Rats are Bali’s great levelers. No matter how
humble or luxurious your abode, the ubiquitous Rattus rattus
will soon invite herself over to have a look around.
If the accommodations suit, she’ll bring along a few
of her close personal friends and a boyfriend or two. Then
they will settle in and establish a dynasty.
I grew up in a house where pet rats, mice and hamsters were
part of the family and often to be found on a shoulder or
tucked into a pocket. So I lack the instinctive revulsion
of many of my friends while holding that every wild rodent
may have its place in the world, but that place is not in
my house.
Rats are smart, tough opportunists. Probably originating
in Asia, they moved to Europe along with the Romans and the
Crusaders. Host for the fleas that caused the
bubonic plague pandemics of the Middle Ages, rats also carry
leptospirosis and other unpleasant diseases. They are incredibly
adaptable and said to be, along with cockroaches, the only
creatures that survived nuclear testing on the Bikini Atoll.
Adventurous rats rode ships, trains and trucks around the
world to set up new colonies, and their descendents
can now be found on every continent. Individuals have
a territory of about 100 square meters and can produce
up to 40 young during their lifespan. An adult rat weighs
in at about 200 grams; once skinned and gutted, it would hardly
be worth the effort to make bakso. But some creatures
find it a tasty treat; including an owl, python, cat or tokay
in the household will help keep the rat population manageable.
My last home was in the rice fields and the rats were well
entrenched. They galloped around the ceiling at night, danced
in the carving of my old Madura bed and ate the insulation
off my speaker wire. (Eventually they consumed enough
insulation to cause a house fire, but that’s another
story.) There is no smell quite like that of a deceased
rodent, and they always secrete themselves in some inconvenient
corner or up in the rafters to die. An increasingly
unpleasant aroma alerted me one day that something was amiss,
and by the time Wayan arrived I had tracked it down. Together
we moved a big chest to find a decomposed, rat-shaped puddle
on the floor. Probably an overdose of insulation.
My dogs are both enthusiastic ratters. But Rattus rattus
is a climber, scaling high walls in a flash and leaving the
howling rat pack earthbound. Daisy the dachshund finds this
particularly infuriating; after all, she was bred through
countless generations to kill rodents. When she does
manage to flush one, she dispatches it most efficiently.
But when they taunt her from roof beams or the top of the
refrigerator, she’s been known to leap two feet into
the air in indignation.
The refrigerator is a point of constant interest. Rats
have often sheltered behind it in the past and both dogs are
obsessed with the idea that the big green box conceals their
favourite prey. Daisy wedges herself behind it, making
dangerous noises and sometimes pulling the plug out of the
wall. Kalypso digs away patiently at the tile in front
of it, determined to tunnel her way underneath. Even
when we pull the fridge out from the wall to demonstrate that
no rodent is harbouring behind it, they both continue the
hunt day and night. And just as I tell them they are totally
bonkers, a fat rat emerges from under the fridge, scampers
over my foot and leads a frenzied race into the pantry. He
shelters behind my suitcases, which the dogs burrow behind
in an orgy of excitement. Luggage skids across the room
as Daisy flips it aside, and soon the hapless rodent is cornered
and executed. Both dogs sniff the corpse briefly
and wander off, leaving me to bury it in the garden. One down,
hundreds to go.
A house guest recently recounted to me how she’d seen
Kalypso fumble twice during the hunt and allow a rat to escape.
I’m not sure how this was communicated to Kalypso
at the time, but it was evidently a sore point. The
next day she flushed a rat in the kitchen right in front of
me and broke its neck. I congratulated her and buried
it under the tomatoes. She dug it up again and laid it my
feet, something she had never done before. I buried it twice
more and each time she unearthed it. Finally I understood
she wasn’t going to let that rat rest in peace until
my critical houseguest had witnessed her triumph. When
Patricia woke up and was informed of the situation she made
a big fuss of Kalypso’s hunting skills, after which
the rat (rather the worse for wear) was finally allowed
the dignity of a permanent burial.
Not even Bali’s luxury villas and five star hotels are
exempt from the ingenious rat, especially those with the open-air
ambience that many tourists love. In one fine establishment
that shall be nameless, a guest removed his dentures for the
night and placed them on his bedside table. The next
morning they were gone, and one can only imagine the enhancement
of the already toothy rodent that scored this prize.
An expensive hearing aid went missing in similar circumstances.
And many is the bar of soap that bears unmistakable tooth
marks in the morning, no matter how exclusive the bathroom.
(Perhaps the fashion for colonics has crossed species.)
One of my favourite restaurants in Ubud is an open-plan building
that overlooks the Campuan ridge. I always take visitors
there because of the glorious view and tasty food. The
restaurant’s temple on the balcony is kept well stocked
with offerings, and robust specimens of Rattus rattus can
often be seen enjoying this buffet. The visitor will
squeak with alarm, “Oh my God, a rat!” I
peer earnestly at the padma and enquire, “Was it dark
brown, with a long bare tail? It was? How amazing!
That was the Bali Highland Hamster; it’s very rare,
we hardly ever see them.” The enchanted guest
then spends the rest of the meal trying to catch another glimpse
of the endangered creature and take its picture.
Rats were around long before we were and will probably survive
us as a species. So we might as well be philosophical
about sharing our space, while investing in a dachshund or
two and perhaps a backup owl.
