Your Worst Nightmare & Etc.

From a few nights ago

Your first night in Gulu, you wake up with buzzing in your ears. Two mosquitoes are hovering no more than an inch above your head inside the mosquito net. There are another half dozen still trapped outside. You don’t like bugs. You spray the room. The next night? It is another mosquito in your net and a whole bunch outside the room. You spray again, decide you’ll have to get used to it, try not to choke on insecticide. The night after that there are two or three of these dragonfly-like pests sort of like June bugs that have beaten their wings off against your floor. You think maybe they’ve come in through a crack in the wall or something, so you spray the windows and set up your mosquito net extra tight. Tonight?

Whizz. Whizz. Patter patter patter patter. Whizz! I wake up. I have fallen asleep with my lights on, so there is no darkness to obscure the view. When I look up, there are about a dozen of the dragonfly things batting themselves against my mosquito net. I instantly scrunch into the tiniest ball I can manage, but they’re hurling themselves full throttle into the mesh. I can’t take my eyes off the sheets without flinching because it looks like they’re going to stick right in my eye. So much for being the mighty adaptable tourist.

This is an entomophobe’s nightmare. I look down at the ground, and there are at least another dozen of these things, not counting the stray bug parts. Some of the insects are crawling around like cockroaches, having torn their own wings off. Others are still fluttering about, in the process of beating themselves to death. Some are fighting with each other for God knows what. Survival instinct, I guess. They know they’re history.

You squeal. You are really not comfortable with this. You think, God, I have to call reception. But you don’t know the number. You don’t know if anyone is actually awake. What you really want to do is cross this room full of bugs and get outside to safety.

It takes you thirty minutes to work up the stamina to put on your clothes (checking them for bugs first), pack your two most important bags, and rush outside. And as any rational-thinking person would have guessed, things outside are even worse. The ground is littered with these bugs; carpeted. You dance onto the empty spots on the floor as fast as you can and run downstairs. You try not to think about how many insects have been compacted under your feet, or whether any have flown up your pants. The stairwell is more cluttered still. Nobody is in the reception area. Maybe the bugs ate them. The things are here, too, although in smaller number.

You decide, in your delirium, that this feels exactly like a Stephen King novel come true.

Eventually, you make your way into an alley that has been only minimally invaded. You find a dark tiled room with a door that almost seals itself shut. Not really, but it’s closer than the gaping window shutters they have everywhere else. It’s where you are typing now – your dark sanctuary behind closed glass doors. Every time a mosquito gets close to you, you don’t just flinch, you thrash. And that’s when you realize: No. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Your suitcase is still in your hotel room, and the door is wide open.

In your fantasy world, you ran down a stairwell free of bugs, found someone at reception, begged for a new room, and demanded that they relocate all of your personal belongings. Cost didn’t matter; you could pay for the transfer. You curl up in a nice, cushy bed and watch TV (this room actually has one) until the nightmare goes away. But in reality, not only do dreams not come true, but you need to go back upstairs. Your feet are already covered in insect bites, and you’re sweating profusely – and it stinks.

I want to go back to Kampala tomorrow.