SMART TRAVELLER


NOT ES FROM AN AUTHOR Arik Kershenbaum


ZOOLOGY REACHES NEW HEIGHTS IN THE REMOTE MOUNTAINS OF VIETNAM, WHERE GIBBONS REVEAL THEIR SECRETS IN SONG


Gasping for breath, I pull myself up on razor- sharp limestone crags and emerge from a dense jungle thicket onto a plateau. The vista borders on the spiritual. Spread out as far as the eye can see are sugar-loaf mountain peaks covered in thick green, marching away into the mist-covered distance. Here, in the Ng c Côn Protected Area of Vietnam — the most remote, inaccessible site I’ve ever encountered — you could be forgiven for thinking you’ve travelled back 20 million years. To an era when our ancestors, the first apes, began to swing from tree to tree, covering the thousands of miles from Africa to Southeast Asia, diversifying as they went. This tiny patch of forest at the very northern


tip of the country is, after all, home to some of our very distant cousins — the last 70 cao vit gibbons, remnants of a once widespread population. The ease with which these primates navigate the mountains contrasts so sharply with my own struggles to cover even modest distances. But keep up with them I must; gibbons are easier to study in the wild — and it’s their song I’m here to listen out for. All my research and my recent book, Why


Animals Talk, revolve around the meaning in animal sounds. What do types of wolf howls mean? Can we interpret dolphin whistles? And where does gibbon song belong in the evolutionary history of our own language? Later, installed at my base inside a crude


hut, pressed in on all sides by the ever-present jungle, I stir in my hammock. A haunting, unearthly sound permeates the forest. The gibbons are singing. The males begin with their long, drawn out caaaaao vit, caaaao vit vit vit, which is soon followed by the female response, a warbling crescendo that shatters the tranquillity of the mountain jungle. Gibbon song is loud, complex and full of significance; we can use it to monitor their movements, tell which males are in which groups and even, perhaps, understand some meaning in the messages they convey. My trail of the cao vit gibbon began in the


provincial city of Cao Bang, a day’s drive from Hanoi. In anticipation of the Vietnamese new year festival of Têt, every shop and office was blaring out ABBA’s Happy New Year. But rather than celebrating, I was there for meetings with officials from the local government, the Forestry Department and the army. The last remaining population of cao vits straddles the


border with China, and many permissions are needed to visit the protected area. Thankfully, the government is hugely supportive of international scientific collaboration. This native species is, after all, a national icon, and an ambassador of Vietnam’s unique natural heritage. Foreign researchers are welcome. Paperwork done, we set off. The site itself perches precipitously almost


1,000ft above the tiny rural community of Ng c Côn. The mountains rise in stark contrast to the perfectly flat valley of rice paddies below. Beyond the first ridge, all traces of humanity disappear. My guides, members of the Gibbon Conservation Team, are local farmers dedicated to protecting and tracking the gibbons, including deploying and maintaining acoustic recorders that monitor their movement. Porters carry supplies: rice, eggs, live ducks and chickens. For the generator to power our computers, there are 20 litres of petrol; to sustain two Western researchers and six rangers for two weeks, 100 litres of rice wine. The commitment of these conservationists


is overwhelming. One ranger, Hieu, born in the Year of the Snake like me, attaches himself to me as a reptile brother and tells me his story — in the tribal Tho language, unavailable on Google Translate. Nonetheless, I can piece it together. He once came into the mountains to clear the forest and plant corn. Then, when the cao vit gibbons were rediscovered 22 years ago, he joined the conservation rangers in replanting native trees as well as following, studying and protecting the apes. The rangers are dedicated to these animals.


All my research and my


recent book revolve around the meaning in animal


sounds. What do wolf howls mean? Can we interpret


dolphin whistles? And where does gibbon song belong in the evolutionary history of our own language?


It may be that the cao vits never become a major tourist attraction like primates elsewhere in the world; the site is too remote, too difficult. Even with funding, tourism would bring alteration to a habitat already precariously fragile. But with the world’s attention or without it, the people of this land are proud of their unique fauna. They’re a reminder that in the headlong race toward progress and development, local communities remain guardians of their environments — and the precious wildlife within it.


Zoologist Dr Arik Kershenbaum is author of Why Animals Talk: The New Science of Animal Communication, published by Penguin, £20. @arikkershenbaum


NOVEMBER 2024 41


ILLUSTRATION: JACQUI OAKLEY


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