Not long after I moved into the forty-fifth floor I started getting bitten at night. I could never find the culprit, too small or fast to catch in the dark without my glasses. It began with just one or two; insignificant enough to put out of my mind and go back to sleep, but each night got steadily worse. More and more itchy, nasty bites would wake me from my sleep and I became paranoid of every little texture against my sensitive skin. Whatever it is, is apparently the only thing in this country that has a taste for my legs and wants a piece of me.

 

At first we (I complained to Mum so much it became her problem, as did my lack of sleep crankiness) thought it must be bed bugs, collected in the not-often-used mattress. So we sprayed it and washed the sheets and all the junk you do to get rid of bed bugs. Two days later, just when I was starting to relax my guard, IT was back.

 

When I killed a mosquito in the living room some weeks later I knew it was them. A villain for most people of the world, and here a carrier of malaria and five different types of ‘dead in a week’ fevers. The mosy is the enemy. The war has raged against these winged beats for centuries and my bedroom is just the latest battlefield. The enemy is strong in these parts. So much so that once a month we all lock up our pets and keep the children inside, because of ‘the fogging’ (chemical warfare Baby, yeah). But the wicked beasts possess strong magic, and still they survive; replenishing their numbers from the watery quagmires of the city.

“But how do they get in?” Mum asked.

“How do the ants that are all over the kitchen get in?” I responded unswayed by her doubts.

And so, I launched Operation Aeroguard. A tactical shock and awe response to their covert attacks against my person. Simply put, I covered the house in a thick layer of insecticide and dosed myself in Aeroguard every night before bed for two weeks. By the end there was enough poison in my lungs to knock out a rhino, but I slept peacefully through the night, and even the ants were M.I.A.

 

Slowly but surely, it began again. I was tempted to get a new tattoo; ‘Banquet table’, in bold, down the back of my legs. Perhaps a more harmonic approach would be successful; I need to be more Buddhist, more tree hugger, more… whatever. I did a little reading and I had a plan – flanking. I ate more vegemite, because they hate the smell vitamin B. I turned off the air purifier-because they don’t like dry air. I jacked up the AC because they don’t like the cold, and I cocooned myself in my doona, because (it was freezing) I figured that if I was wrapped tight enough, they couldn’t get to me to bite me. Two weeks later I had a cold and a dozen bites down the back of my knees. I was out of ideas. I couldn’t even make a refreshing cup of coffee; the ants were back in the sugar bowl.

 

The months have progressed and so have my nightly torments. These days I feel as though I’m battling a super-natural foe. More often then not I can only sleep after sunup (maybe there’s a vampire bug loose in the city) or when I’m slowly choking to death of Aeroguard fumes. Mum bought little pieces of white chalk (which are actually highly toxic insect repellant) and I have a piece under each corner of my bed. Exorcisms would use less ritualistic bits and bobs than can be found in my bedroom. I kill anything that flies, creeps, or crawls that has the audacity to enter my room, except the geckos (they squeak, but they eat). To make matters worse, with the sugar bowl empty, the ants are invading the living room. It’s more and more common on the forty-fifth floor to pick ants off your clothes while watching TV, or out of your wine glass. “Don’t worry, they don’t drink much,” is my father’s wise input to the situation, unaware that my paranoia is growing expeditiously (No one believes me, but I swear the little buggers are crawling up my jeans and biting me too).

 

Then last night, I caught one of my bedtime beasties.

 

That’s right, after months of training, I was fast enough, agile enough, just dumb lucky enough to get one of the little buggers moments after he drew the fangs out. The dawn prayers had started from the mosques, but it was my prayers that had been answered. There it was in the palm on my hand (my leg itching and burning like mad) a 2.5mm long ant. I placed my bounty delicately on a shelf and began hunting the bedroom. Three more of the enemy I killed this day. High on blood lust I had become.

 

Specimen in hand (and with the help of the macro zoom feature on my camera) I searched the internet to identify the little creature that had so long been the bane of my existence. Ant after ant I stared at; no, nope, no, wrong colour, they all look the bloody same! Until I came across a site (a magical place) “Learn how to identify ants”… click. Twenty minutes later I was an expert. Five minutes after that I had him. His three profile mug-shot filled the screen. “That’s him!” (“Now arrest the criminal!”) I scrolled down, ‘What’s his name Officer?’ I mumbled to my laptop.

FIRE ANT SUB-SPECIES: SOUTHERN FIRE ANT, WORKER VARIETY;…highly aggressive… often nest in voids in walls, under carpets and furniture… common in blah, blah, Indonesia, blah… painful bite… inflammatory saliva… headaches, nausea… anaphylactic shock… nasty little buggers that bite you in your sleep for no bloody good reason. (Okay, so that last one was mine.)

Son of a bitch!

“MUM! That’s it, that’s what’s been biting me, I found the little prick!” (no pun intended) I yelled stabbing my finger at the screen.

“Oh, I guess we should get some ant bait then,” she muttered calmly in response.

“Or a little napalm!”

“I wonder where the nest is?”… Scratch the napalm, nuke ‘em.