DOWN THERE (Part 1): Making Sense of Amazing Genitalia

 

Fruitflies doing the business (Illustration: Aya Takahashi)

By Richard Conniff

It looked like a penis, only smaller

Oh, and with claws on the sides. 

The carcass, a monkey-like species called the woolly lemur, was laid out on a dissecting table at a research station in Madagascar.  A goshawk had killed it the day before and stripped it to the bone from the waist up. 

“Here’s the intestine.  You can see where it was ripped off,” said the biologist.  She had the unsqueamish enthusiasm of a Girl Scout crossed with a dental technician. Then she reached into the fur and delicately drew out the penis. It was almost human in shape, except for the two claws, about a third of the way down from the tip.  When she tapped them with her dissecting tool, they made a hard, clicking sound. “Like cat claws,” the biologist remarked, and a shudder passed through the room. One earnest onlooker asked if the claws perhaps helped the male hang onto the female, to keep rival males from taking his place?  “But woolly lemurs live in monogamous pairs,” the biologist said.  Someone else wondered if woolly lemurs perhaps like it … rough? 

It was a weird little moment.  But, fair warning, it gets much weirder. 

The animal world is full of genitalia which strike even biologists as too bizarre to have evolved solely for the relatively straightforward business of passing sperm from male to female.  We’re not just talking about the obvious stuff:  Everybody who watches Animal Planet already knows, for instance, that sharks typically come with two penises.  Avid naturalists may also know that in hyenas, where females are the dominant gender, the clitoris has evolved to look like a penis, and that one female approaching another will often display a prominent erection. 

But that sort of thing seems normal, almost, compared with what biologists find when they look a little closer, particularly at some of the more obscure members of the Wild Kingdom. Under the covers in this strange world are genitalia that give rich new meaning to the concept of kinky.

There are, for instance, hermaphroditic snails which mate as male and female simultaneously and, just to keep things interesting, also jab spears and darts into each other’s genitalia. 

There’s a fish which inserts a siphon into the female, then squirts seawater out the tip in a spiral rotary motion.  (It’s a contraceptive douche, to dislodge the sperm of other males that have gotten there before him.) 

There’s a beetle with a penis like a folded umbrella.  Once snugly ensconced within the female, it pops opens.  Nobody knows if the idea is to stimulate her, or to irritate her so much she never wants to mate again. 

Animals inhabit a giddy world of female parts full of twists, turns, and corkscrew spirals, and male parts studded with bumps, knobs, hooks, ridges, valves, and french ticklers.  Vladimir Nabokov, who liked to pin out butterflies when he wasn’t writing novels, once described the genitalia of his study subjects as “sculpturesque.”  Biologist Marlene Zuk has likewise celebrated genitalia that “resemble bits of the decorations on Old World cathedrals.”  Charles Darwin himself enthused over a barnacle penis lying “coiled up, like a great worm,” which when “fully extended … must equal between eight or nine times the length of the animal.” 

But the study of genitalia isn’t merely weird and entertaining.  It has become one of the hottest topics in modern biology because it also casts a revealing light on the relationship between male and female.  Is the act of sex, as we like to imagine, a moment of extraordinary intimacy and cooperation between the sexes?  Or is it just a way of making war by other means, a struggle marked by conflict, manipulation, exploitation, and mayhem?    

 

Frans de Waal Changed How We Think About Animals, Ourselves Included

The great primatologist Frans de Waal died last week, of stomach cancer, to the great sadness of his many admirers, myself among them.  His radically different view of primate behavior, and his gift for writing about it gracefully in a series of popular books, have placed him among the leaders of a quiet revolution in our ideas about the animal world and about ourselves. Harvard University biologist E. O. Wilson credited de Waal with “moving the great apes closer to the human level than could have been imagined as recently as two decades ago.” Anthropologist Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, once a skeptic, later came to regard herself as one of de Waal’s “biggest fans” and said his description of the tactics primate societies use to stay together “in spite of their dominance-seeking and even murderous tendencies was terribly important, most especially if we want to understand humans.” 

I spent a few days with de Waal in 2003, researching a profile of him for Smithsonian Magazine. (Parts of it later turned up in my book The Ape in the Corner Office.) The first day in the observation tower overlooking his study subjects, I was watching de Waal closely, as any reporter would do in the course of note-taking. “You’re not paying attention to the apes!” he remarked.  “I’m paying attention to the main ape,” I replied. He laughed and we got along well thereafter, and of course I did also pay attention to his study subjects. Here’s that profile. I hope it brings back your own memories of an inspired and inspiring observer of the natural world.

By Richard Conniff

As in a good soap opera, chimpanzee life is anything but gentle, and, his interest in peacemaking notwithstanding, that suits de Waal just fine. On this lazy spring afternoon, he sits watching his study animals from a boxy yellow tower beside an open-air compound, part of the Yerkes National Primate Research Center at Emory University in Atlanta, where de Waal is a psychology professor. Below, one chimp strolls past another and deals out a slap that would send a football tackle to the emergency room. A second chimp casually sits on a subordinate. Others hurl debris, charge, bluff and displace one another. One chimp lets out an outraged waa! and others join in till the screaming swirls up into a cacophony, then dies away.

De Waal, now 55, going gray at the temples, in round, wire-rimmed glasses and a “Save the Congo” T-shirt, smiles down on the apparent chaos. “Growing up in a family of six boys, I never looked at aggression and conflict as particularly disturbing,” he says. “That’s maybe a difference I have with people who are always depicting aggression as nasty and negative and bad. I just shrug my shoulders and say, ‘Well, it’s a little fight. As long as they don’t kill each other.’” And killing members of their own troop is something chimpanzees rarely do. Their lives are more like one of those marriages where husband and wife are always squabbling, and always making up.

“Growing up in a family of six boys, I never looked at aggression
and conflict as particularly disturbing”

De Waal got his start in biology as a child wandering the polders, or flooded lowlands, in the Netherlands, and bringing home stickleback fish and dragonfly larvae to raise in jars and buckets. His mother indulged this interest, despite her own aversion to seeing animals in captivity. (She was the child of pet shop owner and joked that the gene had skipped a generation.) When her fourth son briefly considered studying physics in college, she nudged him toward biology. De Waal wound up studying jackdaws, members of the crow family,which lived around (and sometimes in) his residence. Jackdaws were among the main study animals for de Waal’s early hero, Konrad Lorenz, whose book On Aggression was one of the most influential biological works of the 1960s.

Like many students then, de Waal wore his hair long, and sported a disreputable-looking fur-fringed jacket, with the result that he flunked a crucial oral exam. The chairman of the panel said, “If you don’t have a tie on, what can you expect?” De Waal was furious, but during the next six months preparing for his makeup exam, he got his first chance to do behavioral work with chimpanzees. This time he passed the exam, then threw himself full-time into captive primate studies. Eventually he obtained three different degrees at three different universities in Holland, including a PhD in primatology. He continued his research with chimps at the Arnhem zoo, then spent ten years studying macaques as a staff member at a primate center in Madison, Wisconsin.

Since 1991, he has divided his time between research at Yerkes and teaching at Emory. At Yerkes, the chimpanzee compound for de Waal’s main study group, FS1, is an area of dirt and grass half again as large as a basketball court, enclosed by steel walls and fencing. The chimps lounge around on plastic drums, sections of culvert pipe and old tires. Dividing walls angle across the open space, giving the chimps a chance to get away from one another. (The walls, says de Waal, “let subordinates copulate without getting caught by the alpha.”) Toys include an old telephone book, which the chimpanzees like to shred as a form of amusement.

It is, de Waal acknowledges, a completely artificial environment. Unlike chimps in the wild, his charges don’t spend seven hours a day foraging across their home range, they face no competition from outside groups, there are no immigrants or emigrants, and because of a worldwide surplus of captive chimps, birth control is mandatory. Captivity also reduces the power difference between males and females; females who live together defend one other against male aggression. “But the basic psychology of the chimpanzee and the basic behavioral repertoire are still there,” he says.

Captive studies also offer one crucial advantage: “You have control and you can see more,” says de Waal. In wild studies, it’s often a matter of luck whether you find the animals in the first place, “and it’s tricky to see when they have a fight, because they tend to run into the underbrush. So to follow what happens after a fight is almost an impossibility.” Students of captives used to say that research in the wild was anecdotal and unscientific; the wild researchers in turn said captive work had nothing to do with how animals really live. But the two sides now often collaborate. “I look at it that we need both,” says de Waal.

Time to Get Serious About Public Health

In Sierra Leone, where recent public health campaigns are saving children’s (and parents’) lives.

by Richard Conniff

The PBS/Channel 13 show “The Open Mind” has just aired its interview with me about my book Ending Epidemics: A History of Escape from Contagion. You can take check out the interview here or if 28 minutes is too big a commitment, take a look at the transcript below

HEFFNER: I am Alexander Heffner, your host on The Open Mind, and I’m delighted to welcome our guest today, Richard Conniff. He’s author of Ending Epidemics, A History of Escape from Contagion. Richard, thank you so much for joining me today.

CONNIFF: Thanks. Good to be here.

HEFFNER: Richard, there’s some dispute about whether three years since COVID-19 struck we’re still in what you could call a pandemic. Where do you come out on that?

CONNIFF: Yeah, I think we’re still in a pandemic in the sense that it’s going to come back again seasonally. It’s going to be global, it’s evolving everywhere, and those who aren’t protected, who haven’t gotten vaccinated will be at risk.

HEFFNER: When you titled your book Ending Epidemics: A History of Escape from Contagion, and specifically you identify epidemic, as opposed to pandemic, that was intentional?

CONNIFF: Yeah, that’s intentional. Epidemics are a lot more common. They occur regionally or in individual nations, and pandemics, where it’s the entire world are relatively rare events.

People, especially in this country take for granted our current state of health
and have no conception of the frequency of epidemic disease in our past.

Richard Conniff

HEFFNER: Take us through, in your mind, whether or not the public sufficiently understands that what we encountered in this pandemic was something that for decades and centuries, many strata of society had suffered in what you call epidemics, as opposed to pandemics. Is that fully understood or was that one of the motivations in writing this book?

CONNIFF: Yeah, I don’t think it’s understood at all. It is the reason I wrote the book that is I think people, especially in this country take for granted our current state of health and have no conception of the frequency of epidemic disease in our past and not even in our distant past. So I think I wrote it partly because I’m old. I was born in the middle of the 20th Century, and my father and my uncle both had polio. When I was five, I was in kindergarten. The polio vaccine became available for the first time. And at that point you know, what had been polio season became summer again. And two years before I was born, there was still smallpox in this country. And whooping cough was quite common. It killed 4,000 people a year in the United States. Children. I shouldn’t just say people. It was children under the age of five for the most part. Diphtheria. I live in New England, and there was a massive epidemic of diphtheria in the middle of the 18th century. Okay, I’m going back ways now, but it’s interesting because entire families, 13 children in one family just gone over a period of days. So yeah, there’s a long history of highly infectious diseases. One other example I had measles. People think measles is a trivial disease now. Doctors don’t even see measles anymore, but measles was a brutal experience about 550,000 kids had it the year I had it. 550 died. And so yeah, these are things that people don’t even think about anymore and don’t think about why we are free of these diseases.

Big, Bad & Very, Very Toothy: A Shark’s Tale

by Richard Conniff/The Wall Street Journal

Megalodon lived. Past tense. The largest shark ever, and arguably the largest predator, went extinct 2.6 million or more years ago. And it has stayed that way. But Hollywood sequel makers will be pleased to know that megalodon still somehow manages to kill on average two people a year, according to Tim and Emma Flannery. More on that later.

In “Big Meg: The Story of the Largest and Most Mysterious Predator That Ever Lived,” the Flannerys, a father-and-daughter pair of Australian scientists, provide a more complete and accurate picture of megalodon than you are likely to see on any television or movie screen. The authors tell us, among other things, that megalodon had nurseries in parts of what are now Maryland, South Carolina and Florida; that it was warm-blooded; and that its young were more than 6 feet long at birth. Like some modern sharks, but on a grander scale, megalodon practiced intrauterine cannibalism, and only the strong emerged to see the outside world. The adult megalodon, the Flannerys write, was big enough to be the scourge of the seas and an “emblem of all the unspoken, hidden terrors that haunt our imaginations.”

Just how big? Was it 50 feet long? Or maybe 65? The book is vague on such details for good reason. Not only does megalodon not exist in the modern world; there is also hardly any fossil evidence, apart from its teeth, that it ever existed. Megalodon’s massive body was built on cartilage, not bone, and cartilage does not fossilize well. The Flannerys hold out hope that a “whole-body” megalodon fossil might someday turn up, a result of extraordinary circumstances of preservation. It happened in 2017 for a contemporary, the giant mackerel shark, an extinct ancestor of today’s great white shark. But the lack so far of anything comparable for megalodon means that the Flannerys must often resort to “mights,” “maybes” and “just imagines.”

About megalodon teeth, their account is sharply detailed. Megalodon’s mouth contained about 272 of them, arranged in four rows, rotating forward as the front teeth broke off in heavy use. And heavy use is what they got. Whales were their common prey, according to the Flannerys, and megalodon’s mouth was big enough “to swallow an orca whole.” Biting and shaking its way through such massive prey, a single shark could shed tens of thousands of teeth over its centurylong life. Unlike its cartilaginous skeleton, its arrowhead-shaped teeth were made of unusually hard material and remain scattered abundantly across the planet.

THE FORGOTTEN REFORMER WHO MADE CITIES LIVABLE

Edwin Chadwick, revolutionary thinker

By Richard Conniff

This article is excerpted and adapted from “Ending Epidemics: A History of Escape from Contagion” (The MIT Press)

It’s almost impossible now, thank God, to imagine the squalor of London and other supposedly civilized cities in the first half of the 19th century. As the rural poor moved to jobs in the factories of the Industrial Revolution, they overwhelmed the available housing and the adjacent, untended, and often uncovered, cesspools. Entire families commonly huddled together in single rooms, even in windowless basements. Overflowing sewage at times made entire cities feel as if adrift on a sea of human waste.

The result was a second revolution, for urban sanitary reform, and it succeeded largely through the outsize influence of one peculiar man. Edwin Chadwick, now mostly forgotten, was a barrister, journalist, and social reformer. From the early 1830s onward, Chadwick campaigned for the British government to intervene in matters of public health and welfare. He promoted essential urban services, including public water supply and sewerage, street cleaning, and garbage removal. Chadwick’s work transformed the character and well-being of cities not just in Britain but, by example, worldwide. Along the way, he helped to establish the basis for the modern liberal state. “Few men have done so much for their fellow-countrymen as Edwin Chadwick,” biographer R.A. Lewis wrote, “and received in return so little thanks.”

This uncelebrated status is no doubt due both to the lowliness of his chief subject — the disposal of human waste — and to Chadwick’s difficult personality. A sanitarian who was a friend described him in the heroic mode: “firm-set massive build,” “resolute expression,” “nose aquiline,” and “the head altogether large, and to the phrenologist finely developed.”

But photographs from the period show a tall, round-faced figure, in mustache and muttonchops, hair smeared in hanks across his balding scalp, peering out from heavy-lidded eyes with something like disdain. Chadwick made a reputation for prodigious energy, and for his command of the facts of any issue he studied. But he was also humorless and uncompromising toward those who disagreed with him. He made little effort to hide his contempt for aristocratic domination or for foot-dragging by corrupt or indifferent politicians.

He was also a bore, “a really outstanding specimen of bore in an age when the species flourished,” according to the otherwise admiring biography by Lewis. “Mr. Chadwick is not an orator,” a friend acknowledged. “When he first gets up to speak without book he looks an orator, but a few moments dispel the illusion.”

Watch Out, Stephen Curry, Moths Have Hand-Eye Coordination, too

A hawkmoth ready to uncurl that proboscis into a nectary (Photo: Anna Stöckl)

by Richard Conniff

I have mixed feelings about sphingid moths, sometimes called sphinx moths because the position their caterpillars commonly assume is said to resemble the Great Sphinx of Giza (but I don’t see it). I prefer to call them hummingbird moths, or just plain hawkmoths. On the one hand, I am deeply prejudiced against some of them for a selfish reason: One of the most dismaying experiences for any vegetable gardener is to step out one morning in late July, just as the luscious and long-awaited tomatoes are coming due–and discover the stems and branches of the tomato plants suddenly stripped bare of leaves. The culprit is the caterpillar of the five-spotted hawkmoth (Manduca quinquemaculata), and they are wonderfully camouflaged to keep their enemies (me, among others) from finding them.

It’s some consolation to find caterpillars after parasitic wasps have already gotten to them. You can see the caterpillar’s body ornamented with the pearly pupae of the next wasp generation. (See the photo at left.) Those I leave where they are, for the budding young wasps to emerge and destroy other tomato hornworms, the ones I haven’t managed to find. The hornworms I find in good health, them I murder.

OK, I’ve gotten that off my chest. The truth of course is that I should not generalize. There are many other species of hawkmoth (1450 of them) that are entirely innocent of molesting my tomato plants. So let’s move on.

I admire hawkmoths mainly for the speed and purposefulness of their flight, the way they whip from plant to plant almost like hummingbirds, with that same motor-like whirring of their wings. Their wingbeat, up to 80 times a second, is actually faster than a hummingbird’s And then there’s the needle-thin proboscis they use for sucking up nectar from flowers. It’s as long as, and sometimes much longer than, the rest of the hawkmoth’s body. 

Pining for Winter in New England

Roaring Brook Number 2, which deserves a better name. (Photo: Richard Conniff)

by Richard Conniff

It’s a dreary Sunday dawn here in Connecticut, 38 degrees (about 3 degrees Celsius), with rain pouring down, as it has been pouring down for much of the week. In a better world, at this time of year, that rain would have grown up to be snow and to lie for weeks two- or three-feet deep across the frozen countryside. Not now, though. It’s too warm. Like much of New England, I am yearning for winter, which hardly seems to exist hereabouts anymore. 

Last Sunday we got a brief tantalizing taste. Maybe two inches of fresh snow on the ground and the temperature just 26 degrees (-3 C) at midday. I put on my winter jacket for the first time this season and went out with my dog for a walk in the woods. It was glorious. First of all the sound of the snow underfoot, the steady heel-toe crunch of the thin layer of snow on top, and the frozen leaves below. Then the exhilarating sting of cold air on the face.

Scene of the crime (Photo: RC)

The dog led me off the trail to a fresh kill, and because of the contrast with the snow underneath, everything was plainly visible. (I was too busy keeping Jack from scoffing up the bloody remnants to examine it closely. But you can perhaps do your own forensic analysis in these photos.) I liked the reminder of other creatures, predator and prey, trying to eke out their lives here in these woods.

Things that were still among the living also left their marks, like these turkey tracks, in the snow.

Down by the stream that runs through the area, a thin memory of ice had begun to creep out from the shoreline. (See the photo at the top.) But it would go no farther. The stream runs too fast now with its load of runoff. (I was going to say snow melt, but past and future rains were more of a force.) 

The whole experience reminded me of winter hikes I used to go on 60 years ago as a boy in New Jersey’s Ramapo Mountains, tromping in galoshes with my friends through two feet of snow and pretending to be Leni Lenape Indians. My 10-year-old self would undoubtedly scoff at an old fool being thrilled by a hike through the modern, short-lived, two-inch-thick counterpart. But I was thrilled. 

When Even the Animals Are Fake News

The Centaur of Tymfi on display in the Bruce Museum’s “Monsters and Mermaids” show. (Photo: Barnum Museum. Skeleton assembly commissioned by Bill Willers. Photographer: Sklmsta)

By Richard Conniff

Fakes are surprisingly common in the history of species discovery. For all the painstaking realism of his bird paintings, for instance, James John Audubon was a gleeful producer of cryptozoological oddities, mainly to prank a naturalist colleague named Constantine Rafinesque. I have described Rafinesque elsewhere as “a species monger, too drunk on the elixir of discovery to take much care with his work.” He could base a species description on evidence as slender as a reference in somebody else’s writings. Seeing an opportunity, Audubon sketched up a handful of imaginary fish, including one he said had bullet-proof scales. Rafinesque duly proclaimed a new species he dubbed Litholepis adamantinus—meaning roughly “unbreakable stone scales.”

I first got interested in zoological fakes a few years ago, in the course of writing my book The Species Seekers. So I made a point recently to take in an exhibit called “Monsters and Mermaids: Unraveling Natural History’s Greatest Hoaxes.” It runs through February 11 at the Bruce Museum in Greenwich, CT, and it’s mainly the work of the museum’s science curator, Daniel Ksepka, a paleontologist otherwise best known for his research on the evolution of early birds.

The show starts with a fake fishy thing rather different from the one Rafinesque described. Some early nineteenth-century huckster fabricated

We Thought We’d Beat These Three Diseases. Now’s The Time to Finally Stop Them

By Richard Conniff/The New York Times

There was a time not so long ago when preventing epidemic disease was a cause ordinary people embraced and celebrated. When President Franklin D. Roosevelt called on Americans to join the fight against polio, for instance, he reported that envelopes containing “dimes and quarters and even dollar bills” arrived by the truckload at the White House, “from children who want to help other children to get well.” The March of Dimes went on to fund the development of polio vaccines. When one of them, the Salk vaccine, proved effective, in April 1955, church bells rang out nationwide.

Likewise, in the mid-1960s, when the World Health Organization announced its wildly ambitious plan to eradicate smallpox in just 10 years, people rose to the challenge. Small teams bearing vaccines and a simple lancet called the bifurcated needle were soon moving through the afflicted parts of the planet — by camel across the desert in Sudan, by elephant to ford rivers in India, and by all the more familiar modes of travel. People everywhere lined up to get the peculiar dimpled mark of smallpox vaccination, freeing them from the scourge that had been maiming and killing their families for as long as they could remember.

As many as 150,000 men and women at a time worked on the campaign, and with a final naturally occurring case discovered in Somalia in October 1977, they eradicated smallpox in the wild. For veterans of the “order of the bifurcated needle,” as they called themselves, it was the proudest hour of their lives.

It may seem unlikely that we could ever recapture that determination and excitement about standing up together against a deadly disease. Instead of presenting a unified front against Covid-19, we fought bitterly, and three years on, our shared response seems to be a shell-shocked unwillingness to even think about epidemic diseases.

The Next Big Idea Club Picks “Ending Epidemics”

My new book, Ending Epidemics: A History of Escape from Contagion (MIT Press), is a 2023 selection of the Next Big Idea Club, which writes:

Richard Conniff is an award-winning nonfiction writer. He specializes in the topics of human and animal behavior, with his work appearing in the New York Times, Smithsonian, The Atlantic, and National Geographic, among others. Below, Richard shares five key insights from his book:

1. Public health is a personal story for all of us, and we take it entirely for granted.

Just ask an uncle or a grandmother what kind of diseases they grew up with. In my family, for instance, my father and uncle both had polio as toddlers in the 1920s. My uncle got it worse, with legs that were permanently reduced to sticks. He spent the rest of his life walking with the help of arm braces.

Summer was still polio season when I was a toddler. At that time, polio was killing more than 3100 people a year in this country and paralyzing 21,000. But in 1955, Jonas Salk’s polio vaccine became available and people flocked to get it. I was one of them.

“Polio season” became just summertime.

Progress against infectious disease accelerated from there. My own kids avoided almost all the childhood diseases that were routine for me. A major international effort also began knocking down childhood diseases, with polio, for instance, eliminated from all but two nations by 2019. Now, kids my grandson’s age are being protected against diseases most parents never heard of, like rotavirus, which used to routinely kill small children.

Think about that. (Continue reading.)