 Delacour's
Langur - Issue Twenty-Eight |
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Graffiti by Whit Young
I went out this morning to walk the dog. A crazed graffiti artist had covered the neighborhood asphalt in arcane hieroglyphics. Fluorescent green arrows and Day-Glo orange circles were painted, along with mysterious messages and numbers. What looked like abbreviations for water, gas, and phone were emblazoned on several concrete curbs. It became clear that the construction crew of a new church down the street had called for the services of Miss Utility. I was not viewing creative art; I was seeing directions and warnings given from on high, to avoid unleashing the forces of hell buried beneath our feet. As the dog towed us home (he's stronger than me and motivated by the taste of beef jerky) I realized that's what has been missing in my life; direction. Point me in the right direction and I won't disappoint. I have been told I am trainable and seem capable of following simple instructions. Yes, sometimes by persons using sarcasm or raised voices; or both. I pondered this lack of direction from above, or within, or however it is that the Creator issues such information. I knew I was onto something because an authoritative figure, the Pope, had recently remarked that none of us knows God's plan. I had finally found a missing piece of the puzzle. We simply need some arrows painted on the pathway we walk each day; simple. I was, as usual, wrong. I went to my next-door neighbor (a retired Baptist pastor with infinite patience and no inhibitions about amusement at my theological conundrums); his initial reaction was a bark of laughter. The mirth was followed, as it usually is, by the killer question, the one that brings focus and clarity (usually at my expense). "How much did your Dad pay you for those "A" letter grades that got you on the Dean's list in college?" He asked. "Nothing." I said. "High school?" "Nothing." I could see where we were headed. "That's something for little kids, eventually you realize the rewards of learning have little to do with cash." He laughed again, "So? Why would you want the Creator to draw arrows on the pavement to tell you what to do?" I nodded. He continued, "Besides, it creates a real public safety problem." The twinkle in his eye told me I had to ask. "What public safety problem?" "If everyone knew, with certainty, what we were supposed to do, most of us would willingly, faithfully, do it. You could be killed in the stampede of mankind to the path of righteousness. A case where there isn't safety in numbers." I shook the head fastened to my beet-red face. "You always know the answer. Why is that?" He sipped his coffee. "Because I know a thing or two about Heaven, things you haven't yet realized." "So preach, Pastor." The continuing eye twinkle warned me a punch line was coming my way. He began. "A Realtor died and arrived at the Gates." (He knows I used to be a broker, there is no limit to his desire to embarrass me). "A brass band played and there was great celebration because it was so unusual for a Realtor to make it there, apparently." His face was obscured by his coffee cup, but his voice hinted at an evil grin. "After receiving his wings, the real estate agent walked off down the streets of gold and spied a saloon. He went in and ordered a cold beer. As the frosty schooner slid to a stop in front of him, a cherub materialized and took the first icy sip. The Realtor said to the barkeep, "That's kind of interesting." The bartender said, "How 'bout a nice Cuban cigar?" "Yes, lovely, thanks," said the unsuspecting Realtor. As the stogie was passed to him a cherub nipped down and clipped the tip from the cigar, and lit it, while another cherub inhaled the first puff of fragrant smoke. The irritation in his voice was evident as the Realtor said, "If somebody else does everything for you; then this is not my idea of Heaven." The bartender said, "Who said this was Heaven?"
Pastor chuckled as he watched my reaction, "At least you got the idea for markings on the pavement half right. You just didn't think it through to the logical ending. You didn't ask yourself, if you're designing Paradise, what would it look like?" "You lost me." "Take my coffee cup, please, and put it in the sink." He pulled his afghan up to his chin and pushed his recliner back. He closed his eyes. "When you get outside, look down at the ground. Wherever you're standing… that's Paradise."
Whit Young, former Marine, retired hospital pharmacist, and real estate broker, savors life on Maryland's Eastern Shore. The pacifist author of "Lynching at the Legion" and "Penny For Your Thinking," he is working on a sci-fi novel that provides an unusual answer to the question, "Are we alone in the Universe?"
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Delacour's Langur The Delacour's langur is a critically endangered
species of lutung endemic to northern Vietnam. They inhabit open
forest up to elevations of 328 m in terrain dominated by limestone
karst and are folivorous, with about 78% of their diet consisting
of foliage, although they also eat fruit, seeds, and flowers. Their
fur is predominantly black, with white markings on the face and
distinctive creamy-white fur over the rump and the outer thighs,
while females also have a patch of pale fur in the pubic area. Like
other closely related lutungs, they also have a crest of long, upright,
hair over the forehead and crown. They typically measure from 57
to 62 cm in length, with a tail 82 to 88 mm long. Males weigh between
7.5 and 10.5 kg while the females are slightly smaller, weighing
between 6.2 and 9.2 kg. They are diurnal, often spending the day
sleeping in limestone caves, although they sleep on bare rocky surfaces
if no caves are available. Despite living in forested habitats,
Delacour's langurs are primarily terrestrial, only occasionally
venturing into the trees. They swing by their hands when travelling
through trees, and use their tails for balance when scrambling over
steep rocky terrain. They live in troops of up to 30 individuals,
often including a mix of males and females, although in more recent
years, the typical group size seems to be much smaller, with only
about 4 to 16 members each. Males defend the troop's territory from
outsiders by standing watch on rocky outcrops; when potential rivals
are spotted, the males in a troop initially try to intimidate them
with loud hoots and visual displays, and only resort to chasing
and fighting if this fails. Within the group, social bonds are maintained
by grooming and play. Females give birth to a single young after
a gestation period of 170 to 200 days. The young are born orange,
with open eyes and strong arms. The fur begins to turn black at
around four months, and the young are probably weaned at 19 to 21
months, when the mother is likely ready to breed again. Females
reach sexual maturity at four years, and males at five years; the
total life expectancy is around 20 years. Considered to be one of
the world's most endangered primate species, they have declined
in population rapidly in recent years. As of 2006, only 19 populations
were known, following a dramatic decline in the total population
of approximately 20% between 1999 and 2004. Since that time, we
have lost two of those populations, and only those in the Van Long
Nature Reserve may have enough members to remain viable. As of 2010,
less than 250 animals were believed to remain in the wild, with
nineteen in captivity. Classified as critically endangered by the
IUCN, the primary threat to the species is hunting for traditional
medicine, and loss of forest habitat through logging, unsustainable
agricultural practices, and local development that is meant to serve
the tourist trade.