ODDS ‘N’ SODS — Canadian back bacon

Every Canadian geologist has, at one time or another, obstinately argued that a particular chunk of muskeg or tundra he had walked over had the worst bugs in the world.

Those who have worked outside of Canada know that, for sheer annoyance, Canadian mosquitoes and black flies win hands down. When it comes to sheer nastiness, however, Canada’s insects can’t compete. During a recent stint in the Amazonian rainforest in Brazil’s Mato Grosso state, I had the experience of being personally introduced to one of the most endearing of our arthropod friends.

One morning, I noticed two itchy and painful swellings in the middle of my back that resembled mosquito bites. A week later, they were still there, but larger. I began to wonder what they were. About the same time, a fellow geologist in the camp lent me one of those backpacker’s travel books — the kind we seasoned bush workers sneer at but read anyway.

The book contained a gruesome story about a National Geographic photographer who was abandoned in the jungle by a native tribe. When he was eventually found, he had 20 or so fly larvae in his back. The critters go by the name of the human botfly, or calitroga homnivorax, which translates as “devourer of men.” This lovely creature, apparently the only fly that lives on humans, resembles our Canadian deer fly. The difference, however, is that after the human botfly bites you, it lays an egg which hatches into a worm that will chew on you for 12 weeks. (Those working in Latin America beware — the fly ranges as far north as Florida.)

A few days after reading this story, I got the feeling that something was wrong. It’s the power of suggestion, I told myself. They’re mosquito bites or boils, I thought, and my perceived problem must be pscychosomatic.

Other than singing the chorus to Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” the boys in camp weren’t particularly helpful.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Several small, stiff hairs, which protrude from the worm’s posterior, appeared. When I rolled over at night, the worms wriggled as if they were touched by hot coals, literally making my skin crawl. Already convinced of my self-diagnosis, I went to the local hospital.

The doctor took one look at me and asked, “Have you been feverish?” “No. I’ve got worms in my back,” I said.

“Headache?”

“No. Look at my back.”

“Chills?”

“No!”

“Well, we better give you a blood test — it might be malaria.” Off I went for a blood test and a 24-hour wait for lab results. I was losing patience. I phoned my brother, a doctor in Toronto, and gave him the Latin American name of the critters. He couldn’t find a reference to them in his medical journals, so he called the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Ga. The CDC knew what they were and faxed all the information it had.

After a sleepless night, I went back to the hospital. The doctor beamed that my blood was fine. In my best Portuguese, I persuaded him to remove whatever was in my back “rapido.” He could tell by my demeanor that I meant business. After applying local anesthetic, he removed a white, half-inch-long worm from one of the lesions. The other worm was too deep to fish for. When the anesthetic wore off, I could tell that the remaining critter was mad.

Meanwhile, the fax from the CDC came through. Included was a paper from the journal of the American Medical Association entitled “Bacon therapy and furuncular myasis.” I did a double take and called my brother. Sure enough, the CDC advised that the best way to get rid of the critters was to fold a strip of bacon (the fattier, the better) three or four times, tape it to the lesion and wait for 24 hours. Apparently, the worms prefer pork to human flesh, and will burrow into the bacon.

A few people in camp asked me what the growing grease stain on the back of my shirt was.

“Canadian back bacon,” was my reply.

What I didn’t know was that the doctor had stitched up his incisions so that the critter couldn’t get out.

After a liberal application of antiseptic, the worm was removed and I’m happy to say that the author has made a complete recovery.

— The author, a consulting geologist, resides in Brampton, Ont.