IN Scarface there is a famous scene during which Al Pacino’s gangster Tony Montana, demented on spectacular amounts of Colombian marching powder, asks his enemies whether they would like to “play rough”. Miffed by the ensuing lack of response, Montana beseeches them to say hello to his little friend, a machine gun which he proceeds to discharge at a closed door behind which lurk said adversaries. It’s a bonzer piece of cinema.
Transposing this to the events of the past 10 days, instead of a military-issue killing machine my diminutive chum has been Aedes albopictus (Stegomyia albopicta), whose name might lack the abrupt potency of an M16 but which can match it pound for pound in lethal instinct.
In the event you’re neither a parasitologist nor an entomologist, I should clarify that said buddy is better known as the tiger mosquito, a thug who upon tiring of its native south-east Asia spread to other parts of the world including parts of the USA, Brazil and, significantly for this correspondent, Mediterranean countries.
A week’s stay in a rural village between Alicante and Valencia in Spain was supposed to be a tonic, a cure-all, a balm for my work-sapped body and mind – ditto for the missus and the five friends who joined us – and on most counts it did the job.
My skin, though, tells another story, as do those of my companions. Think midge bites but twice the size – and that’s just the little uns. The right-hand side of my torso sports a decent approximation of Micronesia (actual size) while about one knee a Cassiopeia of bites alleviates the tedium of my otherwise workaday patella. Itchy? You bet.
Worse still, as I write my uvula – the dangly bit at the back of the mouth – resembles that of Tom of Tom and Jerry fame when he’s been on the receiving end of an eye-wateringly painful blow from his rodent nemesis. In other words, it is swollen to buggery. I’ve been known to mumble, but it’s got to the point where I might stop talking altogether lest I whack the next person to say “What?” as soon as I open my mouth.
Swollen, ahem, appendages; countless lesions; prickly heat – it’s astonishing how much damage such tiny creatures (typically between 2mm and 10mm long) can inflict. But there is, as ever, a lesson herein: namely, those who dwell in a typically cool, wet and windy climate should accept there’s a bloody good reason for it.
Which is fine by me, since flying with budget airlines saps my very soul and my Spanish barely extends beyond asking for meatballs, more meatballs and a beer (“Albondigas, mas albondigas y una cerveza” in case you ever need it). Besides, I have my share of friends, little and large.
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