First published in the Daily Maverick 168 weekly newspaper.

I was born in Durban, grew up in Johannesburg, have lived for more than 20 years in Cape Town and, on the day of lockdown, immigrated to the Deep South of Cape Town. I specifically use the word “immigrate” because that is what you do.

I am not sure where the Deep South of the Mother City starts or ends, but I just know that when I tell friends and colleagues where I have moved to, their eyes widen and they inevitably respond: “Yoh, the Deep South, hey!?”

Moving beyond what some dub the Lentil Curtain has been an interesting baptism of fire for us city slickers. It has been a wake-up call of sorts, something we were not quite prepared for.

First, many people in the Deep South have beards, long hair and do not own shoes. Or, if they do, it is mostly sandals that seem to date from the days of Noah’s Ark. Many endlessly discuss vegetable gardens, buying spinach in bulk, or how to bake the best sourdough bread. They talk of the weather, the mountain, boats, the rain and … neighbours. Children seem to be wild little animals, happier than anyone can imagine.

Then, you save massively on gym fees. Why? Well, you spend your days running after cheeky baboons that are either trying to raid your kitchen or your vegetable garden. And before I get Kataza-ed, I love baboons and believe we should learn to live in harmony with our primate family.

But, in essence, it is not out of the ordinary for my family to be huffing and puffing around the garden, hair in all directions, banging on pots and shouting whatever acceptable words come to mind in an effort to keep Philemon, Fingers and the rest of the troop out of the veggie patch. I also have to avoid my neighbour, who believes the best way to chase baboons is to try and hit them with whatever he chooses to launch from his kettie – although my observation is that he has a better chance of hitting his dearest wife as she runs around the back garden yelling instructions.

Then, there are the rodents. Mice and rats. They are different in the Deep South. We have a critter, yet to be seen as s/he lives behind our dishwasher and only comes out late at night or early in the morning. Said critter has managed to raid the pantry and eat most of our bread flour and mielie meal. Try to explain to a demanding four-year-old why she cannot have pap today, that the mielie meal may be con-ta-mi-na-ted.

But what makes this rodent a little more scary is that it has managed to open the louvre door leading to the pantry. Now that I have taped it up,

s/he is trying to chew through the wooden door. I am not sure I want to meet him or her in the middle of the night.

I live in a house where we are not allowed to kill anything, so I have been learning a lot about live traps. However, this rodent neatly sidesteps my trap despite enticing morsels of peanut butter, Woolies bread and Grabouw’s best apples. (Late breaker: At the time of going to press, Fluffybum – named by the toddler – had been successfully lured into the humane trap with a slice of vegan raisin bread.)

And finally, there is the caracal with an appetite for domestic cats. She, or he, once caught five in a week, so it is not unusual to get frantic neighbourhood WhatsApp messages alerting cat owners to herd their felines indoors.

But, challenging as it may be, there is also something here that is beyond magic. In the sea, the clouds, the sun, the wind, and in the animals and people. It is real living.

What we are slowly starting to realise is that the people of the Deep South have been in a self-imposed lockdown forever and the sooner we realise that we need to run with baboons and not after them, the sooner we, too, will fall into the deep coma and “just chill, bruh”. DM168

Anso Thom is the managing editor of Maverick Citizen.

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