then gave instructions for the work to begin. One man opened the enclosure door, unchained a monkey from the wire, and placed him on top of a wooden crate in the back of the truck. He held the monkey while another man lifted wire cutters to the monkey’s neck. The monkey, to my surprise, bowed his head to facilitate the removal of his steel burden. It was as if he knew what was about to happen and offered no resistance.
After ten minutes, the men finished cutting the rusty chains from the monkey’s neck, and then they carefully lowered him through a top hole in one of the crates. Immediately, the monkey reached his tiny black hand, whose long fingers resembled my own, through the slats. I offered my finger, and like a baby, he took it.
One by one the metal collars were removed and the monkeys were put into the transport crates. The door to the enclosure was closed, leaving the mother and her two children behind. I went to her to apologize, and she hissed at me. As I got into a van, I thought about how I deserved that for leaving her behind.
The caravan into the jungle included two small pickup trucks carrying the crated monkeys, a third truck with staff, and a van with Agus, Jon, and me. We stopped once briefly at a makeshift market where a man was selling fruit from a blue tarp on the ground. Jon and I purchased all his bananas and other fruit, which we added to the supply of food we’d brought from the hotel.
As we traveled into the mountains, the sun revealed a wet and glistening, lush green countryside. We were taking the monkeys home, to the place where they’d been kidnapped, and I was filled with hope for them.
After an hour, the caravan stopped at an unlikely bend on a winding mountain road.
“This is it,” Agus announced.
We got out and unloaded. While teams of men lifted the ends of each crate, others bundled tarps with the fruit and carried them on their shoulders. Agus led the way as we formed a single line and descended into the jungle, following a mountain stream down a steep, slippery hill until the sunlight disappeared, blocked by the canopy of trees.
Birdsong was all around us. I looked up to see them but the birds were elusive. But I did see an abundance of mangosteen, duku, salak, and star fruit dangling from the trees. Agus had assured me the release site had plenty of fruit, leaves, roots, and bark, all the foods that would make up the majority of the monkeys’ diet. As we walked deeper into the tropical forest, it felt like we’d entered an Eden for monkeys.
Agus stopped at a place where the water pooled. The crates were gently placed on the ground within five feet of one another, and as Barb had instructed, the fruit was placed near the crates.
The monkeys peered through the slats. They were silent, as if holding their breath in anticipation. I lifted my camera and, in unison, the men opened the doors. The monkeys shot from the crates like bullets from a gun. Within three seconds they were gone. I was left with only one image on my camera — a shot of the men with their hands on the crate doors, and the blurred, ghostlike images of the monkeys in flight.
I looked up, searching the canopy, but they were nowhere to be seen. We lingered briefly, taking in the moment and the beauty of the place, and then left, leaving the crates and food behind.
Back at the hotel I plunged into the pool, and then joined Jon, Guy, and Nat for lunch. Guy was surprised and pleased when I told him of our unexpected adventure.
“What about the other poor creatures you’ve left behind,” he teased. But there was a cutting truth in his words. I had to make it better for those who were left behind. So when they headed off for a motorbike excursion, I went back to the enclosures.
Two men from the hotel staff met me there, and mixing pidgin English with a bit of Indonesian and a lot of pantomiming, I explained what I wanted to do.
We left together and arrived back at the cages an hour later with several long, thick ropes, planks of wood, buckets, bamboo mats, and one semi-hollowed log I’d found on the edge of the property.
We started with the monkey enclosure. The monkeys remained chained in the same places, and they watched with keen interest as we hung ropes from one side of the cage to the other, put up a tire swing, created wooden perches, and positioned accessible water wells using repurposed milk containers.
We started renovations on Twinkle’s enclosure by unrolling a used bamboo blind, spreading it over most of the exposed wire in his cage. He stayed in the cage while we did this, never threatening. Instead, he was inquisitive, his head in the air and his nose active. When we finished the floor, he stepped on it, took another step, then another, and then danced, lifting his feet and turning in circles with obvious happiness. It may have been the first time his feet had touched a flat surface since he’d been taken from the wild, and his excitement was contagious. We all laughed as he pranced around the cage.
I lured Twinkle away from the door of the enclosure with a piece of watermelon. As he nibbled on it, one of the men moved the four-foot-long, two-foot-wide log into a corner of the cage. Then I walked to the corner of the cage behind the log and called Twinkle’s name.
Twinkle headed toward me but was blocked by the log. He stopped, sniffed, and lifted his foot, touching the wood, assessing the intrusion. Then it was as if something deep inside his soul triggered a genetic understanding of the log’s purpose. He ran around it several times, his joy apparent, and started excitedly digging into its center.
Finally, the three remaining monkeys were, as Agus had promised, released within their enclosure. I watched as the metal was cut from their necks and felt their relief. I thanked the men with a traditional bow and said, “Terima kasih.” The men thanked me in return, and I held myself back from giving them an American high five. I didn’t have to. We were all clearly pleased by our accomplishments.
When I returned a few hours later, at dusk, the geese were still in the pond, two monkeys were playing on a rope, a third monkey was sitting on the tire swing, and Twinkle, my dear Twinkle, was asleep inside his log.
At sunrise the next morning, I sat down in the restaurant in a chair facing the Flores Sea. The same familiar waitress, a young lady with long, shiny black hair tied back in a ponytail, greeted me with a coffee and a generous plate of cut fruit. She was smiling.
“Terima kasih,” I said.
“I know what you do,” she said in English as she placed the cup and plate on the table and stepped back. Then she put one hand over her heart and said, “Thank you, Monkey Lady.”
I smiled and nodded, feeling overwhelmed by her gesture.
A few moments later, a waiter approached. He stopped a few feet from me, and when I looked up at him, he stood at attention, beat a fist on his chest above his heart twice, and said, “Monkey Lady.”
As he turned away, another man approached and did the same thing, followed by another waitress who clasped her palms together in front of her chest and bowed. “Thank you, Monkey Lady,” she said.
As she walked away, my eyes followed. Gathered near the kitchen door, the staff were watching me. I waved, prompting smiles and nods in return. And then it hit: a rush of emotion. My eyes filled with tears, my face flushed, and I nodded my thanks with a quivering smile.
Their demonstration fell like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day. Their hearts, too, had been pained by what they’d witnessed.
On the path to do what’s right, we’re never alone. My experience has been that when we speak for those who cannot, an army builds and walks with us. In rescuing the monkeys, I did not
