Love Letters from 
the Bonosphere

Salonga National Park, May

Dear Madame Bonobo,

We don’t know each other yet—or rather, I already know you a little, though only
from a distance. But even from a distance, quite a lot can be said about a fellow
ape if one has a good eye and a certain delicacy of feeling—and I believe I may say
I possess both.
In any case, today I noticed just how skillfully and tactfully you mediated the
brewing dispute between Gizmo and Tembo, who both clearly consider themselves
to be the alpha males of the group. Chapeau! I simply wanted to tell you that here,
briefly and informally.

Sincerely, your Bono Bonobo

Salonga National Park, two days later

Dear Madame Bonobo,

Or may I call you Bonnie? Some of the guys here already do. I know that you
haven’t belonged to our troop for very long. That’s why you might not be familiar
with all the details of our social structure yet—for instance, the fact that Gizmo
and Tembo are brothers. Since their mother is no longer alive, the family connection
might not be obvious. Perhaps the missing mother is why they’re constantly
arguing over trifles. Like the day before yesterday, you know, the business with the
figs. Although I don’t have a mother either, and you don’t see me arguing.
Anyway, I just thought you might want to know, just in case you ever have to
mediate again.

Sincerely, your Bono Bonobo
PS. Speaking of figs. I know a fig tree off to one side that no one has noticed yet. If
you’d like (and promise not to tell anyone about the tree), I’ll show you where it is.
The figs are absolutely delicious.

Salonga National Park, before the Fig Tree Festival

Dear Bonnie,

I’m just going to call you Bonnie from now on, as it’s so much easier. Besides, using
the impersonal »Madame« form of addressing you feels rather brittle and
cumbersome to me, and that’s not how I want to come across—it doesn’t match
my personality at all. At heart, I’m humorous and easygoing, and I have all four of
my limbs planted firmly on the ground.
But I don’t want to talk about myself so much. I’d much rather hear about you.
What larger group did you grow up in? How did you find ours? What was, or is,
your mom like (I don’t have one anymore)? And… I thought I’d just ask straight from
my heart: Would you like to take a walk with me to the fig tree? It’s full of fruit right 
now, and some of them are lying on the ground, fermenting away. It could be a fun
afternoon, what do you think?

Best wishes, Bono
PS. It’s not only the ripe figs that are interesting; the shy, unripe ones are, too!
PPS. I’m not totally sure the joke landed, but I’ll leave it there anyway. I don’t feel
like writing a whole new leaf. We have to think about the environment, after all.

Salonga National Park, two days later

Dear Bonnie,

I haven’t seen you for a couple of days, but that’s my fault, not yours. I’ve been
keeping to myself to sort a few things out. Like my feelings for you. Let me be
completely honest: I sense an attraction between us, a spark and a tingle—very
subtle, very delicate, but clear and unmistakable.
Sometimes you seem so incredibly close to me, for instance, in the way you swing
from branch to branch. At other times, you are completely unfamiliar, like when you
gather leaves to build your sleeping nest. I’ve never seen a bonobo make such a
soft bed for herself, and I imagine my mom would have done it just like you. I find
everything you do so fascinating. I like watching you, I like looking at you. Like the
other day, when a mango fell out of your hand, and you briefly looked around to
see where it had landed. In that moment, dear Bonnie, I was able to peer into your
soul. And I saw myself in your soul, too, because a mango fell from my hand the
other day as well. And I also searched the ground from my high branch.
That mango, dearest Bonnie, was meant for you! I never found it again. It probably
rolled into a hole. But I promise you, I’ll very carefully place the next mango I find in
the fork of the branch beside your sleeping nest, so that you’ll have a delicious
breakfast first thing in the morning. And I’m certain it will be the sweetest and
juiciest of them all, ripe and soft, like so many things about you.

Big hugs, your Bono

Salonga National Park, at the end of the rainy season

Dear Bonnie,

I hope you’re well and in good health. I’m doing great. I’m feeling really relaxed at
the moment.
I just wanted to check in real quick and see if you got my letter. Maybe the leaf was
washed away before you had the chance to read it—as you know it’s been raining
exceptionally hard these past few days. That would explain quite a number of things.
I left the letter next to your sleeping nest so you could read it as soon as you woke
up. I’m going to put a piece of wood on top of this letter so it doesn’t blow away.
Just in case the letter really didn’t find its way to you, here’s what it basically said:
I wrote to you that I feel an attraction between us. There’s a spark, a tingle, subtle
and delicate, yet unmistakable. I also wrote something about a mango that fell
from my hand and about a mango that fell from your hand, and how deeply it
moved me. I also promised to place the next truly beautiful mango I find in your
sleeping nest. That promise still stands, of course. I’m already searching.
Oh, and I just wanted to quickly mention, really only in passing, that I saw you
sharing bananas with Gizmo this morning. That’s totally fine, because I know that
you’re a very warm and kindhearted bonobo, which is but one of your many
wonderful qualities. And as far as I can tell, Gizmo’s quite nice too, of course, even
though he’s constantly provoking his brother, which does make me doubt his
character somewhat. But that’s just my personal opinion and has absolutely
nothing to do with sharing bananas. In any case, I’m not putting much stock in it,
and I’m staying relaxed.

Best wishes, your relaxed Bono
PS. If the last letter did arrive after all and you simply haven’t answered it, don’t
worry, please—I’m happy to wait. And if I’m not there when you drop off your reply,
I’m just out looking for a beautiful mango.

Salonga National Park, beginning of the dry season

Dear Bonnie,

I hope you managed to get through the last few rainy days more or less dry. I used
the time to wander to a place I absolutely have to tell you about, because I
experienced something there that I still can’t quite wrap my head around, but that
has fundamentally changed me. So much so that I’ve become a different ape. So, I
was at the camp of the hairless ones with the pale skin. I know, I know. And I can
just imagine the look on your face when you read this. But I was simply drawn
there as if by magic. The hairless ones weren’t there; they’d left their nesting spot
for a few hours. But on the ground was one of those glowing leaves they carry
around with them all the time and stare at constantly. And since no one was
around, I went over and examined it closely.

Bonnie! The things I know now!

It was confusing at first, but I was patient, and, little by little, a whole new world
that I didn’t even know existed opened itself to me. There were so many letters
going back and forth, letters with questions and letters with answers, dozens,
hundreds. Written by creatures who feel the same way I do! Who actually
understand what it means to fill one leaf after another and then wait in vain for a
reply. And who instead have to watch while others calmly hand out figs and groom
one bonobo after another.
The creatures inside that glowing thing are scientists, but they’re different from the
scientists we know. They don’t study large groups of bonobos; they study
themselves. And you know how good the hairless ones are at studying things!
There was a scientific term that I found particularly enlightening: »hypergamy«. 
It means that certain females have a tendency—and I mean this entirely without
judgment, Bonnie, this is pure science!—to always choose the highest-ranking
partner available, without paying any attention to deeper qualities. Like whether
someone is empathetic, can write letters, or knows of a secret fig tree. To be
honest, this realization shook me. But it also relieved me. Because it means that
the problem isn’t me. I’ll repeat that since it’s so important: the problem ISN’T ME!
One of the letters on that glowing thing was called »The Truth About Women«. In it,
one of those hairless scientific things wrote the kind of stuff I’d love to carve into
smooth tree bark so that even the apes after us can read it. He wrote that a male
of true worth should never beg for attention, because true greatness makes itself
known on its own. I briefly thought of you, and then of my previous letters, and then
I decided to take a different approach from now on.
So, I’m not going to write you in that insecure, shy, hesitant way anymore. From
now on, dear Bonnie: new Bono!

Greetings and hugs, confidently and with a firm grip, your Bono
PS. By the way, on the way home, I found a very nice mango and left it by your
sleeping nest, as promised. It’s the seventh one. I’ve been keeping count. I only
mention this because it’s factually correct, not because I’m begging for attention.
Because from now on, I’m not doing that anymore.

Salonga National Park, during the dry season

Dear Bonnie,

I’ve kept thinking about what I read on that glowing leaf. It’s all becoming clear to
me now. The problem, Bonnie, is matriarchy. I say this without reproach because
you were born into it just like the rest of us, and because no one can criticize a
system they don’t know from the outside. Matriarchy comes from the fact that you
females organize yourselves in groups and we males do not, and so we males are
automatically at a disadvantage.
But just imagine: there are creatures outside the forest, the hairless ones with pale
skin, who have recognized and solved the problem. They introduced something
called patriarchy. I looked the word up in three different sources to make sure I
understood what it meant. Put simply, the right males stay in charge and look after
the group. I think that’s remarkably progressive. And I’m sure my mom would have
seen it the same way if she were still alive.
But with us bonobos, it’s hypergamy as far as the eye can see. Females choose
according to short-term mating preferences: body size, strength of roar, or
depending on who brings back the most fruit. I’ll just say: Gizmo. The one with the
broad shoulders. A male who can’t stand his own brother and whose grooming
skills I’ve already documented as being below average. And yet, he’s welcome
everywhere. Even with you. Why? Short-term mating strategy, Bonnie. That’s all
there is to it.
I, on the other hand, am—and I say this without false modesty—a high-value male.
A long-term investment. Not the standard thirteen-seconds sex everyone else has.
I’m empathetic. I can express myself. I have a secret fig tree. And I care about you.
I worry about you. I look out for you.
I believe that once you’ve thought about all this, you’ll see it the same way as I do.
At any rate, Mom in the stars says she sees it that way, too.
With hopeful confidence, your Bono

Salonga National Park, two days later

Dear Bonnie,

Yesterday, at the pond, our eyes met for the first time. Just like in any good love story,
it came down to a bit of chance, since at first you were watching that blue-and-green
iridescent butterfly that had briefly landed on your shoulder. As suddenly as the
butterfly flew off, I felt your attention. And when our eyes met, my heart suddenly
raced so fast that I couldn’t get a single word out. I hope you don’t interpret that as
arrogance or indifference on my part. Because it most certainly isn’t.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon, your Bono

Salonga National Park, early in the morning

Dear Bonnie,

I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’re not responding because I’m being too noncommittal?
This is why I’m proposing a very specific meeting. Tomorrow morning, after we
wake up, at the big kapok near your favorite sleeping tree. I’ve arranged the
following program for us:

1. Introductions. Even though we know each other well,
this will let us really start over from scratch.
2. Ideas for planning our future. Just ideas for now;
we’ll put everything in writing later.
3. Discussion about grooming. Let’s talk about what might
be good for you or for me.
4. Wrap-up.

Please reply to me this evening before sunset so the project can get off the
ground.
With committed and energetic greetings, your Bono

Salonga National Park, late in the evening

Dear Bonnie,

The sunset’s over, and I’m still waiting for your response. Why aren’t you answering?
Is there something wrong with me? Are my lips maybe too dark for you? Or
are my canines too small? Is my face not dark enough for you? Is my center part
crooked? Am I too old for you? Or too young? Tell me. I’ll work on my appearance
for you. The scientists who write in that glowing leaf do the same thing. They chew
extra-tough rubber so their lower jaws will get bigger, so they look more masculine
and automatically more attractive. Should I work on my roaring technique? I’m
currently refining my upright walk. After that, I’ll do whatever you want.

Your Bono

Salonga National Park, again

Dear Bonnie,

I’m heartbroken and can’t put into words how terribly sorry I am for shouting at you
yesterday. But watching Bozo swing onto your branch next to you and start grooming
you was just too much for me.
Yes, sure, you just let it happen because you’re so sweet and generous. But with
Bozo! Bozo of all apes! Where does he even rank? At phi? Chi? Psi? You’d have to
add half a dozen new letters to the end of the alphabet since someone like him is
even below a lowly omega male. That ape’s got no poise, no depth, no larger
perspective. The other day, he failed to fish termites out of their mound. I was there.
And the mango he brought you was so shriveled that I could see the wrinkles even
from my lookout. And then you actually accepted it! Yes, it’s because you’re so
generous, warm-hearted, empathetic, and almost frighteningly kind toward
someone who simply doesn’t deserve such kindness. And then I had to watch him
touch you. And you touch him! And then I simply couldn’t do anything but scream,
scream, SCREAM!
I know I shouldn’t have thrown mango pits at him while he was grooming you and
touching you all over. All over! But look, I saw how clumsy he was being. There was
no care, no respect, just clumsiness. And you had to pretend like you were
enjoying it. I couldn’t just stand by and watch that. I hope you understand.

I’m sorry, your devotedly loving Bono
PS. I am expressly NOT sorry for throwing Bozo’s stash of figs into the river. But if
one of them had been meant for you, I’ll get fresh figs—just for you, super sweet
ones!

Salonga National Park, now

Dear Bonnie,

Could you forgive me? I’m at war with myself, and that’s why I still feel so bad. I’m
lying here in my ancestral tree and won’t leave the sleeping nest. I hear the noises
everyone’s making while grooming. I can only hear it but images pop into my head
of everyone, truly everyone, the daughters and the mothers and the sisters and the
women who have come from elsewhere, how they pluck and rub one another,
among one another, over and against one another, as they tangle themselves in
the branches and untangle themselves and get tangled again, as the old ones
show the young ones how it’s done and the young ones show the older ones that
they’ve known it all along, while everyone has their hands and feet and lips and
tongues all over the place and no one asks or has to ask because it’s so simple. So
simple! And how the males swing from branch to branch and strike their dicks
against one another as if in a fencing match, so merrily and so playfully, as if it
were the most normal thing in the world, which it is, and how the young males
romp with the females, and also with those who don’t really even know what they
are, whether they’re related or kin or stranger, whether they’ve known each other
for an hour or since the first breath of life, whether large or small, whether old or
young, and how the whole larger group forms a single rustling, moaning, contented
thing whose very nature is life force. Am I the only one who has to listen because I
can no longer watch? Am I the only bonobo in the world who isn’t allowed to join
in? Who only grooms himself? Thoroughly, certainly, very thoroughly, even, just as
Mom would have taught me had the hairless ones not captured and slaughtered
her. Oh, Mom in the stars, tell me. Because Bonnie won’t tell me. Or will she?

Your Bono

Salonga National Park, still

Bonnie,

I’d left my last letter in your sleeping nest and sat next to your sleeping place until
morning to make sure it didn’t blow away. When it got light, little Banjo came to
you because he wanted you to pet him, so I quickly swung a few branches over to
a place where you couldn’t see me, but I could see you before he woke you up.
Then you took the leaf with my letter on it. You looked at it, turned it over three
times, then put it on your head like a hat. Banjo thought that was funny. And then
you tore the leaf, MY LETTER!, into pieces, put them in your mouths, and spat
them at each other.
Bonnie, I have a hunch, and I need to ask you an important question right now.
Please forgive me if it’s too personal and direct:
CAN YOU EVEN READ?

Totally confused, Bono

Salonga, whatever

DEAR B-O-N-N-I-E

GIVE ME A SIGN!
PLEASE!
JUST ONE!

B-O-N-O :-)