I find this a little hard to believe. I understand that adherents to the Jain religion sweep the ground before them in order not to derange let alone kill any little living things, like ants or worms. I think it's a bit extreme, but if you have the time, why not? Still I have to wonder if Cecil Francis Alexander, when he published his hymn lyrics in 1848, was either in a religious rapture or in such an ambition to publish that he never truly paused to consider lice, mites, bedbugs and similar less snuggly fauna.
He hadn't been to Senegal, I'm betting or he, like I, would know that ants and mosquitos are unquestionably damned. Mosquitos are so big here that they are called "tiger mosquitos." It's hard not to take them personally. I'm hard-wired for the sentiment of indignation, so at least they give me something to balance all this maternal pleasure.
Although I am well-bitten—and daily the enterprising, exploratory critters find new continents of my body to conquer—the bites heal pretty quickly and actually aren't as itchy as I'm used to finding mosquito bites at home.
I haven't used insect spray (I don't like it, and no one's suggested it), but there is a definite three-point system of mosquito defense in place. Point one is that the baby sleeps under his mosquito net. This was a gift from his paternal grandparents, the gift I first interpreted as a pretty parasol, and then as the sort of lovely cover one puts over the cheese to keep the flies away on one of those linens-and-champagne picnics suggested by Martha Stewart. It is not something seen in our clime, but a necessity in this, and very effective.
Though there are mosquito nets for grown-ups too, my success with one on another visit here was only partial. I found it quite romantic. But unless the net stays completely tucked under the mattress at all points at all times, it is pointless, and my movements always pulled it out somewhere. Mosquitos will find any door that's open, as I learned.
So the better way, in use now, is a floor fan in each room. I point the fan at my bed, pull up the sheets and a little blanket and let it roar. The wind generated is more than even the ferocious tiger mosquito can deal with, so they can't get me when I'm asleep and can't even pretend to fight back.
The final part of the anti-mosquito campaign is to remember to close the door to the courtyard. Any time the door is open, it's as if the mosquitos have been queuing up at the box office for a Youssou N'Dour concert. The hardworking maid, otherwise irreproachable, has a hard time remembering to close the door when she does laundry, so wash day brings not only sweet-smelling clothes but a new phalanx of mosquitos. When I do the laundry, I am very carful not to let the mosquitos in. The pests get to eat only me, picnic-style, in the sunlight where they can see what they're doing.
Ants are the other damned, pestilential life form endemic here. The natives here are not quite microscopic, but they are extremely small. My first day I mistook a swarm of them for a pile of dirt next to a door jamb.
There is no way to get rid of the ants. It feels really good to shout and curse at them and to attack them with a soapy rag. It's good for the heart and spirits, and for someone like me, it improves hand-eye coordination. In terms of reducing the infinite population of the pests from hell, these measures are entirely ineffectual.
Sometimes, ants mysteriously don't come when I lie in wait for them. Other times, we have only to drop a crumb on the floor to induce a hungry mob. The photos to the left show how they make haste over the span of a couple of seconds.
Fortunately, I have not found ants interested in crawling on people. They are so very little and quick in their motions that my nerves would never settle. Fans frighten the mosquitos away. But the very thought of ants in my bed and what measures would be needed to deter them—the whole topic is just too creepy. Happily, I don't have to think about it. The cows moo outside my window, but they just move along on their own, no fans, curses, or soapy rags required.
He hadn't been to Senegal, I'm betting or he, like I, would know that ants and mosquitos are unquestionably damned. Mosquitos are so big here that they are called "tiger mosquitos." It's hard not to take them personally. I'm hard-wired for the sentiment of indignation, so at least they give me something to balance all this maternal pleasure.
Although I am well-bitten—and daily the enterprising, exploratory critters find new continents of my body to conquer—the bites heal pretty quickly and actually aren't as itchy as I'm used to finding mosquito bites at home.
I haven't used insect spray (I don't like it, and no one's suggested it), but there is a definite three-point system of mosquito defense in place. Point one is that the baby sleeps under his mosquito net. This was a gift from his paternal grandparents, the gift I first interpreted as a pretty parasol, and then as the sort of lovely cover one puts over the cheese to keep the flies away on one of those linens-and-champagne picnics suggested by Martha Stewart. It is not something seen in our clime, but a necessity in this, and very effective.
Though there are mosquito nets for grown-ups too, my success with one on another visit here was only partial. I found it quite romantic. But unless the net stays completely tucked under the mattress at all points at all times, it is pointless, and my movements always pulled it out somewhere. Mosquitos will find any door that's open, as I learned.
So the better way, in use now, is a floor fan in each room. I point the fan at my bed, pull up the sheets and a little blanket and let it roar. The wind generated is more than even the ferocious tiger mosquito can deal with, so they can't get me when I'm asleep and can't even pretend to fight back.
The final part of the anti-mosquito campaign is to remember to close the door to the courtyard. Any time the door is open, it's as if the mosquitos have been queuing up at the box office for a Youssou N'Dour concert. The hardworking maid, otherwise irreproachable, has a hard time remembering to close the door when she does laundry, so wash day brings not only sweet-smelling clothes but a new phalanx of mosquitos. When I do the laundry, I am very carful not to let the mosquitos in. The pests get to eat only me, picnic-style, in the sunlight where they can see what they're doing.Sometimes, ants mysteriously don't come when I lie in wait for them. Other times, we have only to drop a crumb on the floor to induce a hungry mob. The photos to the left show how they make haste over the span of a couple of seconds.Fortunately, I have not found ants interested in crawling on people. They are so very little and quick in their motions that my nerves would never settle. Fans frighten the mosquitos away. But the very thought of ants in my bed and what measures would be needed to deter them—the whole topic is just too creepy. Happily, I don't have to think about it. The cows moo outside my window, but they just move along on their own, no fans, curses, or soapy rags required.
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