ANTLIONS

I first learned to write in a palette of soft sand on my parents' farm in the Northern Province of South Africa. The narrow farm road leading up to our old house was littered in places with fine sand; worn down by the tyres of many farm vehicles. The sand was my domain and allowed me the opportunity of experimenting with varieties of patterns created by my small hand. So you can imagine when one day, to my horror, MY sand was patterned with small conical depressions (which I had not made!). But I was a farm child and I honored my learning by simply sitting down in the sand and watching.

As the sun rose that morning, so too did the ants start their day. These ants were known to me - small and brown in type, with no bite - and I let them go happily about their business. I watched too, in facination, as one of them fell into one of the conical holes in the sand. The ant started to struggle to get out of the hole but these holes were obviously carefully crafted. Soon a spray of fine granules was thrown up from the small pit. This added to the ant's plight and it was gradually dragged down into the apex of the hole. In a split second something caught it; two small pinchers had taken a firm grip and the ant was dragged underneath the sand.

I was 6 years old at the time and sat there - riveted in facination. This was my early introduction to the fascinating world of the ANTLION.

I decided to catch and collect some of the antlions. The trick, I eventually learned, was to get a small piece of grass and then quietly tickle the sides of their conicle holes. This would prompt the ANTLION to action and once it was frantically throwing sand up from it's pit, I would reach in with my hand and, as gently as possible, grab the sand in its general area. If I was lucky, I would eventually find the little creature once I had carefully sifted through the sand. My tiny little captive was then placed in a shoe box filled with sand. I would watch, delightedly, as it dug its way underneath the soil. Those days in my childhood were filled with catching ants and delivering them into the small death pits.

My glee however didn't last long. After a few weeks the ANTLIONS and their beautifully crafted holes simply disappeared and left me mortified. It was only years later that I discovered the secret of the ANTLION...

The ANTLION, often known as the 'Doodlebug' is resident to temperate climates all around the world. They are a creature in transition since they are, in fact, the pupa of the 'lacewing' (a form of dragonfly). During their 'ANTLION' stage, they feed primarily on ants, drawing these insects into their deathtraps, pulling them underground, and feeding off their juices. Despite their 'violent' existence, they are quite beautiful with tiny furry bodies and small, neat pinchers. Candidly, I would say that they look like a giant sperm cell.

So next time you see these tiny depressions in the soil, tread carefully! There might be resident antlions in those holes who are slowly transforming themselves into beautiful dragonflies.

SAVING WATER

SAVING WATER

Most newlyweds will know that the first few of months of married life presents the task of working out the division of roles and household chores. 25 years ago, my husband and I were doing just that. He developed a really endearing habit in his routine of bringing me a cup of tea or coffee in bed first thing in the morning.

His own experience, in those first few months, however, was rather alarming since he was convinced that his coffee tasted like rubber. He analysed his routine very carefully; checked the kettle, the milk, the coffee and the mug but the irritating taste of rubber could not be identified. Indeed, he even bought a new kettle in the vain attempt to avert the taste. Eventually he resolved that it must be something in the pipes in our flat. Either way, the distaste was there to stay.

I, on the other hand, didn’t notice anything unusual. I had grown up on a farm where water was scarce and we saved every drop we could. Complaints about the taste of water were out of place. Indeed our water on the farm often tasted like rubber, so the rubbery taste in the flat wasn’t unusual at all from my point of view.

Those first winter months of our married life were very cold and one of our treats was the nightly hot water bottle. I would boil the kettle in the evening and fill the bottle lovingly before retiring to bed.

One Saturday morning, my husband slept in and I decided to reverse the treat and give him a cup of coffee in bed. I duly trotted off to the kitchen, clutching the hot water bottle. I checked the water level of the kettle and seeing that it was fairly empty, carefully opened the stopper of the hot water bottle and poured the water into the kettle.

It was at that point that my husband walked into the kitchen a saw what I was doing. After a whole year, he had found the source of the rubbery taste in his coffee:- his wife in the thoughtful attempt at ‘saving water’ had unthinkingly been emptying the water from the hot water bottle into the kettle each morning. At last the mystery of the rubbery taste was solved. I, however, have never lived this story down. It has been a constant joke in our family. “Visitors beware – our coffee tastes like rubber!”