There is hope for Liberia's lab chimps, one year on from an international scandal.

When she arrived, her weight didn't register on the scale.

The four-month-old had been living on rice, and some papaya. Her balding body, dehydrated in the West African heat, was swamped by a filthy, long-sleeved shirt.

The infant had witnessed her family's slaughter, by the hunter who had captured her.

When she arrived, she was screaming.

Jenny Desmond took the chimpanzee in her arms and thought: "She is going to die".

It has been about six months since Lucy was left with the Desmonds, by a woman who tried to surrender the chimp in exchange for cash.

Lucy when she arrived at the Desmonds' in January. Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

Today, Lucy has a round belly. Her eyes are bright, her body is hairy. She laughs, even in her sleep.

Recently, her climbing has improved. She is, Jenny says, "just a beautiful little girl".

Lucy has a new family, albeit an unorthodox one.

Her foster brother Rudolph is about her age. He was confiscated by the Liberia Forestry Development Agency, from an expatriate who was apparently trafficking chimps.

The youngsters spend their days in an outdoor enclosure under the discerning gaze of a local woman employed to mind them.

In turn, Lucy and Rudy observe older chimps, also orphans, through a chain link fence. Chimp school, Jenny calls it.

Lucy today. Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

When darkness falls, the youngest apes return to the Desmonds' house – a short hop from their enclosure – to slurp down bottles of formula. Bedtime involves an hour or so of hijinks, cuddling, tickling and giggling before the babies "conk out".

If they awake to a thunder clap, Jenny dashes back to the bedroom.

"They're never, ever left alone, except if they're sound asleep and they don't know I'm not in the room," she says.

Sometime after 10pm, the Desmonds head to bed themselves. After giving the babies another bottle, Jenny, Jim and their dog Princess snuggle up next to them.

"Jimmy gets a little sliver of the bed, on the edge," Jenny says, with a chuckle.

Dame Jane Goodall, left, with Jenny and Jim Desmond, and their dog Princess. Photo: Supplied

'HOW CAN WE LEAVE?'

When the Desmonds arrived in Liberia a year ago, they didn't expect to stay.

The couple had a job lined up managing the primate sanctuary at Colobus Conservation in Kenya – Jenny as an animal welfare and conservation consultant, and Jim as a wildlife veterinarian.

In July 2015, the couple got a call from The Humane Society of the United States. They were told 66 chimps had been left to starve to death on a series of islands in Liberia. Would they lend their expertise?

The animals been used for research by the New York Blood Centre (NYBC), a not-for-profit organisation, for about 30 years. When the research programme ended, the chimps were retired to the mangrove islands down the road from the lab.

The retired lab chimps in July 2015. Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

The six islands, accessible only by boat, have no food or consistent freshwater sources.

For about 10 years, the NYBC paid the chimps' former captors to ferry them food and water every other day. Then, in the midst of the worst Ebola epidemic in history, the NYBC stopped paying.

It had never owned the chimps, it stated. They were the Liberian government's responsibility.

Those paid to feed the chimps felt betrayed. They had lost their jobs, and struggled to keep the chimps alive with piecemeal donations and their own meagre funds.

Some of them had known the animals since infancy. Now, they were watching them die.

Ben Johnson has worked with the chimps for more than 20 years. Photo: Britt Mann/Stuff

Perhaps the NYBC thought no one would notice. But international scientists visiting the chimps' former residence during the Ebola crisis, now the hub of the virus' research in Liberia, notified The Humane Society.

It was the Desmonds' first visit to the small West African country, the site of one of Africa's more grotesque civil wars. They were there to implement emergency measures: food, water, birth control.

The couple had worked with traumatised, orphaned and sickly apes in Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. But they had never seen anything like this.

The chimps were scrawny, their coats were patchy, their eyes were dull. They fought over food. They were desperate.

There are 63 chimpanzees living on six islands near Charlesville, Liberia. Forty-nine were used in laboratory research by the New York Blood Centre over a 30-year period. Fourteen have been born since the lab chimps were retired to the islands. Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

Jenny recalls that first trip to "Monkey Island".

"We were both in tears."

WORKING AROUND THE CLOCK

The Desmonds planned to stay in Liberia for five weeks. A year later, they are still there.

They turned down the job in Kenya, with the house by the beach and weekends off, to oversee the Liberia Chimpanzee Rescue & Protection (LCRP) project on behalf of The Humane Society.

"We don't take days off, we don't take hours off," Jenny says.

"We knew it was going to be the most challenging thing we'd ever done."

Dr Jim Desmond with Lucy when she arrived in the Desmonds' care in January. Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

Princess was the deciding factor. The rescue dog, who has befriended stricken critters across seven countries, was a non-negotiable part of the deal. If she was allowed into Liberia, and could be evacuated in an emergency, the Desmonds would return.

That November, the trio moved to Charlesville, a 75-minute drive from Liberia's capital, Monrovia.

Today, the Desmonds are custodians of two groups; the retired lab chimps on the islands down the road, and the rescued orphans on the mainland.

The orphans, Jenny says, had not been part of the plan.

"That has been a completely new aspect of this role, and it's a big one."

The Desmonds and the orphans live at the lab chimps' former residence: the Liberia Institute for Biomedical Research.

The cages which imprisoned the animals for decades stand rusting in the compound.

Caregiver Anthony Kpoh, with Bullet, front left, who lost his arm when he was shot as an infant. Photo: Britt Mann/Stuff

LCRP has re-employed many of the men who'd kept the chimps alive on the islands. It is an opportunity for reconciliation, even redemption.

Dressed in white uniforms from their days at the lab, the men throw food to the animals they once kept captive.

Amassing enough food for daily feedings is a military-scale operation. Fruit and vegetables are sourced from farmers and markets across the county; other food is delivered to the compound, or collected from riverside villages during the daily, five-hour round trip to the islands.

The food costs US$200 a day. The project's total operating costs hover about $20,000 a month, covered by a patchwork of grants, donors, and fundraising.

Every morning, the produce is washed in an antibacterial solution, cut up by hand, and driven a short distance to the dock. The food is loaded into motorised dinghies, manned by at least three of LCRP's 32 staff.

Ben Johnson, left, with the chimps' head caregiver, Joseph Thomas, and Anthony Kpoh. Photo: Britt Mann/Stuff

Two of the men distribute the food while one acts as lookout. These days, the caregivers keep their distance from the chimps. The animals are not aggressive, but they are strong.

Safety – for both humans and animals – is the main reason the Desmonds discourage tourists from visiting the islands with local fishermen.

"If a chimp wants to knock a canoe over, they can do that in about two seconds," Jenny says.

A chimp may snatch her friend's piece of fruit on occasion. But for the most part, they're well-behaved.

Jenny goes on the feeding trips at least once a week, watching the caregivers in action from the boat. For a $50 donation, visitors can tag along.

"Now, the chimps are just sitting there. They're grooming or they're playing – they don't stop what they're doing because the food's coming, they know the food's going to come," Jenny says.

"It's a really beautiful thing to see."

Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

BROKEN, NOT BEATEN

The animals bear few physical signs of what they endured at the research facility, the now-disestablished Vilab II.

The chimps, captured from the wild or bought from pet traffickers, had seen their families killed and had their own babies taken from them. They had watched their friends darted, and carted away in wheelbarrows.

As research subjects, they were infected with hepatitis and the parasite which causes "river blindness", among other pathogens. They underwent liver biopsies, countless blood tests, and had lung infections that would not heal.

Some had been anaesthetised upwards of 500 times.

When a film crew visited the islands, the chimps refused to come to shore until the tripod was collapsed. They thought it might have been a dart gun, Jenny guesses.

Chimp cages at the Liberia Institute for Biomedical Research. Photo: Britt Mann/Stuff

"I think it's taken the chimps a long time to actually trust that no one's coming to get them to bring them back [to the lab] again."

"They may still think, every time we come, 'I wonder if somebody's going to take us away'."

DISOWNMENT

Jenny says the nature of chimp research is inhumane, even if it isn't malicious.

Others view the experiments as a necessary evil. The NYBC website states more than 1 million lives were saved through vaccines and stem cell therapies developed at Vilab II.

The NYBC maintains it owes no ongoing responsibility to the chimps. It has ignored Stuff's requests for comment.

The abandoned chimps continue to enjoy the support of congressmen, celebrities and a 200,000-signature strong petition, calling on the NYBC to pay its dues.

Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

The Humane Society reports the NYBC has more than $475 million in assets, and annual revenues of more than $300m.

"It is more than capable of continuing to provide lifetime support for the chimpanzees in Liberia and had previously promised to do so."

Recently, the organisation changed its website copy to read: "NYBC is willing to discuss these issues with any legitimate animal rights organization".

"I think they're realising this is not going to go away," Jenny says.

"They can either continue to fight it, or they can step up to the plate and do something about it. The second they want to do that, we're ready to speak with them. We've never closed that door."

Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

MUTUAL EPIPHANIES

It was not chimps that brought Jenny and Jim together, but beer. The couple, raised respectively in California and Maine, met at a brewery in Boston.

As newlyweds, they backpacked around the world. The animal lovers visited local wildlife at every opportunity, securing a volunteering gig at an orangutan sanctuary in Borneo.

Jenny says she had been working in sales and marketing – "which I loved" – while Jim had been working in a lab – "which he hated".

It was in Borneo that Jenny had her proverbial lightbulb moment. She didn't have to be a biologist or a park ranger to work with animals. She could work in rescue.

Jim was inspired by a vet at the sanctuary who was researching disease transmission between humans and animals. Maybe he could retrain.

The couple didn't mess about seeking career advice. They wrote to internationally renowned primatologist​ Jane Goodall.

"I don't know what I thought," Jenny says. "Like she's going to write me back – yeah, right. But she did."

To notch up their conservation experience, the couple moved to Uganda to manage the International Rhino Foundation.

One day, they were brought an orphaned chimp.

Matooke lived with the Desmonds for many months, Jenny says. Today, he's the alpha of his group.

"I think that really sealed the deal for us."

Photo: Jenny Desmond/Supplied

The couple returned to the US, where Jim spent five years studying towards a veterinary degree, and Jenny gained a Masters in social work.

"That was kind of scary because we had to hope that would pay off, and that we'd be able to come back," Jenny says.

She is honest about the challenges of life in Liberia.

Haphazard electricity and water supplies, unreliable phone and internet connections; ancient equipment; sourcing the chimps a varied, nutritious diet in a country that can hardly afford to feed many of its own people. The torrential rain, the suffocating heat. Two babies requiring constant attention.

And yet, the couple could achieve an unprecedented feat: establishing a chimpanzee sanctuary in Liberia.

Sweet Pea, Portea, Guey, Rudy and Lucy – the fledgling sanctuary's first residents – are the lucky ones.

Jenny knows of 10 chimps in need of rescue.

"I'm sure there are more than that we haven't even heard about yet."

Sweet Pea, before she was rescued. Photo: Supplied

'LIBERIA HAS THE CHANCE TO DO SOMETHING AMAZING'

A sanctuary is not just a repository for warm fuzzies, real and metaphorical. It is crucial for wildlife conservation in Liberia.

Liberian law states it's illegal to kill, own or trade a chimpanzee but without a place to bring confiscated chimps, it's difficult for authorities to act.

Acting as a deterrent, the sanctuary will provide indirect protection for the 7000 chimps, hunted for bush meat and trafficked as pets, outside its boundaries.

While the rains fall, the Desmonds are planning the next phase of the project: constructing a stand-alone sanctuary on the mainland, and building infrastructure on the islands. The chimps will have a place to shelter, and receive medical care. In the meantime, the Desmonds do not go ashore.

When Lucy and Rudy are about 18 months old, they'll be integrated with the other orphans at the compound.

One day, all going to plan, the group will have an island to call its own.

HOW YOU CAN HELP

Sign the petition calling for the NYBC to resume funding

Donate to the Go Fund Me campaign

The chimps' fresh water supply is rigged to a self-operated tap on each of the islands. Photo: Britt Mann/Stuff.

Britt Mann travelled to Liberia in March. She paid her own way.