I recently received an email from a man who has never visited the isthmus, but has heard a lot of appealing things about our little corner of paradise. He was so impressed that he’s thinking about moving here. The problem is, his wife has this phobia about insects. He wanted me to assure him that Panama has bug-free places to live.
Ah, but that’s something I can’t do with a clear conscience and a straight face.
Despite the vigorous efforts of those who would cut down our forests and “tame nature,” it’s still a jungle out there. It is theoretically possible to live bug-free in an insecticide-laced environment at the top of a Panama City highrise, IF one is truly obsessive about denying all sources of food or water to undesired little neighbors, has human neighbors next door and downstairs who share this obsession, and never opens a window. Even then, this strategy will only last until some species of ants or cockroaches develops an immunity to the bug spray you’re using.
The good life in Panama is only to be had by striking wise and harmonious balances with natural forces. The balancing act tends to become more complicated in direct proportion to the pristine natural beauty of your surroundings.
Take it from me, a guy who grew up in close proximity to the jungle, in a house surrounded by a forest that has, unfortunately, mostly disappeared since my childhood. Back then, we couldn’t live entirely cockroach-free near the old Coco Solo Hospital, no matter how clean you were. We could, however, keep those big jungle roaches under control by a combination of cleanliness and strategic alliances.
Which is why in my family spiders and tarantulas have always been protected species, and why I rejoice rather than shudder when I hear a gecko’s chirp in my living space.
Around the office in Perejil, keeping undesirable insects under control is a goal to be approached but never fully attained. As a matter of law and common sense, the control strategy must include the elimination of standing water in our surroundings, especially the little mosquito breeding pools that collect in containers left outside in the rainy season. It includes taking out the garbage on a regular basis. The extremes of chemical warfare are mostly reserved for termite infestations.
But the real challenge comes when I’m at the beach, at my sister’s and brother-in-law’s farm, sleeping in the guest house. There, the woods are less than a stone’s throw away and once in awhile you get ants like the one shown above.
If such ants swarm into your house, they have made a fatal mistake and sooner rather than later you will have to sweep up their remains. If you are into agroforestry and these things are swarming on your grounds, then it’s a more substantial problem.
But the rains started just a few weeks ago and with them the first of a series of hatchings that challenge all attempts to live the harmonious way. I was at the farm for a long weekend to get a belated start on the garden, relax with some science fiction and match wits with the local arthropods.
On my arrival at the farm, some cleaning chores awaited me. Mom would be appalled at my lax standards, but I had to do at least enough dusting and sweeping to avoid grossing myself out. In so doing, I made an ominous discovery on the windowsill next to the bed in which I usually sleep. There lay the dessicated remains of a loyal ally, a large brown spider.
Alas! poor Boris. I knew him, Horatio.
He was a monster to the bugs that I find annoying, but a friend to me. But Boris the Spider had died what appeared to be a natural death, and into the dustpan he went.
As the afternoon sun sank low in the sky, the diurnal birds screeched and chirped and noisily settled into their night time roosts. When it went down, it was time to close all openings to the great outdoors, so as to exclude flying visitors.
But it isn’t possible to completely close everything in this guest house, and as the noises reminded me, bugs weren’t the only things coming in or going out.
What was that faint squeaking, thumping and fluttering in the ceiling?
Though by now I was many pages into my tale of invaders from another dimension, robots gone insane and bureaucrats who deserved to be exiled to another planet, I didn’t confuse these sounds with those of ill-intentioned visitors.
No, these were my roommates, the bats.
Actually, we don’t share the same living space. They live up under the eaves, from which their means of access to the human living quarters have been carefully blocked. They can and do, however, move freely between their daytime sleeping space and the great outdoors.
Yes, bats can carry diseases that humans can catch, so that relationship must be managed with care. Yes, the big fruit bats are an agricultural pest, but they live in trees, not houses. And yes, Panama does have vampire bats, but these weren’t those.
(How do I know they weren’t vampire bats? For one thing, there was no Transylvanian accent to their squeaking. Plus I hadn’t heard any recent reports about local cattle herds being affected or people or their pets being bitten. Panama’s vampire bats don’t transform themselves into fanged Eastern European aristocrats, or even Blackula or Queen Latifah. Unlike the antagonists in Mexican vampire flicks, Panamanian vampire bats don’t attract parish priests or mobs of campesinos. Nevertheless they can make serious blood-sucking pests of themselves.)
THESE guest house bats are hyperactive little fellows, who, in comparison to their body weight, must eat enormous amounts to fuel their to and fro flittings. As in, enormous volumes of insects. Like the spiders, they are allies against the bugs.
Back to my reading.
“Professor Vasilyev is a civilian who has never been in the military, so he believes in the scientific tradition of sharing information. As a result, the professor must never be allowed to leave.”
“Never?”
“My choice was to employ the professor, even though my superior had a more abrupt solution to the problem....”
More noises as nature’s night shift went to work. This time it was the hooting of an owl, by the sound apparently within about 30 feet of the bedroom window.
This was not the bedroom where I sleep, but the guest house’s other bedroom. I had the whole place to myself. At least three species of insects were starting their nightly aerial maneuvers. With my limited resources I mounted my defense.
At this point it was a matter of manipulating the household appliances. I turned on the lamp in that corner of the living room farthest from the bedroom where I was reading, so as to distract some of the insects in that direction. I turned the fan on high, to make life miserable for the weak flyers. But any benefits from these actions would necessarily be only partial, because any light strong enough by which to read science fiction will also attract bugs.
The big critters weren’t biters. It’s june bug season. Short-lived and clumsy flyers, june bugs are nevertheless big enough to remain airworthy despite the fan. Relatively individualistic, they periodically came buzzing past my ears, now and then became entangled in my hair, and sometimes crunched underneath when I rolled over in bed. They were a modestly annoying distraction from my reading.
“You are a minor functionary, and nothing more. It is not your place to hold press conferences, particularly with respect to discoveries of great national importance.”
“But... I’m in charge of the Mars Development Office,” Beckett offered, hoping it was still true.
“I am aware of your position, which is just above the level of bug on my evolutionary scale of government employees, Mr. Beckett.”
Then came the tiny black beetles with the weevilish snouts. They don’t fly well, but they come in great numbers, often landing on the bed or nearby walls and launching their attacks on foot.
Will a blanket offer any protection?
Very little. These guys are experts at burrowing under the covers to get at the human flesh they crave.
Like sadistic cops who beat their victims with rubber hoses, the little black beetles are adept at torturing their victims without leaving marks. It HURTS when they bit, but there are no welts afterwards.
So would this be a good time to interrupt my reading and go into the living room and watch TV?
Hah! The beetles, along with several other species of insects, would swarm to the screen, feasting on anybody nearby.
Time for a change of scenery. I left the lights on where I had been reading, lit a coil of Chinese punk and left it to smolder there, and closed the door. Then I went to my habitual bedroom to read some more.
But soon, a noise interruption from the tree just a few feet from the bedroom window --- two and a half chirps from a daytime songbird, the first couple alarmed, the ultimate one muffled. It seemed that this little birdie had been awakened to chirp its last --- most likely by one of the tree snakes who inhabit the farm.
Back to my novel.
“I need both of you to land me safely on Mars. Once I am on the surface, I will no longer need you. If I don’t like you, and I don’t need you, I will consider you a drain on the local resources. Do you understand what I’m getting at, or do I need to elaborate further?”
With wide eyes, both men nodded at Zhukov.
“Good. Then I suggest you return to your work.”
Then came the tiny little lacy-winged things that not only pack a ferocious bit for their diminutive size, but leave substantial welts as well.
Turning the floor fan on high and setting it to swing back and forth, then covering most of my body with a thin Chinese cotton blanket, did much to keep these little terrorists at bay.
For someone who spends so much time at Girl Scout headquarters --- where The Panama News office is located --- I had paid far too little attention to the motto that’s stuck up all over the place. In its Spanish version it goes “Siempre Listas” --- Always Ready --- but in English-language scouting they style it “Be Prepared.” I wasn’t.
One relatively benign form of chemical warfare --- for humans, their pets and their spider allies, that is --- comes in the form of little packets of yellow crystals sold under the trademark “Snip.” Sprinkle a little bit of the stuff on a paper plate and put it on a table under a lamp and the fragile little assassins will swarm to it like piedreros to cocaine and OD in great numbers. It will give you a modicum of peace at night, and in the morning you will have a plate full of dead insects. But I had neglected to arm myself with this weapon of mass destruction against the evening’s onslaught.
But still, the blanket and the fan let me get through a few more chapters in relative peace.
“If there’s any trouble, I’ll kill this man, then choose a new victim. Otherwise, no one will be harmed.”
By now, the little black beetles had regrouped and were launching a full-scale infantry assault under the blanket. Time for another change of location and an escalation of the chemical war.
First I went into the second bedroom, swept up the dead bugs, turned off the lights, and transferred the rest of the still-burning punk coil to the floor of my sleeping quarters. I turned off the lights in that room, too, after having turned the fan speed down and aimed the appliance upward to spread the punk smoke around the room, and closed the door.
Then I sprayed myself with insect repellent --- in this case, Off! Skintastic --- and lay down on the living room couch for a few more chapters.
Tau stiffened and clenched his fists. “What are Masters? How could we be impostors when we weren’t pretending to be anything but what we are?”
In the brief silence that followed, Tau realized he’s spoken out of turn.
“His lordship reminds you to remain silent until he asks a direct question: otherwise, his reaction will cause your life force to cease. I assume that’s a threat,” added Ari.
Tau nodded.
The june bugs and fragile biters swarmed to the living room light but generally left me alone. A little bit of Off wouldn’t do an awful lot to deter the little black beetles, but it would take time for them to mass for their next assault.
So, back to my science fiction book.
“Amazing, isn’t it.” Mandelbrot smiled. “What a country! Where else could a serial killer find gainful employment with the government?”
It came time to prepare my bed for some sleep.
First, I took the sheets off, shook them out, and swept away all the dead and dying bugs. I removed and disposed of the ashes from the spent punk coil and washed the ceramic plate upon which I had set it. I remade the bed and sprayed sprayed the sheets and pillowcases with Off. I reset the fan to blow steadily at full strength over the bed. I turned off the light and went to second bedroom to finish my book.
Yanking the shift lever into reverse, Tau stomped on the accelerator again. The forklift bobbed as if it were stuck in the glowing blue light, then lurched backward with the tires screeching. Tau winced when the metal forks dissolved and the crystal sphere clumped heavily onto the tunnel floor.
Zhukov was gone. Tau knew he wouldn’t last very long in the corrosive atmosphere; he might be dead already. Circling a star that would soon explode, the ruined world on the other side of the gate would be a lonely tomb for the general.
The end. Lights out. Time to go to bed, where I slept peacefully until the bats came back at dawn, then rolled over and caught some more shuteye.
The enemy had bitten my flesh, but suffered heavy casualties and failed in its mission. Thus ended another chapter in the eternal war.
