MARINA CHAPMAN
with Vanessa James and Lynne Barrett-Lee
THE GIRL
WITH NO NAME
THE TRUE STORY OF A GIRL WHO LIVED WITH MONKEYS
This book is dedicated to Maria Nelly & Amadeo (Forero)
And in memory of loving Maruja
Copyright ©2013 Marina Chapman and Lynne Barrett-Lee
Published simultaneously in Great Britain in 2013 by Mainstream Publishing Company (Edinburgh) Ltd., 7 Albany Street, Edinburgh EH1 3UG
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 978-1-77100-117-5 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-77100-118-2 (epub)
Cover design by Peter Cocking
Cover photographs by iStockphoto.com
We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, the Province of British Columbia through the Book Publishing Tax Credit, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
Greystone Books Ltd.
Foreword
‘Stop the car, John. I want to get out!’
Hearing my mother’s words, my father glanced in the rear-view mirror and skidded to a halt without saying a word. It was as if they had a secret arrangement, though no one knew what she was about to do. The sun was gradually retiring from the sky as dusk approached, and the quiet Yorkshire country lane where we stopped was framed by dark hedges. They stood tall, like a domineering army barrier, protecting the miles of open space beyond.
My mother rushed from the car excitedly, jumped over the hedge and disappeared from view. My fertile young imagination went into overdrive with possibilities. What was going on?
My eyes were fixed on the dense shrubbery as I eagerly watched for her return. After some time, I saw a flash of messy black hair. Mum climbed carefully back over the hedge, holding something in both hands. I watched her petite feet as they dangled over the edge before she jumped nimbly back onto the roadside. She bounced back into the car, panting from her exertions and grinning at my older sister and me with her wide Latino smile. In her lap, firmly clasped, was a large, unhappy wild rabbit. ‘I got you a pet, girls!’ she announced in delight.
That is the earliest memory I have of my mother, and of my first pet, ‘Mopsy’. I wasn’t surprised at my mother’s actions; when you’ve been brought up around her quirky and unpredictable performances, this was just another ordinary day.
My mother has often said, ‘A life like mine isn’t extraordinary in Colombia. Ask any street child, and you’ll have your story there.’ She has never thought her own story special, as kidnappings, abductions, drugs, crime, murder and child abuse are a common theme in descriptions of Colombia in the 1950s and ’60s.
You may be wondering why my mother is choosing to share her story now, after so many decades. Well, to be honest, she’s never had the desire to do so. She’s not one for chasing the neon lights of fame or gain, for she is simply besotted with having her own home and a family – her ultimate goal and dream.
This book began purely as a daughter writing down her mother’s life story. It was my way of documenting our family heritage, as I realised Mum wasn’t getting any younger and her memory might start to fade with each year. I also wanted to understand the struggle she had gone through, without which my sister Joanna and I would not even exist.
It’s not been easy to piece together Mum’s tangled memories, but after two years of chatting over many cups of coffee, delving deep into her past and making a research trip back to Colombia in April 2007, we then started to build a picture from her floating memories. And it soon became clear that we had a great book.
Although we hadn’t started the project with this in mind, we began to see the potential benefits that releasing her story might bring, such as the chance of bringing forward Mum’s real family. And in a world where millions of parents have lost their children in similar ways, we hoped that her story might bring some hope or comfort.
It also gives us the opportunity to shine a light upon certain charities that are dear to Mum’s heart: SFAC (Substitute Families for Abandoned Children), a non-profit charity founded within our family, and the deserving monkey charity NPC (Neotropical Primate Conservation). In addition, we hope that to hear how a fellow human triumphed over adversity in so many ways will provide those in darkness with inspiration.
People often ask me how I learned about Mum’s story. It’s never been a case of her sitting us down to tell us about her past but more that almost every day something would remind her of her time in the jungle. A vanilla pod, for instance, would open up the paintbox for her to colour a whole magical world for me right there in the kitchen. I loved seeing her excitement when she rediscovered something from her past – like finding a picture of a certain plant or tree, or visiting a market stall to find the variety of banana that was a certain monkey’s favourite.
And the story didn’t come out only through her words but also as a result of her actions. Being brought up by such a wild and spontaneous mother suggested to us that she herself had been raised by another breed. She has always been our own ‘monkey mummy’. She was sometimes criticised for her unorthodox style of parenting, but her only example was from a troop of monkeys. So, from what we’ve seen, my sister and I are clear – they must be the most loving, fun, inventive, creative parents on the planet!
Typical adventures of a Chapman day out would involve us three girls scaling the trees while Dad studied the bark and lichen below (no doubt pulling out his pocket specimen bottles). At some point there might be an animal-rescue mission, then a spot of getting lost as a result of trying to discover a hidden back road or following something that sparked our curiosity, and the day would usually finish with Mum cooking up steaks on the portable BBQ (which would be brought out without fail in all seasons, even in snow). Thanks to my family, I am rarely able to have a ‘normal’ walk, simply following the path. Instead, I often return home with twigs in my hair.
Painting a picture of life at home involves revealing some embarrassing truths, although it’s only since moving away that I have realised how unusual we were. We had an unconventional way of asking for food at times. As a game, Mum would sometimes sit with a bowl of sweet porridge and have my sister and me ask for it by doing our best monkey impressions. I’m glad social services never visited us!
After dinner, we would often spend what felt like hours grooming one another, by picking through each other’s hair. It was a magnificently relaxing activity – the best way to
