Monkey business in Gibraltar
On a recent trip to Spain, our choir visited Gibraltar. The vertiginous rock at the Pillars of Hercules was impressive. So were the Barbary apes who live up there. Posed before the lofty view, this fellow seemed to be saying. “Here I am with the view behind me. You can take the picture now.”
Our driver had cautioned us about the monkeys. If they smelled food, they might try to grab it. They had even been known to snatch at bags. I hung my purse over my shoulder and held it tightly. But as we left the enormous and astonishing caves through a shop called St. Michael’s Cabin, I forgot the warning. After buying post cards and a ruler illustrated with Gibraltar views for my nine-year-old grandson, I unwrapped my ice cream bar in the open doorway. A monkey launched itself at me, clinging to my sleeves and pantlegs as if to a tree.
An admonitory hand touched my arm. “Step back,” said a voice in my ear. I retreated into the shop, and the monkey dropped to the ground and strolled out of the cave.
Cowering inside, I looked for a bin. Seeing none, I had to stand there feeling foolish and eat my ice cream before venturing beyond the doors again.
The view from the top was stunning. A monkey approached, and I framed a picture. Before I could press the button, the animal reached over, grabbed the phone and danced away. I followed, then stopped short at the guard rail by the cliff edge. The hit and run thief hopped up on the railing, studied the phone, then began pressing buttons. A second monkey approached. Heads together, they perched on the top rail just beyond my reach to pore over the new toy.
Frantic, I looked around for help. Spotting a tall man, I voiced my panicked appeal. “The monkeys have my phone. Can you help me get it back?” He glanced up at the animals, shrugged and shook his head. Dropping his eyes, he felt in his jacket for his own phone, withdrew it and tucked it deep into his pants pocket.
I crept closer to the rail, reaching up to offer a pen, the only thing I could find that I thought might possibly distract them. “Here,” I coaxed, clicking it. “Let’s trade.”
The first macaque looked back and reached out a casual hand. “Give me that phone,” I said sternly, and he held it out, offering a miraculous moment of hope. Then his friend grabbed the phone and dropped it – on the wrong side of the barrier. I felt faint as I heard it skitter across the sloping rock and slide off. A series of soft clunks punctuated its bouncing descent toward the Mediterranean.
I woke with a start. Where was I? Oh yes, back in Malaga. An unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach fuelled the conviction that something was terribly wrong. A moment later, it came to me. My phone! For the next hour, I lay in abject misery in my comfortable bed at Los Amigos. All my pictures, all my contacts, gone.
At the sound of an electronic ping beside my head, I turned, confused. Then relief flooded every cell in my body. I picked up the phone and read the text from home. “How was Gibraltar?”
I texted back. “Beautiful. The macaques were amazing.” Talk soon XOX”.