When the hunted become the hunters
The veil into my slumber is gradually infiltrated by a small buzzing sound. Intermittent but persistent. Relentless, even. My sensation is it’s been there a while and has no intention of going anywhere. As I become ever more conscious, sleep fast dissipating into the aether, more of my senses come online. Something has happened to my forehead. It feels like the skin is being stretched beyond what is comfortable and there’s a slight burning. My hand moves to scan the area for more information.
Mount Bloody Vesuvius.
That’s what I found. I open my eyes, turn on my torch light I now always keep at the ready and shine it on the net under which we have been sleeping for some time now. Seven of the little bastards! Seven! We’re literally surrounded, under siege. My eyes focus in some more. My ears twitch as a closer buzzing is heard. This one feels different, more in my immediate vicinity somehow.
A plump, blood-filled mosquito flies right by my face.
He’s got inside the net! And has sucked the blood out from my third-eye!
We’re in Portugal, in the Alentejo (o pronounced like an u, please), where we’ve been house-sitting for just over a month. It’s a stunning part of Portugal, the least inhabited region of all, and if I’m not mistaken, the largest in the country. That combination is brilliant. You can drive along one of the very few roads that criss-cross the undulating, leafy, red-clayed countryside for kilometres at a stretch and come across literally no one. And the people who are here, are a beautiful, gentle blend of locals, Portuguese of varying generations but certainly leaning towards an ageing population, and a plethora of pilgrims from afar, notably from the Germanic countries, but really, from so many places it has created a vast melting pot of alternative, land-loving ex-pats. The terrain is dry and dusty, with lots of red clay about. And it gets hot in the summer. I mean, seriously hot! It’s particularly green, with forests of eucalyptus trees, olive groves and so many other fabulous trees, most of a dramatic nature - that’s as best as it gets this early in the morning and with this little sleep, to name the varietals I come across here. It’s pretty. And green. And what of its Western coastline? It’s a littoral work of natural art. Vast sandy beaches and jagged cliffs leading down to little, peaceful coves, all welcoming and saluting the ocean it meets. Waves not to be messed with but which hypnotise you into a relaxed state of I AM presence.
And then there’s the mosquitoes. It’s also renowned for its mosquitoes. My friend who lives here is militant about the door to his house always being kept closed. Having now spent a considerable amount of time in a house where others here before us have not been quite so stringent, I fully understand why.
It’s a jungle.
And we have resorted to sleeping under what I like to call the ‘princess net’. You know one of those nets which hang from a metal ring you attach to the ceiling and which then drape over the bed, tucking it in under the mattress in the hope that tonight the hunters will not succeed.
And yet three of them had infiltrated the net by the one singular small (but not small enough) hole that has appeared in the net since buying it in when we arrived in June.
I reach for the racket.
Zap.
Zap, zap, zap.
My karma isn’t doing so good this morning, or this month come to think of it. Every night I go on patrol before shut-eye, torch in one hand, electrocuting racket in the other. You know one of those plastic rackets with metal grid-like meshing where the taut nylon strings would be if it were the tennis racket it looks like. A button on the side. Charging point at the base. At a flick of the button a current can be heard and upon pressing the button and in direct contact with our aggressors, zaps and popping can be heard as another is defeated.
I love nature in all its forms. I really do. Anyone who knows me knows this is true. But I do hold firm in my belief that the one mistake God made was mosquitoes.
So my bed-time routine has now incorporated slowly, smoothly, stealthily scanning the room, half-naked ready for bed, and removing as many of our enemy as possible to reduce the likelihood of nocturnal infiltration. Yet in the middle of the night, pretty much every night the last week - why does it seem to be getting worse now we’re well into September now? - I wake up to a small brigade of them right over our heads. I can almost hear them dribbling at the delightful thought of sucking our blood. I honestly feel fear running through me. For a split second at least. It’s an awful feeling to realise you’re being hunted and actually, you’re laying in the trap you created for your own protection.
I shake the fear away, grab the racket and wiggle out from under the net. Torch goes on and the zapping recommences. At first they’re gutsy, bold and still in attacking mode - in hunter mode - seemingly aiming for me and chasing me around the room. But once a few of their comrades fall and turn into a crisp (no, Schwab, we won’t be eating these, thanks very much), something changes. The energy shifts and they change tactic. No more the hunters, they relinquish their attacking stance. At first they settle in high-up places, the ceiling or in the top corners of the room, thinking that will be enough to shake me off their trail. Silently, I climb onto the bed and reach up.
Another one bites the dust.
Again and again, until they must change tactic once more and take on more effective hiding places, probably returning to some base they have to wait for quieter, safer times when they can recommence the hunt.
And what of me? At first filled with terror as I must confront my aggressor, but with every zap I gain more and more confidence and realisation that freedom is nigh.
The eternal dance of the hunter and the hunted.
You can only push us, squash us, repress us, threaten us so far. We all have a breaking point. All there is, is transformation. How many times has this happened in history? That people have united and arisen to confront the dark forces that try to control and hinder their joy and progress? It’s only a question of time. But we won’t be brandishing electrocuting rackets. We’ll be armed with independent ways of growing and sourcing local and truly organic food; we’ll be living in communities which are fast evolving, strong, tight-knit support networks, where our skills are traded and valued beyond what our “day job” allows; and where freedom reigns supreme. This is and will continue to grow into a freedom-loving, peaceful force. There will be no room for our controllers. They hold no power over us.
This is no dream.
This is reality in the making.
And Alentejo is a prime example of that. Mosquitoes aside, the vibrant community that now exists here, attracting more and more like-minded and like-hearted souls here is inspiring. They have online groups for jobs, advice and support, events and markets and much more. And this is not just online. It is very much in person, on the land. Colourful, international markets with people selling their wares, local arts and crafts, music, food: community. They’re truly creating the new. In the online chats there’s little to no room for attention being given to the political corruption that plagues our existence it seems. There’s a strong focus on building the new and it’s so inspiring! This is happening everywhere, but I do feel that this beautiful part of the world holds a special energy, drawing kindred spirits here, to unite and form a stronger community: a beacon for us to be inspired by, helping all of us who are doing this, to shine our light, welcoming our brothers and sisters into a peaceful and prosperous land of the free.
