Praying for Survival

Climbing out of the shower one late autumn morning, I grabbed my towel and started to dry myself off. Thunk! Something fell to the ground and I immediately looked down. The culprit lay struggling on the tiles, a fat green praying mantid. “What were you doing there, you silly girl?” I asked as I took her to the bedroom and unceremoniously tipped her out of the window.

I knew she was a girl because she was so big and fat. Then suspicion set in and I investigated the towel. Sure enough, a half-finished nest clung to the edge. Without thinking, I started to scrape it off. Under the hardening shell was soft gooey yellow stuff and I realised these were probably the eggs. I hastily ran it under the tap in the basin, scraping until all of it was gone.

Despite the fact that the nest could not have been there very long, an ugly brown stain defied several washes. After a passing thought that I’d probably wiped out a generation of mantids, I soon forgot about it. A couple of months later, I was drawing the curtains in the bedroom to let in the beautiful spring morning light when I became aware of a horde of little creatures.

Everywhere I looked I saw tiny pale brown creepy crawlies. They littered the carpet, clung to the back of the curtains, hung on the wall and balanced precariously along the door frame. Curious, I leant closer to investigate one of them. Aha – a perfect little replica of that fat green giant. Its body was almost translucent and yet it still had the instinct the raise those front legs in the manner that gave it its name.

Was it praying I wouldn’t squash it? Well, its prayers got answered – but it was a close call. It’s easy to harm such a small body when you pick it up in clumsy fingers. As gently as possible I picked up bug after bug, collecting them in the palm of my left hand. With four or five of them threatening to crawl up my arm, I stepped outside and shook them off over the budding wisteria that covered the pergola.

I felt a certain sense of justice having taken place. While I’d ruined one nest of baby mantids, I’d saved another. But what is it that makes praying mantid mothers enter a house to lay their eggs? Most often, I’ve found them in our bedroom and adjoining bathroom. Could it be because the basic colour scheme is green?

I like my light green walls and I’m not about to redecorate. Those mantids foolish enough to enter will just have to keep praying for their survival.

Raptor Magic

I heard a really loud bird call on Monday afternoon that didn’t quite sound like a hadeda but what else could it have been? There was a rather distorted “ha” but no “de da”. So I went out down to the pond to investigate. Sure enough, a hadeda flew off so I decided that that’s what it must have been.

About 20 minutes later, I left to take the dogs for a walk and stopped dead in my tracks just outside the gate. An avian acrobat was at work on the thatched roof of our neighbours’ house – and it certainly wasn’t a hadeda.

Large grey body, black and white bands across the tail, long yellow legs, yellow face. There was no mistaking the African harrier-hawk flapping its large wings as it balanced on the angled roof. I watched with curiosity for a few minutes and guessed it was either on a kill or was stripping the thatch.

Not having my binoculars, I couldn’t really see what it was doing, though. And so the mystery would have remained if I hadn’t seen the damage to the thatch when I returned an hour and a half later. Poor neighbours. It’s wonderful to have wildlife on your roof, but not if it’s going to cost you a few thousand to repair the damage.

We’ve seen this beautiful bird of prey a few times lately. One recent Sunday, after a heavy lunch with Siegie’s mother, the three of us walked down to the pond to check out the koi. I threw some pellets on to the water and we watched idly as the fish lazily rose to the surface. With no algae in the water, we marvelled at its crystal clarity.

And so it was that all of us saw it at the same time. The reflection of an African harrier-hawk floated across the water, spreading its magnificent barred tail as it turned on the gentle breeze. 

We looked up and there it was, just metres above our heads. “Gymnogene!” Siegie and I both exclaimed, before remembering that this is one of the victims of South Africa’s recent fascination with name changes. It turned its big grey body and we clearly saw the bare yellow facial skin that is diagnostic.

It passed just above the trees on our boundary and landed in our neighbour’s palm tree. “Maybe it’s nesting there,” said Siegie hopefully, “like the one we saw in Kruger.”

Ah yes. We were in the Kruger National Park in January and spent a day up in the far north along the Luvhuvhu River. An African harrier-hawk on a nest in a palm tree was one of our treasured spots.

But this bird was more than likely scouting out nesting material rather than nesting in our neighbours’ garden. After a few minutes, it took off, skimmed the rooftop and headed off towards Constantia Nek.

And that is more than likely where it’s nesting, in one of the tall pines of Cecilia Plantation. Indeed, a week or so later Siegie and I saw a couple soaring just above the treetops at the start of the footpath leading up to the Back Table.

According to our bird book, September-October is peak breeding season for the African harrier-hawk, a bird that’s more likely to be found in the Cedarberg. Is it possible that we might have a breeding pair at the top of our beautiful valley? It would be a real treat to see more of these big raptors in our skies.

Prickly Customers

We were driving along the M3 towards the city centre around 11 o’clock one night a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly, something ran across the road in the distance just before UCT. “What’s that?” Siegie asked.

It was too big to be a cat and had a strange shuffling gait. As we drew alongside, we both saw the animal’s spiky backside and knew immediately what it was. “Porcupine!” we cried in unison.

Strangely, this is the very first time we’ve seen a porcupine in the Cape peninsula. It’s strange because we know that they thrive on the mountain slopes and have even adapted to the greener edges of suburbia.

The evidence of their activity is often to be seen in the form of scraped out holes and the empty husks of dug up bulbs. But at this time of year, when the winter rains plump up the arums lilies, they shamelessly raid gardens such as the one we nurture on the banks of the Hout Bay River.

And that’s why I’m always facing a conflict of interest. I love the thought of wildlife in my garden and go out of my way to attract creatures through planting tasty indigenous fare. But porcupines and I both love arum lilies and I wish they wouldn’t be quite so destructive.

The morning after a night when porcupines come up from the river to dine in our garden looks like tiny landmines have gone off all over the flower beds. Arum leaves and flowers lie discarded in the mounds of earth – it’s only the juicy stuff below ground that makes a porcupine meal. Often an isolated quill points to the culprit.

You’d think a big dog that sleeps outside at night would scare them off. But Rhea, our ridgeback, learned the hard way to leave well alone.

Early one morning, when she was about a year old, Siegie was in the kitchen putting the kettle on when he noticed her walk past outside. Even in the half light something looked odd, so he opened the door and discovered three quills in her back legs.

We called our vet, who suggested we not try to remove the quills ourselves but rather to cut them off with pliers. And since it wasn’t life-threatening, we could bring her in when the surgery opened.

Rhea and I were at the clinic at 8.15. The vet took one look at the quill embedded at a nasty angle in her thigh muscle and said he’d need to knock her out. It’s no wonder she now gives porcupines a wide berth – and she’d avoid the vet too if she could.

So these prickly customers have free rein in our garden, even venturing right up to the patio. We found a quill there the other day and know they’re staking out the juiciest plants. The War of the Arums is about to begin.