Bagging a bit part in The Day of the Locust

HOLIDAY DISASTERS:Before he landed on the island of Fuerteventura, SHANE HEGARTYhad no idea his holiday would come to resemble a clip from a horror film

Based on true events that occurred in 2004

YOU’VE GOT to think of this experience as a movie, one of those disaster flicks from the 1970s. All-star cast. I’m played by Steve McQueen, my wife by Faye Dunaway. It opens with us boarding a plane on our way to Fuerteventura for a dream holiday. George Kennedy is probably flying the plane.

We stow away our luggage, settle into our seats, order a drink (whiskey sour) from the hostess – and that’s when I see it. A small item in the newspaper of the man sitting to my left. The headline reads: “Locust Plague Heads For Canary Islands.”

“Look at that, honey,” I say. “Locusts on the way to the Canaries. Sure hope they don’t take our spot at the pool.” And we laugh – me, my wife and the passenger (Ernest Borgnine) – as the engines roar.

Cut to exterior. The camera watches the plane rise into the air, gradually panning to the sky, empty at first, until a fluttering pink insect appears.

Then another. Then several more. Soon the sky is filled with them. The noise is deafening.

Roll opening credits.

We arrive at our dream apartment in Fuerteventura. We throw our bags on the bed, and my wife opens up the balcony doors to take in the magnificent view of the golden beach and glistening Atlantic. (In reality, we had a view of brick wall. But it was a very attractive wall.) I pour myself a drink (whiskey sour) and stroll out on to the balcony to breath in the warm air and take in the view.

I see something on the clean white tile of the balcony. It is an insect. Cigar-shaped. Pink.

I go down on my hunkers for a closer look. It’s a locust. “Hey, look honey,” I call. “It’s one of those Biblical insects.

“Hope he doesn’t eat all the paella before I get there.”

I turn to go back into the apartment. Behind me, another insect flutters on to the balcony. Then another. And another . . .

Evening approaches. We go out to get dinner. “It’s dark,” I note as we stroll through the street. “The sun must drop early in this part of the world.”

We stop in the street, gaze skyward. The sun appears weak, obscured. Is that a haze? A sea mist? Hold on, I realise, the sky is . . . could it be . . . yes, it is pink. And it appears to be writhing, fluttering. It is alive.

And it is only then that we realise it is coming straight for us. We dash down the street, through the swarm. People dash about the street, screaming, flailing, protecting their ice creams. I protect my wife, fighting off the vicious beasts. (In reality, I screamed like a little girl, but Steve McQueen wouldn’t do that so that’s how this will play out. Also, the locusts were benign and dying of exhaustion after their long flight, but no one wants to hear that version.) We look for somewhere to hide, but all avenues seem to be blocked off.

Then a hand reaches out. “In here,” a voice shouts as it pulls us into a building to safety.

Inside, we gather ourselves and realise who our rescuer is. It is Ernest Borgnine, the passenger from the plane. “Anyone for cricket?” he quips.

While this is amusing, it is entomologically inaccurate. Locusts and crickets belong to the same order of insect and are commonly mistaken for each other, but they are separate species.

Evening turns to night. The deafening sound of fluttering wings soon gives way to quiet. We listen to the radio in the hope of hearing some information, but it appears only to be a broadcast in some strange, incomprehensible language. “My god, it’s the insects. They’ve taken over the airwaves,” I utter in horror. My wife points out that it’s a presenter speaking Spanish.

Night turns to morning. It is quiet outside. Too quiet. There is only the occasional loud “crunch” which we assume must be the sound of locusts feeding on their victims. Eventually, we muster the courage to open the door a little and look outside. Everywhere is pink. Every square inch of the street. Every dune on this sandy island. The locusts are everywhere.

But they are dead. And it is silent, except for that horrible crunch, which turns out to be the sound of flip-flopped tourists making their way to the beach over a locust-corpse carpet.

“Government boffins must have found a way to kill the locusts,” I say as we step outside. “They must have discovered their only weakness and lured them to their deaths. Because it would be too dull if what actually happened on this holiday is that a locust swarm came all this way, made some headlines, were a novelty for tourists for a day, but simply dropped dead of exhaustion without causing much trouble.

“And that would certainly make for a much more boring story when we get home or for any future Holiday Disaster articles I’m asked to write.”

The sun is rising,shining brilliantly through a clear sky. I pour a drink (whiskey sour) and raise a toast to the future. It is a new dawn. For us. And for mankind. Free of locusts.

Roll credits.

(As it happens, later in this holiday I did get a terrible bout of flu that left me shaking for two days on a couch. It was a bit like The Cassandra Crossing. Hold on, I’ve an idea for a sequel...)