Apparently, I've become the hostel's go-to bug remover. Since the spider ushering, I've been called upon to herd grasshoppers, cockroaches, and other unidentified exoskeletoned creatures out the door. This week, however, I met my match.
I was sitting on my bed when I heard the helicopter outside my window. Except it wasn't outside my window. I ducked as a menacing black wasp careened past my head and whacked into the glass behind me, beating itself senseless against the pane until it ricocheted its way into the screened portion of the window. I quickly shut (erm, slammed) the swiveling window panes shut to trap the massive insect in the space between the glass and the screen. I backed away slowly (that's what you do when you want to survive), then walked quickly to the kitchen and asked the school manager to help me take it out…remove it.
You see, I was stung by a wasp when I was five years old, and had a horrible time with the full-body hives and subsequent grape-flavored Benadryl chew tablets. I wasn't sure I was still allergic to las abejas until last fall when a bee sting on the ankle turned me plump and itchy and landed me on an ER gurney with IV antihistamines and epinephrine. The bee sting wasn't so bad, but I never want to experience epinephrine again. So while I can steel myself to herd many multi-legged arthropods, a jungle-sized wasp doesn't seem like something I should toy with (plus, it flies).
Manuel went with Rubén, the cutest five-year-old living upstairs, to save me from the monster wasp. They came back a minute later and said it was gone. Whew. I checked to see that they were right, and sure enough, no wasp sighted.
That was Wednesday.
Then it was Friday.
I came into my room and noticed the window panes were swiveled shut again, with the monster wasp locked inside (my roommate had already left for the weekend, so I suspect this was her doing). I already knew there was no bug kill spray at the school, so I tried to think up another plan.
Plan A: Leave the window shut and let the monster wasp starve to death.
Pros: No chance whatsoever of a wasp escape.
Cons: This may take years, and the lack of fresh air into our damp room would turn my things green in a matter of hours.
Plan B: Kill the monster wasp myself.
Pros: Dead wasp. Really dead wasp. Unidentifiable corpse of a wasp.
Cons: I may surely die.
Plan C: Move to the living room.
Pros: Forget about the wasp.
Cons: Proximity to open doors heightens the chance of a myriad of other creatures feasting on my flesh.
I ultimately selected Plan B, remembering the tactics I used when I was a bee-fearing adolescent. Somewhere, at some time, I read that hairspray renders bees unable to respirate, and they die. In my fearful pre-teens, I hairsprayed enough bees to know which type of spray nozzle I preferred (continuous spray, clearly) and how much hairspray was needed (but I always used approximately 30x that amount, to ensure complete deadness). I was a cruel child, it seems, but fear drives us to measures we wouldn't otherwise consider.
I didn't bring any hairspray to Costa Rica. It didn't seem like a very important thing at the time. I had to MacGuyver an alternative weapon… the only spray liquid I had was my BullFrog bug repellent and sunscreen. It would have to do.
I approached the window cautiously, fully aware that monster wasps could very well have morphing capabilities that allow them to use laser vision to melt glass and escape to sting little American ladies. I grasped the window handle with one hand, my BullFrog in the other. In one swift motion, I opened the window just a crack and delivered five quick sprays through then narrow slot before shutting it quickly again. I surveyed the damage: two window panes thoroughly soaked with bug repellent, one monster wasp untouched by the spray, but beginning to crawl about furiously. I went in for round 2, this time scoring three indirect hits, just enough to make the wasp angry and begin flying. Flying wasps drain my courage meter, so I left the room to regain confidence.
Thirty minutes later, I returned to battle the monster wasp once again. After five successive strikes, the wasp was covered with repellent/sunscreen, as were five of the ten window panes. The winged beast was demonstrating difficulty climbing the screen, and fell to the sill, where it continued to crawl about furiously. I left the room to wait once again.
I returned later that afternoon to find the wasp belly-up, legs twitching ever so slowly. It was then I noticed it gasping for breath - literally. The chickpea-sized abdomen, stinger and all, was a tiny little accordion struggling to exchange air through a thick sludge of insect repellent and sunscreen.
I felt sick. Something about the slow death was agonizing and heart-breaking. I wished I could put the monster wasp out of its misery, but I was too afraid to touch it.
It's now morning. The wasp has long since stopped struggling, and I will eventually (with many tools and padding) remove it from the window and dispose of it. But my pride at vanquishing my foe was somewhat tainted by the sorrow of watching it slowly die.
 |
| It was really big. |
Someday, I won't fear monster wasps, or feel the need to vanquish them. And that will be very, very good.
Happy Sabbath from Costa Rica!
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