When “From the Bush” takes on a more…literal sense.

A trip is never just a journey. It’s the before - the planning, the budgeting, the researching, the frustration, the excitement, the stress of finding the right flights, the packing; the during - leaving 3 hours early and stressing about missing the flight, the flight and the exciting discomfort of the plane seat (outbound it’s fine, the anticipation is too strong to care about leg room), then the actual journey, flying home; and finally..the after. Unpacking (or leaving your messy suitcase open for days oops), getting back to life, processing memories and pictures, sharing your #missthisplace captions on instagram, etc. 

You get the picture. 

Sometimes the after is tainted with less pleasant episodes. Some fall ill with tropical diseases, some bring back creatures of darkness in their luggage. Before we proceed, I’ll take a leaf from Lemony Snicket’s books (please tell me this rings a bell…) and warn you. Read on at your own risk. Sensitive readers be aware.

It all starts with an incredible, eventful, and rather dramatic trip to Malawi. Beautiful country filled with kind hearts and stunning landscapes, the Warm Heart of Africa deserves more than a few lines on a blog post about nightmarish invertebrates. If you’d rather read about adventure and blessed rains, lion conservation success, a temperamental car and swimming with large scaley creatures of the reptilian type in the turquoise waters of Lake Malawi, please leave this tale of despair, and click the following link. 

If you decide to power through, then you can’t say I didn’t warn you. 

Let us resume. It all begins with a trip to Malawi - or rather, a return trip from Malawi. Amir and I had dedicated the last few days of our trip to the shores of beautiful little Mambo Island, in the southern part of Lake Malawi. No electricity, no wifi, no doors. Only the wild, and a mosquito net. We thus closed our suitcases (when we remembered) to avoid unwanted visitors, but still had the odd issue with ants (bought too many avocados at a local market….). ANYWAYS. 

The trip home was hectic. When is it ever a good idea to book at flight at 2am, especially in Africa, where 2am usually means 3:30am? Let me tell you, Lilongwe International Airport is not the most glamorous one to spend the night. I also remember they had issues with my luggage tags for some reason, couldn’t send them all the way to London (we were connecting via Nairobi). Bloodshot eyes, irritable, sweaty, smelly, we wait for the flight. I was still thinking about my luggage, wondering when I’d get it. The only positive side of these awful flights - you crash hard on the plane (no pun intended), regardless of your surroundings or gassy neighbours, waking up with a stiff neck and drool all over your chin.

Connecting in Nairobi is always a favourite of mine. They serve fresh passionfruit juice, which is something I’ve yet to find in other airports. And the banana bread from one of their little cafés is massive. Perfect landing breakfast. 

Got some work done before the flight to London, a long flight home, fatigue really really starting to make itself clear. Patience levels were going down fast. But we arrive, finally, and go our separate ways.

Then everything really went to the dogs.

NB: Having just re-bingewatched an all time favourite series ‘The Bureau” about the French secret services (ranked 3rd best series of the decade by the NY Times might I add), I felt like this post deserved to be formatted like a mission statement. 

1700 hours - Saturday 27th April 2019. I get home, hazy due to lack of sleep. My brother Louis is home alone, our parents in France.  I ditch my suitcase in the middle of the entrance corridor, will unpack later tonight (lol). 

1730 hours - Desperately hungry, we order some Wagamama. Let an 18 year old boy alone, know the fridge will be empty or full of mould. 

1755 hours  - Food arrives. 

1804 hours - Food is no more, and I doze off on the sofa.  Louis parties with friends, cause that’s the cool thing to do on a Saturday night. 

2000 hours - I wake up with a jump, not knowing where I am after a vey deep sleep, no blood left in my feet after a weird position on a sofa too small for me. Clamber up the stairs and collapse on my bed.

0900 hours - Sunday 28th April 2019. My eyes crack open. Hungry. But no breakfast of course - trust an 18 year old to not think about buying his sister’s beloved bananas. Crawl out of bed, crawl to the nearest shop, buy bananas, peanut butter and granola. Crawl back.  Peace is restored. 

1000 hours - The suitcase has not moved. Time to heave 18kg of camera equipment and a month’s worth of stuff up 2 flights of stairs. 

1002 hours - Notice the hard shell of the suitcase is broken. Nothing inside is damaged though. When did that happen?? I could have sworn it was intact before checking in the luggage….

1045 hours - Just finished making piles of laundry and emptying all suitcase contents into more piles on the floor. Very dusty clothes. Stuff all over the place, in an organised mess. But the suitcase is empty. I’ll just leave it there - there being on the landing between my brother’s room and mine.

1200 hours - Everything is more or less tidy, and put away. The suitcase is still standing there, ajar, on the landing. 

1300 hours - Need food. Wagamama ft Deliveroo round 2. 

1400 hours - A lot of editing pictures and footage from the trip, writing the final blog posts, reminiscing African memories, eating cookies. Catching up on Game of Thrones season 8 - yes, it’s April and episode 1 and 2 came out when I was abroad. Navigating spoilers was becoming impossible. 

1600 hours - I try to get some sort of physical activity done and especially, fill the fridge. Shops close at 6 on a Sunday, need to stock up on granola and bananas. 

2100 hours - Tired. Long day of editing, tidying, cleaning, writing, reconnecting with civilisation. Crash in bed abnormally early. 

2300 hours - Louis’ yells wake me up with a start. I jump, angrily yell something back, along the lines of “mais p****n je dors bordel, je suis claquée”[For the sake of politeness, this won’t be fully translated - a lot of swearing to say I was tired]. 

He replies something I’m pretty sure I must have dreamed: “Y’a un centipede dans ma chambre” [there’s a centipede in my room].

“Bah nan mec, ça se trouve pas à Londres des centipedes, c’est surement un mille-pattes, rendors toi” [dude, you don’t get them in London, probably a millipede, go back to sleep]. 

2302 hours - Still screaming at me to come. I stumble out of bed, furious. 

2303 hours - My jaw drops. I burst out laughing. There, in the middle of the old, beige, carpeted floor, a creature of nightmares. Coiled up, pointed blue legs, thick trunk, glistening brown, 25cm long. Indeed, a centipede. Looking slightly confused. 

2304 hours - I jump on Louis’ bed as if it were a life raft. He’s at his desk, studying. It’s 11pm on  a Sunday evening, the average peak time to start homework after a 2 week school holiday.

2305 hours - We switch between nervous, incredulous laughing, and slight panicking. What do we do? Louis messages the family group chat, I usefully document the situation, and post stories on Instagram. Need emotional support here. 

2310 hours - Our parents reply - “squash it”. Ha. No way will 1) that work and 2) are we getting remotely close to that thing. Apologies for those who love centipedes and think all creatures of God are beautiful. I really wish I could share you passion.

2325 hours - After aimlessly sitting on the bed, staring at it, hoping it would magically disappear, Louis goes to the kitchen to find a tupperware, some gloves and, well, anything that can help. 

2326 hours - I check on it. And scream in horror. IT’S GONE. 

2326.5 hours - I hear a scratching noise to my right. Louis had a pile of dirty laundry he was going to wear the next day for the 5th time in a row, just laying there on the floor. And the centipede is crawling up and in. Indeed, it disappears. 

2328 hours - It’s somewhere in/around/behind the pile. Louis comes up, yellow rubber kitchen-washing gloves in hand, ready to be brave. He takes one look at the deserted floor, at my terrified smile and is not amused. He has homework, you see. 

“Where. Is. It.” he snarls. I giggle nervously, pointing towards the pile. “Somewhere there”.

“You’ve lost it?! (starting to get hysterical) I give you one thing to do and you lose it and in MY ROOM! That’s it Alice, we have to move house, I’m not staying with this thing lost somewhere in my stuff”. To this day, I still don’t know whether he was joking or not, his tone was dead serious.

“Well it’s not like I was going to gently carry it back to the carpet, what did you want me to do?!” I exclaim. Tensions were soaring. I tell Louis to “man up” as he’s jumping up and down in panic (video below).

Apparently, it’s my responsibility. After all, “it’s my insect” (not a bloody insect dude they only have 6 legs, get your facts right). 

2355 hours - We are sat on the bed. Staring at the pile. Lost for ideas. Tired. Our parents uselessly throwing out ideas. Dad: “Drown it”.

0010 hours - Monday is here. I try calling pest control, the 24/7 line, and, oh surprise, it’s closed.  Despite everything, I feel a bit guilty. The poor creature didn’t really ask for anything and was probably just as confused as we were. Still trying to figure out where it came from. Obviously Malawi, but having emptied my suitcase the same morning, and not received poisonous burns all over my hand, I was slightly amazed by this guy’s ability to hide. Was it in the broken shell of the suitcase? How did I not notice it was damaged before checking in? Did it slip in at the airport looking for a better life? I’ll never know.

Side note: when I googled ways to dispose of it, the first three pages that came up were how to keep them as pets and how to handle them lovingly without triggering their bite. Slightly nonplussed. 

0015 hours - We name him Bob. Louis thinks it ate the previous Bob, his resident room spider that mysteriously disappeared. 

0030 hours - Maybe Dad’s idea wasn’t that bad. Time for an exfiltration mission of high importance. 1) Identify the target’s location ; 2) Transport target to bathtub; 3) Neutralise target. Kitchen-washing gloves come on. 

0045 hours - After cautiously prodding the pile on the floor, we hear it. A faint, dangerous, eery scratching noise coming from inside the trousers - we think. We carry said trousers with the tips of our fingers and speed-walk to my bathtub, throwing it inside. Still not 100% sure the centipede is there. I insert the bath plug, and turn on the taps, full steam, still documenting. Our parents are wide awake, following my live updates on the chat like excited children waiting to unwrap their Christmas gifts. 

0050 hours - IT SWIMS. Dad’s idea was terrible. The water gets higher, and so does Bob. Immediate stop of all taps; Louis and I look at each in desperation. The tension between us is gone, collaboration is key (definitely going on my CV, “learning to collaborate under pressure, assuming a true position of leadership, delegating the delicate task of putting rogue centipedes in tupperwares”).  Except Louis refuses to go anywhere near it. 

0100 hours - Bathtub drained. Mum suggested using a mixture of vinegar and sodium bicarbonate, she uses this to unblock toilets and pipes. Also suggests bleach. Louis runs down, and I, once again, supervise. To my absolute horror, it starts trying to climb out, slipping against the polished surface, yet with each new attempt, it was learning and progressing. I yell for Louis to hurry up. My hands are shaking and I want to cry (useful). 

0105 hours - The longest minutes of my life. Finally he comes back up. Bob is now angrily running around my bathtub; we’re tired. 

0115 hours - He (or she…) has dodged all of our bicarbonate/ vinegar bombs and I really don’t want to use the bleach. 

0125 hours -  We use the bleach. To no avail. Aaaahhhhh.

0140 hours - Finally! The combination of everything…slowed him down. For our more sensitive readers, I will leave it at that. Can I just say, Louis and I were astounded by its resilience - despite all of that, it was still going… albeit slightly less dandy. 

This went on for another good 10 minutes, before I managed to capture it in the jam jar Louis had brought up. Closing the lid, and sighing in relief, hands still shaking. It was still alive, but could no longer cause havoc in my brother’s trousers. We leave him on the side of my bathtub, and start cleaning. 

By then it was almost 2am. In the night between Sunday and Monday. Which means…episode 3 of Game of Thrones is about to go live. The battle of Winterfell. Halfway through, Arya is trapped with a few white walkers, hiding behind ancestral tombs and Louis whispers -  “I’ve had enough jump scares for an evening, why did we think this was a good idea?!”. The episode ends at 3:30am, we’re still full of adrenaline.

“Right well I’m off to finish my coursework. Night”. 

Live footage: