Wild colony in my undies

I built my house during the dry season, with a small local team who worked hard and did a genuinely good job. The house was not perfect. Very little was completely straight, some corners seemed to have developed their own opinions, and a spirit level might have asked a few uncomfortable questions. It was however solid, full of character and, most importantly, finished.

I finally had walls, a roof and drawers in which to put my clothes.

It was May, the start of the rainy season in Costa Rica, when I moved in. The jungle turned green almost overnight. Rain drummed on the new roof, frogs celebrated loudly outside, and everything seemed determined to grow.

That was when the army ants discovered the house.

Their first visit began with a narrow black column moving towards the entrance. Thousands of ants marched in perfect formation, as though one of them had spotted the house and reported back:

“Excellent news, everyone. New accommodation. Dry, spacious and recently completed.”

“No,” I told them from the doorway. “This is my house.”

They continued marching.

They ignored me.

Army ants normally pass through. They sweep across the floor, remove spiders, scorpions and anything else sensible enough to panic, and then disappear back into the jungle. It is alarming, but temporary.

These ants were not passing through. They were viewing the property.

I tried to discourage them politely with canela. I sprinkled a thick line of cinnamon across their route and admired my work.

“There,” I said. “A friendly boundary. You stay outside, I stay inside. We can still be neighbours.”

The ants stopped. For several seconds, nobody moved.

“See?” I whispered. “Mutual respect.”

Then the entire column changed direction and walked around it. I added more cinnamon. They found another entrance. I blocked that entrance. They climbed the wall.

“This is becoming rather rude,” I told them.

For days, they kept returning. Every time I redirected one column, another appeared somewhere else.

One morning, I opened my closet and reached for a clean pair of underwear.

Then I froze.

My undies were moving. I stared at them. They continued to wriggle.

“No,” I whispered in horror. I threw the fabrics on the floor as if they would bite me.

Army ants poured out.

Thousands of them were packed into the drawer, crawling between my clothes and through my underwear. They had not come to hunt. They were carrying eggs and organising themselves inside the closet.

They were moving in!

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The ants remained focused on the relocation.

Outside, rain hammered against the roof. Inside, I stood half dressed, holding a pair of living underwear at arm’s length while an entire ant colony established a maternity ward in my closet.

I began removing clothes one by one, shaking ants from sleeves, pockets and bras.

“Everybody out!”

The ants scattered, regrouped and tried to return.

“No. The viewing is over.”

More ants appeared behind the drawer. “You are not tenants!” I said out loud.

They disagreed.

I have to admit that, eventually, I could no longer keep playing nice.

I did not want to kill them. I only wanted to convince them that my house was a terrible place to settle. Cinnamon had failed. Repeated evictions had failed. Firm conversations about boundaries had also failed spectacularly.

So I sprayed a small amount of Baygon around the pillars of the house. Ants are smart. They detect danger, recognise a toxic path and report it back to the colony. At least, that was the theory.

“Please tell everyone,” I said, watching the next column approach. “Terrible neighbourhood. Hostile conditions. Absolutely no vacancies.”

This time, they stopped. Somewhere along the line, the message travelled back. Eventually, they chose another place to move in.

The closet stopped moving. My clothes were mine again. For the moment.

Because living in the Costa Rican jungle means accepting that you never entirely own your house.

You simply make it clear that your underwear is not available for rent.