One of the unfortunate events on our trip saw both of us being bitten by sandflies. These nasty kamikaze stinging pilots first made an assault on The Husband at Kepple Sands when he decided that going to the town garage sale was not for him but a hike along the riverbank and climbing the nearby hill was more the thing to do………idiot.
He complained about the horrendous nature of the itching, I admit I had little sympathy, (note to self, always show a suitable amount of sympathy or at the very least feigned interest as it may be of benefit later down the track). He had been munched on like human baked dinner. These nasty little creatures show no mercy and lie in wait for an unsuspecting tourist as the locals build up a resistance over time. The itch is slow to commence, it builds and builds and makes you want to scratch your skin off, but more about that later.
We met a couple of English tourists on our scuba diving trip, omg they both looked like a walking blister, massive red welts from head to toe. They had decided to trek through the mangroves, sandfly heaven, now this is generally stupid on many levels, man eating crocodiles being one.
Whilst staying the night on the Tweed River, we felt we had lucked out, it was an amazing spot, no children, no real people in the park, beautifully kept gardens backing right onto the river…..perfect. Little did we know that as we sipped our wine with friends (locals) that we were being feasted on like people at a smorgasbord, you don’t really need to eat that much but you keep piling it on, well munch away they did.
I felt a slight itch on my wrist, no big deal, obviously eating outdoors later in the night I had been bitten by a mosquito. A light niggle at the ankles when going to bed and the husband states that I may have had the odd sandfly bite as he seemed to have been bitten as well. “Don’t itch them” he says.
Don’t itch are you goddam kidding, it builds and it builds, the itching is horrendous, my arms, my legs, my hands, don’t bloody itch the man is insane. I can’t stand it, I have no miracle cures in the first aid kit. I decide that alcohol will stem the itch, perfume has alcohol, I rummage through the bag and liberally spray myself with this yellow liquid gold. I get back into bed and The Husband who has no appreciation for my genius tells me I “smell like two bit slut”, “I can’t possibly ” I say “it’s Chanel.”
The second night was worse, we had stopped to free camp at the back of a pub and settled in with a bottle of wine which luckily comes with ice. The itch begins, ice will do the trick, I start rubbing myself with ice, as it melts the itch lessons and as I moan in pleasure as the itching reduces and with my legs dripping The Husband has to explain to the woman who is eyeing me strangely that I’m not having a Meg Ryan moment but relieving my bites. We return to the Glampervan and the itching is instant, I’m going insane, The Husband who is about to be clubbed to death tells me that “itching makes it worse.” Well Einstein come up with a better solution you maniac. I revert to my earlier comment about sympathy or at least feigned interest.
Alcohol will fix it. This time I came up with a better solution, Vodka. My reasoning, Vodka doesn’t freeze which makes it pure alcohol. I go in search of what’s left of the cocktail ingredients we had dragged around the country. I find the Lifesaving spirit although rather than straight Vodka it is Rasberry Vodka, this will have to do. I cover myself in it. Well, not only did I smell like a two bit hooker as I had also laid on the Chanel but I now smelt like a homeless drunk with a penchant for raspberries. The Husband feels I’ve finally lost the plot. How when my bites are way worse than his can he not be totally sympathetic, he states his “are just as bad, but he is more mature and in control.” I decide once the itch stops I’m going to smother him with a pillow.
Caravanning in Heels 