WILD LIFERS: Jane of Waterfall speaks to the tall tailless

{JSON.stringify(article.attachments[0], null, 2)} --> A letter from Jane of the soon-to-be-captured Waterfall baboon troop in Simon’s Town.

I’m Jane of the Waterfall Troop and I want to say this to all you tall tailless ones.

I’m afraid. We are all afraid. We hear you are coming to catch us and put us in a camp with bee-sting wires, somewhere we can never leave. We will not be able to come back to our Waterfall valley. Our youngsters will grow old without ever bringing their own babies to the places where we carried them.

Perhaps we should begin with our family connection. Far back, before there were baboons or humans, we had ancestors in common. Then our branches grew in different directions. Yours eventually produced clothes, guns, bread and committees. Ours kept our tail and strong muscles. Looking down at your meetings, I cannot say you made an entirely satisfactory exchange.

We belonged to these mountains long before your roads arrived. Other tall tailless lived here before your ships made of trees came across the sea and they liked us. We showed them the best things to eat.

I cannot tell you that everyone always got along. Even baboons quarrel over a comfortable rock. But after you arrived, almost every useful piece of flat ground had an owner who wanted us elsewhere.

Then came gardens, orchards and things planted in rows. Delicious things. Your ancestors defended them with sticks that spat fire. Now, your houses climb the slopes and we’re still being told to move. Every time we move, somewhere else becomes yours.

From your windows, the mountain looks enormous. From ours, if we had windows, the useful parts keep shrinking.

I know we frighten you. A large male in your kitchen is a lot of baboon in a small space. He has teeth. Your child is there. You should not have to be frightened in your own home. I understand wanting your baby safe. Much of my day is organised around exactly that concern.

But please look at the arrangement you’ve made. You fill containers with food and leave the lids loose. You grow figs. You put bread behind doors that slide. Then you’re astonished when an animal with fingers and an excellent memory investigates.

Your scientists have measured how much more energy your food gives us for each mouthful. We discovered this without equipment. Digging takes time. A loaf is already dug.

Yes, we learn your doors. We learn your roofs, too. Some of your buildings offer very comfortable sleeping places. You say we’ve become too clever at living beside you. It’s a strange offence, adapting successfully to the world the neighbours built.

I hear there will be 44 of us in our enclosure, with 16 Seaforth baboons next door. There’ll be climbing ropes, sleeping platforms and water. People are working hard to make it comfortable. I don’t think every hand building that fence hates us.

A platform can hold my body. It cannot tell me where I am. I know the valley through my feet: the rock that warms first, the shelter from the wind, the route a youngster can manage and the one she must wait to try. These things are learnt by following someone who knows. What will I teach her inside the wire?