I have malaria pills. I have, however, decided not to take them. At least not now. I feel the potential side effects outweigh the protective benefits. And it is the dry season, which means fewer of the bastards are buzzing around. That is fortunate. I have enough bites already.
I checked into my room in Siem Reap a couple nights ago. Cavernous. Quiet. Clean. I'll take it. Only later did I discover the multitudes of mosquitos. Mainly in the bathroom. A breeding ground?
I was able to clap and kill a dozen. They kept coming. I did not like thinking ahead to my upcoming night's sleep. After dinner and upon nearing exhaustion, I told myself I needed to kill at least a dozen more. No compassion. No prisoners.
I killed fifty, perhaps sixty. Black smears streaked the bathroom walls. My palms were rinsed of the evidence numerous times. Many mosquitos remained. I closed the bathroom door and accepted whatever fate lie ahead.
I curled up under my thin postage stamp-sized sheet and hoped for the best. Hoped they wouldn't see me in the darkness. Hoped the overhead fan would blow them away as they came in to feed. Hoped that these mosquitos were "normal". Hoped I could just sleep.
I awoke the next morning relatively unscathed. I was surprised at my good fortune. They only got the knuckle on my right pointy finger, my left elbow, my right cheek, my left eyebrow. All places that were prone to exposure during the night. The more favorable, meaty areas must have been well hidden under my sheet. My thighs, calves and ankles, the unreachable portion of my back, my butt. A chance to rest those weary regions.
I feel like I won the battle. I overcame huge odds. That is, unless I break out in a high fever and succumb to the throes of malaria.
Last night, I declined the opportunity to fight again. I complained at the front desk. They put up a mosquito net. And I laughed at those bastards all the way to sleep.
I checked into my room in Siem Reap a couple nights ago. Cavernous. Quiet. Clean. I'll take it. Only later did I discover the multitudes of mosquitos. Mainly in the bathroom. A breeding ground?
I was able to clap and kill a dozen. They kept coming. I did not like thinking ahead to my upcoming night's sleep. After dinner and upon nearing exhaustion, I told myself I needed to kill at least a dozen more. No compassion. No prisoners.
I killed fifty, perhaps sixty. Black smears streaked the bathroom walls. My palms were rinsed of the evidence numerous times. Many mosquitos remained. I closed the bathroom door and accepted whatever fate lie ahead.
I curled up under my thin postage stamp-sized sheet and hoped for the best. Hoped they wouldn't see me in the darkness. Hoped the overhead fan would blow them away as they came in to feed. Hoped that these mosquitos were "normal". Hoped I could just sleep.
I awoke the next morning relatively unscathed. I was surprised at my good fortune. They only got the knuckle on my right pointy finger, my left elbow, my right cheek, my left eyebrow. All places that were prone to exposure during the night. The more favorable, meaty areas must have been well hidden under my sheet. My thighs, calves and ankles, the unreachable portion of my back, my butt. A chance to rest those weary regions.
I feel like I won the battle. I overcame huge odds. That is, unless I break out in a high fever and succumb to the throes of malaria.
Last night, I declined the opportunity to fight again. I complained at the front desk. They put up a mosquito net. And I laughed at those bastards all the way to sleep.
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