Vapour Rub

Vapour Rub

4 teaspoons of coconut oil
1 teaspoon of camphor
Crush the camphor and dissolve it in the oil. Keep stored in airtight bottles.

I should go up to the house now with its rooms full of guests, but I linger, savouring the smell of the oncoming downpour. The emerald blanket on this mountain is due to the bounty of water we receive. The tourist brochures call it ‘green season’ which is a euphemistic spin on rain. The fine spirits of our guests are not dampened; they find tropical downpours ‘enchanting’.

The whistling of the high grass reaches me beyond the cadence of the wind. The incessant hiss of air bends the grass so that it undulates in an erotic dance. I sit on an ancient rock to listen to the heralding of the storm. The rumbling thunder is grander than any pomp and ceremony orchestration. It is only a matter of time before the spate of rain is delivered by the gathering clouds over the gulf. The horses are already sheltering beneath the mango tree; their rumps to the wind.

Emma, my wife, will be annoyed if I don’t go up soon, but I can’t abide the small talk of those people and their endless questions. I skulk around in the shadows of the garden, pretending to work, but they won’t leave me alone. They have so many questions.

Maybe their jolliness comes from being favoured and rich, or maybe it is just that they are on holiday. It is tiresome. I can’t help but think that their sheltered lives have made them a bit simple in their judgements, these well dressed people, from loving families and superior educations. They are basically kind hearted, but they leave me wanting to be spared their dumb sunniness.

On a conjectural map, I see them raving over the piña coladas whipped up in the kitchen by Isabel. I hear the conversation now.

“Emma, these drinks are delightful. You grow the pineapples here on the finca?”

“Oh yes,” she answers, “and Isabel adds her own special touch of carambola and maracuaya.”

I’ve heard the answer a hundred times.

“Oh, that’s so special!”

Someone actually said that. When I was about to tell the woman there is nothing very special about whacking the top of a pineapple and sticking it in the ground to grow, Emma shot me a wilting glance.

I’ll give myself five minutes more, and then I’ll slip into the house and clean up. I came here to retire, but Emma’s dream is this Bed and Breakfast at the edge of the rainforest. She’s good at being the quintessential hostess; she likes people.

Emma catches my eye as I join the guests, on the veranda, for after dinner drinks.

“Hello. Hope you’re enjoying yourself,” I say, moving along spryly to avoid any in depth questioning.

“Dr. Scott.”

I turn in recognition of my name, and right away I know it is the beginning of sorrow. A matronly woman, whose face looks as if it has had a particularly challenging face lift, approaches me.

“Dr., I saw the most upsetting thing today. I couldn’t understand what the man was telling me in Spanish,” she began, “something about a torsalo.”

Emma raises her eyes above her glasses as a signal to be careful.

“Two woman were squeezing a nasty looking boil on a child’s arm. It must have been very painful because the child was screaming bloody murder. I couldn’t stand to watch. What is this torsalo business?” The contortion of the woman's face is amazing.

“Ah yes, the dreaded torsalo,” I say.

Emma is already thinking about damage control.

“You needn’t worry. It is rather rare for a tourist to get a torsalo.” This is meant to be reassuring.

“What is it Dr.?” The matron won’t give up.

Others join the conversation. I wonder what it is about parasites that fascinate people.

“Dermatobia hominis is a member of the family Oestridae. It is a species of bot fly that parasitizes humans.” I find Latin is always impressive.

“It really isn’t as bad as it sounds,” I add. “The adult torsalo is a large noisy fly. The female catches smaller flies, like mosquitoes, and glues her eggs to the underside of the captive's body. When the mosquito lands on a warm–blooded host, the eggs hatch and tiny maggots burrow quickly into the skin. Larvae develop over a period of 5-10 weeks and form the boil that you saw on the child’s arm.”  I have the attention of the entire room and Emma is looking at the floor.

“People in the village are quite used to these hairy maggots. They are adept at popping them out.” This doesn’t have the calming effect I’m after.

“Isn’t there an easier way than squeezing the thing out?” More questions.

“The maggot needs a hole in the skin to breathe. If you cover up the airway with something like Vaseline, then the maggot tries to get to the surface. Waiting until it gets well out of the hole, enables nabbing it at the base. Then you yank it out in one whole piece.” Too much information.

Someone leaves the room ostensibly to throw up.

Emma now steps in, giving me a nasty look.

“Don’t worry. Tranquilo!”  Emma’s bright smile hides her fury.

“Just as a precautionary step, there is a bottle of vapour rub in your rooms. If you feel a bite of any kind, just dab the spot. Camphor is an effective remedy. It prevents the eggs from hatching.” Her smile fades.

“Oh gross!” Teenagers often have limited vocabularies don't you think?

I slip away to the bedroom, knowing I’ll need my sleep. Tomorrow I’ll be batching up huge quantities of vapour rub.

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