Find Out Just How Fond The Thick Tailed Variety Is Of Bananas
That the thick-tailed variety were also wild about bananas, Tokkie and I only discovered on our sixteenth Sabiepark holiday (our score has since soared to in the 20s). In July 2004 we called on George and Rina Cloete of Nyamazane (erf 24, off Maroela Avenue). Here we watched four greedy thick-tailed upstarts growling and grabbing at a feast of sliced banana. We had known since June 1998 of the preferences of the lesser chappies. Griet Williams, a clever maid from Cape Town, had told us one day that “squirrels” swung around in the trees at night. That evening the new Sabieparkers sat on tenterhooks. Shortly after dusk – in that golden hour when the sun starts tinting the heavens behind the black branches of the Bushveld trees – we saw our first “squirrel” floating in from branch to branch like a trapeze artist. The tidbit of banana which was experimentally displayed, disappeared in a trice. That “squirrel” was a bushbaby.
A day or two later, I was awakened at 05:30 by a soft persistent moaning. It was a little imp, at the sliding door of the bedroom, knocking on the pane, like someone who wanted to come in and make our acquaintance. “How do you do? I am the resident bushbaby. Are you the new owners?” I woke Tokkie. “Do you want to see the little chap?” “Little Chap” had by this time already become a household name. Of course she wanted to see him. Together we watched his energetic antics.
Little chap In the ridge of the roof
At one stage he was on the roof of my wife’s beloved car (mine was in a garage in Cape Town). I dreaded what could happen to such a daredevil, playing on the stoep of an undertaker, as it were. But she relented: “He is so delicate that I forgive him.” Mr. Delicate frolicked on the shiny black car for quite a while. Then on the table, on the braai, in the trees and on the stoep.
Tokkie started worrying, because it became lighter and she did not know how far away his sleeping place was. That it was not far, we discovered the next morning before breakfast. “Knock-knock,” I said to Tokkie. “Who’s there?” “Bushbabies.” “Where?” “In the ridge of the roof.” This was a discovery of note and the resulting responsibility grew greater.
In a wink our movements were restricted by these micro-creatures in the roof. We even talked in whispers, because they had to sleep by day in order to hunt for food at night. Tokkie admitted that she felt like a fool when she discovered a bushbaby watching her drying her hair – funny woman. We even went inside to drink our coffee – did not want to disturb the “poor darlings”. But the ridge drew us like a magnet. We went through the sliding door and shyly peeped upward. Then we saw little “saucers” looking back at us with interest.
At one stage one of them lay on his back, tiny arms and legs in the air and a little tail dangling down the rafter. The following moment there were three tails next to one another – like biltong (jerky) hanging out to dry. Now began the big wait until dark. With the first sundowner, number 1 came down the wall and leapt into the tree. Within seconds there were two. Number 2 was, however, unlucky. He fell from the roof on to the stoep – monkey! A few hasty leaps back to the tree saved the embarrassed little fellow’s honour. Soon Little Chap’s mother(?) reached him and together they disappeared into the tree. It looked as if she grasped him by the scruff of his neck.
One of the bush-babies’ worst enemies
An even greater joy awaited us: to discover no fewer than five bushbabies together underneath our roof. One early afternoon, Tokkie detected a little grey bundle. She hoped it would be a bushbaby; I suspected it might be a snake. Fortunately, she was right. At dusk, the first one crawled down the wall. The second one soon followed. “Yster, Yster (Tough Guy, Tough Guy),” Griet called excitedly. Then we realised we had to look upward. Number 3, 4 and 5 soon joined the others. They bunched together in the spike-thorn and watched us carefully.
The next moment a large bird swooped into the tree. Could it be an owl, one of the bushbabies’ worst enemies? We heard a shrill cry. Tokkie jumped up with murder in her heart and the scoop net of the swimming pool in her hand. She hurried to the tree where the bird (owl?) had landed. Nothing – only silence. That morning we studied the ridge through our binoculars – in vain. Twelve hours later four came down. At least one was missing. “When is an owl a foul owl?” Tokkie wanted to know. “Easy. When it catches bushbabies.” Can any foul owl be fouler than that?