Baboons on my Roof

Baboons in the Vineyards

Val over at Monkeys on the Roof may well have vervet monkeys bouncing all over the roof of her home in the bushveld of Africa. You might say it’s understandable, even to be expected. But it’s an entirely other matter when it happens in the midst of suburbia.

Oh yes, imagine the exception I took when I found monkeys bounding all over my roof.

Okay, so they weren’t monkeys – they were baboons. And it wasn’t my house roof, it was my car roof, and they were not only bouncing on it but they were swinging on the wing mirrors, sliding down the windscreen, having games of chase over the bonnet and wiping their furry bums on my rear window. (I am still trying to get rid of the smudges and smears and paw prints.)

Sticky paw prints...

When I made so bold as to point out the error of their wicked ways – I was out of the car – yes, I would probably walk smack into a nest of vipers – I was roundly lunged and barked at by one hormonally challenged teen. (There’s this to say – adolescents, irrespective of species, are all the bloody same – stroppy and attitudinal!).

Of course, it was my own fault. I’d set off for a stint of late afternoon of photography in the vineyards just up the road and as I drove up the dirt track towards one particular spot, I spotted the baboons romping about at the restaurant/conference centre. The place is only open on Sundays which makes it fair game for the rest of week for the baboons who wouldn’t recognise a trespassers sign if it came up and nipped them on the nether regions. I suspect what made me carry on was the thought (well known by all photographers), “Ooh, cool photo opportunity!” and the fact that someone’s pet Daschund was being chased by the baboons. The owner, bless her blonde baffledness, had scarpered and was standing at the bottom of the road nibbling nervously on a well manicured finger nail – like that was going to do a fat lot of good. I knew if I drove towards the baboons my presence would give them something else to think about - and the dog, a suitably overweight and portly little chap who would have looked good in a large hotdog roll, would have a better chance of making it home to his foie gras on toast.

I suppose most others wouldn’t have even dreamed of getting out of the car when surrounded by a troop of baboons - but the thing is I sort of know this lot. They’re the local troop (I’ve even had them in my garden – oh joy – not!) and unlike many baboons who’ve been exposed to humans and become aggressive, this lot are quite laid back. You mind your manners and they’ll mind theirs.

Foraging between the vines
- I'll ignore you if you ignore me -

The leader of the pack was a huge male with a radio collar around his neck – he was so unphased by my presence he just ambled off down the dirt road (perhaps he still harboured visions of Daschund au Vin) – leaving me with Ma Baboon and the Brat Pack who varied in age from a couple of months to stroppy teens.

Ma Baboon

Monkeys (er, baboons) on my back

Contemplations

They were everywhere and I didn’t envy the restaurant owners as the baboons swung from the telephone wires, slid down the roof, played make believe - pretending the ivy trailing from the pines were monkey vines and they were Tarzan. They stole the last grapes from the vineyards, and played jungle gym on the chimney.

Ooh, look Ma, a swing!

Wheeeee!

Are you getting this - watch me slide, watch me slide!

Me Tarzan, you Tree...

The climbing frame - aka the chimney...

Butter wouldn't melt...

And then they discovered my car...

It's mine! No I saw it first, it's mine

Er, um, excuse me, actually, it's mine...

Ya! I'm the king of the castle!

Hmm, now how do I get in?

Ooh, I can swing on this, what fun!

Hey! It's a jungle gym! Whoohooo!

Let it not be said that I didn’t have a couple of hairy (or is that furry?) moments – especially when one made it quite clear my car was his car. I mean, I don’t mind sharing, but I have my limits.

Okay, so it's not a new model, but it will do, he says to himself.

“Sod off, you hairy beast!” I barked, wondering if he was going to rip my windscreen wipers from their hinges.

“Ya talkin’ ta me?” He gave me a challenging look.

Stroppy Teen - "Ya lookin' at me?"

“Oh yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. Bog off!”

“ARF!” he bellowed and eyeballing me, lunged.

My mistake, never ever make contact with a baboon. It brings out the worst in them.

Hmm, time to retreat or confront?

“Ha!” I snapped with more fervour than I felt and turned my back on the little blighter.

I tried to phone D, thinking I may be in need of rescue, but he’d gone to sleep with the phone in silent mode – so much for my Prince Charming and his white steed.

Ultimately I found the best approach was to wander off – trying not to trip over the two youngsters who went tearing around my legs. And so, ignoring the chap muttering “what’s yours is mine” I took my shots of the vineyards – albeit with slightly trembling hands.

If I get on with taking photos perhaps he'll leave my car alone...

Snotty Teen eventually got bored, they always do, and I took the gap, rescued my car and left them to it.

A small baboon token left on my car - I call it "Baboon Art"...

The Guinea Fowl Chronicles: Mama! There's a chick in my house!

I have the distinct sense that this blog has been hijacked – by guinea fowl. Every time I’m about to post something non-guinea, nature interferes and offers me a guinea story which demands sharing. I’m thinking of giving up the unequal struggle and changing the name of the blog to The Guinea Fowl Chronicles, on the basis if you can’t beat ‘em you may as well join ‘em. I may even apply feathers to my forehead and starting ba-kaaking, a lot (alright then, more than usual).

The usual source of drama - a small peep...

But on with today’s drama…

Early this morning I was standing at the window, counting my chickens, I mean baby guinea fowl (as I swore I wouldn’t do).
“There’re only three, no, four, no five,” said D.
“Nonsense,” I said, “the rest are around the side of Bo’s cage.”
D wandered off and I gazed at the scene on the lawn.
Then I frowned. I blinked. I frowned again. I rubbed my eyes and peered at Bo’s cage.
“D,” I yelled, “there’s a chick in Bo’s cage. No, wait, there’re two chicks in her cage. No, hang on, there are three chicks in her cage!”
“How the hell did they get in there?” he bellowed back.
“Dunno, but we’d better get them out!”
As we headed outside Papa Guinea was doing his head in, running around Bo’s cage hecking something horrible. The air was positively blue. Mama Guinea had gathered up her skirts and ten other chicks and had vanished into the deep undergrowth of the shrubbery.

Come away, children, quickly!

As I advanced, Papa Guinea charged me.
“Don’t be such an ass!” I muttered.
The chicks ran up and down, well trapped in Bo’s cage, meeping furiously.

Let us out! Let us out! Meep, meep, meep!

Maiden Aunt on Speed, Ms Bo, ran with them – looking a bit like a cavalry horse taking charge.

I'm in charge here - er, only I'm not quite sure what to do!

“Heck-heck-heck-heck-heck!” screeched Pa Guinea hurtling around the cage, feathers up and in a right huff.

Heck-heck-heck-heck-heck! @#$@!! ^&%$#@!!! HECK!!!!

“How on earth will we get them out,” muttered D, in something of a lather himself.
“First we have to get Bo into the front section of the cage,” I said.
“No, we have to get the chicks out.”
“I know that,” I said patiently, as though speaking to a three year old... “But let’s get Bo out of the way first.”
“How do we do that?”
Honestly, men! Why is it that in a crisis the rational ability to think straight, goes all wavy and heads south.
“We’ll do what we always do. You go and fetch some worms, I’ll get the cage divider, we’ll lure her to the front section – as we do every day to get her out.”
“It won’t work!”
“It’ll work,” I snapped, “just go and get some worms!”
I was left watching the chicks and being shrieked at by Pa Guinea. He didn’t mind me as much as he minded the camera. Something about point and shoot, I think, was stuck in the primeval bit of his brain.
“Heck-heck-heck-heck,” he roared charging at me.
I pointed the camera at him. He squawked and ducked around the side of the cage, muttering rude things beneath his breath.
D returned with the worms. Bo was lured to the front of the cage. The divider was dropped. Yours truly went to the other side of the cage, lifted it up (in a manful sort of way despite being dressed in nothing but a satin dressing gown) and the chicks shot out like motorized mini mice suffering from an excess of batteries.
“Heeeeeeeck!” hissed Pa Guinea and rushed one chick across the lawn while the other two vanished into bushes alongside the house.
“How the hell did they ever get in?” asked D.

The usual suspect, looking innocent...

Now see, here’s the problem. The usual suspects, aka the squirrels, have done what squirrels always do if there are seeds and nuts they can’t get to. They find a way in. And this lot has taken to tunneling. And sure enough, there was a hole going under the base of the cage.

The Tunnel

I should perhaps mention that last week we found Bo in a lather as two squirrels, the master engineers, flung themselves around her cage because you know how it goes, having got in, no one can ever remember how to get out.

Who me? Nevuh!

So if anyone has any bright ideas about how to stop tunnel builders, bearing in mind that Bo’s cage gets moved around the garden every few days, do please let me know. For the moment we’ve resorted to bricks around the edge of the base where invasions have occurred, but we’re kinda running low on bricks.

The Tunnel blocked, for now...

Oh and before I end off, let me also add that we have a new predator to contend with. Pickings being scarce on the mountain, the baboons have taken to invading the neighbourhood to trash the rubbish bins, break in and devastate anything they can lay their thieving paws on. They are not nice, they can be very aggressive, they have huge yellow fangs and are far too smart for their own good. Dealing with sparrowhawks and herons was, in comparison, um, chicken feed…

Chacma baboons, not to be messed with
Shot above, taken at the arboretum just up the road.
Shot below, taken at Cape Point Nature Reserve

And now I'm off to make myself a nice, soothing cuppa tea.

You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours

I’m twixt ideas. Argh. After frantic writing for the past few weeks, I am suddenly at a loss. What to do, what to do?!

Ah yes, of course, the camera… So we set off to the Cape Point Nature Reserve which lies just 35 minutes south of Cape Town. It is the south-western most tip of Africa and it’s a beautiful drive along the coast. Since summer has decided to arrive unseasonably late this year, the weather was simply stunning.

Did you know, it was the circumnavigation of the Cape of Good Hope - ie Cape Town and Cape Point – that led to the establishment of a sea route to the East and subsequent trade?

The Reserve is well known for its preservation of the flora of the Cape Floral Kingdom, a highly endangered plant kingdom which consists of plants known collectively as “fynbos” - which literally translates as “fine bush”. The CFK is the smallest but most diverse of the world’s floral kingdoms. Fynbos is fire intensive and not only burns rapidly but needs regular burning in order to regenerate. Devastating fires are often a feature of the landscape. Fauna in the reserve is generally small although there are several species of antelope – though they tend to be shy. There are also troops of Chacma baboons…

The baboons (papino ursinus) are a protected species within the Cape Peninsula given their dwindling habitat, lost to increasing urbanization. The relationship between suburbia and baboons is not generally a happy one. The baboons are attracted by food and once habituated become aggressive and dangerous. They will not hesitate to raid rubbish bins and enter houses – where they will wreak havoc. In their natural state, however, they subsist on fruits, roots, bulbs, honey, insects and scorpions though these particular baboons have also adapted to include shellfish in their diet. They are highly sociable animals, living in groups of up to 40 or 50. Daytime is spent mostly on the ground, foraging and playing, while nighttime will see them roosting in a tree of a cave.

Social grooming is a feature of baboon behaviour and is usually done between same sex individuals and helps to form social bonds within a troop. When chilled out and relaxed, the baboons can be great fun to watch...

Right, my son, let's see about those fleas...

Bend over, then.
What, like this?
That'll do.

Ooh, er, that's nice... go on then, lower, lower. Ooh, no, that tickles!

There you go, that's the spot! Here, what are you looking at? Do I watch you when you bath? Bog off, then!

Right, my turn. I'll just stand, shall I, so you can get to the lower bits...

Ooh, I think I've found something... Wait, wait, don't move, yes, there it is!

That's my boy, you get it out of there. Can't have my coat messed up by fleas. Next thing you know they'll be wanting to open a flea circus on my back...

Ooooh, errrrr, aaaaah, now you've hit the spot, my boy... oooooh....