I love baboons. I love their intelligence, their antics, the long, thin snouts of the adult males, the cute pink faces of their tiny babies, their playfulness, their responsible parenting, their social cohesion…
It is difficult to separate emotion from the constructive thought process that is required for this exercise. The emotion whispers in our ears and tempts us and provokes us to hope that this time things can be different, that after almost three decades we can get it right, as wildlife-friendly communities would do, as caring people would do.
It seems so simple to coexist with nature, with wildlife, with others. There is nothing I would like more, believe me. But it is not that simple.
Watching the young of a pride frolicking while higher-ranking individuals are meticulously groomed by lower-ranking ones, or while an attentive female stays as close as she can to the alpha male, so that he does not ignore her presence. Watching these wild animals as they forage for fynbos flowers, berries and pine cones or as they slowly move en masse down a hillside is a real privilege.
That’s one reality, but there’s another reality – and this is the hard part – which is the test. The other reality is a cacophony of screams and howls, of dangerous and unexpected falls from dizzying heights onto buildings, of outright aggression against each other. Fighting over human food waste is bad enough, but when that waste is mixed with bacteria-filled diapers, broken glass, and even expired medications, then we must admit that we have failed them.
I don’t think there is such a thing as perfect waste management. Even if 99% of households do it right, there will always be a missing link, a household that didn’t get the notice, that never bothered enough. It could be residents who have lived here all their lives, it could be boarding houses, it could be restaurants. It could be you and me. And it goes on. Every week.
The same applies to the open invitations we offer. As I write this, I have my own sliding door open. The baboons don’t know where the boundary between the wild fynbos on the mountainside ends and my native garden begins; nor do they know that my open door with an apple visible inside is not for them.
Long summer days, cool winter days in Cape Town, open doors, open windows, children and pets coming in and out, breakfast, lunch and dinner on the balcony, in the garden, in the driveway. “Paradise found.”
But after the “invitation” the inconvenience of the big clean-up was misunderstood and the troops seized the remains of our paradise, the sugar packets from restaurants and the chips that your son was holding. Have we forgotten this other reality of coexistence? Can we be honest and admit that it is not what it is often presented to us as?
The nuisance is just the beginning; property damage is annoying and can be costly; dogs get angry; mothers fear for their children, perhaps unaware that baboons are a prey species, not a predator. All of this is part of the reality of coexistence.
For those who hold that it is possible, I pose a difficult question: knowing the likely outcome of all this for baboons, could there be truth in the fact that you may be the ones who benefit more from this belief than the animals you love so much? Could it be that such “love” is unjustified?
What happens when coexistence becomes a habit? Is habit a healthy lifestyle for wild animals? They don’t need us, so why are some of us so attracted to them? When did we become facilitators of these animals’ demise?
Read more: Wild baboons in the Southern Peninsula: how not to manage conflicts with urban fauna
Now, my big request to you is: please engage, please educate yourself, please be open to research into how we can keep these animals in a natural environment that is safe and healthy for them.
There are many baboon ranges in the Southern Peninsula where there is the possibility of doing this, of conserving the troops, of keeping them away from our human detritus, but still being able to observe them, knowing that they are actually living a much better life.
Watching so-called “management” of baboons deteriorate to where it is today has been a painful experience for me, but it is not as painful and deadly an experience as it will be for many individual baboons and even entire troops that are already being singled out.
We are at a crossroads and the mistakes of the past decades need to be corrected. Otherwise, there will be no wild baboons. Period. It’s that simple. And we won’t get a second chance either.
Yes, education, waste management, law enforcement, baboon-proofing our homes, all those buzzwords and good intentions, still need to be pushed towards effectiveness and accountability, but even in full combination, can they curb this habituation we are witnessing?
Read more: Cape Town’s community baboon monitoring project faces pushback from authorities
I have spent a lot of time listening to the opinions of scientific experts on this matter and have come to the conclusion that if we want to prevent entire troops from entering our towns and cities, the only truly viable long-term solution is a well-planned and well-managed electrified hunting fence, together with game wardens at strategic points.
I ask you to accept the evidence with an open mind. There can be no idyllic solution in which these extraordinary animals move peacefully among us in our suburbs and towns; that opportunity, if it ever existed, has eluded us. Our best hope now, surely, is that a reliable separation is created between us so that they can thrive as the wild animals we so cherish.
Our task now is to hold the authorities materially accountable for the conservation and management of this emblematic species and cohabitant of our Paradise Found. As residents, I believe it is our duty to ensure that our children and their children continue to be able to say: “I love baboons.” DM
