Mosquitos

I'm reading "The Traveller's Tree" by Patrick Leigh Fermor, a reprint of his 1950 account of a voyage through the Caribbean. Staying at the Hotel des Antilles in Guadeloupe, he was besieged by insects, even under mosquito nets, and wrote,

Joan's plan - still, alas! as I write, no more than a plan - of sleeping chained to a chameleon seems to be the only practical way of neutralizing the unceasing siege of the insect world. With this alert little basilisk camped on one's bosom, suitably camouflaged to melt into the slumberwear; prepared, at the faintest buzz in the surrounding ether, to fire half a yard of tongue at the foe, and swallow it without blinking an eye, one might snore the night peacefully through. Not otherwise.

Delightful book, so far, but contemporary readers might be a little put-off by the author's attempts at amateur ethnology.