The mosquitoes are late tonight.
It’s 22:06 and I’m not even tucked securely under my net.
Something odd happened yesterday evening.
My door was open as I worked on my script (Countess Chlamydia was sat on a bajaj in Dire Dawa, oblivious to the fact it was being driven by the antagonist himself)
Outside the usual monsoonal downpour was er…downpouring.
My room was suddenly invaded by literally thousands of moth-like creatures.
I made a bee (moth?) line for my net and hid.
Emerging a few hours later I found my floor absolutely covered in corpses!
To the point that when one of the women in the compound wandered in to sweep my floor this morning she looked shocked.
It seems my room was the scene of a gigantic moth suicide pact.
A refreshing change from the usual mosquitoes but still quite disturbing.
Perhaps it’s my fair hair and northern European complexion and also the fact that I’m a novelty in that I don’t taste of injera but mozzies here absolutely love me. Most evenings past about 6pm see me hiding under a huge swathe of green netting while a contingent of winged menaces hammer furiously outside.
There’s definitely a problem when mankind is capable of travelling to the moon yet has to spend about 12 hours a night sheltering from a tiny insect, albeit a tiny insect filled to the brim with at least two potentially fatal diseases.
I have to admit, I feel a slight sense of achievement safely tucked up while they buzz on the other side. It’s when you wake up though, to find that one enterprising little sucker has rifled through your backpack and is busy using your scissors to cut a hole in the netting.
One final thought on the (not so) humble mosquito;
Surely it’s a design fault in nature that whilst they can inject an anaesthetic to avoid getting turned into injera whilst they feed on you, they are completely incapable of entering a room without sounding like a motorcycle rally?