Flying death
10/06/2009 at 20:13 from (21.527881, -105.282218)
We woke up this morning to a horrific sight. Blood streaked the sheets and all around us spread the unearthly vision of hundreds of twitching bodies. The night had borne witness to a pitched and violent battle, one without winners, and the sun rose slowly over a singular scene of carnage.
They had descended on us under cover of darkness, a silent hoard of winged hyperdermic needles. Thinking the mere presence of our generously-provided mosquito net would be sufficient deterrent, we went to sleep feeling safe and happy. It wasn't long, though, before we began to feel the familiar tickle of their little legs on our skin and hear the high whine of their wings in our ears. Soon enough, we realized we were not alone in the darkness. There were thousands of them milling around above our heads and strolling casually upon our exposed and sweating bodies, seeking a tender well from which to draw their meal.
We evaded as best we could, but these were no normal mosquitos. This was a marauding army of parasitic geniuses. We slid under the covers, in spite of the tropical heat, but they managed to worm their way in with us. I aimed the fan at our heads, and yet they flew mightily upwind to suck the blood from our faces, necks, and chests. Every move we made became a losing battle as our antagonists scored hit after annoying hit.
As the hours dragged endlessly on, we resigned ourselves to pulling the sheets taught against our bodies and over our heads, swatting occasionally and waiting stoically for dawn to drive our invaders back to their lairs. Our only consolation in the darkness was the occasional popping sound as one of their plump bodies would be sucked in and pulverized by the whirling fan blades.
And, eventually, morning did arrive, even if it felt too long in coming for us. The rising sun illuminated a bizarre scene. Hundreds of mosquitos, fat and exhausted from a long night of feasting, clung to the insides of the mosquito net, unable to find their way back out. I silently cursed them for their selective stupidity and began counting their numbers.
But as I cast my eye around, evidence began to emerge that the battle had not been purely one-sided. The slain and dying littered the sheets. Streaks of blood -- our blood, cruelly stolen -- stained the bed wherever we had made lucky contact with a villian too greedy or too slow to escape our clumsy defenses.
And neither did we escape unscathed. We were pocked from head to toe by hundreds upon hundreds of tiny, itching bumps. Marijana's knees, ankles, hands, and face looked like a pink minefield. Mine were more irregular in size and shape, and, while not as obviously numerous, swelled faster and were harder to resist scratching. Marijana noted how odd it was that our reaction to the same bites was so different. I explained that I am mildly allergic to insect bites, then abandoned the thought before arriving at the obvious conclusion that hundreds of bites on an allergic body is a recipe for pain.
After half an hour devoted to counting, we concluded that Marijana had received 574 bites (194 on her left leg, 189 on her right, 88 on her arms, 97 on her face, and 6 on her back), a new personal record. We did a back-of-the-envelope calculation and concluded that, if each mosquito drank her fill, this is approximately equal to a loss of 1% of Marijana's total blood supply. My number appeard to be somewhat less, and I was secretly offended that my blood didn't appear to taste as sweet.
Not much longer, we discovered that the bites weren't simply annoying. As we pedaled off to get groceries and explore the town, my stomach started churning. By the time we had gotten a mile from camp, I felt as though I had been kicked in the abdomen. We rushed back home, where we made preparations for an attack of Montezuma's Revenge. However, after 16 hours in bed, doubled up in pain, it became clear that there was no vomit or diarrhea forthcoming. Apparently, this was an allergic reaction, and the rising bumps all over my body attested to how poorly my system had faired from our jejene attack. Marijana may have won the contest for the most bites, but I took the prize for the day's most miserable participant.
We vowed to redouble our defenses. Marijana chided me for being so casual about securing the mosquito net that came draped over our bed, but we both congratulated ourselves on our foresight in bringing our own mosquito net, which we carefully erected and strenously secured, tucking it firmly under the mattress to ensure we were truly sealed inside. Entry to and exit from the bed was a two person operation, but the previous night's misadventure proved that the precaution was well worth it. I popped a maximum strength Benadryl, slathered my body in hydrocortisone, and hunkered down for the assault at dusk.
Tonight, things would be different...