Hunting

Every evening I go hunting. It’s really not an option; it’s a necessary tool for survival in the bush of Jamaica. I couldn’t believe how quickly I became a skilled marksman. But here, the saying rings true, either hunt or be hunted. For the first three weeks here, I was the hunted. Every morning I would awake with dozen of bites all over my body. In Kingston, it was ants but here in Revival it’s mosquitoes. The Jamaican mosquito army is the best I’ve ever seen. These little suckers create a whole new meaning to blood suckers. The venom they inject leaves quarter size puffs of itch on my still lily white skin. Marks that are impossible to hide, marks that simultaneously draw sympathy, laughter, and a wide variety of home remedies from the local towns people. My legs seem to be the starting point of conversation upon meeting a new person.
“Hi, I’m Carla, I’ll be working at the community center here in Revival.”
“Ya know what you kyan do? Put some alcohol on da leg afta da bite.”
“oh okay thanks, I’ll try that. Now will you be using the community center? I’ll be teaching adult literacy and computer skills.”
“But ya know, you should really take vitamin B. Yu’v got da fresh blood.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s sweet.”
“Do you use Off?
“Yeah, three or four times a day.”
“Aigh’t use da alcohol. Makes dem pain go-way quick.”
“well, you’ll get used to it. Lieta!”
“Later.”
And I have tried vitamin B complex, rubbing alcohol, vinegar, and rum (thinking I miss- heard. Don’t try rum), “Off Deep Wood,” the Peace Corps variety of bug repellant, I’ve lit Citronella, I light highly toxic mosquito coils daily. So what I’m left with is hunting. It’s becoming a sadistic sport though. I leave my dead targets mounted (splatted with my fresh red blood) on the wall out of pure satisfaction that it’s dead. I’ve mastered the mosquito clap, it must be flat palmed. Any cupping at all allows for the highly skilled Jamaican mosquito an escape route.