I was sitting on the veranda of our cabin in Bali when I felt a warm sticky splatter on my left arm. I knew immediately that it was no pigeon that had laid me out. A few days ago, we had met with a friend, and when I told her we were thinking of removing the netting from the top of the bed she immediately warned me, “I wouldn’t do that.” “Why?” I queried, “the mosquitos?” “No, the gecko poo!” she explained. Indeed, only a few days prior to this discussion, one of our other friends was dismayed when a gecko had shit right on her head while she was sleeping.
Back at our cabin, if the marksman had been aiming for my head, he had missed the target. But to me, it felt like a direct hit. I looked up in rage to see my attacker perched from a beam in the roof, his tail still raised, eyes locked with mine. Unsure if he was adjusting his aim for a second salvo, I stepped to the side and warned that I was indeed ready to go shit-for-splat with him. As I continued my verbal tirade, the belligerent gecko moved over my head again and raised his tail. I stepped back again and said to Arienne, “he’s actually targeting me. He’s trying to shit right on my head. That f**ker!” As the gecko continued to gaze down at me, he tilted his head and I could read what he was thinking: “Come in here like you own the place, and think I’m not going to shit all over you? Hmm… how about that… b*tch!”