Female Anopheles

Whenever I see bushmeat here, I think “Ebola”. Whenever I see mosquitoes, I think “Malaria”. Whenever I hear a mosquito, but can't see it, I think oncoming illness and looming death. (These are merely thoughts; I never said believe).

It is the most uncanny noise. Lying in the dark of a hotel room in Uganda, knowing you are under a canopy net, yet understanding that another is seeking refuge there as well. You can hear it (I dare say he or she). That one insect flying around your heated body and looking for a way to sneak in on some goodness. I can imagine what it is saying through the buzzing- “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.” It is well overstaying any kind of welcome and once again, not paying attention to the time. I have a choice. I can get up and and turn on the flight, clapping loudly in the air, walls and ceiling, meanwhile awakening my roommate to a suspected rebel attack in her hotel room (they were on lock-down a month ago), or I can lie quietly and pray that this mosquito is not a female anopheles – because a) I know God likes to hear our specifics and b) thanks to Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine they enabled me to pray those specifics. The only mosquito to cause Malaria are the female anopheles, because they need the blood to carry out egg production and whoops...they inject the deadly parasite in their saliva, into your bloodstream. Bad mistake.

I go for an option somewhere in the middle. I sit up and wind up my Princess Canope like I'm wringing out a washcloth, listening for any final words. Then I majestically toss the fabric back over my head, around the corners of my bed and lie back down. Gone...

My digital watch beeps. Another hour has gone by...

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.”

I didn't wake up the most lively of persons. I did a quick inspection of my arms. Twelve bites. Those were there yesterday. I'd made the mistake of trying to get a diagnosis of my bites from the Ugandan guide.

“Do you ever get these?” I'd shown him my arm.

He looked confused and held up his arm – an obvious contrast. I guess that was a stupid question.

I forced down toast and local jam, combining it with fresh oranges. Something felt funky. I didn't last long at work this morning – I managed removing the janitor from bathroom almost as quickly as my breakfast came back up. Then I called a taxi. Back to the hotel. Back to bed. Why is it so much quieter here during the day? Back to sleep.