el jem colosseum – el djem – chris' walking project

There’s not much in common between Heaton Flats in the San Gabriel mountains, California, and the El Jem Colosseum, or Amphitheater, in El Djem, Tunisia, except for…ants.

The Gladiator Ant

The tourist was starved and his neck hurt by the time he reached El Djem. He’d been staring out the passenger window at the countless olive tree groves separated by cactus hedges that lined the highway from Tunis. The monotony of the two plus hour road trip only broken up by toll stations doubling as police roadblocks, and a quick bathroom break at a restoroute where the espresso tasted like Nescafé. The cafés in town had stopped serving lunch so he made do with a Tunisian style tuna salad spread over a pita laced with harissa, yummy but he definitely felt it working its way down his intestines as he climbed the well-worn steps of the El Jem Amphitheater.

When he reached the top level of the imposing structure, he was winded, his thighs burned and the acidity in his stomach was alarming. He stopped to catch his breath when he spotted a crusty splash of dried puke on the ground a few feet away, at the base of a block stone, approximately two feet high, that might have been a seat some seventeen hundred eighty years ago. This wouldn’t have caught his attention if it weren’t for the bright red crescented chili peppers that sat amidst the telltale bits of solid undigested food. He burped loudly to stave off the mounting nausea.

“Cheers!” A voice called out.

On top of the stone a very large black ant with long limbs was hauling a morsel of discarded dried fruit.

“Thank you.” The tourist said.

You couldn’t tell if the fruit had been thrown away fresh and had dried in the sun, on the stone, or if it was indeed a piece of dried fruit, but it was massive, many times the size and weight of its bearer.

“That’s a heavy load you’re carrying.” The tourist added, always glad to engage in conversation with the locals.

“Tell me about it.” The ant replied, in perfect though accented English. “This place isn’t what it used to be. Or so I’ve heard from the old folks.”

“Maybe it’s those No loitering signs I see everywhere.” The tourist said, though judging by the amount of trash laying about, it was a laughable suggestion.

“Nah. People are pigs. You can count on that. Still, we’re barely scraping a living out here, especially in low season, when they don’t have concerts.” The ant stopped and put down its bounty, standing on four of its hind legs, gesticulating busily with the others as it spoke passionately. “Times are lean my brother, times are lean. You have to go back to when the Romans ran the place for a more prosperous and thriving existence. Back then, in the Thysdrus days, when emperors from across the sea ruled the land, the story goes, there was food and drink aplenty. They had regular entertainment in there,” he pointed at the arena, a hundred feet below, “gladiator fights, men, women and children thrown in to combat starved wild beasts, not exactly a fair fight, but piles of bodies, carcasses, rivers of blood you could get swept away in, if you weren’t careful. Heaven.”

“Probably sucked if you were a gladiator, or a slave.” The tourist ventured.

“And then,” like an orating senator the ant was not to be interrupted, “when the Romans left, they turned the place into a fortress, more blood and guts spilled as armies of barbarians and arabs tried to take it down. My chops are salivating just thinking about it. How do you think we got to be so big? A couple of thousand years of decadence, mass murder and mayhem that’s how. And then–”the ant paused for emphasis, “the modern era; starvation, drought, exodus. Not exactly like we’re on the path to extinction, but times are lean my brother, times are lean. We did have a couple of feasts, when the movie crews showed up. Dad’s got some stories about that. This one time, a scout came back to lead the workers to a bleeding body, right in the middle of the arena. Dad was just a rookie then. When they got to the body, it tasted funny, like not right. Not human.”

“But wait. I thought carnivorous ants were red. You’re not red.”

“You offend me my brother!” The ant thrust a limb in my direction. “What does it matter what color I am? Maybe my ancestors were red, because of all the human blood they ingested, who knows? Who cares? We’re talking about survival here. You have to take what you can get.”

The ant thrust its upper body forward in a standoffish pose.

“I did not mean to offend. So sorry.” The tourist put his hands up in apology.

There was a sustained anxious pause.

“Hm—alright. I believe you mean well.” The ant relaxed. “We’re omni, if you must know. I am a worker, not a soldier. A scavenger, I eat what I find, and I do not kill or hunt. Anyway, it was a fake, the body, made of rubber or something, tasted like a coke bottle according to dad. But the fake blood, my brother, the fake blood was like honey, the sweetest nectar. I wish I’d been alive to taste it.”

“Better than the real thing?”

The ant cocked his antennas to one side. “Nothing is better than the real thing my brother.”

“Have you ever tasted it? Like–taken a little nip off the sticky hand of an unsuspecting tourist who just ate a baklava or an orange?”

“No way. Too dangerous. Queen says go look for scraps, I go look for scraps, bring back what I find, keep my mouth shut, and don’t take chances, that’s me. A good worker. Taking chances will get you killed and I aim to live a long and boring life my brother. Speaking of which”, the ant picked up its bounty again, “I better stop chatting. Queen must be starving.” Reinvigorated by the short rest, the ant rapidly reached the edge of the stone, separated by a two-inch crevasse from the next stone in the row. Without hesitation, the ant pushed the scrap of fruit over the edge and followed it, climbing down the vertical surface, slick as it was, tarnished by the centuries. When it reached the bottom, the ant paused, looked back at the tourist.

“If you throw away anything you think I might like, just put it here, between the two stones, would you? It’s my turf, and it’ll save me the climb.”

“You got it.” The tourist said. The ant sauntered away. “Hey! Wait a minute. How do you know all this stuff?”

“Rich oral tradition my brother.” The answer echoed in the crevasse.

“I’d love a guided tour?” The tourist said.

“I’m working my brother. No time for fun.”