The Bats Are My Friends

Peace Corps volunteers hate bats. Not the kind of sallow, superficial animosity indifferently cast at root canals, tummy aches, and bitter green vegetables. No, it is a deep-seeded malicious disdain that emanates from the darkest fibers of one’s being. The kind of venomous loathing that, left unchecked, prompts holocausts, genocides, and other horrific deeds to be committed. It is this kind of scornful, callous abhorrence that volunteers harbor toward the bats. Maybe it's the way they roost in the rafters, plastering the ground floor tenants' possessions with that precious, sought after resource they spew from their back end, or the way they emerge from the business end of the choo when the user is at their most vulnerable, their coarse, whiskered bodies brushing against private parts and special places in a most awkward fashion, turning a routine call of nature into a miserable tangle of fur, underpants, and other substances I'm sure. Whatever the reason, hatred of these sonar guided choo dwellers has become such a standard of the Peace Corps volunteer experience that the top brass in Washington have considered the inclusion of a bat affinity questionnaire to be added into the already lengthy application process, thus ensuring the adequate level of antipathy toward mammalian-bird cross breeds.

Surprising to say, then, that by some strange circumstance, some unnatural aligning of the cosmos, I seem to be lacking in that all important bat loathing quality displayed by so many of my fellow volunteers. Perhaps this is attributable to my previous experience in the deserts of Southern New Mexico standing witness to flapping, chirping cyclones of living black smoke as they ascend out of the bowels of the earth to cover the dimming sky in nightmarish clouds of insect devouring shadow. Or maybe I zoned out during some key, anti-bat seminar during training, my usually attentive mind distracted by fantastic day dreams of winning the Kentucky Derby on the back of an underdog mule by the name of Percival Fuzzlestein. The two of us becoming instant media darlings and embarking on a whirlwind tour of the morning talk show circuit which culminates with Percival, a British citizen, being knighted during a ceremony broadcast live from the steps of Big Ben just like he used to lie awake dreaming about. Regardless, I never really thought much of my relationship to bats, nor did I have any idea that I would grow closer to them as a result of one fateful night here in Kenya.

It is a late evening in the warm, remote village that I am calling home for these two years. Chompers brushed, dishes washed, I am at the end of my nighttime ceremonies preparing for that final daily ritual, slumber. And slumber I must as I’m to travel to Mombasa early the next morning, as though I were given a choice when to travel. In my area there is one bus out per day departing just as soon as there is sufficient light to see the road and if you miss it, well, don’t miss it. Knowing that my immediate future involves my being on this bus I crawl into bed and do my best sleeping beauty impression. I lie awake in the darkness, enjoying the elevation over the hard cement floor my new bed provides me. All the factors for a sound night’s sleep are in place, all but one that is. A faint rustling sound out in the darkness, beyond the protection of my walls draws my attention. Now it is not out of the ordinary for an orchestra of bizarre noises to accompany my twilight hours, and certainly the sound being produced is not so far out of the ordinary as to warrant suspicion in the untrained ear, but a strange premonition compels me to leave the comforts of my bed to investigate.

I venture out into the darkness surrounding my house, torch in one hand, my desire to return to bed in the other. I investigate the area where first I heard the strange occurrence expecting to find some sign of Rachel (or Gracie, I haven’t decided yet), the rat who usually dwells in my rafters trying to enter the house after a long holiday but there is none. I then proceed to investigate the area around the base of my house, a common entry point for other less welcome visitors but I find none. A lazier man would have retired at this point and while I, despite my greatness, am most certainly lazy, I continue to scan the ground moving outward from my house until I see them. The blood craving, baby hating, church burning demons that seek to feast on my organs: siafu. I scan to the left and then to the right, my reflexive legs churning has already kicked in, taking the initiative to keep me off the ground as much as possible. I continue strafing up and down the front lines of the invading swarm to find that this cloud of exoskeletons and hatred has completely encircled my house and is closing. Present distance from my house: approximately 3 meters.

I realize that I have time, but not much, before my house is held captive by the sleep depriving curse of the siafu’s occupation. If I am to have any chance at rest tonight I must move quickly. I hurry inside, quickly donning my army ant battling attire: pants, a pair of long socks (non-matching), my state of the art cross training shoes, and a pair of gardening gloves. I waste no time ensuring the orderliness of my appearance as each second wasted is like a gift to the oncoming horde. Taking only a moment to splash a healthy puddle of bleach in front of my door and around the posts of my bed, I make haste to return to the front lines and meet the blood thirsty enemy who draws ever closer. Two meters. Not much space, but enough to employ that most sacred of elements that I hope will assist in driving back the demonic fury that encircles my home: fire.

Now, siafu don’t fear fire, they love it, seek it, crave it in fact. It is fire in which they bathe, and breath, and worship their diabolic queen. It is this fire which gives the bite of the siafu it’s powerfully burning, flesh searing sting. No, siafu do not fear fire, but it confuses them. Having been borne from the very pits of hell, the seven layered inferno, fire leads these children of despair to believe they have somehow made a wrong turn, and are somehow back in Hades where there are no fresh souls to devour, no babies to feast upon. It is this perceived absence of infant flesh that causes the siafu to double back en masse in search of living victims. The downside of using fire to fight these children of the flame is that I’ll need time to make the necessary preparations, and time is something I have very little of.

I dash through the advancing lines showing off mandible evading moves that I have perfected through multiple run-ins with these relentless antagonists, and break through the other side of the wave untouched. I waste no time to basking in the effectiveness of my evasive maneuvering and instead set immediately to work. Scorpion resistant gloves in place, I rummage madly through the brush, scooping up armfuls of dry grass and relaying them to the front line. With each subsequent trip I eye the soul destroying pack of man-eaters inching ever closer to the boundary I seek to defend. One and a half meters. One and a quarter meters. At one meter I can delay no longer and begin to light the first of the fires that will disorient and dispel the advancing terror, but it is immediately apparent that the small amount of fuel I’ve managed to gathered using my limited time won’t be nearly enough to repel the demonic offensive on all sides, and I rush inside to wield my trusted path opening broom.

As I sprint back outside I notice the brood has already started swarming around the meager fire and up to the outer perimeter of my fortress. Spending not a moment to lament the ineffectiveness of my flaming defense I begin pushing back the invaders wielding my bristled Excalibur with a fevered tenacity honed through numerous conflicts with these adversaries. It is through this frenzied sweeping pace that I almost fail to notice a sudden plop, landing in the darkness about twenty feet away from me. Facing the already overwhelming advance on all sides I can hardly afford the reprieve to investigate the mysterious sound, but curiosity, again, takes the better of me, and I begin clearing a path to the source of the noise.

As I inch closer I catch site of a small, hairless creature circling about miserably on the ground within a pool of siafu, crying out for help from friends who have long since fled. Two round bumps decorate the face where the eyes should be, and a wrinkled yet smooth, shiny gray membrane covers the body of this despondent critter. At first I believe it to be some kind of tree frog or tree toad or some kind of tree dwelling amphibian when, in an attempt to push itself away from the swarming siafu it extends a long, clawed, webbed hand. Bless my choo! It’s a baby bat! I stand watching the young dracula in training struggle helplessly against the unholy tenacity of the siafu, his infant flesh no doubt has the sweetness of honey dipped in caramel and covered in sprinkle to their voracious maws. The blind, flightless youth is the perfect victim for the, ironically, also blind pursuers and I realize that it is only a matter time before this wretched creature succumbs to an excruciating end of being devoured one tiny mouthful at a time by his unnatural pursuers.

Now, normally I do my best to stay out of interzoological matters realizing that nature has a course to take and that everything has a beginning and an end, but something, whether it be the desperation in the tortured cries, or the pathetic manner in which he hobbles around blindly in a vain yet determined attempt to escape, snowballing more exoskeletonized executioners with each progressive sightless step, something made me feel that if I didn’t do something I would regret it for the rest of my life. After spending an ashamedly long time to gather my resolve I know what I must do.

Tossing the broom aside I scoop up the young heir of mammalian flight, spiriting him away from the clutches of the advancing siafu colony. I take him to a spot nearer the house not yet over run and start assessing the extent of the injuries as he struggles around in my gloved hand. Quickly realizing that I’ll need more light as well as access to an environment not immediately at risk of being overrun we retreat inside where, surgical forceps in hand, I start to work removing the still latched on marauders, their jaws embedded deep in the tender flesh of the young insectivore. Feeling my dirt encrusted glove to be too coarse for his soft infant coat I transfer the small patient to a more comfortable sock and continue with the procedure, my small companion still struggling under my instruments.

At some point around the extraction of the 50th assailant the restless struggling of the young nestling begins to diminish markedly. It’s possible the release from the siafu’s powerful sting has allowed him to relax, or perhaps he has grow accustomed to my presence and realizes that I mean him no harm, or maybe he has simply become too exhausted from the ordeal to resist my efforts any longer. Whatever the reason, the young arial mammal becomes quite docile, cooperative even, as I continue to remove lingering siafu from crevices I wouldn’t even expect to find sand in after a day at the beach. Only when removing the most tenacious of soldiers from the sensitive webbing of the thin wing membrane does my young patient show any discomfort.

The operation finally finished I venture back outside to assess the still imminent threat of the siafu advance, though am overjoyed to find that the invaders have started to retreat back into the woods. Whether they have been bamboozled into retreat by the wall of flame or have simply decided to haunt elsewhere this evening I have no idea nor do I particularly care. I investigate the tree from which my young friend fell and find the retreating horde still receding from the highest branches.

At this point I am aware of two things. First, that returning juvenile recuperating bat to the still infested tree at this particular juncture will almost certainly result in his demise at the hands of the still very present siafu horde. Second, that I am in NO way qualified to take care of an infant bat, and that attempting do so would certainly result in his demise within twenty four hours when he either starves to death or chokes on the peanut butter I would probably try to feed him. My options are limited and I am left with little recourse but to sit up with my young friend until it is safe to return him to his tree, and then hope that his parents are nearby. As we retire indoors to wait out the storm I settle on a temporary name, Batsy. Maybe not the most original but seeing as I was still unsure of the gender (you try sexing an infant bat) and I didn’t want to overstep his parents bounds I thought it would be a suitable nickname. Sock in my left hand with Batsy nestled up inside we relax in the same plastic chair that once provided me sanctuary from the siafu so long ago.

We sit up together until the early hours of the morning at which point I am satisfied that the siafu have cleared out from the area sufficiently as to ensure a safe return of Batsy to tree from whence he/she fell. Using a stool, the tallest piece of furniture I own, I find a small nook at the highest spot I am able to reach, gingerly placing Batsy and the sock inside. As I retreat down from stool I glimpse Batsy climbing out of the sock, higher ip into the tree as several (or maybe just one, it’s hard to count bats in the dark) adult winged figured circle the upper branches of the tree. Not being much for awkward goodbyes I return back to my bed high above a sea of bleach and hope that Batsy is reunited with her parents, now free from the looming siafu threat.

In the morning I find the empty sock where I left it once full of Batsy. A quick scan of the tree and a thorough scan of the ground reveals no sign of my young friend, as I am left with nothing but speculation as to her fate. To this day, every time a bat flutters away as I open the door to the choo, or whips by my head as I brush my teeth under the starlight sky I wonder if it is Batsy come back to say hello. I hope so.