Monkeys are the worst. They’re like terrifyingly strong, long-armed dwarfs with a penchant for thievery. Only hairier. People from places that don’t have monkeys usually love them, but folks from monkey-rich areas know better. I used to love monkeys too, until I had to deal with them.
My first inkling that our nimble cousins might be dicks came from an experience in Dharamsala, India. I was walking back to my guest house after poking around in the temple of the Dalai Lama (his home base while in exile from Tibet is on the edge of town) and I stopped to pick up an orange from a tiny, rough-hewn fruit stand on the side of the road.
The little shack perched on the edge of a steep and densely forested embankment, and its owner sat on a plastic stool beside his wares. The other side of the street abutted a cliff, which rose several stories in a series of broad, broken ledges. As the fruit vendor chatted with a sari-clad woman who had stopped to buy a pineapple,