Holiday at War: My Week Fighting an Ant Invasion | The American Spectator

I live on the seventh floor in a moderately urbanized city. From my window, all I see is concrete. I mean, it’s not exactly normal to spot bears, cheetahs, or elephants strolling down the street — although a few days ago the news reported that a herd of wild boars had come to the neighborhood for a bit of urban tourism. Spanish politicians don’t allow them to be killed, so these boars live better than any citizen: they can cross red lights, drive the wrong way, park wherever they want, don’t pay taxes, and if you run one over, you’re committing an environmental crime and could get in trouble. P.J. O’Rourke once said that animals will have rights as soon as they have obligations — but European leaders don’t seem to agree. Maybe it’s because we’re being governed by animals.

Apart from wild boars and flying rats (aka seagulls), this city is fairly clean. Nature is confined to a few trees and patches of grass. I don’t live in Jurassic Park. That’s why I’m both surprised and furious these days: a plague of ants has moved into my apartment — seven stories up, refusing to leave, and not paying rent either. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen an ant here. And now they’re everywhere.

The good thing about these little ants is that you can squash them with your finger. The bad thing is that no matter how many you kill, a hundred more appear. My theory? Ants reproduce in direct proportion to human adrenaline and cortisol — the hormones we release when we get really angry. It’s a vicious cycle: the angrier I get, the more ants are born.

After consulting my personal biologist, I tried all his tricks: removing food scraps, pouring vinegar in the kitchen, performing the ant-repelling tribal dance — hanging a St. Bernard barrel from my chest, waving my hands up and down, and signing songs by that idiot Bad Bunny. None of it worked.

I now have ants in my bed, in the bathroom, on the dining table, and inside the food cupboards. The jar of honey in my kitchen is sealed with a screw cap tightened with all my strength, leaving a gap so small that not even a damn coronavirus could slip through. And yet, the honey jar woke up one morning filled with hundreds of ants — also idiots, because they bathe in the honey and then can’t escape.

I have little patience, so I bought a very powerful insecticide and, taking advantage of a weekend away, emptied the entire bottle into every corner of my apartment. When I returned on Sunday, the hallway looked like Vietnam (and not just because of the food menu). A real war zone. Dozens of insects I had never seen before lay dead on the floor, while the ants happily marched in single file, casually dodging the corpses. I have a suspicion they use the insecticide as hair gel to style their crests. I’m convinced they’re punks and extreme leftists. Just in case, I plastered the area with tiny signs reading: “Ants, go home,” “Treasure hidden in anthill,” or “Wanted: dead or alive,” complete with a picture of a squashed ant.

Desperate, I went to a pest control store and asked a young woman — whose face was oddly ant-like — for help. She told me to buy a couple of packs of traps, which were supposedly foolproof. I looked at her ant-like face again and thought, “This woman knows what she’s talking about.”

I set the traps, and for now they seem gone — but the manufacturer says it will take weeks for them to vanish completely. So now I live in fear that they are hiding in some secret anthill, plotting to attack me at night in revenge for the traps.

Perhaps it’s the lazy bliss of the holidays, but this trap mechanism got me thinking. Ants, despite my hatred for them, are incredibly disciplined and hardworking. They travel dozens of meters in search of food, moving in long lines and leaving a chemical trail so the rest of the colony can follow. Whatever they deem useful, they collect and bring back to the anthill to share. The trap offers sugar and protein — but poisoned. When the ants carry the tainted food back, faithfully performing their duty, they end up killing the entire colony. It’s a little unfair, but I won’t shed a single tear. It’s the law of life: sometimes we think we’re doing our duty, but we’re actually committing suicide.

We’ll keep you posted. Itxu Díaz, for National Geographic American Spectator.

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