Winged Creatures

When it comes to bugs, even European ones, let alone rattling, flying, two-inch-long South-East Asian roach-type creatures which convention insists one refer to as “beetles”, I have never been terribly good at being the grown-up.

At our idyllic, wood-framed guesthouse on idyllic Don Khong, one of Laos’ Four Thousand Islands, floating in utter tranquility on the grey-green Mekong, I am endeavouring to cosh Z into bed, when a noise not dissimilar to a football rattle echoes across the room, something substantial whirrs in its wake, and bedtime is definitively shattered.

“What was that, Mum?” asks Z.

“It was a beetle,” I say, grimly. (Full disclosure: I am phobic of ladybirds, not too bad with spiders, alright with moths, rational as regards bees, wasps, snakes and lizards, and not at all keen on beetles, particularly not the biggies. As with the ladybirds, it’s something to do with the way they lift up their wings and you can almost see the wiring. There are good, solid primeval reasons why HR Giger based the creature in Alien on a beetle.)

“Where is it?” he says.

“There,” I say, pointing at the wall just below the ceiling, where it is lurking in its full, two-inch-long glory, waving its antennae in a manner uncomfortably reminiscent of the film Phase IV.

“What are we going to do about it?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I suppose we have to get it out of here.”

Clearly, neither of us will sleep with that motoring about the room, divebombing us with its toxic scales and scary antennae, and issuing ghastly death rattles into the wee hours.

I look around for a broom, a bamboo cane, a long stick, or something similar, with which to chase it futilely around the room while trying not to scream each time it takes flight.

Nothing is immediately obvious. It is, I fear, going to be a long night.

“Wait here!” says Z, authoritatively, and leaves the room.

I wait.

He reappears with the nice Thai chap from next door. “Now, you see, as I was saying,” he says, in a manly fashion, with expansive body language which clearly indicates that he would have resolved the problem in an instant had he only a few inches or so more in height. “We have a beetle over there, and we need to get it out of here.”

Nice Thai chap sizes up our visitor instantly, fetches the guesthouse owner, explains the situation in Thai (which is to Lao, as far as I can tell, roughly as Spanish is to Italian).

Guesthouse owner returns with torch, which seems rather odd since the room is fully lit. The two of them hound our visitor into a corner – using no tools but the torch – there is a brief flutter of movement, the guesthouse owner does some Obama-style manoeuvre, and all is still.

“What happened?” I say, rather feebly. “Where’s the beetle?”

“He had it in his pocket, mum! Didn’t you see? He snatched it off the floor and put it in his pocket using his bare hands.”

I turn to the owner, in whose blue chalk-stripe shirt pocket our visitor is wriggling. He gestures at me to keep the door shut this time, and is gone.

For the record, it is an utterly delightful guesthouse. Very clean. Very tranquil. Lots of teak. And, clearly, good, strong Buddhist values.

But bugs, like geckoes, go with the old building territory, I fear. And that bug would take the geckoes in here any day.