"Elephants in the Sky" (A Terrifying Story based on actual events ((Timbuktu)) Reedited 3/2007
Addendum (to: “Elephants in the Sky):
Dear Dennis (Siluk),
I "went" on your website and read a part of the article "Elephants in the Sky (a story about Timbuktu…." The article [story] is very interesting and I am very impressed by your bibliography and by the way you narrated this locust drama. Unfortunately it is not fiction but reality and I thank you to have reminded [us]… human beings.
I hope you will not be unlucky like your hero Lee, the former G.I., who in spite of his experience could not resist… these "small insects" or "big elephants" in Timbuktu.
Thank you,
Your friend Deo Kpadenou
Bamako, MALI
(Letter, dated: 3-12-2007)
Note: The Story “Elephants in the Sky,” was written: © 3/26/2005 Dennis L. Siluk (Revised, reedited, 3/2007)
(Story written after the plague that took place in West Africa)
A brief Summery of (Timbuktu): Timbuktu, also spelled TOMBOUCTOU, is a city in the West African nation of Mali. It is historically important as a post on the trans-Saharan caravan route. It is located on the southern edge of the Sahara, north of the Niger River, a centre for the expansion of Islam, an intellectual and spiritual capital at the end of the Mandingo Askia dynasty (1493-1591) and home to a esteemed Koranic university. Three great mosques built at that time, using traditional techniques, still remain.
Timbuktu was founded about AD 1100 as a seasonal camp by Tuareg nomads. After it was incorporated within the Mali Empire, around the late 13th century, the Mali sultan, Mansa Musam, built a tower for the Great Mosque (Djingereyber) and a royal residence, the Madugu.
In the 14th century Timbuktu became important because of its gold-salt trade; with this came the arrival of the North African merchants, and their settlements with Muslim scholars.
The city's scholars attracted many students from far and near, perhaps one reason being, many scholars had studied in Mecca or Egypt.
Small salt caravans from Taoudenni still arrive in Timbuktu in winter, but there is no gold of course to offer in exchange. The city can be reached by air, camel or boat usually from Bamako, the Capitol city of Mali.
—The Story
“Elephants in the Sky”
[1980s, Lee Evens in Mali, Timbuktu/West Africa]
Advance: Lee was discharged from the Army in 1980, whereupon, he traveled the world, one of those locations happened to be in Mali, by the legendary city of Timbuktu; whereupon he found himself in the middle of a plague, a plague of locust.
[Diary-review]
There were swarms of locust over the top of my car, in front of me, in front of the car—swarms I say, swarms: a dark shadow covering the sky, descending, downward descending onto the road—in front of me, behind me, it was locusts, locusts, locusts—locusts everywhere, everyplace: so thick, deep with layers that it made my car skid—slipping and sliding as if on ice. They seemed like they walked, creakingly walked, walked among the sky, and cluttered so close together they looked like big oaks; akin to a druid dark sky, coeval with the leering depressed cerulean atmosphere. They looked like pools of ghouls embracing, taking up the hooded faded sky that looked like early evening, but wasn’t. ‘Good God, good God, good God,’ I cried!
My radiator was being blocked, plugged by these finger-sized carcasses. I had to pull over to the side of the road. It was but a moment thereafter when I saw some adolescents down the road a bit, not too far, just a little ways, three of them trying to beat them off, beat the locusts with their belts, pants belts. Then one resorted to a stick, a stick I say, not thick not thin, just an ordinary stick: would you use a stick? To be honest, I’d run I think, run like hell, yes oh yes, like hell, as if demons were after me, that is what I’d do; anyhow, one took this ordinary stick to beating them off, while the others used their hats, hands, ordinary things; they were dropping down like hail onto them from all sides; ragged looking shadows of them, full-fledged shadows, throbbing against their bodies, yes they were throbbing against their bodies, these locusts: down and sideways: bombarding them like creatures from outer space: like in the bible, where it mentions such things happening back in those far off days, the days of Moses: the plagues God bequeath upon the pharaoh.
I think these kids would have loved to have found a window anyplace to climb through, and nail it shut about now; I kept looking out of my car window, and these creatures, these biological insects from some heated abyss, chasm, or deep hole, stained my windows grimly, with their restless, dentate pointed mania heads and scribbled bodies.
This was bad, very bad; the large insects were in their hair, noses, ears, climbing up their pants legs, flying straight for their mouths. They tried to spit them out—cough them up, but more would just jump from ear to nose to mouth: endlessly.
The whole area was becoming infested with them [them: being, those locust critters; huge grasshoppers]. They were becoming as thick, wide as the walls of Troy—twenty feet deep. I turned the engine of my rented car off; it spit and sputtered a bit, then it came to a dead stop, a burping stop. I could not see the boys anymore, only a cocoon of these creatures several inches thick around them—like mummies; they now rolled about on the ground like dying lions, screaming: it simply shivered me; it was as if hate and love coiled within my stomach.
For a hundred miles around I had heard they were eating up the crops before anyone had time to harvest them; catastrophic damage to all the crops, as the new generation of larvae appeared—thus, widening the dimensions of the one-hundred mile radius to possibly two-hundred miles (sooner than later). But now they were on top of my car: yes, yes, yes, on top of my car; under it, all over it, and in the fields beside me, on the road. I was but twenty-five miles outside of Timbuktu. Ah! What would you do?
As far as I knew, there was no means of spraying available to kill these creepy-crawlers, nor any other treatment, why that occurred to me, is beyond me, I mean who gives a shit, I’m in the middle of it; yes, yes, no equipment as supplies were of a minimum and vehicles were scarce—I was lucky, I mean really lucky to have secured a deal getting my hands on this jeep.
I was now witnessing farmers beating the locust into trenches (these: Acididae, a family of devouring insects, as I had learned to call them in my biology class, back so far in my college days, I forgot exactly when); what more could they do? I mean besides what they did I suppose, swatting them, whacking them, from all sides, and running: I mean running, terrifyingly running! Like the boys could have done, didn’t do, but should have thought of doing, but who has a clear mind in such a petrifying moment, event, they simply could not do anymore than what they did I expect, otherwise they would have. Alas!
(This was the moment I’d put forward to later, when telling others they looked like elephants in the sky. But that was to be a little bit in the future yet; now they just kept coming and coming and coming, these locust-insects.)
Now I’m breathing in the hot air in the jeep, it seems to me I’m recycling my own air. In the five-mile area they covered most everything; there were at least, must have been at least, couldn’t be less than 250-million locust I figured (insects); hoppers, yellow winged hoppers—crazy and manic hoppers, as if they were on a sugar high. That would be a weight volume of 5000-elephants dropping from the sky. I had a lot of time to figure that out, for the most part, let’s say hours watching these hoppers fly and jump, and descend, trying to eat my tires—trying to get into the jeep and eat me.
‘Try, try, try,’ I said, ‘…fuck you all,’ I said.
[Entry] “I was in Timbuktu a few days ago, and I’m on my way back to Timbuktu now, I had been in the countryside—where theses devouring insets (hoppers) were breeding, I am not sure where it was in particular, but it was in Mali where they had breed I do believe—first, someplace in Mali. I was doing what I love to do, checking out some old writings that were found in one of the old mud houses in Timbuktu; realizing at one time Timbuktu was a Mecca for learning for the Muslims, or better put, Islamic cultured; on the old Silk Road you could say. I was eager, the phenomenon would move east, away from me, to Sudan or Chad, or all the way to Egypt; move away to anyplace, but out of Mali and for sure, away from Timbuktu in particular. I was surprised there was not a humanitarian crisis alert, or if there was it didn’t look like it from where I was; I mean, where were the United Nations vehicles? A good question I figured, and never to be answered.
The trick is to kill them before new generations developed, consequently, stopping them in their tracks from breaking into other places—countries, and a new cycle starting. The crops I knew would be gone soon in the south and now in this area as well, if they were not yet, and should they go east—well, let them worry about that.”
They leaped like little elephants on the hood now, hood of, of my car; they looked, looked into my windows, deep into my windows, nose against the glass (smutches all over the glass like a disease; voracious little dispositions all over their faces, like fairies stuck together) as if I was eatable, somehow I got the sense (they had the scent, my scent I expect) they knew I was trapped in the car, and I was for sure. But I remembered what Solomon told me in Egypt, Cairo a few months back: should something like this occur—so it was somewhat forecasted almost—and it was now developing: anyhow he said,
“(‘…should this occur…’) Try to make it till morning, when everything cools down.”
I figured the wingless ‘hoppers’ the new breed, were developing now in the fields around me as the adult yellow ones could be seen flying about eating, and killed by whomever (the farmers and gosh, that was about it for now).
[The Big Hopper: diary entry]
One big hopper gazed through my window, must be the size of a sparrow—(I’m writing this down as he’s looking at me). At its sight I saw its milky eyes, they followed me eerily followed me, then I realized it was somewhat blind, I mean, its eyes gave out a yellowness to it—somewhat piercingly, as if it had cataracts—perhaps trying to see clearer, its lips trembled from old age—feverishly so, it mumbled something, as if talking to itself, then it stood aside to let the younger ones peer in on me. Was I their trapped animal, in their zoo?
“Come…súh!” (Note: the author translates for the bug) the big one said (smiling an amiable grin).
Thus, with apprehensiveness my eyebrows were quivering with my nervous system, which was wacky. Panting like a dog I was, and so bewildered…! I ended up looking out the window for the longest time…or so it seemed, blankly looking, as if in a trance; then turning my head demurely to see if any of those hoppers where in back of me—sneaking up on me; or getting inside the jeep. My eyes could not relax from this insidious invading force, if anything was quite disarming…this was, but then what would you expect, harmony in the middle of an earthquake? What would you expect? I found myself drifting at times, but I knew I couldn’t go to sleep. I mean who could?
There I sat behind the wheel, crouched forward to peer through the blinding storm of locust; these hoppers were like rain sheets hitting the windshield, hitting quicker than the wipers could fan it clean. My palm and forehead had a glossy mist to it—sweat and pain, and unknown chemicals coming out of my pours.
—It was now mid-afternoon, and they were hot, it was hot, I was hot, everything, even the car was hot, and hence, morning would be my best time to make my move, when they’d be cooled down, down in the crops around me—quiet. Therefore, I had turned my car off, completely off, and I’d leave my car off until morning, the suspense would come at daybreak when I’d have to turn it back on, start it up again.
—[2:00 AM] I must had fallen to sleep, and an automatic clock in my head woke me up, it was inky dark out there, outside my windows, and so, I started my car up, it choked a bit, but it started, and I noticed my water gage going up, as if a water hose was plugged or ripped. I turned the car off. I didn’t want to make too much noise, just get out of here and get back to Timbuktu: I figured they’d follow the crops, and bypass the city; oh possibly a few million might divert themselves to the city, but that is not bad; I mean, what is a million when you got 249-million more. I knew they were all on the cool ground and in a few hours they’d be in the air again—over me again; and should they decide to stick around I’d die of a heat stroke I figured, sooner than later that is, sooner than they’d get a chance to eat me anyhow.
I opened my car door slowly, pacifying the moment; shinned a flashlight on the road beside me, there were many about—sleeping, quiet, almost stone-still—could I have hummed them to oblivion, I would have; but I could walk around them for the most part I figured, and I did, did just that, then I opened the hood of the jeep, slowly, quietly, with more gentleness then I ever knew I had, as if it was a woman, looked at the hose, and several hoppers flew in my face, I had glasses on, they poked at my eyes nonetheless, I said nothing, nothing at all, just swatted them away with the rag I had in my hand—and I didn’t use much force in doing that either. One hose had a small crack in it. I knew I’d lose water, all the water I had in the car in about five miles should I not fix it, or repair it that is, with twenty miles left to go beyond that five miles, should I not fix it—I’d be worse off than now, I’d be stranded right in their pathway—God forbid!
The engine was covered with the winged hoppers, I wanted to say to these hoppers a few gruesome swear words (actually curse them to hell), but I can’t, I told myself, I’d wake the others up for sure; I had waked them up—a few of them up already, and they started to fly out and about clearing a passage to my hose for me, I didn’t want to wake anymore than necessary.
They were not massively jumping on me yet, just a few, trying to crawl up my pants legs—tickling me here and there: slightly attacking my glasses; I think they like glass—but just a few attacked me, as if half in a fog, out of some kind of instinct, or automatic reflex I would guess (almost like sleepwalking): nothing to get alarmed about I told myself. I tried not to open my mouth, a few seemed to spot it when I took in a deep breathe of air—as if they had radar, consequently, they zoomed right at it, I had to spit them out as when they hit my face their legs seemed to have found their way into the crevice of my mouth—sticky psychotic insects. Then I got an idea, I opened the trunk of the jeep up, took out a five gallon can of gasoline, in this country you always carry extra gas, water and food, always—lest you find yourself in some deserted location, as I have at this very moment (with no resources); I poured it on the side of the road, up about two-hundred-feet leading into the fields, then on my way back I took my First Aid kit, put the white tape—normally used for bandaging wounds—put it around the hole in the hose (not making a deliberate sound, but not soundless), and started my car up, at the same time I lit the gasoline by throwing a match out of the window onto the road, and I hit the accelerator to fifty-miles an hour (it’s as fast as my jeep would go ((it was an old US Army jeep they must had purchased it from some Army surplus garage)) and I watched the road and fields explode with lightening-like fire behind me.
Yes, yes, yes, behind me was a windless fire breeding into the fields, eating hoppers while sleeping, roasted grasshoppers, like hotdogs (it was indeed a magical moment): yes, yes, yes they woke up, this horde of hoppers woke up in a French-fired position I’m sure; to them I expect it was their ‘Pompeii,’ and shall talk about it for a thousand years to come in this region of the world; to me it was salvation; oh yes, yes, yes, it is what legends are made out of in the hopper-world, I’m sure—; I got a mouth full of toxic fumes which was the only curse of the predicament for me, and a bonfire galore as I raced onto Timbuktu.
—When I got to the city, it was locked up tight, everyone afraid to come out of their mud huts, and beautiful mosques. I knew I couldn’t tell them I had lit the fire—for my sake; they’d make me pay for the corps I suppose (after the crisis was over I’m sure; for humanity has a short memory when it comes to thank-you’s and money). But I think they were happy to see it was all over, and a few heard my jeep motor, for slowly one by one they appeared, a few came out of their shops until the whole main street was out looking about with their doors open, ready to run back in a moments notice. I had expected them to invade the city somewhat—somewhat expected this to happen, as did the residents, but none did; and they did go east. That's why, had I told them about me lighting the fire, they’d have roasted me in it, so my silence, or intuition was right on.
Written 3/26/2005© by Dennis L. Siluk, while at the BN, Café in Roseville,
Minnesota 55113, USA (Revised: 276-words added, and reedited, 2007)
Dear Dennis (Siluk),
I "went" on your website and read a part of the article "Elephants in the Sky (a story about Timbuktu…." The article [story] is very interesting and I am very impressed by your bibliography and by the way you narrated this locust drama. Unfortunately it is not fiction but reality and I thank you to have reminded [us]… human beings.
I hope you will not be unlucky like your hero Lee, the former G.I., who in spite of his experience could not resist… these "small insects" or "big elephants" in Timbuktu.
Thank you,
Your friend Deo Kpadenou
Bamako, MALI
(Letter, dated: 3-12-2007)
Note: The Story “Elephants in the Sky,” was written: © 3/26/2005 Dennis L. Siluk (Revised, reedited, 3/2007)
(Story written after the plague that took place in West Africa)
A brief Summery of (Timbuktu): Timbuktu, also spelled TOMBOUCTOU, is a city in the West African nation of Mali. It is historically important as a post on the trans-Saharan caravan route. It is located on the southern edge of the Sahara, north of the Niger River, a centre for the expansion of Islam, an intellectual and spiritual capital at the end of the Mandingo Askia dynasty (1493-1591) and home to a esteemed Koranic university. Three great mosques built at that time, using traditional techniques, still remain.
Timbuktu was founded about AD 1100 as a seasonal camp by Tuareg nomads. After it was incorporated within the Mali Empire, around the late 13th century, the Mali sultan, Mansa Musam, built a tower for the Great Mosque (Djingereyber) and a royal residence, the Madugu.
In the 14th century Timbuktu became important because of its gold-salt trade; with this came the arrival of the North African merchants, and their settlements with Muslim scholars.
The city's scholars attracted many students from far and near, perhaps one reason being, many scholars had studied in Mecca or Egypt.
Small salt caravans from Taoudenni still arrive in Timbuktu in winter, but there is no gold of course to offer in exchange. The city can be reached by air, camel or boat usually from Bamako, the Capitol city of Mali.
—The Story
“Elephants in the Sky”
[1980s, Lee Evens in Mali, Timbuktu/West Africa]
Advance: Lee was discharged from the Army in 1980, whereupon, he traveled the world, one of those locations happened to be in Mali, by the legendary city of Timbuktu; whereupon he found himself in the middle of a plague, a plague of locust.
[Diary-review]
There were swarms of locust over the top of my car, in front of me, in front of the car—swarms I say, swarms: a dark shadow covering the sky, descending, downward descending onto the road—in front of me, behind me, it was locusts, locusts, locusts—locusts everywhere, everyplace: so thick, deep with layers that it made my car skid—slipping and sliding as if on ice. They seemed like they walked, creakingly walked, walked among the sky, and cluttered so close together they looked like big oaks; akin to a druid dark sky, coeval with the leering depressed cerulean atmosphere. They looked like pools of ghouls embracing, taking up the hooded faded sky that looked like early evening, but wasn’t. ‘Good God, good God, good God,’ I cried!
My radiator was being blocked, plugged by these finger-sized carcasses. I had to pull over to the side of the road. It was but a moment thereafter when I saw some adolescents down the road a bit, not too far, just a little ways, three of them trying to beat them off, beat the locusts with their belts, pants belts. Then one resorted to a stick, a stick I say, not thick not thin, just an ordinary stick: would you use a stick? To be honest, I’d run I think, run like hell, yes oh yes, like hell, as if demons were after me, that is what I’d do; anyhow, one took this ordinary stick to beating them off, while the others used their hats, hands, ordinary things; they were dropping down like hail onto them from all sides; ragged looking shadows of them, full-fledged shadows, throbbing against their bodies, yes they were throbbing against their bodies, these locusts: down and sideways: bombarding them like creatures from outer space: like in the bible, where it mentions such things happening back in those far off days, the days of Moses: the plagues God bequeath upon the pharaoh.
I think these kids would have loved to have found a window anyplace to climb through, and nail it shut about now; I kept looking out of my car window, and these creatures, these biological insects from some heated abyss, chasm, or deep hole, stained my windows grimly, with their restless, dentate pointed mania heads and scribbled bodies.
This was bad, very bad; the large insects were in their hair, noses, ears, climbing up their pants legs, flying straight for their mouths. They tried to spit them out—cough them up, but more would just jump from ear to nose to mouth: endlessly.
The whole area was becoming infested with them [them: being, those locust critters; huge grasshoppers]. They were becoming as thick, wide as the walls of Troy—twenty feet deep. I turned the engine of my rented car off; it spit and sputtered a bit, then it came to a dead stop, a burping stop. I could not see the boys anymore, only a cocoon of these creatures several inches thick around them—like mummies; they now rolled about on the ground like dying lions, screaming: it simply shivered me; it was as if hate and love coiled within my stomach.
For a hundred miles around I had heard they were eating up the crops before anyone had time to harvest them; catastrophic damage to all the crops, as the new generation of larvae appeared—thus, widening the dimensions of the one-hundred mile radius to possibly two-hundred miles (sooner than later). But now they were on top of my car: yes, yes, yes, on top of my car; under it, all over it, and in the fields beside me, on the road. I was but twenty-five miles outside of Timbuktu. Ah! What would you do?
As far as I knew, there was no means of spraying available to kill these creepy-crawlers, nor any other treatment, why that occurred to me, is beyond me, I mean who gives a shit, I’m in the middle of it; yes, yes, no equipment as supplies were of a minimum and vehicles were scarce—I was lucky, I mean really lucky to have secured a deal getting my hands on this jeep.
I was now witnessing farmers beating the locust into trenches (these: Acididae, a family of devouring insects, as I had learned to call them in my biology class, back so far in my college days, I forgot exactly when); what more could they do? I mean besides what they did I suppose, swatting them, whacking them, from all sides, and running: I mean running, terrifyingly running! Like the boys could have done, didn’t do, but should have thought of doing, but who has a clear mind in such a petrifying moment, event, they simply could not do anymore than what they did I expect, otherwise they would have. Alas!
(This was the moment I’d put forward to later, when telling others they looked like elephants in the sky. But that was to be a little bit in the future yet; now they just kept coming and coming and coming, these locust-insects.)
Now I’m breathing in the hot air in the jeep, it seems to me I’m recycling my own air. In the five-mile area they covered most everything; there were at least, must have been at least, couldn’t be less than 250-million locust I figured (insects); hoppers, yellow winged hoppers—crazy and manic hoppers, as if they were on a sugar high. That would be a weight volume of 5000-elephants dropping from the sky. I had a lot of time to figure that out, for the most part, let’s say hours watching these hoppers fly and jump, and descend, trying to eat my tires—trying to get into the jeep and eat me.
‘Try, try, try,’ I said, ‘…fuck you all,’ I said.
[Entry] “I was in Timbuktu a few days ago, and I’m on my way back to Timbuktu now, I had been in the countryside—where theses devouring insets (hoppers) were breeding, I am not sure where it was in particular, but it was in Mali where they had breed I do believe—first, someplace in Mali. I was doing what I love to do, checking out some old writings that were found in one of the old mud houses in Timbuktu; realizing at one time Timbuktu was a Mecca for learning for the Muslims, or better put, Islamic cultured; on the old Silk Road you could say. I was eager, the phenomenon would move east, away from me, to Sudan or Chad, or all the way to Egypt; move away to anyplace, but out of Mali and for sure, away from Timbuktu in particular. I was surprised there was not a humanitarian crisis alert, or if there was it didn’t look like it from where I was; I mean, where were the United Nations vehicles? A good question I figured, and never to be answered.
The trick is to kill them before new generations developed, consequently, stopping them in their tracks from breaking into other places—countries, and a new cycle starting. The crops I knew would be gone soon in the south and now in this area as well, if they were not yet, and should they go east—well, let them worry about that.”
They leaped like little elephants on the hood now, hood of, of my car; they looked, looked into my windows, deep into my windows, nose against the glass (smutches all over the glass like a disease; voracious little dispositions all over their faces, like fairies stuck together) as if I was eatable, somehow I got the sense (they had the scent, my scent I expect) they knew I was trapped in the car, and I was for sure. But I remembered what Solomon told me in Egypt, Cairo a few months back: should something like this occur—so it was somewhat forecasted almost—and it was now developing: anyhow he said,
“(‘…should this occur…’) Try to make it till morning, when everything cools down.”
I figured the wingless ‘hoppers’ the new breed, were developing now in the fields around me as the adult yellow ones could be seen flying about eating, and killed by whomever (the farmers and gosh, that was about it for now).
[The Big Hopper: diary entry]
One big hopper gazed through my window, must be the size of a sparrow—(I’m writing this down as he’s looking at me). At its sight I saw its milky eyes, they followed me eerily followed me, then I realized it was somewhat blind, I mean, its eyes gave out a yellowness to it—somewhat piercingly, as if it had cataracts—perhaps trying to see clearer, its lips trembled from old age—feverishly so, it mumbled something, as if talking to itself, then it stood aside to let the younger ones peer in on me. Was I their trapped animal, in their zoo?
“Come…súh!” (Note: the author translates for the bug) the big one said (smiling an amiable grin).
Thus, with apprehensiveness my eyebrows were quivering with my nervous system, which was wacky. Panting like a dog I was, and so bewildered…! I ended up looking out the window for the longest time…or so it seemed, blankly looking, as if in a trance; then turning my head demurely to see if any of those hoppers where in back of me—sneaking up on me; or getting inside the jeep. My eyes could not relax from this insidious invading force, if anything was quite disarming…this was, but then what would you expect, harmony in the middle of an earthquake? What would you expect? I found myself drifting at times, but I knew I couldn’t go to sleep. I mean who could?
There I sat behind the wheel, crouched forward to peer through the blinding storm of locust; these hoppers were like rain sheets hitting the windshield, hitting quicker than the wipers could fan it clean. My palm and forehead had a glossy mist to it—sweat and pain, and unknown chemicals coming out of my pours.
—It was now mid-afternoon, and they were hot, it was hot, I was hot, everything, even the car was hot, and hence, morning would be my best time to make my move, when they’d be cooled down, down in the crops around me—quiet. Therefore, I had turned my car off, completely off, and I’d leave my car off until morning, the suspense would come at daybreak when I’d have to turn it back on, start it up again.
—[2:00 AM] I must had fallen to sleep, and an automatic clock in my head woke me up, it was inky dark out there, outside my windows, and so, I started my car up, it choked a bit, but it started, and I noticed my water gage going up, as if a water hose was plugged or ripped. I turned the car off. I didn’t want to make too much noise, just get out of here and get back to Timbuktu: I figured they’d follow the crops, and bypass the city; oh possibly a few million might divert themselves to the city, but that is not bad; I mean, what is a million when you got 249-million more. I knew they were all on the cool ground and in a few hours they’d be in the air again—over me again; and should they decide to stick around I’d die of a heat stroke I figured, sooner than later that is, sooner than they’d get a chance to eat me anyhow.
I opened my car door slowly, pacifying the moment; shinned a flashlight on the road beside me, there were many about—sleeping, quiet, almost stone-still—could I have hummed them to oblivion, I would have; but I could walk around them for the most part I figured, and I did, did just that, then I opened the hood of the jeep, slowly, quietly, with more gentleness then I ever knew I had, as if it was a woman, looked at the hose, and several hoppers flew in my face, I had glasses on, they poked at my eyes nonetheless, I said nothing, nothing at all, just swatted them away with the rag I had in my hand—and I didn’t use much force in doing that either. One hose had a small crack in it. I knew I’d lose water, all the water I had in the car in about five miles should I not fix it, or repair it that is, with twenty miles left to go beyond that five miles, should I not fix it—I’d be worse off than now, I’d be stranded right in their pathway—God forbid!
The engine was covered with the winged hoppers, I wanted to say to these hoppers a few gruesome swear words (actually curse them to hell), but I can’t, I told myself, I’d wake the others up for sure; I had waked them up—a few of them up already, and they started to fly out and about clearing a passage to my hose for me, I didn’t want to wake anymore than necessary.
They were not massively jumping on me yet, just a few, trying to crawl up my pants legs—tickling me here and there: slightly attacking my glasses; I think they like glass—but just a few attacked me, as if half in a fog, out of some kind of instinct, or automatic reflex I would guess (almost like sleepwalking): nothing to get alarmed about I told myself. I tried not to open my mouth, a few seemed to spot it when I took in a deep breathe of air—as if they had radar, consequently, they zoomed right at it, I had to spit them out as when they hit my face their legs seemed to have found their way into the crevice of my mouth—sticky psychotic insects. Then I got an idea, I opened the trunk of the jeep up, took out a five gallon can of gasoline, in this country you always carry extra gas, water and food, always—lest you find yourself in some deserted location, as I have at this very moment (with no resources); I poured it on the side of the road, up about two-hundred-feet leading into the fields, then on my way back I took my First Aid kit, put the white tape—normally used for bandaging wounds—put it around the hole in the hose (not making a deliberate sound, but not soundless), and started my car up, at the same time I lit the gasoline by throwing a match out of the window onto the road, and I hit the accelerator to fifty-miles an hour (it’s as fast as my jeep would go ((it was an old US Army jeep they must had purchased it from some Army surplus garage)) and I watched the road and fields explode with lightening-like fire behind me.
Yes, yes, yes, behind me was a windless fire breeding into the fields, eating hoppers while sleeping, roasted grasshoppers, like hotdogs (it was indeed a magical moment): yes, yes, yes they woke up, this horde of hoppers woke up in a French-fired position I’m sure; to them I expect it was their ‘Pompeii,’ and shall talk about it for a thousand years to come in this region of the world; to me it was salvation; oh yes, yes, yes, it is what legends are made out of in the hopper-world, I’m sure—; I got a mouth full of toxic fumes which was the only curse of the predicament for me, and a bonfire galore as I raced onto Timbuktu.
—When I got to the city, it was locked up tight, everyone afraid to come out of their mud huts, and beautiful mosques. I knew I couldn’t tell them I had lit the fire—for my sake; they’d make me pay for the corps I suppose (after the crisis was over I’m sure; for humanity has a short memory when it comes to thank-you’s and money). But I think they were happy to see it was all over, and a few heard my jeep motor, for slowly one by one they appeared, a few came out of their shops until the whole main street was out looking about with their doors open, ready to run back in a moments notice. I had expected them to invade the city somewhat—somewhat expected this to happen, as did the residents, but none did; and they did go east. That's why, had I told them about me lighting the fire, they’d have roasted me in it, so my silence, or intuition was right on.
Written 3/26/2005© by Dennis L. Siluk, while at the BN, Café in Roseville,
Minnesota 55113, USA (Revised: 276-words added, and reedited, 2007)
Labels: "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture, Awarded the National Prize of Peru
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:14 PM
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