AS WITH MANY PIVOTAL MOMENTS, NOTHING UNUSUAL LED UP TO IT. The day started out normally: The howler monkey alarm went off at 5:00; we harangued the kids to wake up; Jackson barely moved until six o’clock, grumbling like a teenage ogre and generally being unpleasant. Traca was always the first one out, Logan was second, Jack staggered down eventually, and I waited to be called like the hiding, cowardly pomfretphobic (someone with a fear of monkeys) that I had become.
Around ten that morning, I was sitting in the Human Kitchen feeding Big. I’d just gotten back from snorkeling with Logan—Sweetie was over on a tour—when Earl walked in. He was red in the face, sweating, and right away I could tell that something was wrong. His opening phrase was another indicator that the shit was about to hit the proverbial jungle fan.
“I’m going to say this as politely as possible,” Earl began. “This is not working. For Logan to be snorkeling in the middle of the day when there is work to do is unacceptable. You’re here to work. This is not a vacation.” And then he really got rolling. “Your kids arrive late every day. Jackson sits there on the computer all afternoon doing nothing. I can’t get either of them to fill out their feeding logs properly. And today I need everybody helping. Everybody!”
By “everybody” I knew he also meant me, but as I’ve said, I was done being a monkey snack. “I’m sorry, Earl.” I explained again. “I wish I could be out there—”
“Well, you could,” Earl interrupted. “You could. And if you’re afraid of the monkeys, you probably shouldn’t be here.”
Earl was under an enormous amount of stress at that moment. Carol had left town a few days earlier for a rare visit back to the USA, which meant Earl was not only running the sanctuary alone, he was also the alpha, the highest-ranking member of the troop. Adding to his responsibilities on that particular morning, a camera crew was over at the tour grounds preparing to film the release of a ferocious ocelot named Lily, with state and park officials on hand to witness the event. At the same time, Pincho and several other staff members were attempting to maneuver Georgia, the dominant capuchin monkey, into a transport cage for relocation. (Georgia was a wild, aggressive female who once bit Carol so hard on the foot that she snapped off one of her eyeteeth in Carol’s anklebone!) At the same time, tour groups were arriving early, wandering on the beach and into the sanctuary. One obnoxious visitor was heard saying, “I’m gonna go over there and hug that monkey.” Naturally, Sweetie, Winkie, and Poppy were insanely curious about all the goings-on, and the last thing an ocelot release party, a capuchin containment crew, or a bunch of uninitiated visitors needed was an amped-up group of spider monkeys tossed into the mix.
Just before Earl read me the riot act (as politely as possible), he’d completed something like fourteen trips back and forth along the jungle path, rounding up monkeys, directing traffic, trying to keep all primates—including the monkey-hugging jerk on the beach—from getting hurt. I just happened to be the one sitting around to bear the brunt of his frustration.
Hours later, after Lily the ocelot, Georgia the capuchin, and all the tour visitors were safe and getting on with their lives, Earl and I talked at length. He was embarrassed and apologetic at first, backpedaling for losing his temper … but I stopped him. It wasn’t fun to listen to, but I had to admit that his rant was pretty much right on the money. Our kids had not been what you’d call motivated workers. Yes, they were doing it. They were technically going through the motions, but they were also complaining a lot, rolling their eyes, showing up late, half-assing their way through the day. While I hated to admit it, Jack did spend too much time on her Facebook page, even when told not to; and Logan didn’t fill out his anteater log, even when asked repeatedly to do so; and I was afraid of the monkeys!
But it wasn’t all bad.
There were moments on our trip that we will never forget. Some of them inspired us with a power and beauty we couldn’t have imagined. Others were horribly sad or painful, life-changing in their own way for the impression they left on our hearts. Still others, like the tongue-lashing from Earl, taught us an unexpected lesson at exactly the right time. For the kids, at least, when I relayed Earl’s message in graphic detail, I think it was just what they needed to hear.
The next morning, when the howlers sounded the 5:00 alarm, the kids got right up. Not a word of complaint. They may have been tired and grumpy but they didn’t show it. For the first time all trip, they got to work by six. They fed their babies and filled out their feeding logs without being reminded. No Facebook. No sitting around. After breakfast, they offered to rake the jungle path together without being asked, just to be of use.
Then Logan assisted Earl on the first tour of the day without an eye roll or a yawn, no slacking, full-assed, so to speak. Then Jackson gave her first solo tour at the sanctuary; two hours of info to seventeen tourists, all by her fourteen-year-old self! Traca acted as her crowd controller and said Jack was absolutely fantastic, a wealth of free-flowing facts. I only wish I could have been there to see it.
The final issue to resolve was me. As Earl said: If I was afraid of the monkeys, I probably shouldn’t stay. So we decided to go. With eight more days before our scheduled departure flight out of San José, we were catching an early boat the next morning and heading up to another rescue center in the north: the Rainsong Wildlife Sanctuary on the Nicoya Peninsula. Earl had connections; he made a call and we were in. It would be a brutally long day of travel but that was just fine with me. As Earl said while we were making pizza dinner on our last night: “This is your adventure. You don’t want to spend it in a cage, do you?”