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"...