Mosquitoes

It’s amazing how our bodies and spirits can adapt to almost any circumstance. It’s as if God designed us to persevere and to survive. 

After three months of living in South Asia, my body has finally started to acclimatize. My lungs have learned to process through the pollution, and seem to be functioning normally again. My ears have begun to block out the constant honking. My nose has created a new scale on which to judge clean versus dirty. And my feet have detached themselves entirely from the rest of my existence.

But there is one thing that I will never get used to, one part of my body that can’t seem to adapt. It’s the thorn in my side, the enemy’s atomic bomb.

It’s those frickin mosquito bites!

One thing you need to know about my city, is it used to be one, big swamp. In many ways it still is. Basically it’s Mecca for mosquitoes. They all flock to my city to breed, multiply exponentially, and then die from blood overdose.

Now comes for the anecdote. Why am I telling you about the mosquitoes three months into my stay?

We were on our way to an aftercare home. Our office decided to host Christmas programs for every home with an IJM rescued girl. So, naturally, as the office photographer, I got to attend them all. :)

Local churches performed skits, our teams passed out gifts and lunch. And I got to sit with the girls, laugh, tell them my name over and over and over; and shower them with love. (I definitely have the best job in the world.)

But one of the homes didn’t have space inside for the dances we had prepared. So we moved outside. On our way out, I noticed the ground looked permanently damp. Some of the sewage from the bathroom was running into the concrete, right where we were going to sit.

But as a foreigner, I am instantly on probation. I am guilty until proven innocent. I am fighting such an uphill battle, that any motion to move the blanket would have been detrimental.

So I sat down, albeit reluctantly.

Zzzzzzzz bite. Slap. Kill: One mosquito down, 80 billion katrillion to go. Another bite. Another slap. I look around me … O my gosh, we were sitting in a fest pool of mosquitoes!

I kid you not. They were swarming. If mosquitoes had nests, we would have been inside it. We had threatened the queen mosquito, and they were coming for revenge.

The little kids sought solace in my lap, hiding themselves from the outside world. I had two girls on each knee, one hanging on my back, and another grabbing my arm. My free hand was swatting frantically, while my brain fought to stay focused on the performance that forged ahead. It was a battle of the mind. It took every ounce of self-control and will power to stay put, knowing blood was being sucked out of me every couple of seconds. 

Why did we stay? Because South Asia is a shame-based culture, meaning you do whatever you can to save face, and your friend’s as well. To stop the performance and move inside would have been practical but potentially embarrassing. So we stayed sitting.

Dead insects started to collect on the outside of my leggings. I felt like Legolas counting orchs, but not as intense, or as cool. 

The bites stopped itching and instead just starting hurting. 

I don’t think I remember a single thing from the whole program. All I remember is packing up our stuff at record speed, racing the children into the house, and sitting down only to realize that my legs and arms were tingling from insect poison running through my veins.

At home that night I counted an average of 20-30 bites on each limb.

And while I’ve had consistent bites since arriving… no amount of assimilation makes them any less annoying, painful or frustrating. I hate mosquitoes just as much now as I did when I got here.

They are truly in partnership with the evil one. Because they both suck the life out of you.

That’s it. 

The whole point of this story was to make you feel sorry for me. I want your pity!  :)