Pterinochilus chordatus

Pterinochilus chordatus comes from the dry savannahs and scrublands of East Africa, where resourcefulness matters more than spectacle. It belongs to the African baboon spiders — a deep chocolate-brown species marked by a geometric pattern across the carapace that reads almost like a topographic map of the terrain it calls home. Less celebrated than its famous cousin Pterinochilus murinus, it carries the same lineage, the same continent, and the same uncompromising nature — but rewards the keeper willing to look past the obvious.

What sets Pterinochilus chordatus apart in the terrarium is the sheer density of its silk work. This is a terrestrial species that doesn't merely occupy a hide — it fortifies it, laying down thick webbing that radiates outward from the retreat like a perimeter under constant maintenance. Watch a mature specimen settle in over a few weeks and you'll see an enclosure transformed: tunnels, sheets, anchor lines. It is fast, alert, and unapologetically defensive when it decides the situation warrants. Appetite is rarely an issue; prey is taken with a directness that leaves no ambiguity about who is in charge of the enclosure.

Care follows the logic of its native habitat: a 5–7 cm layer of coconut fibre mixed with substrate, a cork bark hide pressed into one corner, a water dish for adults, and a moisture gradient that keeps most of the enclosure dry while allowing a small damp patch to form near one edge. Light misting along one wall is sufficient. Room temperature suits this species without supplemental heating, and cross-ventilation matters — stagnant air in a warm enclosure is the one condition Pterinochilus chordatus will not tolerate.

This is a species for keepers who already understand Old World terrestrials and what they ask of you — not because the husbandry is complex, but because the animal gives nothing away without patience. Living in the shadow of Pterinochilus murinus has kept it underrepresented in collections, which is precisely what makes choosing one feel deliberate rather than reflexive. Years in, you'll find yourself returning to its enclosure not for a glimpse of the spider, but to read the silk — a slow, ongoing record of an animal that makes no apologies for what it is.