I am an optimistic person. Yes, it’s 2020, a.k.a The Ten Plagues of Egypt- The Sequel. And so, when we planned a family vacation for early September, it was in the hope that even in this year of elevated racial strife, endless fires and Coronavirus, we would find relief in an idyllic glamping site in California. We made reservations weeks in advance, not knowing that extremely destructive fires were on the horizon. On the eve of our departure, a new fire was started by a couple who decided to throw a gender reveal party by launching a pyrotechnic device. No word on what gender is represented by fire and smoke. I have some name suggestions: Fire, Smoke, Flame, Fuego, Calor, Mach, Liet, Wang (the last three being fire, hot and burn in my native DhoLuo, a language you might want to learn for its poetry)

Not be deterred by the fiery gender reveal and other ongoing fires, we departed on Monday afternoon and arrived at our destination in under two hours. The sky was much clearer than the smoky skies we left behind, and things were finally starting to look up.

Now, I love being in nature as much as the next person, but camping is just not for me. Sleeping on the ground, practically a snack for whatever python, bear, lion, tiger or cheetah (or, all the above in my overactive imagination) that strolls by is not my idea of a relaxing time. The views of the night sky and crisp air are amazing, but they are not to die for, literally.

I know, I know, it runs in people’s families etc. etc., it did in mine too, before we had houses, and beds, and indoor plumbing. Come on people.  

We entered our tent, which I must say was very nicely laid out, and came with an en-suite bathroom. It even had a fan, which was very nice considering the 115F (46.1C) fry-your-egg-on-the-pavement temperature.

We left the tent door and window vents open to expedite the cooling process, alas, it would prove to be a costly mistake. Once the sun set, we sat outside gazing at the night sky, the pitch blackness of the night offering a mesmerizing array of dazzling stars. My husband and son went into the tent for their showers while I continued to be dazzled by the glittering sky. I was so enthralled by the view that I did not notice the SEAL unit of mosquitoes who, upon finally finding a human target, descended on me like a mute blanket. It was only when a particularly thirsty one bit me particularly hard that I snapped out of my reverie to find myself covered in bite marks.

People, we are living in the end times. Mosquitoes do not like me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining. Rumor has it that they too have a preference when it comes to the buffet that is human blood types, mine being at the very bottom of their list. They will literally attack everyone around me before they take a very grudging sip of my unappealing blood. I can only assume that due to very limited options brought about by lock-down, these mosquitoes cannot afford to be choosers, seeing as they don’t exactly get their pick of targets. I immediately ran inside the tent and we closed the door. Little did I know that Mosquito SEAL Unit 2 lay in wait, their shift about to start. As soon as I settled in, they descended on my head, biting my neck, ears and even my scalp, my scalp! My family had wisely completely covered their heads with their blankets, so the mosquitoes, once again, had to sink to the lows of targeting me. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Temperatures had dropped to around 68F (20C) when I finally started to drift off to sleep with my mosquito-chewed head covered in a cloyingly perfumed blanket (which would normally be a problem, but was now my only defense from the ravenous SEAL Unit 3 which I was certain was on its way to suck whatever was left of my blood). I may have slept for five minutes before I was rudely awakened by a dueling cacophony of bird noises. You see, long before we arrived at the glamping site, a simmering rivalry between a resident rooster and horn-bill had reached a crescendo, and seeing as I am not a coma level sleeper like the rest of my family, I was the lucky person to receive a front row seat to the screaming match of September 2020. I am not sure what time zone that rooster operates in. Actually, I think that rooster might be an import from the farms of upstate New York, seeing as it started its exuberant crowing at 1am Pacific (4am Eastern) and would not stop until almost four hours later. Not to be outdone, the cantankerous horn-bill responded to the crowing at a decibel level carefully curated to keep me awake, but not loud enough to, say, cause real damage, like rupture my eardrums. Hand-crafted artisanal cacophony, was what it was.

To say that I was groggy the next morning is an understatement. Add to that winds changing direction and bringing with them ashes from far flung fires, so that white specks of ash were now falling on my mosquito mangled flesh while we toasted in the glow of an eerily orange sun, and we decided to cut our losses and return home posthaste.

Home, sweet home, where the mosquitoes, roosters and horn-bills are not.