Windhoek - At N/a’an ku sê, a wildlife sanctuary in Namibia, several volunteers sported curious bumps beneath their outerwear. The lumpy mounds covered their torsos, and a ball-like shape protruded from their chests. Tails dangled from the hems of their T-shirts.
There was no shame in asking: “Excuse me, but is that a monkey in your top?”
And there was no shortage of excitement in answering: “Yes, indeed – a baboon!”
In Namibia’s national parks and game reserves, visitors “view” the wildlife. Here, at the animal preserve, the guests or volunteers help feed, exercise, entertain and comfort the creatures who, after significant trauma or hardship, have found themselves in the protective embrace of the organisation.
In 2006, Marlice van Vuuren, an Namibian conservationist, and her physician husband, Rudie, founded the sanctuary on a farm near Windhoek. They named their foundation N/a’an ku sê, which means “God will protect us” in the San language. Their mission is to safeguard orphaned or injured animals, to educate farmers about conservation practices, to protect imperilled carnivores, and to provide health care, education and job opportunities for the San community, the oldest inhabitants of southern Africa. The focus is on rehabilitation, research and sanctuary.
“The wild belong in the wilds,” said Cila Venter, the Namibian general manager. “All of the animals here are orphans.”
The foundation employs a small staff at the sanctuary, medical clinic, school and two research sites in Neuras and Kanaan. It leans heavily on volunteers to help with the daily tasks (cleaning pens, prepping food, building repairs) and into-the-wild duties (feeding the big cats, walking the anteater and caracal, sleeping with baby baboons).
I arrived at the start of the sanctuary’s busy season (June through September). Piet, a tall, thin San with a kind smile, picked us up at the airport. There were 42 volunteers during my stay.
The driver entered the gates, and the words “Jolie-Pitt Foundation” appeared on the wall of the main building. The stars visited the facility in 2010, four years after their daughter, Shiloh, was born in Namibia. The couple supports the project in her honour.
The stars here, though, are the animals who go by first name only: Samira, the 17-year-old cheetah; Barkie the anteater; Jaws the meerkat; and Violet, a doll-size baboon.
The residents have stories reminiscent of Bambi’s. Many of the tales involve a farmer shooting the parents, an accepted form of defence against predators that threaten livestock. The sanctuary, which is also a farm with cows, sheep, goats and chickens, works with the locals to formulate a less destructive and more tolerant approach. Don’t fire first, they tell them; call us. The organisation, for instance, can trap an animal and relocate it to a less developed area, or collar and release the animal and track its movements via GPS.
Venter said: “Namibia is a country with wide open spaces where the animals can run freely.”
The animals living on the property are either undergoing rehab (such as Jaws, who had his jaw wired after a dog attack) or can’t return to the wild because they no longer fear humans. Once they lose the intimidation factor, neither party is safe.
“If I can give you one piece of advice: Don’t trust a leopard,” Venter said. The cheetahs, however, are “cowards.”
One morning, I followed California volunteer Meaghan FitzGerald into Samira’s pen. The grand dame in the elegant fur coat glided over and, like a housecat, nudged me for an ear scratch. My advice: When a cheetah wants some attention, give it to her.
The staff assigns the volunteers a rotating list of duties that changes each day.
My first assignment was to accompany the dozen baby baboons on a stroll to a watering hole. It’s no walk in the park. Some of the baboons copped rides on our shoulders, backs and heads; others wrapped their elastic arms and legs around our waists, Baby Bjorn-style. Many volunteers carried a wobbly pyramid of baboons. Then suddenly, as if they had heard a silent bell, they would switch positions and people.
The continued until we arrived at the stream. Once we reached our destination, the babies scattered like children at a playground, climbing a lone camelthorn tree and rolling around in the dry grass.
My next job was to prepare meals for the animals. On a long wooden table, I joined a handful of other volunteers to cut up carrots, apples and oranges for the vervet monkeys and baboons. Following a recipe, I blended yogurt with a thick oatmeal-like mash for the easy-to-please primates. All the while, Sylvie, a young duiker would flagrantly steal scraps off the counter.
Towards the end of my shift, a staff member appeared with three buckets of compost from our meals. Three of us plunged our gloved hands into the brown sludge. My eyes watered and my gag reflex twitched as I pulled out chunks of chocolate cake, pieces of cheese, slimy lettuce and gristly meat all coated in a slippery muck. Bon appetit, monkeys and chickens.
Nearly every evening, an employee loads a truck with horse and donkey meat for the carnivore feed. The more dangerous animals (lions, leopards, wild dogs) live outside the main facility, in a heavily secured area lined with electric fencing. Our driver, Tessa von Ludinghausen, stopped at each habitat, and we took turns tossing the slabs of protein over the fence and into the mouths (or thereabout) of the sharp-toothed diners. She told us to remove our sunglasses, stay calm and throw overarm, for greater force and distance.
That night, I became one of the lumpy-clothing people.
The baby baboons are naturally wired to sleep with their mothers. Because the wee ones are orphans, the volunteers step in as surrogate mommies.
My slumber party monkey was 9-month-old Mina. A staff member provided me with her overnight kit, which included a bottle and milk powder for a morning feed and extra nappies for accidents during the night. Before setting off, I poked holes in the nappies to accommodate her tail. The things we do for our children.
I crawled into my sleeping bag, frequently peering at her cuddled against my chest. I silently screamed to myself: “I have a baby baboon in my bed!” I imagined that 11 other people that night were silently saying the same thing.
I slept soundly, shifting only a few times. Once, she moved to my right side, leaning up against me, bottle dangling from her little lips. Later in the night, she ventured down to my feet, where she warmed my legs like thick socks. Eventually, she travelled north again. In the distance, the lions roared and the jackals cackled. I tightened my hold on her.
The next morning, in the kitchen, I started to prepare her bottle when I felt her slipping and then... off she went. Baboon on the loose. She climbed on to the rooftop, her saggy diaper barely hanging on. I called for reinforcements.
“We have a rogue baby with a nappy,” a staff member reported into his walkie-talkie.
A monkey whisperer arrived and caught her by the tail. I followed the pair into the enclosure, removing Mina’s diaper and performing my maternal obligations.
I tried to say goodbye but Mina had reuniting with her baboon family, leaving me to watch from the outside. – Washington Post
See www.naankuse.com