Monkey Business

Rifle Range Road is swarmed with monkeys.
By the word swarm, I mean i can normally spot more furry apes then people in the camp.
And, that's like 40, 50? Maybe much more. I'm not exaggerating.
Like biscuits and chocolates, they come in assorted shapes and sizes; from the cutest babies that were no bigger than my clenched fist and clinging on inseparately to their mothers, to the gigantic, old monkeys which were crawling like sloths and limping with missing limbs.

In fact, these miniature pre-evolutioned humanoids had integrated into the dynamic life of ammunition base.
Who could forget the times when monkeys had diarrohea and filled the entire base with its stinky, sticky fluid? Or the observations of clever monkeys crawling into trashbags and rubbish bins to get food, sometimes even cooperating with birds to fill their stomachs?
Who wouldn't miss the hilarious sights of many mad monkeys mating together on top of the gate? Or the times where we have fun and laughter while we chase irritaing pestering apes around the camp?
Who wouldn't treasure the amusement when umbrellas and brooms were broken when they are tossed towards the apes? Or the teasing of one another as we stepped blindly into an innocent looking pile of monkey faeces?
Who wouldn't love to recall the times when we feed monkeys patiently to lure them to deviously devised traps? Or the times when a fellow homo sapiens is assaulted and 'gang-raped' by a horde of their distant relative species?

I, for one, would make these part of my sweet memories of my life in ammo base.