Redefining Man
As soon as an ape sees something attractive yet out of reach, he starts to cast about for a bodily extension. An apple floats in the moat around the zoo island: the ape takes one glance at the fruit before racing around in search of a suitable stick or a few stones that he can throw behind it so that it will float toward him. He distances himself from his goal in order to reach it—an illogical thing to do—while carrying a search image of what tool might work best. He is in a hurry, because if he doesn’t return fast enough, someone else will beat him to the prize. If, on the other hand, his goal is to eat fresh green leaves from a tree, the required tool is quite different: something sturdy to climb on. He may work for half an hour to drag and roll a heavy loose tree stump in the direction of the one tree on the island that has a low side branch. The whole reason he needs a tool is to get across the electric wire around the tree. Before making the actual attempt, he has figured out that the low branch will come in handy. I have even seen apes check the hot wires with the hair on the back of their wrist, hand bent inward, barely touching it, but enough to know if the power is on. If it is off, obviously no tool will be needed, and the foliage is fair game.
Apes do not just search for tools for specific occasions; they actually fabricate them. When the British anthropologist Kenneth Oakley, in 1957, wrote Man the Toolmaker, which claimed that only humans make tools, he was well aware of K?hler’s observations of Sultan fitting sticks together. But Oakley refused to count this as tool manufacture, since it was done in reaction to a given situation rather than in anticipation of an imagined future. Even today some scholars dismiss ape tools by stressing how human technology is embedded in social roles, symbols, production, and education. A chimpanzee cracking nuts with rocks doesn’t qualify; nor, I suspect, does a farmer picking his teeth with a twig. One philosopher even felt that since chimpanzees don’t need their so-called tools, it remains a feeble comparison.14
One of the most complex tool skills is the cracking of tough nuts with rocks. A wild female chimpanzee selects an anvil stone and finds a hammer that fits her hand to open a nut, while her son watches and learns. Only by the age of six will he reach adult proficiency.
I feel like recalling my know-thy-animal rule here, according to which we can safely dismiss a philosopher who thinks that wild chimpanzees sit there pounding and pounding hard nuts with rocks, an average of thirty-three blows per consumed kernel, for generation after generation, for no good reason at all. During peak season, chimpanzees at some field sites spend close to 20 percent of their waking hours fishing with twigs for termites or cracking nuts between rocks. It is estimated that they gain nine times as many kilocalories of energy from this activity as they put into it.15 Moreover, the Japanese primatologist Gen Yamakoshi found that nuts serve as fallback foods when the apes’ main nutrition—seasonal fruits—is scarce.16 Another fallback is palm pith, which is obtained through “pestle pounding.” High up in a tree, a chimpanzee stands bipedally at the edge of the tree crown, pounding the top with a leaf stalk, thus creating a deep hole from which fiber and sap can be collected. In other words, the survival of chimpanzees is quite dependent on tools.
Ben Beck gave us the best-known definition of tool use, of which the short version goes as follows: “the external deployment of an unattached environmental object to alter more efficiently the form, position, or condition of another object.”17 Though imperfect, this definition has served the field of animal behavior for decades.18 Tool manufacture can then be defined as the active modification of an unattached object to make it more effective in relation to one’s goal. Note that intentionality matters a great deal. Tools are brought in from a distance and modified with a goal in mind, which is the reason traditional learning scenarios, which revolve around accidentally discovered benefits, have such trouble explaining this behavior. If you see a chimpanzee strip the side branches off a twig to make it right for ant fishing, or collect a fistful of fresh leaves and chew them into a spongelike clump to absorb water from a tree hole, it is hard to miss the purposefulness. By making suitable tools out of raw materials, chimpanzees are exhibiting the very behavior that once defined Homo faber, man the creator. This is why the British paleontologist Louis Leakey, when he first heard about such behavior from Goodall, wrote her back, “I feel that scientists holding to this definition are faced with three choices: They must accept chimpanzees as man, they must redefine man, or they must redefine tools.”19
After the many observations of chimpanzee tool use in captivity, seeing tool use in the wild by the same species did perhaps not come as a surprise, yet its discovery was crucial since it could not be explained away by human influence. Moreover, wild chimps not only use and make tools, but they learn from one another, which allows them to refine their tools over generations. The result is more sophisticated than anything we know in zoo chimps. A good example are the toolkits, which can be so complex that it is hard to imagine that they were invented in a single step. A typical one was found by the American primatologist Crickette Sanz in the Goualougo Triangle, Republic of Congo, where a chimpanzee may arrive with two different sticks at a particular open spot in the forest. It is always the same combination: one is a stout woody sapling of about a meter long, while the other is a flexible slender herb stem. The chimp then proceeds to deliberately drive the first stick into the ground, working it with both hands and feet the way we do with a shovel. Having made a sizable hole to perforate an army ant nest deep under the surface, she pulls out the stick and smells it, then carefully inserts her second tool. The flexible stem captures bite-happy insects that she pulls up and eats, dipping regularly into the nest below. Apes often climb off the ground, moving onto tree buttresses, to avoid the nasty bites of colony defenders. Sanz collected more than one thousand such tools, which shows how common the perforator-dipping combination is.20