19x11 - Triumph of Life: Brain Power

[bunniefuu]

In the fight for survival,
it pays to be well armed.

Life is not for the weak
or the defenseless.

It is a brutal contest,
fought afresh each generation.

But as well as
the obvious weapons--

the hardware of battle--

animals are at w*r using
state-of-the-art software.

Welcome to
the intelligence w*r--

a hidden battleground
of information processing...

where victories turn
on split-second computation...

where strength can be defeated
by strategy...

where animals triumph
not with firepower

but with brainpower.

East Africa--
cradle of humanity

and still home to an ape that
thrives not just through brawn

but by using its brain.

The chimpanzee,
though mostly a fruit-eater

is a vegetarian Dr. Jekyll

disguising a carnivorous
Mr. Hyde.

But getting meat
presents a problem.

Shaped through generations
of evolution for eating fruit

chimps just aren't equipped
with the claws, the camouflage

or the lightning speed
for hunting.

They must depend
on other qualities.

The target is a group
Colobus monkeys--

always alert, and far more
nimble round the treetops.

But this is the story
of survival of the smartest,

not the fastest.

Quietly, the chimps
size up the situation.

There are plenty of youngsters--
easier prey.

And the monkeys are in a tight
corner with few ways out.

If they can block the escapes

the hunters might seize
a fleeing monkey.

It's all a matter of strategy.

The chimps' screams
panic the monkeys.

High up, the Colobus are safe

but in the confusion,
some of them break ranks.

The chimps are waiting.

Action replay shows the chimp

fake towards
the monkey above him

then switch to grab an
unsuspecting bystander below.

By using their brains,
chimps can make up

for their limited speed
and weaponry.

Though only part-time predators

they can still outperform
specialist K*llers.

When they bother to hunt

chimps are twice as successful
as lions.

Intelligence is
their hidden weapon.

But if brains are such
a winning formula

why aren't all animals armed
with supercomputers?

With huge variation
in brainpower

across the animal kingdom

why do so many species
have the budget model?

It's a simple matter
of economics.

Nerve cells which make up brains
are a colossal investment.

And it's not just a matter
of growing them--

their running costs
are staggering.

Just sitting on standby,
nerve cells burn up fuel

staying primed
and ready for action.

They guzzle 20 times more energy
than muscle, and never rest.

In a world of limited resources
and ruthless competition

it just doesn't pay
to have surplus brainpower.

In fact, many creatures thrive
without a brain at all.

Jellyfish are on the move.

Each morning, sunlight
guides them to the surface

and into contact with
the plankton they feed on.

These commuters
don't need brains

but they do need
flawless coordination.

The beat of the jellyfish bell
is triggered

by electrical pulses
firing at over 50 miles an hour

along specialized communication
lines-- the nerve network.

With minimal information

jellyfish can home in
on plankton.

But to hunt down active prey

animals need to gather
more intelligence.

Around 500 million years ago

there was a critical leap
forward--

predators appeared that
were armed with a new weapon.

In its head,
the land flatworm has a brain

admittedly, composed of only
a few hundred nerve cells.

This tiny but sensitive computer
leads it through the forest

reacting to sunlight, warmth,
humidity and gravity

and to a multitude of odors
that may betray its prey.

Compared to the jellyfish

the flatworm is swamped
with incoming data.

Its brain is there
to weigh this information

and make the executive decisions
that keep it on track.

Earthworms had better beware.

A contact k*ller, the flatworm
oozes chemicals onto its prey.

For the earthworm,
it's a slow dissolving death.

Over millions of years,
such primitive struggles

have developed into
more elaborate contests.

For the adversaries,
the advantages of smarter brains

are always weighed
against their greater costs.

Outback Australia

and a mud wasp is preparing
her family's defenses.

Her egg chamber is underground.

Above it, she builds
an entrance tube

made to an exact blueprint.

At a height of one body length

she turns the tube
through a prescribed angle

then forms
a precisely shaped flange.

Onto this,
she builds a large bell

measured to
the nearest millimeter.

Its size is critical
for its defensive role

but so, too, is its texture.

Though rough on the outside,
the inside is polished smooth.

The funnel has
a specific purpose:

to thwart the cuckoo wasp--

an opportunist looking to plant
her own eggs in others' nests.

The slippery funnel
keeps her out.

Much larger than her enemy,
the mud wasp can climb in.

Her ingenious design triumphs.

But the brain behind it
is a blind computer--

a machine that executes
a list of instructions

with no concept
of what it's doing.

Though economical, such a
visionless machine has a flaw.

Throw it off its normal course,
and it's stumped.

A burried tube should be easy to fix.

The hard part is understanding
there's a problem.

After a brief pause,
it's business as usual--

the routine unchanged.

An hour later, and the result
is a shortened funnel--

its entrance too low
to add the crucial bell.

The mud wasp's brain is a
miracle of precise programming.

But on this occasion

her robotic inflexibility has
opened the door to her enemy.

Fixed programs are wired
into every brain.

They may be inflexible,
but such routines

are the cheapest way
to tackle many problems.

Like the mud wasp, mother goose
is a mindful parent.

Should a precious egg
roll out from the nest

she perceives the problem
and responds intelligently.

Or so it seems.

But like the mud wasp

the goose's brain takes
a shortcut

and operates by a simple rule
of thumb:

If it's smooth and near
the nest, it must be an egg.

A goose's powers
of discrimination

are surprisingly vague.

An "egg" needn't be white,
or even egg-shaped.

In her eyes, even a wooden cube
can pass for an egg.

Her simplified concept of an egg
makes perfect sense.

More elaborate,
foolproof recognition

would just be a waste
of resources

of energy that's better used
raising more young.

Her undiscerning outlook

ensures that a real egg
is never ignored

even if a few mistakes
are made along the way.

But there's one bird
where the stakes are higher.

In the ostrich, the recognition
software has had to improve.

Here, females set up
a communal nest.

At first, the self-appointed
caretaker welcomes visitors

who each add an egg
to the clutch

before moving on.

A large brood
raised under one roof

will gain safety in numbers.

But as the eggs steadily pile up
to 25 or more

it begins to look like
the caretaker is everyones fool.

With her workload mounting

new arrivals
get a hostile reception.

Any more eggs

and she won't be able
to cover them all.

Determined visitors, though,
won't be turned away.

Enough is enough!

Letting off steam seems to clear
the caretaker's mind

for some cool-headed
calculation.

A goose would be in a real flap
by now, but not the ostrich.

This is egg overload, and it's
time to concentrate on her own.

Astonishingly,
she can recognize each one.

No fool, she carefully tucks
hereggs safely into the middle

before removing
some of the surplus.

Tiny surface pores
vary in pattern between eggs

and this may allow the sharp-
eyed ostrich to discriminate.

However she does it, it's a
death sentence for evicted eggs.

The better she is
at picking out her own eggs

thng she produces.

Her enhanced brainpower
pays off in breeding success.

But in a world
of complex challenges

a refined routine
is not always enough.

To compete,
animals must also be flexible.

The power to learn
may be the ultimate survival tool.

Sophisticated examples exist
in out own backyards,

even in the brains of insects.

In the last two weeks
of its life

a honeybee graduates
from hive duties

and emerges for the first time
into the outside world.

Its mission:
to bring food to the colony.

Seems simple enough.

Yet a bee faces
a bewildering challenge--

a confusing variety
of open flowers

each producing nectar
only for brief periods

and at times of day that vary
from one species to the next.

Never was a daily shopping trip
so complicated.

And with just two weeks to live

a budding forager
must learn fast.

Amazingly, the brain
of a honeybee expands with age.

As it matures into a forager

an extra one hundred and sixty
thousand brain cells are added

in preparation
for the job ahead.

Cracking the flower schedule

requires a precise sense of
time, and it's no coincidence

that bees can read
the sun's position

to within a few degrees--

equivalent to the passing of just 18 minutes.

The trick, of course, is to
match the flowers to the hours.

A rookie forager is bound
to make some bad calls.

But trial and error
is the essence of its strategy

and sooner or later,
it gets lucky.

With the sweet hit of nectar

its brain starts to forge a link
between the flower and the time.

Quite literally,
a vital connection is made.

Time,
measured by the sun's position--

is relayed to the brain
throughout the day.

Only when this coincides
with incoming nectar signals

does the junction take note
and chemically set itself.

Day two: at the same time--

and it doesn't matter
where the bee is--

the nerves automatically send
a memo to visit the same flower.

Just one successful nectar hit
is enough

to connect flower and time.

Rapidly, the bee builds up
its flower diary

with allotted visiting times
for each species.

A quick check
on the sun's position

and a bee knows precisely which
flowers are open for business.

The ability to connect events--

to use one thing
to predict another--

transforms an animal
from a simple robot

into a flexible
learning machine.

But sometimes there are no
simple connections to be made

and no time for trial and error.

Nature is notoriously
unpredictable.

For an African elephant,
with a life-span of 70 years

coping with unexpected drought
is an occupational hazard.

When regular water holes dry up

these thirsty animals
are forced to move on

into less familiar terrain.

There's no place here
for the apprentice forager.

These elephants need
precise coordinates

and there's no time to lose.

Elephants do have
an extravagant sense of smell.

They can detect
minute traces of water

in the earth and on the breeze.

But if the water's downwind,
that's of little use.

To survive such a crisis

the entire herd may depend
not on their noses

but on the memory
of the oldest female.

She alone may know where
to look for water

and the key lies
in a specialized part

of her massive, 11-pound brain:
the hippocampus.

It contains a database
of spatial memories--

of mental maps,
built up over a lifetime.

To pinpoint water,she doesn't
rely on trial and error.

Before taking another step

she scans her memory and
tests the journey in her head.

Elephantes know where they're going

even in terrain they've not
visited for decades.

Their epic journeys
are mapped-out expeditions

over ranges spanning
thousands of square miles.

Drought is a fact of life,
so for these thirsty giants

such memory
is a critical survival tool.

An elephant--

even for its size--
has an unusually big brain.

It needs it to navigate
in an uncertain world.

But elephants also face another,
equally unpredictable

and far more subtle challenge.

They need to negotiate an
ever-changing social landscape.

It is the varied and complex
demands of living with others

that have led to the greatest
advances in brainpower.

Large or small,
the brainiest creatures

are the ones that live together
in close-knit groups.

The social meerkat
has evolved a brain

far bigger than you'd expect
for an animal its size.

The extra brainpower

is a huge advantage
in a social environment

where there are constant
opportunities to learn.

Just by watching their elders

the pups can pick up
vital survival skills.

Meerkats have lots to learn
about the world

but much of it
is quickly mastered.

Figure out how to k*ll
a scorpion once

and the same technique
works every time.

In contrast, fellow meerkats
are much less predictable.

Without warning, yesterday's
playmate is today's thief.

If there's one thing a meerkat
can never quite be sure about

it's another meerkat.

In the ruff and tumble of group life

where food is stolen
and bodies trampled

the threat of conflict
is never far away.

Social animals have
larger brains

not just so they can learn
from each other

but because they must learn
to live with each other.

Social awareness relies

on recognizing
and remembering individuals.

Play-fighting gives the pups
a chance to develop these skills

and also helps to establish
the pecking order.

As adults, meerkats
rarely come to blows.

Social harmony
is no idle luxury.

Meerkats depend on close
teamwork for their survival.

In families like meerkats

helping each other
comes naturally.

But in other groups,
where strangers mix

animals must have a more
calculating attitude.

In the hollow of a dead tree

just such a mixed group
is stirring.

In this society,
help is more widely exchanged.

It extends to special friends,
beyond the ties of blood.

Such friends can become
long-term allies

and they renew their bonds
through mutual grooming.

Friends hang out together,
but they also share the roost

with other,
more casual acquaintances.

Their grooming finished,
the bats head out to feed.

And these bats are vampires.

Scalpel teeth slit the skin

already numbed by a strong
anesthetic in the bat's saliva.

The victim feels nothing,
allowing the bat to feed freely.

As it gets to work,
the vampire's stomach stretches

to accommodate
a massive helping.

It can drink enough blood
to last two days.

But if it looks easy,
think again.

This is a high-risk way
to make a living

and demands more than
simple stealth and sharp teeth.

If it fails to feed,
a vampire quickly starves.

Two hungry nights in a row,
and its life is on the line.

It's time for quick thinking.

Its only hope now
is to find another bat

prepared to share
some of its spare blood.

The problem is, why should
any other bat cough up?

The starving vampire
begs for food.

But it's rejected.

It needs to find a friend--
a grooming partner.

To survive, it has to remember
which of these roost-mates

it has helped previously.

At last, it finds a partner.

Inserting its tongue
into its friend's mouth

the starving bat is allowed
to drink regurgitated blood--

from a bat who owes it a favor.

It's a life-saving act

that will be remembered
by donor and recipient alike.

This sharing makes a precarious
lifestyle more secure

but it relies on vampires
having the brains to keep score.

Only by taking care
to count favors

can bats know who to turn to,
and who to ignore.

The blood bonds among vampires

foreshadow more intricate
social arrangements

of animals
more closely related to us.

Macaque monkeys
in the forests of Sri Lanka.

Coalitions dominate daily life.

Even the infants
cultivate friends

and soon learn
who they can count on.

Networking is an obsession.

This is no place
for the socially inept.

Macaque society can be violent

and scarred faces tell a story
of savage infighting.

When trouble erupts,
it helps to have friends.

Group life would be hell
without allies for support

The most powerful animals
can relax.

Above all, they have first pick

of any females
that come into heat.

This female, though,
has other ideas.

She's giving the eye
to a young Romeo.

But he's not yet the boss,
so they need to watch out.

The dominant male
rests up a tree

unaware of the clandestine
courtship unfolding below.

The rendezvous is on.

The boss may be off guard,
but his spies are out.

They've been spotted,
and the alarm is raised.

For social animals like monkeys

the game is not purely
a physical contest.

It's a battle of wits, fought
with brains as much as muscle.

Living together is
a constant balancing act

between the urge to compete
and the need to cooperate.

Alliances hold macaque society
together despite its violence.

But the dangers of conflict
have driven another monkey

to evolve a remarkable method
for avoiding tribal w*r--

the gelada,
in the highlands of Ethiopia.

Just like macaques,
geladas form close bonds

and rely on well-maintained
social networks.

But this huge gathering
is not a single troop.

It's a collection
of smaller family groups

each one headed by a single,
intimidating male.

Under his protection are
several females and their young.

Their daily "monkey business"
is much like the macaques'.

But there's one big difference.

These monkeys
are much less inclined

to give each other
a serious mauling.

Life is no less competitive.

On the contrary,
many family groups

are drawn to
the same prime grazing grounds.

And competing for limited
food and space

does create dangerous tensions.

And with such pumped-up males

the ingredients are here
for the world's biggest brawl.

But amidst a chorus of noise

brewing fights
are somehow quickly diffused.

Against all expectations

an unlikely harmony
prevails in the gelada herds.

It seems that
these chattering monkeys

have developed
an unusual talent.

Just listen to them.

This volume of noise
is unique among monkeys.

It ebbs and flows continuously,
like one gigantic conversation.

Gentle and soothing,
this strange hubbub

helps keep the lid
on simmering tensions

and most of the time at least,
everyone stays relaxed.

But the social skills of monkeys
have been eclipsed by others.

Under the waves,
a rival intelligence

has been separately developing
for 60 million years.

Dolphins are also
intensely social animals

and tireless communicators, too.

Their societies are ruled
every bit as much

by friendships and alliances.

But with dolphins

the scientific evidence
is pointing to something new.

The bottle-nosed dolphin
has another card up its sleeve--

something that sets it and us
apart from most other species.

This animal can see the world
from another's point of view.

It can make an imaginative leap,
into the mind of another being.

To picture the world

as another sees it
and understands it

is to open up new possibilities.

Armed with this kind of insight

the actions and intentions
of others become easier to read.

Feelings, such as
a calf's need for reassurance

can perhaps be imagined.

And so, too,
another's lack of knowledge

and need of example.

Such leaps of imagination
are complex computations

but a dolphin
can't compete without them.

As far as we know

only one other group of animals
has ever developed this ability.

The power to contemplate
the minds of others

is a weapon
also evolved by apes.

In the social chess game

Those who read others well

can build themselves
a winning power base.

To fathom the minds of others,
though

requires at least a glimpse

of ones own
thoughts and motives.

It requires self-knowledge...

some form
of conscious awareness.

Whatever their thoughts

grooming is at the heart
of chimpanzee social life.

As well as cementing
lifelong friendships

this pleasurable activity
secures short-term allies.

But for these schemers

there are other ways
to conduct politics.

In the hands of a chimp

a prize piece of meat
is more than a meal.

Shrewdly handled, it's a gift
that can buy future favors

or seal a strategic partnership.

Such conscience manipulation
is commonplace for us.

And just as in human society more than
simple brute strength is needed to stay at the top

When chimps bid for power,
alliances make the difference.

It's political muscle
that really counts.

Fights within the group
are rarely lethal

but it's a different story

when chimps
run across outsiders.

Strangers risk
being m*rder*d.

Violence between groups
may have driven

the most extraordinary
advance in brainpower.

Throughout our own evolution

we have, like chimps,
clashed with rival groups.

One thing that made us
develop differently, though

was our invention of weapons.

They made human conflict
more dangerous.

The survivors were those

who could live together
in bigger groups.

But the bigger the group

the greater the skills
needed to hold it together.

In other primates, physical
grooming is vital for bonding.

In humans, it's been replaced by
a much more efficient mechanism:

Conversation.

Our speech is a masterpiece
of biological evolution

yet more than anything else,
we use it for small talk

to forge and renew social bonds.

Grooming has given way
to gossip.

Our chitchat, though,
is far from idle.

It's a critical tool
in the ultimate competition:

courtship.

Just as the peacock's tail
attracts a hen

so, over millions of years

ever larger
and brighter human brains

may have held more appeal
for human partners.

Our wit and wisdom--

expressed through language,
and so demanding of brainpower--

may have less
to do with survival

and more to do with sex.

Whatever the cause,
our exceptionally complex brains

are light-years on

from those first
connecting nerve cells--

the raw material
which evolution has woven

into such exquisitely complex
calculating machines...

into brains that
span a breathtaking range

in size and ability

and which empower animals
to make sense of their world.

Behind every set of eyes

is a state-of-the-art
survival tool--

a hidden weapon
constantly at work

computing a winning course
through life.

And the story of brainpower
is an evolving journey

one whose twists and turns
are hard to predict.

But one thing is certain.

Evolution is thrifty

and will continue
to equip animals

only with the brainpower
they really need.

In a remarkable triumph of life

our species has scaled
new intellectual heights

developing a conscious mind

that can think beyond itself
and imagine other realities.

Our mind has a unique ability
to contemplate its own fate

and the fate of life itself.