HEADLINE: How does one remain brave even when the task at hand seems too risky or dangerous to handle?
Several years ago, I found myself fighting creepy crawling things (yet again) while travelling along the Pacific Coast of Mexico with my friend Lindsay. In some ways, it seemed like a logical progression to my childhood insect retaliation days.
Our accommodation was a tiny stone house (casa de piedra) tucked into the side of a cliff in the lush Mexican jungle. We travelled from Puerto Vallarta via taxi, then transferred to a small, barely-put-together metal boat which smashed its way through the ocean waves flinging us to and fro and dumping us onto a wooden dock at the bottom of a cliff. And then, to reach our humble abode, we had to conquer a nearly vertical climb, navigating through roots, rocks, and trees. But the view from the top totally made up for the hair-raising journey.
Our host greeted us with a perfectly chilled glass of champagne and led us on a tour of the property. As we navigated the narrow path, she calmly cautioned us to watch our step as there had been recent scorpion sightings in one of the flats.
My friend and I looked at each other with apprehension. “Were they in our flat,” I asked, trying to match our host’s calm demeanour.
She reassured us that the staff regularly swept the grounds, and a scorpion hadn’t been spotted in the last 24 hours. Although not entirely comforting, I concealed my profound dislike for any version of a creepy-crawly and carried on with the tour. That night, I stayed alert, meticulously examining every corner of the mosquito net around my bed, bracing myself for any unwanted critter encounter.
To my amazement, day one of our stay went off without a hitch. After dinner that night, we strolled back to our place, amused by the near-blinding brightness of our travel flashlights—they could scare away any creature crossing our path. Our accommodation looked enchanting under the moonlit sky, with the outdoor landscape lights twinkling in the night.
We walked in through the front doors, placed our flashlights and evening wraps on the dresser and began preparing for bed. As we casually moved about our suite, I completed a visual sweep for bugs, insects, or any other type of creature. Everything seemed fine in the washroom, by the beds, and in our sitting area. Feeling a bit more at ease, I went to place my phone on my bedside table, and there, sunning himself under the dim light of the table lamp, was Mr. Scorpion.
“Lindsay,” I murmured as I cautiously backed out of the room.
“It’s a scorpion, right?” she asked rhetorically.
“Yup,” I said.
And in one swift move, we were both standing in the middle of the stone patio staring back at our tiny little house.
“What do we do now?” asked Lindsay.
“We have to get rid of it,” I stated. But I wasn’t convinced we had the skills necessary to remove and discard a scorpion. All the bug and insect training of my youth didn’t meet the requirements for this particular situation. We needed help.
With only the light from our iPhones, an inferior light source compared to our blinding beam flashlights, we carefully descended the stone path back to the outdoor bar and dining area.
Lindsey turned towards me and asked nervously, “Do you think scorpions sleep at night? Or is this the time of day when they’re out hunting their prey?”
“Their prey? I sure the heck hope not!”
As we approached the bar, I called out to the bartender, “We need your help.”
He looked up from drying the glassware and asked, “Another glass of wine?”
“Well, maybe something stronger, but that’s not the real issue,” I said. “We have a scorpion in our flat and need it removed.”
By the mere mention of the word scorpion, two guys emerged from the kitchen, armed and ready for battle. One carried a baseball bat-like thing, and the other had a large aerosol container full of some concoction. The three men followed us back to our place at the top of the hill. Once there, I realized somebody had to indicate the whereabouts of Mr. Scorpion. My friend was not participating. So, fearless me (ha!) led the crew towards the corner where I last saw the venomous predator.
My eyes searched for movement on the bed, floor, or walls. And then I saw the creature, right above my head, resting on the corner of the doorway frame that connected our sleeping quarters to the next room.
“Here!” I pointed quickly, reversing my footing for the second time that evening.
The three makeshift exterminators stepped in front of me. And in a rapid sequence of events, the first guy unleashed the contents of the aerosol can, the second guy flicked the scorpion to the floor with his bat-like stick, and the third lit his hand-held torch and set fire to the scorpion’s infamous stinger.
Our evening saviours swiftly cleared up the aftermath, and off they went, triumphantly exiting the crime scene and heading back to the bar. “All good!” one of them announced as he turned around to smile at us. “Just a typical day in Mexico.”
based on a true story
