Okay, I’m embellishing the name a little bit, but there really is an insect called a blister beetle. I should know. I expected dangerous wildlife on our trip – but, insects?
Allow me to set the scene for you. Uwe and I left the desert landscape of Namibia and crossed into Botswana. We’re in a lodge in Kasane, having dinner at the lodge restaurant. Our drinks arrive and I watch bemused as something flies across the grounds in my direction.
The insect is dark brown or black, has really long antennae and a big wingspan. It’s the size of a softball, and before I know what’s happening it lands on my neck and begins to crawl down into my dress…. I bat it away. “Wow! Nature’s really something here!” I exclaim, or something stupid to that effect.
I wake up a few hours later and my neck is on fire. I look in the bathroom mirror and discover two spots where my skin has melted and peeled off. I remember the giant moth or bee or whatever the heck it was (it all happened so fast!) that flew a direct trajectory to where I sat. Suddenly I don’t feel as enchanted about the Nature here.
The next day I head out to the front desk of the lodge and ask as calmly as I can if they have a doctor or nurse available. “Something stung me or bit last night at supper,” I say, and show them my neck.
“Was it black?” asks one of the male staff members.
“Was it big? It comes every year ahead of the rainy season,” they tell me. No, it isn’t poisonous and I don’t need to find a doctor. And yes, it secretes a substance that dissolves the skin…. But they can’t tell me the NAME of the insect, just that it’s a black moth. A chemist at the Kasane drug store looks at the wound. He nods knowingly, prescribes a cortisone cream to put on it twice a day, and tells me to keep the wound bandaged. He’s just as vague as the others: it was the black moth that arrives ahead of the rains.
I spend that night googling black moths and can’t find anything that looks like the critter that either tried to attack me or make love to me….
NOTES: ©2023 Jadi Campbell. Photo ©2023 Uwe Hartmann. Uwe’s photos of our trips and his photography may be viewed at viewpics.de.
My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded and The Trail Back Out.
Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.
In Botswana it took two hours in a jeep on terrible roads to even get to Moremi Game Reserve. It was worth it: in the park we spotted a big pack of wild dogs.
Africa’s wild dog should probably be called the wily dog. They’re social and really smart and farmers hate them. The wild dog’s intelligence, speed (African wild dogs can run at speeds of more than 44 miles or 70 kilometers per hour), and hunting talents makes them a real threat for livestock.
Their sociable nature means food is shared with the entire pack. Farmers set out poisoned meats, the wild dogs return and regurgitate the food to feed the pups and other adults, and everyone gets poisoned. They’re one of the most endangered species on the planet.
A few days later we splurged on a doorless helicopter ride over the Okavango Delta. Uwe wanted to photograph migrating herds from the air, and I just wanted not to faint or throw up.*
Victoria Falls wasn’t at full force when we visited but we still got soaking wet from the mists blowing over from the other side. We were happy to be wet as it was over 100 degrees that day. 
And then, when I looked in the viewfinder hoping I’d managed to get a few shots that didn’t include my thumb in the upper left hand corner, there was the breathtaking sweep and scope of Victoria Falls, dry season or wet season or any season. Even the fuzziness in my photo is supposed to be there – that’s the mists blowing up from Victoria Falls. Maybe the best photo I’ve ever taken with my phone!
Author Bram Stoker was born on November 8, 1847 in Clontarf, Dublin, Ireland. In 1897 Stoker gave the world Dracula, the vampire from Transylvania. Undead, the vampire must drink blood and transforms himself into a wolf or a bat at will. In Stoker’s honor here is an excerpt from my first book, about the 2,000,000 wrinkle-lips bats Uwe and I saw when we visited Thailand. – Jadi
It was dusk when the car came to a stop on a plain with no one in sight, the sun a bright red disk sailing below the horizon. Gabe got out of the car just as the first bats emerged from the cave.
These were followed by more, and more, and more, an impossible number of flying mammals swooping and looping in ribbons across the skies.
“Each bat will cover up to 200 kilometers of hunting grounds tonight before they’re done,” the guide told him.
There was not a single other human being anywhere, no buildings, no roads, no signs of human civilization, only the twisting spirals of the bat colony in the air.
The men stood for over two hours as the bats sailed overhead. Gabe waited until it was too dark to make out the shapes of the bats before he turned away, images of flight burned onto his retinas and his memory.
