Titanic termites and GOATS

In the outback of Australia stand cathedral-like structures made of poop and dust. Taller than the roof of a house, the ant-hills tower up high. Inside each structure are thousands of creatures, more akin to the cockroach than to the ant. A king and queen live well below ground producing new generations of termites. A few kings and queens in training are nurtured, but mostly workers and soldiers to keep the hill safe and comfortable are born and bred. As the hot Australian sun rises above the horizon, the workers start tunnelling to create funnels for the warm air to flow down to the nether regions. And as the temperature rises, they rush to open vents on the cooler side of the hill, which allows air to circulate at the optimal temperature. Do those worker termites ever get to have a day off? Put their tiny feet up and watch a game or a show? Do they even enjoy the fruits of their labours? Bonuses at the end of a termite year? Prizes for the most innovative termite or certificates listing their accomplishments? Nope. They eat the spinifex grasses that other worker termites have collected and perhaps they shut down during the night time hours and sleep. And tomorrow it all starts again. And again. And then along comes an Aboriginal person and digs into the side of the ant-hill and starts a small fire. The spinifex is dry and combustible and makes the perfect oven. Some of the termites are eaten and apparently taste like crunchy peanut butter. I remember those flying ants of Zululand that had a similar taste. Not that I was ever brave enough to try them. I feel quite sorry for those termites at times. But then again, are humans any better? We yearn to be the best in our field, some might call it the pursuit of the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time). Greatest sportsman, greatest industrialist, more money, most fame, Tiktok followers. Greater than others so that we can feel like we are superior to them. This week I received my tax rebate and for 15 seconds it felt great. I drooled over my inflated bank account and smiled at the idea of how to use it and how rich I felt. But then the 16th second arrived and suddenly the amount in the account was yesterday's news and forgotten.

Humans chase after the grand prize in life. Happily ever after with your soul mate, if only she/he would love me then I would be happy. If I buy this pair of shoes I will be happy, or this pair of earrings, or dress, or fancy meal or get out of debt. But happiness comes from inside. Money doesn't solve life's problems. If I am sick when I am poor, wealth doesn't change me. It might allow me to be miserable in style and comfort, but ultimately the illness remains. I was in the Emergency department this week and watched (for 7 hours) as the sick and afflicted stumbled past me. There was the man who yelled and swore at the staff, the drunk/drugged man who hit out at the nurse as she tried to help him. The man with a knife wound in his head and a young prisoner accompanied by two prison guards. Even in my own pain and distress I could recognise that I was happy. At least happier than some of those around me. For a while I considered going home because I felt sorry for the doctors and nurses and I didn't want to be a burden to them. But would it have helped the swearing man, or the drugged one? or even the prisoner? No. But ED is seriously like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic just before it sunk. Patients were ferried in and out of consultation rooms, receiving scans and x-rays, blood tests and triaged to see if their ailment was urgent. As one pajama wearing, fluffy slippered lady shuffled out the door, another person arrived to take her seat. As security escorted the swearing man outside, another person started demanding they were urgently in need of care. All it needed was for me to hand out violins for the band to play as life slowly descended into chaos. And then I was having my lure removed, prescription tightly clasped in my clammy hand and leaving my seat for the next in line. Sadly my lure decided to start pumping blood all over the floor, my clothes and myself. Someone suggested I go back in line, but one glance at the queue was enough for me and I did my own triage assessment and put pressure on the wound until it stopped bleeding. I left the choir to sing their dirge of woes, their cries and their groans and happily went home to put my feet up and relax.

Can anyone answer my strange question? Why did Tarzan of the jungle not have a beard? In each depiction of this fictional hero, he is clean shaven. Did the baboons and the monkeys teach him this skill? Or was he so young that his facial hair had not yet developed. But that leaves the question of why he was so keen to get Jane to his treetop home if he was still a juvenile. There he was swinging through the trees wearing a simple loin cloth, calling out a mating yell that anyone of my age group would be able to emulate. And Jane? Her clothes were always well ironed and perfectly crisp. Having lived in Africa I can assure you that ironed clothes do not remain like that in the humid environment of the jungle. Well, unless you have a dozen slaves to do your bidding. And let us all hope that Jane was not a slave owner. I heard the story today of a Maori man during the first world war, who on meeting a pretty nurse, told her he was a king in his own country and owned a castle. Creative advertising? She married her Maori prince/king and sailed for New Zealand. Can you imagine her surprise when said castle did not live up to her ideals. She stayed, she bore children and she finally died here. She brought her own happiness with her and cried a little for the lost dream, and then laughed at all the blessings she was given. I know a lady, let's call her Aroha, she works as a teacher aide at minimum wage. She has no vehicle and lives with her mother and daughter in a tiny house not big enough to swing a cat. Each spare moment is spent painting and creating and selling her art. The money is squirrel away, not to buy her anything pretty or pay a debt, no, she flies to Bangladesh each Summer holiday and spends the money caring for children at an orphanage. She buys medicines, books, shoes and beds. She teaches classes and generally does service with a smile. I asked her once why she did it and she said it made her appreciate her own life so much more. In my mind she is deserving of being called a GOAT. The Greatest Of All Kindness (pretend it starts with a T) and so much more.

So, as I rearrange the deck chairs on my own personal Titanic and decide what I should prioritize in my life, I know that I am a happy woman.