25 - 31 January 2001
Issue No.518
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 25 - 31 January 2001 Issue No.518 |
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Beetlemania
Most people I know suffer from a phobia related to creepy-crawlies of all sorts, whether insects or small mammals. Sometimes, they add to the fear of these categories that of unusual flying creatures -- bats, say. I, on the other hand (except for bedbugs, where I emphatically draw the line), have been blessed with great sympathy for these intruders that sometimes invade our antiseptic lives.
I still remember with delight the tiny grey mouse with a twitchy pink nose that visited me every night for a whole month when I was seriously ill with influenza back in pre-antibiotics times and had a hard time sleeping. It sat at the foot of my bed and I fed it biscuit crumbs. It only fled, never to return, when my mother spotted it and, horrified at the spectacle of the little thing snuggled in my comforter, chased it around the room with a broom. My newly acquired friend, which I had named Justin, must have thought I had betrayed it, and the notion of its disappointment distressed me for days afterwards.
Our neighbourhood in Australia was free of household vermin -- if one excludes the occasional black widow (one was once found nestling in my friend Ginette's washing machine), the redbacks that made their homes under the garden rockery, the colourful snakes that Honey our Chinchilla cat brought us as presents from his forays into the bush, and an iguana or two that trudged across our lawn at dawn.
Australian children were quite at ease with the creatures of the underworld, and readily gave them a place in their games. Scott collected redbacks, and was proud to train his playmates in the art of picking them up safely, while Steven was best at organising earthworm races. Garth protected the raccoons from his father's wrath when they (repeatedly) destroyed the roof of their house, and Rachel and her sister Ruth collected dead ants, laying them to rest in the little cemetery they had constructed for that purpose in a remote corner of their backyard.
Only once in my life did I feel really queasy at the sight of household pests: we had been away for a few weeks and during our absence the power had been cut off by a short-circuit. When we opened the refrigerator, hundreds of cockroaches came tumbling down. We spent the night at a hotel and had the apartment fumigated in the morning. That happened long before my younger daughter was born, however, and I don't think that her absolute revulsion for the species can in any way be blamed on that incident.
Born in Sydney, she had no first-hand knowledge of these most common of Egyptian pests until she was at least five years old, but from the very beginning she over-reacted at the sight of them. I can still hear the house resounding with her piercing screams whenever she came face to face with what I had repeatedly told her were just harmless brown beetles.
My late husband was a hoarder and loved buying household supplies in bulk. Consequently, the house was slowly transformed into a huge storeroom with pantries and cupboards in every possible corner, creating a network of hiding places for the invading fauna. I, on the other hand, may be possessed by the same consumerist covetousness, but I go for a more honest display of one's earthly possessions. After my husband's death, when I eventually came around to redoing the apartment, I chose an entirely different style. The kitchen was stripped of its cabinets and tiled from floor to ceiling. Counters and open shelves replaced the closed storing space. The new décor served two distinct purposes: it indulged my exhibitionist inclinations and at the same time rid the house of insects, which no longer had anywhere to hide. I was quite proud of my skills and never failed to point out to all and sundry that ours must have been one of the few house in Cairo where roaches did not dwell -- although, for some mysterious reason, tiny black ants took a liking to the grout between the new Italian tiles in the bathrooms. My daughter had no problem with those, however; nor did our cats, which sat motionless for hours on end, observing their comings and goings.
For a few years we reveled in our beetle-free environment, until recently, when I was entertaining friends and taking them on a guided tour of my minimalist kitchen. They were enthusiastic about the arrangement and I was basking in their compliments when, on our way out, our path was crossed by a portly roach, which had crawled under the front door and was purposefully heading towards the bookshelves in the vestibule. I remained speechless for a few seconds, hoping that no one had noticed its presence, but the ironic smiles on my guests' faces soon dispelled my illusions. "My daughter feeds all the stray cats on the landing," I offered as a lame excuse, neglecting to add that I was her willing accomplice. Nor did I inform my daughter when she came home later that our pristine surroundings were no longer as immaculate as we had thought. Instead, the next morning I demanded that the maid turn the house upside down in search of the trespasser (it was never found), and arranged for the carpenter to seal the bottom of the front door. We never had another unwelcome visitor -- but to this day my friends remember the roach, and make sure I do too.
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