A bit about mosquitos
I am generally dissatisfied with the mosquitoes here. It is not the numbers that bothers me, in comparison to the intolerable swarms I’ve encountered else were, even in my home state, India has been fairly mosquito free. However, the ones I have encountered are big, lumbering, and exceptionally apathetic.
Mind you, I hate all blood-sucking insects, and I reserve a special hatred for mosquitoes. I have spent many sleepless nights around the campfire defending myself from their relentless assaults, and many more dodging their attacks while transversing forests and jungles. But I am forced to respect them to some extent.
They are undeniable marvels of miniscule biological engineering, mini machines designed by eons of evolution to track blooded creatures. Small, sleek, and efficient, with tiny sensors honed to detect the carbon dioxide we exhale and oils that evaporate off our skin. They are, until I met these mosquitoes, truly tenacious and stubborn; qualities that I rather admire. If we could only convince the little insects to inject us with vaccines, HIV medication, or cancer curing drugs while they steal a sip of blood (instead of the plagues of man-kind) the world would sing their praises and gladly give up a drop or two to keep their order thriving.
However, these mosquitoes do no hold any of the few qualities I respect. They are on the portly side, so much so that they squish a bit when you smack them, even before they have had a meal. But it is their casual disregard for humanity I did like the most. While sitting in the airport in Deli, I was passed by no fewer than 70 mosquitoes, all which were casually journeying on one direction or another, none of who even seemed distracted by an exhausted, sweaty traveler who was momentarily too weak to defend himself. A few winded mosquitoes paused on the chairs and tables around me to rest before continuing off in another direction, much like a large man stopping to pant after walking up a flight of stairs in the summer. Perhaps the sheer number of people mean they are already gorged, or that the flame-retardants which soaked their way from the airliner seats into your skin during flights act as a repellent. Whatever the reason, I took the opportunity to swat as many of the little buggers a possible while silently cursing the rest of humanity for not being nearly as to the task of mosquito eradication. After all, if everyone else was as dedicated a mosquito smacker as I, they world would be a much less itchy place.
Since this, I have come to loath another type of mosquito, a sub-species that seems to live exclusively off of blood extracted directly from toes. Now granted that India is a society that largely wears long skirts or long pants and saddles, so a disproportionate amount of mosquito bites are bound to be aimed at the feet compared to shorts/skits wearing societies. This does not account, however, for the fact that every damn bite I have gotten took place on a toe. The only explanation that seem reasonable to me is that these animals are filled with a strange malice toward the species that they are dependent on, and express this by biting them on a place that is particularly sensitive, swells in the heat, and becomes a bit tender after days of walking.
I hate them, and hope they choke to death on my foot-blood.
But my experience with the mosquitoes has, so far, been nothing compared with my run in with the ants.
Mind you, I hate all blood-sucking insects, and I reserve a special hatred for mosquitoes. I have spent many sleepless nights around the campfire defending myself from their relentless assaults, and many more dodging their attacks while transversing forests and jungles. But I am forced to respect them to some extent.
They are undeniable marvels of miniscule biological engineering, mini machines designed by eons of evolution to track blooded creatures. Small, sleek, and efficient, with tiny sensors honed to detect the carbon dioxide we exhale and oils that evaporate off our skin. They are, until I met these mosquitoes, truly tenacious and stubborn; qualities that I rather admire. If we could only convince the little insects to inject us with vaccines, HIV medication, or cancer curing drugs while they steal a sip of blood (instead of the plagues of man-kind) the world would sing their praises and gladly give up a drop or two to keep their order thriving.
However, these mosquitoes do no hold any of the few qualities I respect. They are on the portly side, so much so that they squish a bit when you smack them, even before they have had a meal. But it is their casual disregard for humanity I did like the most. While sitting in the airport in Deli, I was passed by no fewer than 70 mosquitoes, all which were casually journeying on one direction or another, none of who even seemed distracted by an exhausted, sweaty traveler who was momentarily too weak to defend himself. A few winded mosquitoes paused on the chairs and tables around me to rest before continuing off in another direction, much like a large man stopping to pant after walking up a flight of stairs in the summer. Perhaps the sheer number of people mean they are already gorged, or that the flame-retardants which soaked their way from the airliner seats into your skin during flights act as a repellent. Whatever the reason, I took the opportunity to swat as many of the little buggers a possible while silently cursing the rest of humanity for not being nearly as to the task of mosquito eradication. After all, if everyone else was as dedicated a mosquito smacker as I, they world would be a much less itchy place.
Since this, I have come to loath another type of mosquito, a sub-species that seems to live exclusively off of blood extracted directly from toes. Now granted that India is a society that largely wears long skirts or long pants and saddles, so a disproportionate amount of mosquito bites are bound to be aimed at the feet compared to shorts/skits wearing societies. This does not account, however, for the fact that every damn bite I have gotten took place on a toe. The only explanation that seem reasonable to me is that these animals are filled with a strange malice toward the species that they are dependent on, and express this by biting them on a place that is particularly sensitive, swells in the heat, and becomes a bit tender after days of walking.
I hate them, and hope they choke to death on my foot-blood.
But my experience with the mosquitoes has, so far, been nothing compared with my run in with the ants.