Across the belt of Africa below the Sahara, on grassland sometimes swept by fires, a searching eye might come to rest on homely mounds of earth dotting the landscape: castle-like dwellings of termites. Humble though they appear, a wealth of lore and discovery attaches to these modest features.
That these mounds and their termite builders have proved potent sources for story and reflection received a nod from Nigerian Nobel laureate, Chinua Achebe (d. 2013), who titled one of his novels, Ant Hills of the Savannah. His suggestion seemed to be that beyond the clamor of modern Africa there were backcountry farmers, herders, artisans, homemakers and their families who, in concert, fashion lives of innate wisdom and dignity, all of it cloaked in modest forms, but forms that receive notice and honor from wandering storytellers whom Achebe aspired to imitate.
As for discovery, we once lived in the Kalahari, a gemstone’s throw from the richest diamond mine on the planet. The Jwaneng diggings came to light in the 1970s when a termite mound midst thorny scrub gave evidence of kimberlite, a rock stratum known to bear diamonds. When the overburden of sand was removed, it revealed a trove of wealth that now dazzles the runways and galas of the world. The greatest injustice – of which there were several – is that the termites who toiled in the dark to drag this material from unimaginable depths into the sunlight, never received so much as a fare-thee-well. Until the day that some creative and righteous soul fashions in gratitude a termite mound sculpture for placement at the entrance of the mine, the termites themselves remain busy erecting their own memorial monuments across the grasslands.
But I had an encounter with the Kalahari termites that has left me with greater riches still. It came at the end of a long dry season. Late on a Sunday afternoon the first rains fell, refreshing our town. As was our custom, we went along to a vesper gathering held in a barn-like structure flooded with neon light. No sooner had the first hymn been chanted, but there appeared some winged insects. As the liturgy proceeded, they were joined by a throng of others announcing the annual flight of the termites. It was impossible any longer to follow the course of the service, however eloquent. We were engulfed by thousands of these underground creatures called to the surface as a winged choir by the thrumming of rain on parched ground. So extravagant was their flight that one could almost hear the whisper of filigree wings filling the vault of the hall as the sheerest of emissaries. It was numinous beyond words.
The prayerbook and hymnal came to grief. The homily stranded itself on some uncharted shoal. I recall not a thing of what was spoken or sung. We went home shaken, agog. And now and then, even months later, a translucent wing shed from their flight would slip from the covers of a prayerbook, a memento of the night the termites dismantled evensong, stormed our gathering with sibilant beauty. Decades later I am rendered mute at the thought.
This is the humble mound I erect in gratitude for what the termites brought that night from deep underground, something that I cannot quite name, but that they manifested to us in the vesper light.
Larry Fisher says
In the 70’s MCC funded the fence for a tree project in Mochudi, Botswana. Every day goats were found inside. Finally a vigil was held and the goats were seen to be climbing termite mounds and leaping into the garden.
Jonathan Larson says
Hello, Larry! This is hilarious! A turn of story that belongs in the #1 Ladies Detective Agency.
Gann Herman says
Indeed it does!
Daryl Martin says
So grateful for this blog. I find reading your traipse accounts insightful; inviting us to enter into a deeper place of understanding about what might sometimes be considered “ordinary”.
Jonathan Larson says
Hello, Daryl! So pleased to find your comment here! Yes, your figure of that ‘deeper place’ is especially apt for a termite story. Like you, I am appreciative of those who are patient in observing and pondering, who are hungry for something more than the flash take. This is the gift of mature years: time to muse and probe – all right, I’ll say it – what lies beneath the surface!
Joan Hill Creviston says
Your Traipse writing I find unique and colorful, as it warms my heart and nourishes my soul. Surely, you have many short stories that will find their way in to volumes of bound books.
Always interested,
Joan
Jonathan Larson says
Thank you, Joan! I’m often amazed that others don’t find me unhinged or incoherent! Maybe it’s the mountain air??!! I confess that as these stories re-form in the imagination, come to life as remembrance, they often leave me on the verge of tears. I think it was Frost who said once, ‘No tears in the poet, no tears in the reader.’ If that dynamic is at work with my readers, well, I’ll forego the bound books! Very best!
Phil Gross says
Jonathan, I enjoyed this rendering of your termite tale. Long ago I loved to wander the Sal Forests around Rajpur U.P. hunting for termite mounts in the dark woods, and in later years was fascinated to see them revered in local shrines in Malaysia. But, my only experience with the winged phase of the bug was when my family and I lived in half an old duplex next to the sea on Penang Island. Somewhere beneath the well worn staircase leading upstairs was apparently a portal from their nest below. Twice in the years we lived there they poured forth, just as you describe in you story, filling the house from top to bottom. The first time we were at a loss of what to do before finally escaped the premises. The next year we were out as soon as the first winged creatures – viewed as little less than subterranean demons – appeared. Horrible as they were at the time (to say nothing of the clean-ups afterwards!) I tend to cherish most creatures, and your story puts even winged termites into a new perspective. Thanks.
Jonathan Larson says
Greetings, Phil! We have tramped many of the same places, you and I. And made common acquaintances along the way! As you imply in your story, there are also troublesome chapters in this termite saga. And they are a kind of wisdom tale, too. But we can take satisfaction in knowing that whatever houses collapsed as victims to termite armies, we dodged them all, and are here to savor the tale. Safe rambles!
Ruth Thiessen says
Jonathan, your termite story brings back many memories. We had just arrived in Mahalapye, Botswana, in early December 1977. Our house was built in such a way that our outside light was beside the hallway. We had to pass it to go to the rest of the house. One night, I opened the door from the lounge to go down the hall to walk into what felt like an almost-solid wall of termites. I was stunned, shrieked for Art who came out to see what my panic was about. In our ignorance he sprayed the area and in the morning we found thousands of dead termites. Never again – we learned their value to our local friends and helped them harvest when the termites swarmed us yet again!
Jonathan Larson says
Hello, Ruth (and Art)! Thanks for this telling story. It’s remarkable what lies ‘on the other side of the door’! And especially at night! Then to discover, after fright, that it is a rare delicacy. Wow! There’s a parable. Good of you to company with me in the blog.
Gann Herman says
We didn’t really encounter termite mounds during our years in Swaziland and Lesotho, but they dominated the landscape of rural Uganda. A Karimajong friend told us that his people, as pastoral nomads, did not lay claim to plots of land, but they did to termite mounds! They might move from place to place to graze their cattle, but everyone knew whose mound was whose, because as you note, when the winged insects flew out after scarce rains, all other activities ceased and termite harvesting began. Those nights that we drove on rural roads to our hosts’ residence we would see men, women and children with torches and nets capturing the winged creatures, and the next day the roadside fast-food stalls would offer fried and salted termites to passersby. Rather like meaty popcorn!