One of those questions that must be answered time and again: is it worth it to shoo that bug out of your mosquito net? (Another question that must be asked but will never be answered is: how did it get in there in the first place?)
There seems to be a matrix for solving this equation, with the following factors: whether you yourself are inside or outside the net at the time, exactly how scary the bug is, ranging from fruit fly to mysterious prehistoric jetliner with ominous stinger, and how much sleep time, if any, you are likely to lose if the bug is removed (or if it's not).
Usually it's mosquitoes that somehow drift into my net, and I rarely discover them until they've sucked my blood in the wee hours of the morning. I think they sneak in through a flap that is supposed to be "convenient" for my entry and egress. With mosquitoes, one can fairly confidently wait them out. The insecticide with which the net is impregnated will eventually work its magic, and the mosquito will fall into a permanent slumber, though it will certainly have sated itself before doing so. The other option is to wait patiently for the mosquito to float into view and then try to kill it. The only problem with this is, it tends to get your adrenaline up, as you must usually try several times before the target is defeated. This may render later slumber impossible.
Grasshoppers can be allowed to stay. Ants must be squished as you find them, as they tend not to spend enough time on the net to get a lethal dose of permethrin.
Larger bugs, like bees, stick bugs, and mysterious titans from a forgotten geological age, are another issue entirely. The net may eventually knock them out but will probably never kill them. And the longer they stay trapped in the net, the more agitated they are likely to be. However scary it is to get close enough to shoo them away from the net, it is much scarier to sleep in it with them. For this kind of operation, I highly recommend enlisting a Cambodian host sister, who will laugh good-naturedly at your silly fear of bugs but will also take pity on you and bravely remove the offender.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Daydreams
Lately I've taken to having very graphic daydreams of an unexpected nature: a mundane day in Boise, Idaho. I'll just be sitting on my bed here in Cambodia, under my mosquito net, trying to write a lesson plan or listen to the VOA broadcast on my shortwave radio, and suddenly, I'll be waking up in a cold house under a thick comforter. My parents' house. I'll take a trip to the bathroom and not think twice about the tall, familiar flushable toilet, the potable water pouring easily from the sink faucet. Then I'll go downstairs and pour a bowl of cereal, with real, cold milk. The door of the fridge will resist as I open it up to put the milk in. The cold fridge air will pour over my already-cold feet.
Perhaps the most satisfying part of my daydream is the part where I start my mom's Toyota. I put the key in the ignition. I turn it. As the engine rumbles I feel the slight vibration through the seat. The car has rear-view mirrors, which I check as I back it out of the driveway. The cool steering wheel resists as I turn it to enter the street.
For some reason my daydreams are always this simple, as small, familiar things from my life come back to tell me that they will still be there when I return home. But from here they are luminous, unreal. I know when I get home, I'll just be dragging myself out of bed to start the daily grind, and neither the sink nor the milk nor the car will retain the magic that now buoys them to the forefront of my drifting thoughts.
Perhaps the most satisfying part of my daydream is the part where I start my mom's Toyota. I put the key in the ignition. I turn it. As the engine rumbles I feel the slight vibration through the seat. The car has rear-view mirrors, which I check as I back it out of the driveway. The cool steering wheel resists as I turn it to enter the street.
For some reason my daydreams are always this simple, as small, familiar things from my life come back to tell me that they will still be there when I return home. But from here they are luminous, unreal. I know when I get home, I'll just be dragging myself out of bed to start the daily grind, and neither the sink nor the milk nor the car will retain the magic that now buoys them to the forefront of my drifting thoughts.
Another Day, Another Book Review
Recently I finished reading The Beach by Alex Garland. (What? I have a lot of time on my hands...) It was a perplexing experience. Garland re-creates the world of pretentious backpackers with careful precision: what drives them to seek out secret adventures and the understandable contempt they feel for other travelers like themselves. His creation of an idyllic community located on an inaccessible Thai island is tantalizing: why couldn't it really happen? Therefore, the first 80% of the book affords an enjoyable reading experience (except for the occasional disjointed Vietnam War reference). And then everything takes a bizarre and sinister turn, and the plot reaches its climax suddenly with a drug-fueled orgy of violence. (Shoot, did I just give away the ending?)
This felt familiar: a novel featuring an amazing world, created with care, and an author, unsatisfied with such an accomplishment, trying to bully his characters into acting out a convoluted plot. And I realized that the parallels are Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash and The Diamond Age, though Stephenson's worlds are the more far-fetched and therefore, perhaps, more impressive creations.
No need to read for yourself unless you want to relive that special bafflement felt at the end of a Neal Stephenson novel. Or fantasize about a beautiful island paradise somewhere out to the south of Thailand. But if you do read it, ask yourself this: how do they get all that rice over those cliffs? I still can't figure that part out.
This felt familiar: a novel featuring an amazing world, created with care, and an author, unsatisfied with such an accomplishment, trying to bully his characters into acting out a convoluted plot. And I realized that the parallels are Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash and The Diamond Age, though Stephenson's worlds are the more far-fetched and therefore, perhaps, more impressive creations.
No need to read for yourself unless you want to relive that special bafflement felt at the end of a Neal Stephenson novel. Or fantasize about a beautiful island paradise somewhere out to the south of Thailand. But if you do read it, ask yourself this: how do they get all that rice over those cliffs? I still can't figure that part out.
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