This porch table is an attraction for many types of little creatures, mostly 3 different sizes of ants, and a few flies. So as I am eating, I feel it becoming a race between how fast I can eat, and how fast these creatures are going to starts to line dance a cha-cha-cha on my plates.
There is nothing better to remind you that you are close to nature then ants doing drivebys on your laptop screen. As I am typing these words, a medium ant was range rover-ing through the rocky black keyboards and a smaller one doing a diagonal road trip cross the screen.
This is the real deal when it comes to living close to nature because every few moments, there’s a killing happening. I've just witnessed a gruesome killing on the paddy field side of the porch where I suddenly hear a dying frog, maybe it isn’t a frog, I can’t be sure as it’s coming from the bushes just below the paddy bunch, and a golden stripey long, very long thing is weaved in between the green grassy areas near it, an abstract glistening shape of grey patterned animal is screeching in agonizing plea as the slinkiest longest rice field snake I’ve ever seen is waiting for his sorry ass to die. Of course the city girl had to point her device towards the sound and take a picture of it. What kind of proof do I have otherwise for having been living so close to nature?
There are now ants all over my laptop, my coffee cup, and my color pencils. I thought I might as well leave them there instead of trying to shush them away. Another ant just did a kamikaze into my instant coffee, what is life in nature without sudden death? No, this doesn’t make me think about death, since I can’t possibly appreciate insect death the way they’d deserve to be appreciated. To be honest, I thought I’d have to cover myself in insect juice so as not to slowly be eaten alive last night, but it wasn’t so at all. These animals are used to humans, I assumed, I am a new blood but they’ve probably seen the likes of me , I am not special nor exotic.
It is 1.30 pm, my tummy is full of beautiful kampong food, and the construction is slow but it doesn’t stop, there’s a young skinny worker with hunched square shoulder walking across the front of my hut probably for the 34th time since this morning, carrying a wheelbarrow, carrying nothing, walking along trying not to look at me, sitting at my porch, typing, sweating, drawing, eating. Talk about self-consciousness by both the local and the person who’s supposedly the guest.
All I have to do is just sit and observe life going by, because here everything happens. There are now 200 ants in my coffee, all unable to stop themselves from jumping and dying in the sweet instant coffee, to die in fake caffeine and sugar is glorious.