Jeremy Keeling - Jeremy and Amy--The Extraordinary True Story of One Man and His Orang-Utan

T HE UGLY TRUTH is that the orang-utan is doomed in the wild. My view is that they have gone past the point of no return and they may well never be coming back. I am biased but I am also a realist. Despite the best efforts of a lot of very good people, orangs are suffering because of deforestation, and many of those that are left are having a terrible life. Some people argue that it is wrong to keep animals in captivity. It is a debate. But a lot of conservation is about playing God and deciding which species to save. I have mixed views. I would do anything for orangs, but I also think that if you really want to save monkeys, then maybe you should do it with a breed that has a fighting chance; something like capuchin monkeys, because theyre tough and there are enough of them left. I also think it is terribly conceited to go to Borneo and tell a man who has no other way of making a living and feeding his family that he cannot chop a tree down because you like the monkey up there. It is all a question of survival. I love orangs but I am not playing God. Monkey World is a sanctuary and our job is to rescue individuals. My concern is not saving a species but giving Amy and her son Gordon and the rest a good life. And when I see the photos and evidence coming out of Indonesia, about the horrific things happening there, my conscience is clear because I know I have done my bit.

This book is the story of Amy, an orang-utan who has no right to be alive today, and of me, Jeremy Keeling, the Animal Director of Monkey World. It is also the story of how, together with Jim Cronin, I helped build a 65-acre sanctuary from a derelict pig farm, and how our epic battle for survival is replayed in the wild every single day. On this rollercoaster ride, I will introduce the inhabitants of Monkey World, some of whom will be familiar to you from the Monkey Life and Monkey Business television series, and a cast of characters including Horace the Tiger, Taffy the Chimp and Harry the Bastard. I also hope to show the great and gossamer ways in which man and beast can co-exist. This is a story of love, hope and survival. And it all started at Pans Garden.

I was born on October 8, 1956 on a windswept night at the family zoo in the scenic village of Ashover, nestling in the foothills of the Pennines. It is fair to describe us as a dysfunctional family and, by the time I was eight, there were six of us sharing a two-bedroom cottage with seven dogs, a parrot, a chimp, a Senegalese bushbaby, a slow loris, various reptiles and, in a room to itself, a puma. We also had a Himalayan black bear in our outhouse.

Looking back now, it amazes me how dangerous it was to visit our zoo in those days before healthy and safety was invented. A large number of our enclosures, housing animals such as monkeys, otters, seals and vultures, had no safety barriers to protect visitors from being injured or even maimed. In the event, we were lucky, although the monkeys and parrots developed a notorious reputation for picking the pockets of the more unsuspecting visitor. One day a gentleman arrived at the entrance kiosk in a distressed state and grunting indecipherably. It took quite some time before we realised that one of the mangabey monkeys had stolen his false teeth. Another ambitious primate stole a ladys wedding ring and was most reluctant to return it to the hysterical bride, while it only became clear why the macaw was named Buttons when you left his company and your clothes fell apart. Just how he managed to part these objects from their rightful owners beggars belief.

My mother and father, Jill and Clinton, had an ambivalent approach to safety. It sounds terrible now and I shudder at some of the memories, but everything was of its time. Money was tight and it was a hand-to-mouth existence of cut corners and a steadfast pragmatism. That much was evident from the way they dealt with an early accident.

Pablo the chimp had been rescued from a Spanish circus, where he had become too big and dangerous to work. As ever, we were ill-equipped for his arrival, so we built a makeshift cage in our dining room while his permanent accommodation was built. I was four and, by then, we had live-in staff. One young ladys duties included bathing the owners children. So one night she carried me to the downstairs bathroom, squeezing past Pablos enclosure. He opened an eye and was aghast to see his favourite plaything we had become good friends being handled by someone else. Cue an apocalyptic temper tantrum and a nasty bite to my foot. I was carried to the kitchen table with blood pumping from the wound, while my brother Anthony, whom we all called Pie, mopped the tiled floor. My parents were never ones to burden the health services with our frequent injuries and blood-shedding, but my beloved grandfather, Baba, made me a walking stick and then tried to cheer me up by taking me on a steam train from Matlock to Darley Dale, where the driver blew a steam ring from the funnel in my honour. Most importantly, I retained my friendship with Pablo and, in true chimpanzee style, he had forgotten about the whole affair by the following morning.