Sleeping with Doom
Last night I had the disconcerting feeling that something was crawling up my nose.
There is always something crawling somewhere…
I’d booked a retreat for myself in the bush and was looking forward to having the weekend to myself. Lying comfortably on pristine white cotton sheets, fluffy pillows supporting my head, I turned out the light to enjoy a good night’s sleep.
Within moments of allowing my mind to drift away from the troubles that brought me here, something small and fast accelerated up my right nostril. Reflexively, I sent a finger up after it. My best hope was to squish it as fast as possible. After a few seconds, I relaxed again. Maybe I had imagined it. I had checked the bed before getting into it, of course. I’ve been in Zambia long enough to know that it’s always a good idea to know who you’re sharing a bed with. In fact, I’ve developed a number of new habits here; lifting cushions before sitting, inspecting the toilet, banging out shoes and keeping a torch within reach when I’m sleeping.
After just a few moments, my hand flew to my nose again. Something definitely just flew into it. I rubbed and poked until I felt no movement. Whatever it was must surely be dead now. Turning on the torch, I inspected the bed again. Nothing.
A third invasion of my very personal space had me flinging off the covers and reaching for the main light. This was ridiculous. Had I developed some kind of new tic, a sleeping disorder? I’ve been stressed lately. Could a neurological disorder develop so rapidly?
A forensic inspection of the bed revealed a few teeny-weeny bugs, smaller than fleas. Why were they so attracted to my nose? Where had they gone if I hadn’t killed them with my frantic scraping and pressing? I imagined them finding a home in my brain somewhere, only to be revealed years later on a brain scan when I could no longer remember my own name. Not dementia, the consultant would say, but brain-fleas. Or perhaps they would find their way down to my mouth and cling to my tonsils. In the morning, I would greet the housekeeper and expel a cloud of bugs from my mouth.
I crushed all that I could see with my fingers, careless of the tiny stains left behind on the sheets. I found a cricket hiding behind the pillow and a couple of larger bugs, the size of small peas. That was it. I would have to use the Doom.
This brilliantly named product (hats off to the branding team) is available everywhere here. It kills on contact just about any insect you can think of (spiders don’t appreciate it but it doesn’t seem to kill them - they are not insects). I sprayed as much as I dared in the confined space of the room. I would be breathing this toxic substance all night. Eventually it would dissipate I reassured myself. The windows had no glass, just fine gauze. I turned on the fan to blow the poison around a bit and snuggled back between the bug-stained sheets. Sleeping here was still better than being at home, lying beside my Husband in angry silence.
Doom indeed for the insects…
I woke early and took a coffee up to the viewing platform on the bedroom roof, the sound of the wakening bush drawing me outside. From this vantage point the horizon was generously wide, offering up a lush palette of uninterrupted nature. In front of me, a natural clearing with a watering hole framed by a ragged line of trees, from which elephants would silently appear most afternoons. I watched a pair of saddle-billed storks glide in before settling into the treetop beside me, so close I could almost reach out and touch them. My friend Clara says that unless you can identify a bird, you haven’t really seen it. The seating was damp with dew, so I stood as if on the deck of a ship, gazing out at a sea of brown and green, wondering which would be the right course to steer.
A small flock of Greater Blue-eared starlings flitted from watering hole to tree, and back again, iridescently blue as the sunlight glanced off their wings. A pair of Southern Carmine Bee-eaters came by, dipped into the water and left again. From behind a tree, a large male baboon appeared as if by magic, sauntering across the territory that was clearly his, followed respectfully by his troupe. They paused to pick and fuss in the grass, babies hopping from mother’s back to the ground, and back again, always moving, always occupied. Baboons are constantly busy.
The extraordinary African light over the bush…
Nine years of marriage lay in tatters behind me. I thought about the great times, and the bad times we’d shared. This adventure in Africa that we’d embarked on together as a fresh start. After eighteen months here we could no longer pretend we were happy. As still as a statue, I stood on the bow of my ship, daring myself to be the captain of my own life once again.
A small brown rat skittered across the deck, dodging my feet before disappearing down the side. I barely flinched.
And then something flew up my nose.
