I fail to appreciate at home what it is like NOT to be craved by another animal. The mosquitos here are tenacious, laying in wait patiently until we go to bed, and then they arrive on melodious wing. Our bed is draped in mosquito netting, but it doesn’t keep them all away. As in life, there are holes. Last night at 3 am I had to intervene on Hans’ behalf, because he was itching and scratching and moaning so much he woke me up. I sprayed him with Off, a brilliantly named product. It seemed to work. Each morning, there is a little swipe of blood on the bed where a valiant mosquito died in an effort at yet another meal.
We are also the subject of sweet attention by something invisible that leaves behind a calling card of tiny, perfectly round strawberry-colored raised bumps. Think chicken pox.
I seem to remember that there is a day during each trip where we have been consumed enough for all these critters to satisfy themselves and move along to newer hosts. The spots go away. The mosquitos don’t both us so much.
So. Is it because we are eating like they do here, and so we don’t smell so different, and therefore so attractive? Or is it because we get tan, and those welts aren’t as obvious on brown skin? Or have the just had their fill? We’ll never know.