Léo Ramos Chaves / Pesquisa FAPESPHis career balanced research with a military routine. At 16 years of age, he joined the Army, graduating from its Veterinary School in Rio de Janeiro in 1937. After serving as a military veterinarian in barracks in Rio Grande do Sul and in Rio de Janeiro, he went to the reserves in 1969 with the rank of colonel. At the same time, he worked at institutions such as the Oswaldo Cruz Institute, in the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ) and in the University of Brasília (UnB), where he created a primatology center that became a benchmark in Brazil.
Abroad, he spent time as a researcher at the University of California in Berkeley, in the USA, and as a consultant for international organizations in countries such as El Salvador and the Dominican Republic, where he lived for several years. It was in El Salvador that he met psychiatrist Angela, 90 years of age, with whom he has been married for 60 years and has three children. Recognized internationally, Milton Thiago de Mello received the John Gamgee Award in 2013, the highest honor in veterinary science in the world, presented during the 31st World Veterinary Congress in the Czech Republic.
With a sharp memory and tongue, he received Pesquisa FAPESP for over two hours in the house where he lives on the edge of Lake Paranoá, in Brasília, for the following interview.
Field of expertise
Veterinary medicine and primatology
Institution
University of Brasília (UnB)
Educational background
Undergraduate at the Army Veterinary School (1937), PhD in microbiology at the National School of Veterinary Medicine (1946)
Your professional career combined research in veterinary medicine with a military career. How did these two careers coexist?
It was extremely simple. At 16, in 1933, I was down and out, so I enlisted in the Army, at the Praia Vermelha barracks in Rio de Janeiro. And the first veterinary school set up in Brazil, in 1910, was created by the Army to combat a disease, a zoonosis called glanders, caused by a bacterium that killed many horses and was transmitted to humans. I became a student at that school, spending four years at the Army’s Veterinary School, established by military personnel trained at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. The laboratories were formidable and the official Army professors were trained by the French. I was considered a good student, but as I was rebellious, I occasionally ended up being locked up in the Cavalry Regiment barracks near the park Quinta da Boa Vista. I finished my course and the Army sent me to Rio Grande do Sul. And off I went, in 1937, a young lieutenant, to Santa Maria, which at the time was called Santa Maria da Boca do Monte.
Were you able to work with research there?
No, but afterwards I ended up being invited to organize an Army laboratory in Porto Alegre to support the treatment of horses. It was there that I conducted my first research, about parasitic worm infestations in horses in Rio Grande do Sul. However, I was soon called back to Santa Maria. The then Colonel Álcio Souto [1896–1948] took charge of the barracks and ordered everyone assigned to other agencies to return. The regiment had over a thousand horses that pulled cannons inherited from the First World War and they had been neglected during the time I went to Porto Alegre. I was able to sort out the horses and gained the respect of the commander. Afterwards, I moved to the countryside, to a barracks in Cachoeira do Sul. I also hit it off well with the commander, a colonel who wrote speeches for Eurico Gaspar Dutra [1883–1974], Minister of War and later President of the Republic. He was a real intellect, he wrote several books, and was a great man. He was called José de Lima Figueiredo [1902–1956]. When he left command of the barracks, he asked me: “Where would you like to go?” I replied: “Rio de Janeiro.” I wanted to get married. I chose to go the Institute of Biology of the Army, but ended up falling out of favor there. At that time, I requested permission to take an advanced course at the Oswaldo Cruz Institute.
So, did you continue as a researcher at the Oswaldo Cruz Institute?
I did the course and, at the end, I won the same gold medal that they had given my professors from the Army Veterinary School. I thought about asking to leave the Army, but I liked military life and decided to continue. I stayed in the Army and, at the same time, at what is currently FIOCRUZ, without earning a cent more.
Time passed, my colleagues passed away, and I survived with the label of being the first person to make penicillin in Brazil
What type of illness did you work on?
When I arrived, one of the professors, Genésio Pacheco, was studying brucellosis, a very serious disease in cattle, and invited me to work with him. The bacterial disease killed many cows, and was a hindrance to cattle farming in Brazil. We wrote a book that became a benchmark on the disease. I published a lot of work, and in the early 2000s, I saw suggestions that I had made 40 years earlier being incorporated by the Ministry of Agriculture into the National Program for Combating Brucellosis and Tuberculosis in Cattle, such as calf vaccination, educating farmers and technicians about the disease, investigations into brucellosis in representative cattle samples, and the creation of special legislation on the issue. I had already retired from the university when the ministry adopted all of that, sometimes using the same words.
You were one of the people responsible for the first production of penicillin outside of the USA and England. What was the importance of that experiment?
I had several labels during my career: the one for brucellosis, one for penicillin, and one for monkeys. When I began at the Oswaldo Cruz Institute, I went to study disease-causing fungi in the Mycology Laboratory. In 1928, Alexander Fleming [1881–1955], a little-known Scottish microbiologist, noticed that there was a fungus that prevented staphylococci from growing and published his findings. Years later, the Second World War came around, and with it, the challenge of treating injured soldiers with infections. And there were two super scientists in England, Howard Florey [1898–1968] and Ernst Chain [1906–1979], who decided to explore it and create a liquid that killed microbes. They called the liquid penicillin, because it came from a fungus called Penicillium. At this time, in 1944, I was in that laboratory, I was already a known scientist, and I suggested: “Why don’t we do the same thing that Florey and Chain did?” We produced penicillin in the basement of the institute in 1945, myself and two other recently graduated doctors, Amadeu Cury [1917–2008] and Masao Goto [1919–1986]. We put the antibiotic in large bottles. With this crude liquid, doctors from the Oswaldo Cruz Institute saved many people who had caught a disease called yaws, which attacks the mouth. We didn’t think it was important, and didn’t even bother publishing it. Time passed, my colleagues died, and I have survived carrying the label of being the first person who made penicillin in Brazil.
How many people was it able to save? Did they use it on other diseases besides yaws?
Not save, rather cure the disease. Yaws was a deforming disease, but not deadly, caused by a microbe similar to the one that causes syphilis. But doctors from Rio de Janeiro cured syphilis patients with this crude penicillin. The pharmaceutical industry soon took over the task of producing the antibiotic.
What were your main contributions during this period at the Oswaldo Cruz Institute?
The work with brucellosis lasted more than 20 years. That was definitely the main contribution. I began working with a remarkable man who, unfortunately, died young. He was called Paulo de Góes [1913–1982], he was a microbiologist, physician, and professor at the University of Brazil, the current Federal University of Rio de Janeiro [UFRJ]. We decided to create an Institute of Microbiology at UFRJ, which took his name. He was a close friend. We created—myself, Paulo de Góes, Carlos Chagas Filho [1910–2000], and Amadeu Cury—a postgraduate program based on the one at Oswaldo Cruz.
In Berkely, there was a fight between classical microbiologists and the younger microbiologists, who founded molecular biology
Was it during this time that you went to work overseas for the first time?
I was quietly doing research at Oswaldo Cruz when a friend asked me what I thought about getting a grant from the Guggenheim Foundation. I replied that I didn’t feel capable and he criticized me. “So, they have chosen you to receive this grant in the USA and you’re saying you’re not capable of accepting it?” I was surprised, I didn’t know that I had been nominated and, of course, I accepted. I got divorced from my first marriage and went to conduct, still about brucellosis, studies on airborne brucellosis infections—in the best laboratory in the world working on this topic, in the Department of Bacteriology at the University of California in Berkeley, USA. The grant was not much, but it was enough to support myself well enough. In the laboratory, there was a conflict between the classic microbiologists, a group which I belonged to, and the young microbiologists who founded molecular biology. There were five Nobel prize winners in the building where we worked alone. At that time, I was a colonel in the Army. When the one-and-a-half-year grant period ended, they suggested I resign from the Army and stay there. I didn’t accept and returned to Brazil.
After that, did you go to El Salvador? What did you go to do there?
The Pan American Health Organization, OPAS, invited me to make some visits to US and Mexican laboratories to see which ones had conditions to accept scholarship students from the institution. So, I went there to give conferences. A friend, Alfonso Trejos, was there as a visiting professor in El Salvador and sent me an invitation: “Would you like to come and give a three-month course here?” I stayed for three years. I met my wife there, Angela, who was a medical researcher. We got married. My son, Milton José, was born in El Salvador, and is a colonel in the Brazilian Army today.
What was El Salvador like at that time?
It is the smallest country in the Americas, but had exceptional people. I was impressed by a female doctor who recently turned 100 years old and was awarded a statue in a public square. Maria Isabel Rodrigues was the director of OPAS and of the School of Medicine, where my wife did research and I went to be a professor.
You left Oswaldo Cruz at that time. Why?
The military was in power and had chosen an individual to run the institute, of whom I have unpleasant memories, named Francisco de Paula Rocha Lagoa [1919–2013], who later became the Minister of Health. There was polarization in the institute between the left-wing researchers, who were exceptional, and the right-wing researchers, who were also exceptional. I got on with both groups, because I was neutral. Rocha Lagoa got it into his head that I was part of the left-wing group and didn’t allow me to continue with the research I had done in Berkeley. He ended up leaving, but I didn’t want to stay there anymore and returned to the Institute of Microbiology at UFRJ. When I got back from El Salvador, I resumed my position in the Army, which was a full professor at the Military School of Rio de Janeiro. I stayed until I went into the reserves, in 1969, when I was already contracted by the United Nations for a mission in the Dominican Republic. I spent five years there.
Milton Thiago de Mello on a trip to Rome with his wife, Angela, to whom he has been married for six decadesPersonal archive
You remained in the Dominican Republic between 1969 and 1974. What was your job?
My mission was in the UNPD [United Nations Development Program] and the FAO [United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization] as an expert in microbiology on a project at the Veterinary School of the Autonomous University of Santo Domingo. The majority of people at the university were left-wing and there was a really strong animosity towards the USA. Years earlier, the right-wing regime of dictator Rafael Trujillo [1891–1961] had been overthrown when he was assassinated. I knew they didn’t want me to enter the university because I was a colonel in the Army here in Brazil, but someone from the United Nations said that if I left, they wouldn’t send a replacement. I arrived at the airport in a DC-3. The country was dependent on agribusiness and was hampered by three animal diseases. The Minister of Agriculture, who was a young and very intelligent man, asked me: “Doctor de Mello, don’t you want to help us?” I ended up helping.
What where the diseases?
The first was brucellosis. The second was swine fever, and the third was a disease in chickens. I understood all three. I spent five years and left in good standing with those from the left and right wing.
From there, you came to UnB?
The dean of UnB at the time was a brilliant friend of mine who made penicillin with me at Oswaldo Cruz, Amadeu Cury. It was a civil university and had a naval captain as its vice dean, José Carlos de Almeida Azevedo [1932–2010], who played a part in the consolidation of UnB—he later became the dean. I was in the Dominican Republic when the two of them, Azevedo and Cury, sent me a plane ticket and invited me to help organize the university’s research efforts. That was in 1974. I returned to Brazil with my wife and three children to become the dean of research and graduate studies. They gave me a luxury apartment in a building that had been built for ambassadors.
What was UnB like at that time? What did you find?
Well, if you are appointed dean of research and graduate studies, what is your first port of call? To see how those activities are being done in the institution. I scheduled interviews in the institutes and departments. During one of these interviews, I met a professor named Agenor de Mello Sobrinho, from the Animal Biology Department. He had an aggressive temperament, rode a motorcycle, and wore highway patrol sunglasses. Everyone was scared of him. At one point in the interview, he punched the table and began complaining and speaking badly about the university and the dean. I asked him: “Professor, what’s your name?” He responded: “Agenor de Mello Sobrinho.” I asked: “Do you really think that the university is all that?” “Yes, sir,” he replied. “And what are you doing here? Why don’t you leave?” To everyone’s astonishment, he backtracked: “Sorry, I was nervous.” I became known as the man who confronted Agenor. At that time, I was approached by Johanna Döbereiner [1924–2000], who was at EMBRAPA, a great researcher who should have won the Nobel prize for her work on nitrogen fixation in soil. We organized a world microbiology congress at UnB. During the time I was dean, I had the means and opportunity to do many things. Later, I learned that my work at the university had the support of the former commander of the Military School of Rio de Janeiro, where I was a full professor, General Adalberto Pereira dos Santos [1905–1984], who was the vice president of the Republic at the time.
Why did you start working with primates after you came to UnB?
I had already worked with primates in the USA. When I arrived here, I said to Azevedo and Cury that I wanted to resume that research. Cury went to the window of the dean’s office, looked out to a small hill and said: “The monkeys are out there, go and catch them.” I asked him: “But, if there are no monkeys, then there is no primatology?” He replied: “That is correct.” I decided, this was in 1984, to create courses to train people. So, they labeled me again as the monkeyology genius.
Extramural primatology is in fashion because of the concern with the environment. Some students are drawn to this approach
And what were these courses like?
It was a crazy thing. I was a colonel in the reserves, had already received awards from zoology and veterinary societies or in recognition of my research on brucellosis, and I slept on the forest floor so that the students could get to know the primates. They were specialization courses for graduates from any field, but the majority were biology and veterinary students. We would go to places where there were primates and researchers working with them, in states like Minas Gerais, Rio Grande do Norte, Bahia, and in biomes such as the Atlantic Forest, Cerrado [wooded savanna], and the Amazon. There were no formal classes. The students received knowledge from the researchers through osmosis. IBAMA [Brazilian Institute of the Environment and Renewable Natural Resources] and the Army helped us, sometimes. Primatology today is really good. There are around 130 researchers who stand out and have taken these courses. The other day, I saw one of them on the television, Mauricio Talebi from the Federal University of São Paulo, who is doing research in the Atlantic Forest and is one of these monkey experts that likes to work in the forest. He’s a great researcher. I also helped reorganize the Brazilian Society of Primatology, of which I was chairman, and promote the first Brazilian primatology congresses, which take place every two years. They are in the 16th edition.
How was the Primatology Center at UnB created?
One of my interests was studying the reproduction of the monkeys that live here in the Cerrado. We created the center on the university farm, in the suburbs of Brasília, close to the airport. I ended up going up against one of the few researchers who understood monkeys in Brazil, Adelmar Coimbra-Filho [1924–2016]. He is known for rediscovering the black lion tamarin, in the Pontal do Paranapanema, and for his work on golden lion tamarin conservation, in Rio de Janeiro. I tried collaborating with him, but the idea was not well received. He claimed that monkeys perforated branches and tree trunks to extract the sap. In the installation I had made in Brasília, the perches were made of broom sticks and the monkeys perforated them in the same manner. I published that, showing that it was not sap they were looking for. When the third Brazilian Primatology Congress came around, Coimbra came after me. At one point, I was unable to escape. He said: “You know, Milton, you are right. Monkeys gnaw because they need to gnaw. If there is sap, they make the most of it. But they don’t gnaw to get the sap.” So, we became friends. I wanted to transform the Primatology Center in Rio de Janeiro, that Coimbra created, into a world class university in primatology, but I couldn’t find support. The center is coordinated by one of Coimbra’s followers, Alcides Pissinatti.
What would you say to a student who is interested in studying primatology today?
That primatology has intramural science and extramural science. Intramural science is done at a desk, with a microscope. It was where I spent many years. Extramural primatology is currently more fashionable because of the concern with the environment. Some students are more drawn to this approach. One of my students, José de Souza e Silva Júnior, nicknamed Cazuza, a researcher at the Emílio Goeldi Museum of Pará, is one of the biggest names in this field and has already discovered some monkeys. One of the honors in world zoology is when you discover an animal and name it after someone. This student discovered an animal in the Amazon and paid homage to me: the monkey’s name is Callicebus miltoni. The common name in the Amazon is titi.
Have you ever seen this monkey?
I’ve never seen it up close.
Everybody asks me what I owe my longevity to. To remain in good health, you have to have friends and I have many
Do you have disciples?
I don’t want to have disciples. I want to share my knowledge, regardless of the person’s level, from kindergarten to the people from super research institutes. When I reached 100 years of age, in 2016, I was honored in an international conference here in Brasília that lasted three days. Primatologists from all over the world came. Microbiologists, veterinarians, and people from universities came. I decided to write a book of memories about what I did in those 100 years.
Is it an autobiography?
It’s not exactly a biography, it’s a bit of this, a bit of that. The title of the book is Poste de cozumel, a reference to a structure known in Brazil as poste de fita [like a maypole] with seven ribbons, which people dance around. Each ribbon represents an aspect of my trajectory: family, the Army, veterinary medicine, science, teaching, societies, and international life. Then, I reached my 101st birthday. We decided to republish the book, adding a photographic report about the centenary celebration. My 102nd birthday came around and the book was updated—and so on over the following years. When I completed 108 years at the start of this year, another edition came out with additions.
Are you participating in a study about healthy centenarians that is being conducted by the Human Genome and Stem Cell Research Center, of the University of São Paulo (USP)? How was the experience?
I found out about this project by Mayana Zatz from reading a report in a magazine and thought it was interesting. I was 105 years old at the time. We made contact and an assistant of Mayana’s came to collect my blood.
At 108 years of age, how is your health?
Everyone asks me that. To what do I owe my longevity? I owe it to my health. When I was a teenager, I wanted to be a tough guy and decided to smoke a cigar. As I didn’t have money, with a few cents I bought one that at the time was called a clown cigar. I spent 48 hours throwing up and never smoked again. My health was not compromised because my lungs remained healthy. To remain in good health, you have to have friends, and I have many. A few years ago, I had a fall in my apartment in Rio de Janeiro and I broke everything. That’s why I spend most of my time now in a wheel chair. As a result of those injuries, I was obliged to leave the house less and I no longer see my friends as regularly as before. I receive a few to have a little whiskey, but not like before. Oh, and I try to stay away from doctors as much as possible.
