Mosquito Season. The locals had warned of this. With shame stricken faces, they had ominously said, “it can get bad.” They told of how the rainy season would incite the mosquito population to engage in wildings, when the insects tear across the island, stabbing and sucking on the red-blooded. Well, it’s half way through the Mosquito Season, and I have yet to be bitten.

My houseguest is of Haitian extraction. As a welcoming gift I bought him a book. This book came with a small blue doll and a set of pins, portable Voodoo. I left it out on the kitchen counter, where I knew he would see it. Sure enough, his first evening he picked it up and examined it at close range, and I watched his expression change from calm to cloudy. With a flick he let the little book drop to the counter, where it bounced once, and flounced to the floor. The Haitian wiped his fingertips on his shirt front, and then he yelped, and slapped at his neck.

“What’s the matter?” I had to ask.
“Something is biting me,” he said, and he spun a tight pirouette, and smacked himself in the face.

His first day he woke up horribly ill, all my plans for the adventures we would have, were dashed. Instead of swimming with the dolphins, the Haitian was holed up in the guest room with paper tissues in his nose.

Our first evening I talked the Haitian out of the guest room and

into joining me for a gaze at the stars in the garden. In no time, mosquitos showed up like bikers to a rally, over-excited and raring to go. Amusingly, it turned out the insects only went for the Haitian. His ankles were torn up, while I remained unmolested. Sneezing and scratching he abandoned me and returned to the sanctity of the guest room.

On his second and last day the Haitian rented a scooter and agreed to permit me to sit behind. I learned it is not good scooter etiquette to swivel dramatically as I craned about, “Oh look!” I’d yell into his ear. “No!” he would reply. “Stop moving around back there.” Also, I learned the importance of hanging the hell on. As, after waiting on traffic lights to change color, I would tend to space out, and release my grip, and then the bike would go forward, my neck snapping to catch up.

A girl on a moped with flowers stenciled all over, passed us, and stupidly I felt compelled to point this out. Immediately, the Haitian leaned forward, elbows out, shoulders flush with the handlebars, and sped the bike up as fast as it would go. I closed my eyes, and inhaled on the sweet smell of exhaust fumes. Without the benefit of sight the mopeds sounded like mosquitos. When I heard the engine rev down, I opened my eyes. We were caught up with the girl on the flower bike. Sod bicycles, I’m buying a scooter.