Kathmandu’s other nightlife

“Does it have a tail?”

“I can’t see because it's sitting on it.”

“What about its eyes and coat?”

“Bright and black eyes with spikey brown fur.”

“Sounds like a greater bandicoot.”

“Oh dear. Not again.”

“The bamboo rat lives underground so he has tiny eyes. Stocky. Short tail. Reddish colour.”

“I don’t think it’s him.”

“Disappointing. Check its tail when you let it go.” 

“You mean when Laxman lets it go - at the bottom of the garden. It’s pouring with rain and I’m ready for bed.”

“Tomorrow put the trap right up against the burrow below the bamboo clump.”

“Ok. We’ll keep trying.”

“At least it’s a big one tonight, not another Himalayan field rat or Niviventer like we had before.”

“I really like these jungly outdoor chaps, especially the little ones with the mickey mouse ears, white tummies and pink feet.”

“Careful. Don’t get attached.”

“Ha!”

“He’s historic, first described by Brian Houghton Hodgson in 1845.”

It is day six of our wildlife catching exercise, trying to entrap a lesser bamboo rat (also first recorded by Hodgson in Nepal in 1841) for Stuart Chapman -- one of the few species he has never seen. A new big tick for his mammal list. 

After a career in conservation, only 24 people in the world are in front of him. Stuart’s natural competitiveness is thwarted by the pandemic and rivals are creeping ahead – the unforgiving world of mammalogists. 

“The Fawn-coloured mouse at Tiger Mountain Pokhara Lodge was a big win. I need to bag some more new species.” 

Our garden is not that big and suffers from a ruthless gardener and four energetic dogs but still has proven to be teeming with nocturnal wildlife. 

“Three species identified are the bandicoot Bandicota indica and lesser Himalayan Rattus nitidus who seem to inhabit bamboo, and the niviventer Niviventer niviventer who are the fellows you see in the creeper around the terrace. I strongly suspect the bamboo rat is also there Cannomys badius. After these, I’m desperate to get onto the Tibetan plateau to find a pika (Ochotona himalayana).”

Not all after-dark critter activity in the garden is benign. The main suspect for killing the stately stand of bamboo are the bandicoots, turning the waxy yellow stems streaked with delicate green into a sickly flat ochre, the dead fronds a brittle rattle in the evening breeze. In the quiet of the night the chomping rats are sometimes audible, although the holes amongst the tangled roots are expanded by the dogs digging frantically into the sound. 

Although there used to be mongoose and squirrels, we seldom see them because of the dogs. They also drive away the monkeys who visit when the trees are fruiting, and occasionally catch an unfortunate snake. Because of our proximity to Shivapuri Nagarjun National Park, wild night-time barking usually signals a passing civet, or even a leopard. I’ve seen both in our vicinity. 

One of our family legends is when a leopard got into the garden over the high wire fence entwined with climbers, probably jumping down from an overhanging tree. Dogs are known to be their favourite meal, and many Budhanilkantha neighbours have lost their pets. But in our case the leopard took fright, driven by our pack into the shelter of a big rocky cluster. 

The story goes that the smallest dog Rusty, a feisty half terrier mixed with serious Kathmandu street variety, caught the end of the poor leopard’s tail and tried to pull him out backwards from his shelter beneath the stones. The Department of Wildlife had to be called, but it all ended happily when the leopard found its own way out over the fence and back into the forest, without eating any of them.

Last month heavy rain after the long drought triggered swarms of winged termites. Rising in clouds out of holes in the ground, their fragile wings and frail lifespans filled the mauve sunset and caused a feeding frenzy of feasting toads, swooping swallows and darting fruit bats. (“Fulvous fruit bats Rousettus leschenaultia, at its maximum altitude range in your garden,” says Stuart.) 

Brushing the flying alates out of our hair and eyes, we realise these rapacious insects have colonised the outside room, infested the foundations and are devouring the wooden floor. There is a limit to our termite tolerance -- time to call the terminator to save the building.

Stuart, however, is committed to wilding. He is adamant that before being released from the trap, which is a metal box baited with a tasty carrot, the animal is not left too long to get too hot, too cold, too wet or too stressed. 

Laxman has watched Stuart decant a rodent from his steel trap into a clear plastic bag for closer examination before being let go behind the garage, but that was the much smaller Himalayan rat -- and at best it is a tricky manoeuvrer. One greater bandicoot during the same transition made a bid for safety, vaulting through Stuart’s experienced hands.

It is a dark raining June night, and Laxman helpfully thinks I should check its tail myself as he attempts to tip the rat into a ziplock bag on the front doorstep. The four dogs look on with interest, safely tied, and so does Hari the cook, Ram the gardener, Mohan the night guard and me in my pyjamas.

The inevitable happens, and we all have an excellent view of his tail as the bandicoot’s escape route takes him straight past me into the house. The long tail trails him up the staircase before he can be turned back down, dislodged from behind furniture, pursued by brooms and dishcloths through the dining room, hall, bathroom and eventually out through the kitchen. I have climbed to safety on a chair with Stuart’s bearded face grinning with concern on my phone. 

“Such a handsome looking animal!”