of her tail, swung her over his shoulder like a bag of belligerent laundry, and hauled her away.
Thankfully, the bites were not as deep this time, and after the cleanup, it really wasn’t so bad. I guess your second set of bites really is like your second child: As long as all fingers and toes are accounted for, you feel pretty lucky.