Look, me and baboons simply don’t need to be occupying the same space. Figuratively or literally. If you know me well enough you may have heard me tell real-life stories of my own encounters with them in Cape Town and outside of Johannesburg. I sure as hell don’t want them in my head wreaking havoc. If I search these memories deeply enough I can still hear my NYC burrough, O.G. Jewish Grandma yelling at my sister and I to quit screaming about baboons on the roof from the backseat of the 1972 era Ford. Ah yes. Good times.
Somewhere out on the horizon, down a rediscovered backcountry trail, the sun is rising over a campsite. A rooftop tent splays out from the top of an off-grid trailer pulled behind a well-equipped overland vehicle. Out here it’s quiet with occasional noises created by what is meant to be here. Leaves and twigs that rustle, creak and crack in the wind above and sometimes may crunch under the cautious feet of passing wildlife on the floor below.