17. Agua y Carne — Churros y Chocolate & Other Journeys South

Agua y Carne

The only sounds are the rhythmic crash of waves on the beach below and the slow cadence of my husband’s breath as I tip out of bed into the moist warmth of the tropical night and angle across the floor towards the bathroom. It is after midnight and the light that seeps from under the bathroom door on this moonless night in Playa Ventura dimly illuminates the room.

Eyes slitted to preserve a half-sleeping state in preparation for my return to bed, I open the bathroom door. The white tile walls reflect the light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling and at first I notice nothing out of the ordinary. Then I see them, rows of dark dots moving horizontally across the far wall. I snap to attention. Army ants! These are at least a centimeter in length—BIG—with rotund body parts and busy antennae.

They march three or four abreast, thousands of bodies in a continuous, undulating river. Directly in front of me, a tributary from the main stream slips silently over the white plastic seat of the toilet and down to drink the water below. They stream across the top of the bathroom door inches above my head. A line of ants clings head down to the slick tiles next to the sink, motionless except for the constantly exploring antennae; their legs are splayed and each carries a beige egg in its mouth.

We came to this out-of-the-way Mexican town 200 miles south of Acapulco to escape the tourist-soaked visage of the big beach towns. Our tiny motel has a Mexican flavor and we like living close to nature. This is too close.

My eyes no longer slitted, my nocturnal needs forgotten, I back out and close the door, hoping to seal in the invaders, and sprint to the far side of the room to turn on the overhead light. It illuminates the battalion that flows across the wall facing our bed.

I retreat to the bed platform, poking my husband into wakefulness. At first, he fails to take me seriously, mumbling and grimacing. Then, as he comes fully awake, he begins to realize the gravity of the situation.

We spend the balance of the night wrapped in white sheets on our bed-island, keeping track of the marching hoard. Suddenly my eyes are drawn to the floor where a new variety of ants have entered the scene. Tiny but ferocious, they are attacking a solitary invader from the wall, hanging like ticks from his legs, causing him to whip around, looking for an avenue of escape. He flings them off and continues exploring in the direction of our bed. Luckily, the remaining marching column of giants keeps to the far wall. I begin to relax.

Then I feel an ant crawling under my shirt. I spasmodically pound my shoulders and thrash on the bed, making unintelligible sounds until his body is flattened. We fling off the sheets and search, but there are no other invaders.

Finally, the sky begins to lighten and I hear Helmut, the proprietor of the motel, in the yard. “We had a little problem last night,” I tell him in Spanish as I rush out onto the veranda. “We were invaded by ants.”

“Were they big or little?” he asks, probably expecting inappropriate hysteria from the gringos over the tiny ants that are ubiquitous in the tropical forest.

“Big,” I reply.

His brow furrows and he heads back to his house for supplies. He returns with cans of spray, rags, things that hit and squish. We gladly give up our room and he attacks the columns. Soon, the floor is littered with heads, thoraxes, abdomens. We begin to feel some guilt. By all rights, we are the invaders in the territory of the ants.

We discuss ants over breakfast and learn from another guest that these pack a nasty wallop when they bite. Helmut claims the roving bands are beneficial, ridding the rooms of bothersome insects as they devour anything in their path. “Agua y carne,” he says. They come for water and meat.

We head down to the beach after breakfast to look for shells, grateful that our “carne” is still on the bone.

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