Iraqi Mosquitoes
This one comes in from our friend Mike who is now in Iraq.
It’s called a connex. It’s really a cross between a shipping container and a single wide trailer. It’s cut into three “rooms”. Mine is on the end, room C, pad 1, Camp Liberty Iraq.
It’s about 12 feet by 12 feet, or about four meters. The military has made the switch to metric measures along with everyone else in the world. I have it to myself—a luxury. Most of the soldiers share them with one, sometimes two, other soldiers.
I’m definitely trailer trash. I’ve got the cheap wood paneling to prove it. I’ve got a night stand, a bare light bulb on the ceiling and a metal bureau or closet.
On my first day I wiped the vinyl tile floor with a few napkins I had in my pocket sprinkled with some bottled water.
I set up my equipment, including an excruciatingly slow internet dish, and started work. Not long after I got into emails and notes to myself I saw it. It was small for a mosquito and flew right between me and the computer screen.
Those who know me understand how I feel about mosquitoes. God lost his rep when I found out about mosquitoes. Perfect my ass. What good are these malicious blood sucking parasites that carry even nastier—sometimes deadly—smaller parasites.
I have a diabolical and obsessive hatred of mosquitoes.
This one was an Iraqi mosquito. This guy’s ancestors could have sucked the blood of Hammurabi the King of Babylon. They probably stuck it the Pharaoh or Nebuchadnezzar or even the greatest of all modern rulers Cyrus the King Persia. Who knows how many Roman soldiers it took to get his blood line to me. This mosquito has been around. I could not underestimate an enemy who had several thousand years more evolutionary adaptation that those primitive nasties in Seattle. Heck this guy’s ancestors could have even nailed Adam or Eve. Why not? They shacked up just down river from here.
I decided to play it cool. Then the little guy flew right in front of me again. BAM!, I clapped with such speed I even surprised myself. There’s no way that itty bitty survived. Even if I didn’t crush him the concussion alone must have caused mortal injuries. Mission Accomplished—I slept well.
The next morning I threw on some clothes and ran through the mud to the latrine. I got there just in time. I’ve since learned what empty water bottles are for. It can be too long of a fast walk to the privy.
I went to the sink at the latrine trailer to wash my hands and looked into the mirror. There was a small welt over my right eye. The sneaky little devil got me. Damn, he’s good.
That day I saw him again and BAM!, got him right between my hands. At least I thought I did. The next day I was in a Colonel’s office and casually ran my hand over my eyebrow. There were two welts. Not just little mosquito bumps but big zits.
Within a few days I looked like someone had taken an ice pick to my face. I looked like an old guy just before the big date at the Junior Prom—a middle aged case of a nasty acne–without the hormones.
Each night it’s the same. I think I get ‘em but I don’t. I thought all mosquitoes were suicide suckers. They stick it to you and die. If so I don’t know where all these Iraqi mosquitoes come from.
I’ve retreated into my sleeping bag but now they get my left hand—the one I use to hold the bag closed.
The way I see it I only have three choices:
I spend more time and money finding and killing these things. (I’m thinking about going to the PX and buying a fly swatter).
Two–I can nuke the room with a bug bomb which, knowing the Middle East’s understanding of chemicals, will probably give me a brain tumor.
Finally—I can just get the hell out of here.
I think I’m going to take door number three.
