Small Seven

Since I'm always writing about us, I was worried that we might come across as a bit ego-centric. So here is a thinly veiled attempt to write something that isn't directly about us, that in actuality, is really about us--enjoy.

This region is known for its amazing array of wild animals. Of course there is the “big five.” What you won't read about in the travel guides however, is the assortment of critters that are here in abundance that are much more a part of the daily experience. Jennie and I like to call these critters our “small seven”—a grouping of equally colorful life forms that not only brighten our days, but inhabit our house.

First on our list is the Dikdik. They don’t live in our house thankfully, but they do like our garden. The Dikdik is a very small and crafty little deer that scurries around in the bush. They have enormous black eyes, at least in relation to their bodies, and they have a black swatch across their face that looks like one of those really small party masks. These little guys made the list because they are cool looking, really fast, and love to nibble on freshly planted crops.

Our next life form inhabits, probably every continent, and scares the bejesus out of Jennie on every one of them. This is of course the spider, of which there are many large and hairy varieties here. Jennie has taken to naming them in an attempt to conquer her fears, but frankly, when push comes to shove, it usually happens in the form of the nearest large object and one really dead arachnid.

Our third buddy hails from the lizard category, though I wouldn’t take that to science class with you. We have salamanders, geckos and some other large green lizards with red heads. This seems like an incredibly cruel evolutionary experiment to me given that they repeatedly get eaten while sunning themselves. Regardless, they love the heat that the concrete and brick houses give off in the evenings, so they are everywhere. Unfortunate for me, they always seem to come crawling out of the pit latrine at just the wrong time, and nearly send me careening for the house, paper in hand, clothing not quite fastened, thinking all the while that the man-eating monster I had imagined has actually come to life and intends to devour me with special zeal given that I am, at present, only half clothed. Too much television for this kid I think.

The middle child on our list is the starling. These birds are beautiful shades of blue, black and orange. They are everywhere here, and are totally fearless. They love to drink from our kitchen sink, and they will all but tackle you for table scraps—when most birds flee, starlings seem to sneer. Jennie is concerned that we have started an obesity epidemic and has won their disdain by throwing out fruit peels instead of the French fries they love. They pooped on her clothes—I really can’t say anymore in case they read this.

Now, I wouldn’t say that our house is completely porous. I wouldn’t say that because a large dog couldn’t decide to come in when the doors are closed. But I also wouldn’t say that it’s an impenetrable fortress either. As such, we have embraced living with the mice that made this their residence long before our term as home owners began. If we were talking about cockroaches, well then I would say that we have taken a much more “shock and awe” approach for sure. But we have made our peace with the mice. Our neighbor on the other hand, does not share our love of nature. Solomon swears that the mice antagonize him. And so nightly we are treated to what sounds like a street gang mêlée, and not, one Masai, one broom, and one 2 oz mammal working out their differences. In response, we have set up a small refugee camp that provides old TIME magazines for bedding, and safety from aggressive, broom wielding Masai.

Not to be outdone in the personality category are the frogs. They come in at dusk, by crawling under our back door and through the sink drain pipe, which broadcasts their croaks throughout the house. It’s a bit unnerving the first time, and totally hilarious after that. The problem is that they are always under foot. They seem to wait until you are barefoot and sans flashlight—I think you get the picture.

Our final and most prized housemates are the bats. An enormous colony of them live in the upper half of the structure we call home. Most buildings here are one story, mud or brick constructions, roofed with tin. Our rather posh accommodations (I’m not being facetious) have plywood ceilings that demarcate bat from human quarters. The funny part is that the bats have the tin roof nearest their domicile, which amplifies every squeak, chirp and bat altercation amazingly well. They seem to get really quiet when Jennie puts on the BBC news, so we like to think that they are strong minded and socially conscious critters, that work hard every night to ensure we don’t get malaria. We do have to yell at them occasionally when it turns into an all night, upside down kegger. But you take the good with the bad I suppose—and that’s what we have come to love most about our time here.

Thanks for reading, and many thanks for posting.