Royals in the mist

Published : 2 May 2011, 12:42 PM
Updated : 2 May 2011, 12:42 PM

Dawn is still an hour away, and I am already camped at my observation post, the glow of my monitors are my only light source. I observe, very quietly, and open to a clean page in my notebook. I adjust my camera views and prepare for another day of observation and analysis. In my perch, I am safe. I am not bold enough to enter the cavernous enclosure in which these magnificent creatures will amass.

Is it some instinct that keeps this herd returning to this exact spot to enact the same rites generation after generation? Many romantics claim that they have witnessed behaviour that borders on human intelligence. As a scientist, I leave such presumptions to the poets. I simply observe, and do so at a distance. I have not gained the confidence of my reclusive subjects, and to enter their environs for the purpose of observing them might prove dangerous to me. This is a fiercely territorial species that reportedly slays interlopers.

Fortunately, cameras have been set up which give me a vantage point to collect data even from a great distance.

I note that in the particular brood I have been assigned to study, the dominant silverback is a female.  Several times she has been subtly challenged for dominance by her eldest offspring, a charming older male who seems to have lost his ability to use his opposable thumbs and must rely on even less dominant males to help him complete his grooming rituals. All he can do is puff his cheeks and grunt his monosyllables I am not sure if the rest of the herd cannot understand what he attempts to communicate, or if it simply ignores him. I have nicknamed this male Old Charlie.

Within the enclosure, our subjects are assembling. To what end? Perhaps this is some sort of instinctive rite of spring. Questions about the mating rituals of this particular species have been the cause of fascination and debate of cognoscenti throughout the scientific community. Are these creatures monogamous? All indications would seem to indicate that they are not. It seems that the females compete for the attention of males, even though the females are clearly dominant. Old Charlie's first mate, for instance was overthrown by a second female.

We turn our attention to the Old Charlie's eldest male offspring by his first mating- We notice that like his father, he is also a slightly submissive male. He appears to be a somewhat evolved version of the father. He seems more capable than his parents at using tools.

We observe that although this species loses its head-fur relatively early in life, what fur remains, the young male whom I have nicknamed "Willie" seems capable of grooming himself on his own, which is a remarkable evolutionary achievement, and may even hint at a rudimentary signs of intelligence. I worry about Willie though. His enormous, straight white teeth are a rarity on the island, and poachers are always a matter of concern.

Despite my misgivings, as I witness the unfathomable ritual of these strange and regal creatures, I wonder if I will be one of the last to see them in their native habitat. Long ago, they ranged from Europe to India and Australia and from the Americas to Africa. Now, their population is limited to a single island in the North Atlantic.  Conservation-minded Canadians even feature their image on the "Looney" Their dollar coin, which is known for the loon on the opposite face. Eventually, the modern world might force these creatures off their breeding grounds and natural habitats, even on their very own island of origin. The main reason for loss of natural habitat might ultimately come down to funding. The money it takes to support the Alpha silverback, for instance is at least $57 million per year. Old Charlie's upkeep costs 16.5 million. In all, it is estimated that to keep this herd from extinction, 294 million dollars are spent each year.

What sort of creatures are these? In centuries past they thrived as parasites, and it can be argued that they still are. As the infested populations discovered means by which to dispose of these creatures, their influence has dwindled. Each one is born in captivity. The young male at the centre of this ritual seems to have an almost human-like grasp on the precarious nature of his situation.

Now a female is entering the enclosure. She is carrying a mixture of flowering herbs, myrtle, lily-of-the-valley, hyacinth and sweet William. All but the myrtle are aromatic, toxic plants and perhaps they are carried as some form of defence against predators. There seem to be a great number of aggressive protector-drones who have positioned themselves on the perimeter, as if some unseen force compels them to do so. As she proceeds, we here the vocalisations of the young their melodic barking is quite beautiful.

* * *

My dear readers, I pause in my revels and break character. I have inherited from my grandfather a disdain for social rank, and when I was given the assignment of covering the royal wedding, I asked myself the obvious question… What would Jane Goodall or Diane Fossey have done with this assignment?

As I watched Royal Wedding proceedings, it struck me that I was watching a family that has existed in a gilded cage for generations. The British Royals are really human beings born into captivity. And as grateful as I am that my own nation cast off such useless trappings almost two and a half centuries ago, I am amazed that the two emotions I felt most profoundly were pity and compassion for the billionaire family.

This newlywed prince is next in line to a throne that has been built upon a legacy that has caused suffering to billions of people throughout the world for centuries. He is the very embodiment of imperialism and excess. And yet, he is also the earnest grandson, eager to please. He is the white sheep in a family of blaggards. He is a young man starting married life beneath a long shadow. Like an animal in a zoo, his role is justified through tourism and the constant observation of the world.

Hovering in the air, omnipresent, almost palpable, was the ghost of the prince's mother, who once flew against the bars of that gilded cage. Though she managed to escape, she could not escape that constant observation. In fact, one might truthfully say she ended up being observed to death.

I watched these motherless sons upon the altar. The groom is physically unremarkable. In America, he might be the twentysomething dude playing World of Warcraft, living in his mother's basement while he completes an online degree at the University of Phoenix. He may even be a prince in a virtual world, his physical prowess enhanced by his avatar, and his anonymity intact.

But these Royals are living avatars, and as such they have to make a special effort to assert their humanity. Otherwise, they are to Great Britain what the guy in the Mickey Mouse suit is to Disneyworld- a sweltering labourer in a permanently smiling costume who is instructed to wave and pose for pictures but never, never to say anything.

Here in America, I have claimed that people watch NASCAR for the crashes. I think we watch royals for the same reason. In Britain, the feeling must be one of national identity and pride. I think in our own personal chaotic lives on this side of the Atlantic, what draws Americans to watch the Royal family is a secret sense of superiority. Despite our own small, messy existences, economic woes and family dysfunction, that at least we are doing better than the Windsors, or whatever their last name is. At least our son knows better than to go to a party dressed as a Nazi.

Many writers have commented upon the eventual demise of the British Monarchy. They say that this wedding is the last chance for the institution to redeem itself. Appropriately, the newlyweds requested that those who wished to give a wedding gift donate money to protect wildlife. Perhaps the empathy for such causes comes because the prince can peer over the precipice of species extinction better than anyone the planet.  The royal family itself is endangered tamelife.  As the people rise and take the reins from monarchs in the Middle East, by the time the next generation ascends to the throne, William may be the last reigning monarch on the planet. I say good riddance. Monarchy is nothing more than hereditary dictatorship.

Still, as a young couple stands upon an altar, I wonder if they envy the freedom they have traded for their title.

* * *

The herd has moved on and a fog has descended over the island. I am struck by the majesty of all things, from the lowly earthworm to these large primates. All life must formulate strategies to survive as a species. Ultimately, the encroachment of the modern world might doom these not-so-gentle royal creatures. Indeed, if adaptation is the key to survival, the fuss made over this particular mating ritual is appropriate. Luckily, the world is full of fascinating creatures to observe, whether they live in palaces or party at the Jersey shore.

What I wish for these two young people is the same blessing or curse I wish on all humanity — Freedom. Not the collectivist kind of freedom modified by the preposition "from". They have that sort of freedom already. They have freedom from want, from ignorance, and all that. I wish them freedom "to", to form and define their own family, and to value the dictates of God over the shackles of tradition. I wish the newlyweds freedom to embrace true nobility, like your countryman Yusuf the rickshaw-puller (see opinion.bdnews24.com/2011/03/21/planting-a-fruit-tree/)—The kind of nobility that has nothing to do with birth, and everything to do with purpose.

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Frank Domenico Cipriani writes a weekly column in the Riverside Signal called "You Think What You Think And I'll Think What I Know." He is also the founder and CEO of The Gatherer Institute — a not-for-profit public charity dedicated to promoting respect for the environment and empowering individuals to become self-taught and self-sufficient. His most recent book, "Learning Little Hawk's Way of Storytelling", is scheduled to be released by Findhorn Press in May of 2011.