Colonization: Part 1

 The Peace Corps assured me before signing up to be sent halfway around the world that every day of service would bring a new adventure. What they neglected to inform me was that the nights would be just as full of colorful, character enriching experiences. The peaceful nights of Loitokitok have done little to prepare me site. Mysterious noises, midnight visitors, and witchcraft are just a few of the challenges I'm sure to face in trying to secure a restful night of sleep over the next two years. Despite these minor obstacles I manage to keep my spirits pretty high and continue to enjoy adequate amounts of the deep, restful sleep that is key of my adonis-like appearance. In spite of my near perfect nature, every so often an event, or series of events, arises that is capable of pushing even yours truly to the brink of exhaustion.

Day 1

2000 - A Quiet Night. Time to start preparing supper. People in Kenya are notorious for taking their evening meal at hours that the rest of the world would already be fast asleep. In a place where electricity is scarce, daylight hours are typically spent on more productive tasks while nights are typically reserved for eating and sleeping (really, how many other things can you think of to do in the dark). This particular night finds me ready to do both, having already passed the day performing hard, physical labor in my shamba (garden). Energy spent, stomach growling, I am ready to refuel and recharge for the next day. I set to work on preparing dinner, eggplant generously given to me the day before by a kind-hearted fellow volunteer. As I chop ingredients and start to boil water I remain oblivious to the evening that fate has in store for me.

2010 - The Shudder. As happens every night around this time, the entirety of my sheet metal roof begins to shake about wildly, making a sound that most closely mimics that of a completely naked body clumsily jetting down a water slide that is devoid of all moisture. As in nights past I lumber outside, expecting to see nothing less than an entire tribe of baboons gathered around, stomping and howling wildly as their leader tries his luck at using one of those weird, shaky exercise belt things that, according to film strips, were apparently so popular in the 50's. But alas, as with every other evening since arriving in my community, I shine my torch on a completely barren roof, bringing me no closer to discovering the source of this mysterious phenomenon. This part of the story has no bearing whatsoever on any later events, but, being an unsolved natural wonder akin to aurora borealis or the tooth faerie, I thought it would be fun to mention anyway.

2015 - The Plot Thickens. Bumps in the night thoroughly investigated, I return to my kitchen (A.K.A. the side of my small, oval, one room house where I've agreed with myself to keep the food) to refocus my efforts on actively preparing dinner, as I've in my storied life that found food left unattended to cook on it's own rarely turns out particularly savory. I return to my duties of chopping and stirring but what the deuce?! The colony of ants that normally rents out the space beneath my house has completely sprawled itself out onto the wall of my kitchen like the remains of a chili dog carelessly eaten just before boarding the tilt-a-whirl.

Chungu is the local named for these ants. Small in size (as far as ants go), these industrious, community minded workers have inhabited this structure since before my arrival and will undoubtedly continue to do so long after my departure. I feel as though I have an understanding with these soft spoken critters as we have found a way to co-exist peacefully since day one. I don't interfere with their colonial duties, and in return they restrict their in house activity to cleaning up dead insects, droplets of water,and and morsels of food I should happen leave behind (hence my decision to designate a single side of the room as the kitchen). It is a perfect symbiotic relationship. But tonight these normally peaceful colonists have mobilized en masse for some unknown purpose. Columns of workers carrying miniscule white globes march within corridors boundaried by two thick black stripes of sentries guarding against any threat. High in the rafters, packs of these workers amass to form dark, living patches up to a foot in diameter as they await some unknown signal. “What are they waiting for”, I wonder. A signal to attack? A movie premiere? I don't know and, frankly, I don't care. Even though every cell in my body is screaming “Holy Jeepers” I know that these peaceful beings have never once acted aggressively toward me and, lest I should find some way to provoke them, our peaceful co-existence has no reason to end tonight.

2020 – Preemptive measures. The migration continues as I return my attention to not burning dinner. I notice the number of dark, crawly patches steadily increasing in number and area, rolling from the kitchen to the bedroom (A.K.A. the side of my room with the bed) like a blanket of ominous storm clouds menacingly covering the country side. My sleeping place, a mattress resting on the floor alongside a pile of broken promises from the carpenter who assured me that the bed I commissioned him to make would be ready three weeks ago, though currently a safe distance from the rapidly advancing brood, is clearly in the path of a storm that I have no intention of losing sleep over. Exercising an amount of foresight typically experienced only by madam Cleo, Nostradamus, and other such prophets, I decide to take the initiative and tuck the edges of my mosquito net in around the perimeter of my mattress, thus setting up a defensive barrier around the sanctuary that is my resting place. I resist the urge to seal myself inside the sanctity of my net as there is still a pot of cooking food to be attended to. A decision that will play a heavy hand in shaping my experience for the rest of the night.

2025 – Enter the Villain..As I rush to finish preparing dinner in the midst of the ominous creeping shadow that continues to surround me I discover the source of the ants' antics (I couldn't resist) as a second, larger breed of ant has now entered the arena and begun to establish a perimeter around the base of the wall. Siafu, or safari ants, I'll later learn these cold, heartless beings are called. Genetically engineered in a secret laboratory 30 miles beneath the North Pole, these emotionless killing machines have the DNA of Stalin, Hitler, Dracula, the bad guy from Rocky IV, and pretty much every really evil dude in history. Armed with a pair of metal shearing jaws, these steel plated, picnic-hating bandits march by the millions and are capable of taking down a cheetah in full stride. With a bite that feels like one million band-aids simultaneously torn off the hairiest body part you can imagine, these oversized mandibles on legs never even bothered to grow eyes, deciding instead that any organ incapable of inflicting pain would only make them less efficient remorseless murderers.

I’d had another encounter with these flesh-loving crawlers about a week before when they completely and mercilessly eradicated the entire cockroach population of my choo. It was a night that saw me playing a real life, no holds barred, life or death version of “ants in the pants”, as I was forced to strip down to my underwear in an attempt to clear my body of their blood-craving fangs while I spent the duration of the evening relieving myself in the forest whenever nature called. Basically, I knew this was one group of tiny, crawly, black things that I did not want in my pants again (not that I really want any tiny, crawly, black things in my pants).

2030 – Rising Waters. As the siafu begin to pour into the room like Pepsi all over a new leather jacket, conflicts begin to arise as the two opposing colonies flood wave after wave of combat ready soldiers onto the battlefield. Skirmishes erupt everywhere around me like miniature science fair volcancos fueled by the baking soda of malice and the vinegar of desperation as the peace (and sugar) loving chungu struggle to defend their humble nest from the life hating, all matter consuming siafu. The colonies would like nothing to do with each other as violence between the two factions spills out toward the center of the room like some kind of reverse, overflowing toilet. As the shadow of violence creeps ever closer to the place I am sitting I decide that my legs, still on the ground, are just as appetizing to the flesh-craving siafu jaws as anything else resting on the floor and decide to raise them up onto the chair with me, monitoring the situation as I enjoy my long awaited supper.

2100 – Testing the storm. My dinner safely stowed away in the inner workings of my alimentary tract, I resign myself to the fact that the environment is simply not conducive to washing dishes and toss my soiled utensils in a nearby basin. The room now looks like an inside out dalmatian as massive congregations of chungu checker the inside boundaries of my living quarters. Down below, the confrontation between the nomadic siafu and the kind-hearted chungu settlers rages on as far as the light from my tiny lantern allows me to see.

 Realizing that I have a potentially long night ahead of me and deciding that nothing would draw out the experience more than spending the night with a set of fuzzy, unbrushed chompers, I decide the time to test the waters of safety has come. I grab my toothbrush, luckily within reach, take a few deep breaths and then make a dash for the one tool I have in my room that might serve to aid me in this increasingly dire situation: my trusted broom. Careful never to keep my feet on the ground for any extended period of time, I clear the path with my trusted sidearm amidst a series of carefully timed, skips, hops, and jumping heel clicks. My movements resemble those of a former high school river dance championship runner-up who, trapped in the moment when he failed to secure the title of “river dance champion”, continues to live in the past, river dancing to himself as he sweeps the halls of the educational institution where he is employed as the assistant head custodian. My only saving graces are that the shutters on the windows are closed and that, even if they were open, people here have absolutely no idea what river dance is. I manage to clear a path to the floor and make a break for the cover of darkness, my legs moving at speeds that, quite frankly, make lightning seem lazy. But the wind shattering speed of my movements must have created some kind of siafu pulling vacuum as I begin to feel the searing pain of their barbed jaws grinding against bone as they help themselves to mouthful sized portions of my lower appendages. After escaping a safe distance from the house I pick off the few leg-chomping offenders lucky enough to get a taste of my succulent flesh. Broom in one hand, toothbrush in the other, I enjoy a moment of peace and good personal hygiene under the stars.

2115 – Turned Back. Teeth brushed, bladder empty, I decide to play my hand at bed time. Approaching the house, now completely overrun both outside and in, I tighten the laces on my ultra aerodynamic running shoes and am off. Again, my legs are pumping so quickly that they appear to be moving backwards as I enter the house amidst a series of stiff arms, spin moves, and jumping stiff arm/spin move combinations. The broom clears a path to my bed but I am dismayed at what I find as both armies have established a heavily reinforced defensive perimeter around my humble resting place. Though none have penetrated the barrier established by my mosquito net, it is clear that creating an opening for myself is impossible without also opening up a breach in the defense that would allow an entourage of these carnage loving invaders to accompany me inside. Accepting that my current bid at bedtime is premature, and having no intention of laying down to rest surrounded by thousands of jaw snapping demons, I quickly abandon my the operation and retreat to perch high atop my plastic throne. As before, the low pressure system generated by the furious pace of my movements has allowed some of these denizens, who otherwise would have no chance of matching me stride for stride, the opportunity to sink their mandibles into delicious man-flesh once again. High above the blood bath I remove kill-frenzied soldiers from my limbs as I watch intently the epic struggle unfolding beneath me. Momentum swings back and forth like a bird feeder on a windy day as both sides seem locked in a dead heat for superiority. The temptation to enter the fray on the side of the family value-cherishing chungu and start selectively exterminating the siafu enters my head, but my strictly non-violent nature prevents me from doing so, and I continue to watch from above as nature takes it course.

2300 – Back Into The Frass. From the safety of my invincible sky palace I look down on the sea of tiny bodies swirling about below me. Heroes are being made and legends are being written in the history books of both colonies. What the chungu lack in size and ruthless savagery they make up for in numbers and desperation. Every one of them is selflessly defending their hive against this onslaught of demonic invaders, every one of their tiny little ant hearts pumping enough courage to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool into the tiniest nooks and crannies of their valor polished, exoskeleton suits of armor. Why my room was chosen as the deciding ground for this miniature sized battle of the ages I have no idea. I can only assume that the oval shaped, Colosseum style layout of the structure had some influence on the decision making process of these ferocious gladiators.

As the epic showdown rages on the tide of soldiers washes in and out, in and out. Finally I see it. An opening. A break in the storm just wide enough for me to slip through the impenetrable defense of my malaria-proof fortress. I grab my broom as I leap down from the chair and through the window of opportunity like a kangaroo on PCP. My steps are so swift Nike himself could only stand and shake his head in disbelief as I deftly navigate like an arrow from cupid through the cold, black ribcage constructed by a collective of one hundred million tiny exoskeletons and into the heart of relaxation that is my bed. Finally a chance at rest. Finally, an escape from the blood bath that surrounds me.

 But what the heck?! Their numbers haven’t decreased at all. Rather, this demonic horde seems to have reinforced their ranks, holding the enormous wave of reserves back out of the range of my lantern’s weak light, biding their time like a legion of stone faced Texas hold-em champions. The sound of a billion tiny mandibles cackling with sadistic laughter is almost audible as the swarm closes in once again for the kill. I do my best to clear the way with my bristled peace maker, but my footwork gets sloppy. As scores of biting do-badders make their way up my legs I have no choice but to abandon my latest bid at reentry as I dash for the security of my elevated plastic safe haven once more. My speed enhancing running shoes and path carving broom, now completely overrun by foaming at the mouth invaders, were clearly the targets of this clever ruse executed with machine-like precision by my would-be pursuers. Within a fraction of a second I’ve peeled back the armor that once guarded my feet back like the wrapper of a fruit roll-up, hurling them away from me and into the clutches of the scheming siafu. Waves of obsidian continue to wash over the abandoned footwear as, safe atop my lookout once more, I clear the last of these cunning raiders from my body. Walking into a trap, losing my trusted footwear, I must be exceptionally tired or hungry or both, as these beasts of the underworld would never stand a chance against me in my naturally rested state.

2400 – Darkness, the catalyst for adventure. As the night wanes my mind burns with questions. Will these siafu supplant the chungu as the dominant species in my room? Why, oh why hasn't the carpenter finished building the bed I ordered 4 weeks ago? How does one go about acquiring an anteater anyway? Amid all of these questions one thing is clear, I will not be lying down in my bed to sleep anytime soon. A fact that I came to accept long ago. The problem: the light from my small lantern is rapidly fading and my tiny beacon's fuel source rests across an ocean of peril on the other side of the room. While the idea of spending the entire night in a plastic chair is less than ideal, the prospect of doing so in complete darkness flat out sucks.

 My hands tied and the odds stacked against me, my senses sharpen and my resolve hardens as it's time to get serious. I tuck my pants into my socks, slide in my mouth guard, and am ready to go. With the speed of a comet combined with the grace of an autumn breeze I dart through the masses of skirmishing colonists toward my destination. Fortune smiles her sweet smile as my bottle of paraffin rests in an area largely controlled by the chungu and I am able to quickly secure the target, returning the safety afforded to me by Kenya's finest piece of lawn furniture before my shadow has a chance to dissipate on the wall. The siafu never saw me coming. Wholeness uncompromised, lantern burning brightly once more, and isolated from my guitar, I lean back and enjoy all of the entertainment features my cell phone has to offer.

0500 – Conflict Resolution: Darwin Style. As the night drags on a historical event unfolds. Despite having a four to one size advantage, the siafu, having neglected to grow eyes in their haphazard evolutionary quest to become the ultimate murdering machines, begin to fall victim to the teamwork and ingenuity of the chungu's guerrilla tactics. Having the advantage in numbers, the chungu warriors take turns rushing the larger siafu from behind, landing a single bite on the hind legs of their blind aggressors before slipping back out of the range of any counter attack. This brilliant hit-and-run strategy, no doubt thought up on the fly by the chungu top brass, eventually incapacitates the tyrannical brutes thus creating an opportunity the chungu to swarm for the final blow. Hats in Las Vegas are being thrown to the ground for stomping on while Darwin turns somersaults in his grave as the underdog chungu were never supposed to stand a chance in this colossal mismatch. The number of siafu corpses littering the Colosseum grounds begins to rise in proportion to the fallen chungu martyrs. As dawn approaches, my broom once again free from the grimy clutches of the once-thought-to-be-invincible marauders, I decide to make my way once more to my place of rest.

The floor of my room looks like a miniature Gettysburg as the remains of the combatants blanket the field of engagement. I make my way through stacks of corpses several ants high as chaplains and battlefield surgeons tend to the wounded. The lingering siafu presence prevents me from becoming too relaxed as, socked feet constantly churning, I sweep both survivors and casualties of this night of violence away from the entrance to my nylon-fortified sleeping quarters. At long last I am able to enter uneventfully and, thoroughly exhausted, lay my head down for a few hours of rest.

Still in disbelief that such an event could occur I wonder if perhaps the entire episode wasn't just some hallucination induced by the anti-malarial medication so many other volunteers have been having trouble with. No, the wounds left behind from the searing jaws of my would-be pursuers are certainly real enough. Never have I felt like more of a guest in my own home than now. As I drift off into a long-overdue sleep I hope to myself that the evenings events will be a one time only occurrence.