Island of the Apes: Surviving Monkey Island

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“I wrote a warning in the sand,” says one of the Australians in a nearly-heroic tone. He explains, “It says ‘watch out for the monkeys--they bite!’” and we all nod in agreement. “Good on ya,” his Australian girlfriend acknowledges. “That ought to give ’em a heads up,” I add. I kick the sand a little before turning back to the jungle to keep watch. It’s been only 45 minutes and it feels as if we have been on this forsaken island for two days.

Under any other circumstances, this would be an idyllic setting. It’s about 3pm, the sun hangs low in the wide blue sky, a warm breeze sweetly carries the smell of the ocean, the horizon is punctured with several majestic limestone islands rising out of the emerald green waters, and large junk-style boats peacefully teeter in the distant waters. Halong Bay, which translates to something akin to “descending dragon” in Vietnamese, is truly stunning--but to see it, you have to go with a tour group. Today marks the end of our second day in Halong Bay, which culminates with a visit to the infamous Monkey Island--so named for the rabid, menacing monkeys that inhabit the land.

Our tour group of 13 people has strategically divided into smaller groups--the French-speakers occupy a section of the beach about 15 feet away and the English-speakers are clustered slightly closer to the dock with hopes that the boat will return soon. One male in each group has procured a large bamboo stick and the others have instinctively gathered around him. We have moved to the water’s edge--hoping that the monkey’s fear of water may offer protection--but are separated only by a narrow strip of sand. Each group faces not towards the sparkling sea, but instead is oriented towards the jungle. We watch the monkeys as they brazenly patrol an abandoned restaurant--swinging triumphantly from tree to hammock, tossing a discarded soda can into the air, and jumping on top of a sun-faded kayak.

Our tour guide is no where to be found. As we stepped from the boat, he had offered a hand and said, “Now we at Monkey Island. No touch monkey. Monkey bite,” and with that he had disappeared. We were left to play out our own version of “Survivor.” Our trip to Halong Bay has been plagued by a series of strange occurrences--chief among them being that the French people on our boat staged a virtual mutiny last night when the tour guide refused to let us watch the sunset. “We swim now. No sun,” he had said with an astounding degree of bullheadedness. In the hours that followed, all sense of tour-group cohesion unraveled. Threats were made. Voices were raised. Complaints will be filed.

One of the other people on our boat is a Vietnamese woman, who is traveling with a balding--but very jovial--Belgian man around Vietnam. She had elected not to get off the boat at Monkey Island and simply said, “No go Monkey Island” as she cupped one hand around her arm in a biting gesture. The Belgian man had laugh, kissed her on the cheek, hopped off the boat, and unpacked a cigarette. Now he stands with the rest of the French-speakers--extinguished cigarette in hand--vigilantly watching the monkeys. No one is smiling. No one is sun bathing. Everyone is silent.

A boat of Asian tourists arrives and they file off. For the moment, the monkeys have retreated to the trees and are no where in sight. One of the Asian men produces a bag of chips from his pocket and places it on the ground. We exchange knowing looks with the Australians. Instantly, a monkey darts from the jungle--making a beeline for the chips. The man snaps a picture and reaches for his chips--taking it just out of the monkey‘s grasp. An enraged monkey turns on the closest person--a bewildered Asian woman--and lashes out. The monkey makes contact with her jeans and she shrieks. The monkey claws at her legs and snaps at her waving arms. In one primal action, the Australian man sprints towards the monkey wildly brandishing the bamboo stick. The sand flies up under his quick step. The monkey retreats towards the jungle, but first turns to bare his teeth and hiss at the Australian from a safe perch up the beach. It’s terrifying. The monkey finally turns away--his red baboon bottom is slowly engulfed by the darkness of the jungle.

This scene plays out a few more times before we are finally rescued from the island. A doctor will be called later to tend to the bites. Bandages will be applied. Stories will be told of Monkey Island. All the same, tourists will be dropped off here again tomorrow. At long last, we hop into a rickety fishing boat and make our way to the junk. As Monkey Island grows smaller in the distance, unwitting tourists steadily paddle kayaks towards the shore. ‘Poor schmucks,‘ I think to myself. As if hearing my thoughts, the Australian next to me says, “Fresh meat” and we laugh with relief.

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Comments

[anonymous]

monkey vs james bond
I think I like james bond the elephant better than the demon monkeys. Perhaps Pierce could become a monkey whisperer. rn

[anonymous]

Where is a picture of the statue of liberty. This is definitely a return to the planet of the apes. Rn

[Jbier]

Sounds like a strange tourist initiation ritual, in combination with a visit to monkey hell. Maybe bamboo monkey whipping could become a sport on this island- although a more humane approach would be introducing a 'monkey interventionist' to work with the troubled monkeys. Wow, school psychology is rubbing off on me too much!