It was late one cold night when I climbed into bed, shivering in the darkness and tucked my hand, as usual under the soft pillow. In an instant, the most excruciating, burning pain I have ever felt, knifed through the side of my middle finger and up my arm. I sat up screaming, shaking and crying, as my bewildered husband sprung awake, wondering aloud what had happened and switched on the lights. Within seconds I was unable to move the swollen hand, my stomach ached and my heart started to accelerate as my head throbbed wildly and I felt faint.
More than a decade later, I consider myself lucky to be alive after he promptly dosed me with a potent antihistamine and other medication but the digit where I was attacked by a Belizean scorpion has never completely healed. Living in an isolated cottage with screened windows set in an abandoned, breezy citrus plantation on the beautiful outskirts of the inland capital Belmopan seemed idyllic, until I stumbled across a scorpion couple waltzing across the kitchen floor in the wee hours, and then on closer scrutiny a colony of the colossal creatures calmly curled up in comfort behind the cosy cupboards.
I gave up outdoor gardening for a while and took to wearing hard, protective gloves when I encountered more, plus a stunning coral snake that was none too happy at being disturbed from sunny slumber under his smooth stone. Glossy serpents would boldly slither up the back kitchen window with thirsty twitching tongues, waggling heads and glittering eyes while I washed dishes, attracted to the sound of running water. Others comprising long, brave souls even hung optimistically outside the front door and below the clothes lines when the weather turned unbearably hot, and my surprised shrieks and sky leaps provided endless amusement for my young children.