I hear that snakes are a favored dish of some. Although it's not my cousine of choice, it's been in abundance around here lately.
So when I joked about it coming back in my last entry, I didn't think it actually would. But it did. And it was definitely not funny.
The day after the sighting of the beast in my room, a comparatively small snake appeared in the rafters. As I had a friend visiting, news quickly spread, and within 10 minutes it had been machete chopped, with the snake blood on my box-springs (luckily I was able to halt the machete wielding woman long enough to move my mattress) to tell the story. Word quickly spread that Mica lives in a casa de culebras (snake house), and because people now have an actual reason to attach to their claims that I absolutely mustn't live alone, I was all the more determined to continue to do so.
That night, after my early evening visitors left, I walked into my dark kitchen to get some water, not at all expecting (who knows why) to see the serpent. As I opened the fridge door (electricity out, no light…just setting the scene), a movement and slithering, hissing noise to my immediate left called my attention, and low and behold there she was, chillin (ha) on the side of my fridge. Because there's no back cover, she immediately slithered inside the fridge behind, and I immediately went to look for help. By the time I returned, I had 7 Dominicans in tow, 3 machete wielding men, and 4 women who came for the drama that was in it. Campesinos are constantly looking for something out of the ordinary to break the cycle of boredom, and although I don't blame them, these women fluttering about, clinging to me and lighting up the kitchen with their cell phones was almost more difficult for me than the snake itself. After breaking my counter top (old crumbly cement) and making such a ruckus that I was sure the snake was nowhere near, they found it, just as I said, hiding underneath the fridge. I wasn't eyewitness to the hunt (hiding inside the house, separate from the kitchen) but somehow they managed to rile it up enough so it stuck out it's head and then, wham! But wait, another wham! And another and another for several minutes until it was good and dead, snake blood covering the kitchen floor. It truly was a monster.
Completely scarred by the entire incident, there was nothing to do but splurge on comfort foods. Last night I made a big pot of chili, and today I had a Milky Way and Velveeta shells and cheese, both of which were bought in a fit of frivolity while I was in the city trying to print fliers and tickets, another nightmare, for our upcoming talent show. Short of someone I really care about showing up for a surprise visit this evening, the Mac n' Cheese was the best thing I could have possibly hoped for. The chili I shared with a couple Dominican girls that had helped me clean my house, and I was pleasantly surprised at their positive responses. They even put in extra cayenne pepper, and Dominicans are not known for their fondness of spice. Cooking has long been a source of relaxation for me, and it's good to have it as an outlet, even if complicated dishes must be planned around trips to the city, or the arrival of packages from the U.S.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Anaconda (written 9.21.08)
So last night I discovered the best reason to date for diligently tucking-in one's mosquito net. It was at least 8 feet long, as thick as my arm, and hung suspended in the dark about 7 inches from my pillow when discovered. Never in my life have I seen a snake so big that wasn't on the other side of 4 inches of glass - mosquito netting, somehow, does not provide the same feeling of security. I had just returned from the bathroom (outdoor) headlamp ablaze, and before lying down, I saw a dark contrast against the white wall at the head of my bed in the periphery of the lamplight. My first thought was, wow, that's quite the large termite tunnel, and it just popped up out of nowhere! My second thought was, um, do I really want to shine the light full on to find out what this is? After doing so, I learned the true meaning of frozen with fear. Sitting curled into a ball in the middle of my bed, I stared at the long, slimy black body for what must have been 5 minutes before gathering the courage to slither (ha) out of my mosquito net, gather up my cat, and turn on the overhead light (if there was EVER an appropriate time for electricity…)
Standing in my doorway, watching the snake move about along the wall and head of my bed, I was refrozen to my place, hands to mouth, begging it in the most pathetic little squeaky voice to please leave. It was past midnight, and I knew if I went to my host parents' house in fear in the middle of the night (which I was more than tempted to do), I would NEVER be allowed to leave again. A day doesn't go by when someone doesn't warn me against living alone, and this would absolutely be the nail in the coffin. Imagine an entire community of well intended meddlers saying "I told you so" for two years. As petrified as I was (couldn't even make myself get the camera and take a picture), I elected to tough it out.
The snake soon enough decided my room was not the place it wanted to be, and slowly slithered back up to the rafters, where I could see it lying still above my bed. I'm sure it was harmless, a corn-snake or blacksnake that probably eats rats, but I have a cat for that, who is significantly cuter. Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping, and turned on my headlamp to check the perimeter at least 10 times. Although I'm dead tired today, I'm foregoing a nap in the hopes that I will sleep better tonight.
It would have been different if the snake had shown itself during the day, in the rafters, on the porch…something a little less aggressive. As it was, I found myself face to face, in the middle of the night, with a slithering black body so close I could see all the intricacies of its pattern. I told my host dad about this today (soliciting a promise that he would not tell my host mom). His response, eyes as big as saucers…
Wow, you're brave! You need to get a machete…
Me: I'm not going to attack an 8 foot long snake with a machete!
Him: (puzzled) Because you're scared or because you don't want to hurt it?
Me: I guess both. Mostly because I think I would miss, and then…
Can't wait to talk to someone from home on the phone and solicit the terror and pity that I feel this experience deserves! I've decided if it comes back, there's nothing to do but give it a silly name for comic relief. I'll say, aloud to no one, with a sigh of exasperation, "Oh Maude. It's you again." Maybe that will help.
Standing in my doorway, watching the snake move about along the wall and head of my bed, I was refrozen to my place, hands to mouth, begging it in the most pathetic little squeaky voice to please leave. It was past midnight, and I knew if I went to my host parents' house in fear in the middle of the night (which I was more than tempted to do), I would NEVER be allowed to leave again. A day doesn't go by when someone doesn't warn me against living alone, and this would absolutely be the nail in the coffin. Imagine an entire community of well intended meddlers saying "I told you so" for two years. As petrified as I was (couldn't even make myself get the camera and take a picture), I elected to tough it out.
The snake soon enough decided my room was not the place it wanted to be, and slowly slithered back up to the rafters, where I could see it lying still above my bed. I'm sure it was harmless, a corn-snake or blacksnake that probably eats rats, but I have a cat for that, who is significantly cuter. Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping, and turned on my headlamp to check the perimeter at least 10 times. Although I'm dead tired today, I'm foregoing a nap in the hopes that I will sleep better tonight.
It would have been different if the snake had shown itself during the day, in the rafters, on the porch…something a little less aggressive. As it was, I found myself face to face, in the middle of the night, with a slithering black body so close I could see all the intricacies of its pattern. I told my host dad about this today (soliciting a promise that he would not tell my host mom). His response, eyes as big as saucers…
Wow, you're brave! You need to get a machete…
Me: I'm not going to attack an 8 foot long snake with a machete!
Him: (puzzled) Because you're scared or because you don't want to hurt it?
Me: I guess both. Mostly because I think I would miss, and then…
Can't wait to talk to someone from home on the phone and solicit the terror and pity that I feel this experience deserves! I've decided if it comes back, there's nothing to do but give it a silly name for comic relief. I'll say, aloud to no one, with a sigh of exasperation, "Oh Maude. It's you again." Maybe that will help.
Gusanos (written 9.17.08)
That'd be worms in Spanish.
I was proud of myself today, and it was directly connected to me finding these fun little guys in my spaghetti noodles. Don't worry, this isn't Fear Factor, so you're safe to read on.
I started cooking early (which was to save me later) and made a delicious spaghetti sauce, complete with ground soy that I made a point to seek out last time I was in the capital. As you can see, this dish has been pre-meditated for quite some time. I was even lucky enough to time it perfectly, putting the noodles on to cook at just the right moment so the sauce would be thickened but still hot. Since I had deviled eggs and cheetos for lunch (how American of me!), I was pretty excited about a big, early spaghetti dinner. I took off the lid to the noodles, preparing myself to drain them sans-collander, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but 10 worms here and another 20 there! Obviously they were dead, and I have to confess that I did momentarily consider picking out the "good" noodles (the sauce was so tasty!) but there were just too many, so I refrained and begrudgingly set out to look for more noodles. Of course, the nearest colmado was closed, for the first time in the history of the world, at 6:00, so I trudged on to the colmado where I had bought noodles earlier this morning.
After making my purchase, I set out toward the house again, pausing about 50 feet away from the store to check out the noodles. I expected them to be fine (I assumed the worm host had been the noodles that I had had in the fridge for a while. I had bought extra this morning to make a big dinner to share with my handyman helper), but low and behold! More worms!!!!
I immediately marched back to the colmado (enter the part where I'm proud of myself) and all but demanded (ever so politely) that the owner replace not only the noodles I had just purchased, but the ones from this morning as well. This seems like a given, but it's a bigger deal here than one might think, especially for a non-partisan volunteer, to hold someone accountable like that. Or maybe it's not a big deal at all, but I was still proud that I got my pound and a half of noodles, sans maggots.
I was proud of myself today, and it was directly connected to me finding these fun little guys in my spaghetti noodles. Don't worry, this isn't Fear Factor, so you're safe to read on.
I started cooking early (which was to save me later) and made a delicious spaghetti sauce, complete with ground soy that I made a point to seek out last time I was in the capital. As you can see, this dish has been pre-meditated for quite some time. I was even lucky enough to time it perfectly, putting the noodles on to cook at just the right moment so the sauce would be thickened but still hot. Since I had deviled eggs and cheetos for lunch (how American of me!), I was pretty excited about a big, early spaghetti dinner. I took off the lid to the noodles, preparing myself to drain them sans-collander, when what to my wondering eyes did appear but 10 worms here and another 20 there! Obviously they were dead, and I have to confess that I did momentarily consider picking out the "good" noodles (the sauce was so tasty!) but there were just too many, so I refrained and begrudgingly set out to look for more noodles. Of course, the nearest colmado was closed, for the first time in the history of the world, at 6:00, so I trudged on to the colmado where I had bought noodles earlier this morning.
After making my purchase, I set out toward the house again, pausing about 50 feet away from the store to check out the noodles. I expected them to be fine (I assumed the worm host had been the noodles that I had had in the fridge for a while. I had bought extra this morning to make a big dinner to share with my handyman helper), but low and behold! More worms!!!!
I immediately marched back to the colmado (enter the part where I'm proud of myself) and all but demanded (ever so politely) that the owner replace not only the noodles I had just purchased, but the ones from this morning as well. This seems like a given, but it's a bigger deal here than one might think, especially for a non-partisan volunteer, to hold someone accountable like that. Or maybe it's not a big deal at all, but I was still proud that I got my pound and a half of noodles, sans maggots.
The Sex of Cats (9.16.08)
Today I found out my cat is female. That was weird. I could have sworn the previous owner told me my Chinola was a "he", but when she came over today for a coffee and inquired as to the sex of little Chinola, I decided to do some investigating of my own. Now I'm no expert on cat genitalia, but let it suffice to say that there was something…missing. Now at least the feminine ending to her name (Spanish and Portuguese words have gender. This is the bane of my trilingual existence) is befitting.
So just when I thought Chinola couldn't possibly confound me any more - I finally took pity on her (HER) last night and climbed atop the termite riddled furniture to get her down from the roof - she does! Even though she makes it difficult to work, biting my fingers as they move across the keyboard, running around under my feet in the kitchen, she definitely makes life a lot more interesting.
I started, and nearly finished, a grant proposal for stoves today. I can ask for up to 3,000 American dollars at one time, and this goes a long way…20 stoves long to be exact. It's a complicated process of training masons, getting materials, and finding people willing to work or pay for labor, but I'm eager to get started. We have an interest meeting this Saturday in fact and I plan to clear up a few questions that are keeping me from turning in the grant tomorrow: how much does a wheelbarrow cost? A day's worth of labor? How many of you are SERIOUSLY interested? That sort of thing. Hopefully by March of 2009, the community will have at least 20 new stoves, and more importantly, a group of individuals who are competent enough to keep making them after I leave.
My bathroom, although still a work in progress, is getting there. A friendly, helpful señor who lives a few houses down came by to install a new hose under my sink, check out the toilet's many leaks, and finally tell me what I need to get on round 2 to the hardware store (I knew 1 trip was just too good to be true). As he was preparing to leave, we had that awkward moment that usually accompanies compensation. I offered to pay him, but he flat out refused, saying he does things for people, that everything isn't about money. He wasn't lecturing, but I felt a bit ashamed for evening bringing it up. But then again, I would have felt ashamed if I hadn't. What can you do?
I think I'll make him spaghetti.
So just when I thought Chinola couldn't possibly confound me any more - I finally took pity on her (HER) last night and climbed atop the termite riddled furniture to get her down from the roof - she does! Even though she makes it difficult to work, biting my fingers as they move across the keyboard, running around under my feet in the kitchen, she definitely makes life a lot more interesting.
I started, and nearly finished, a grant proposal for stoves today. I can ask for up to 3,000 American dollars at one time, and this goes a long way…20 stoves long to be exact. It's a complicated process of training masons, getting materials, and finding people willing to work or pay for labor, but I'm eager to get started. We have an interest meeting this Saturday in fact and I plan to clear up a few questions that are keeping me from turning in the grant tomorrow: how much does a wheelbarrow cost? A day's worth of labor? How many of you are SERIOUSLY interested? That sort of thing. Hopefully by March of 2009, the community will have at least 20 new stoves, and more importantly, a group of individuals who are competent enough to keep making them after I leave.
My bathroom, although still a work in progress, is getting there. A friendly, helpful señor who lives a few houses down came by to install a new hose under my sink, check out the toilet's many leaks, and finally tell me what I need to get on round 2 to the hardware store (I knew 1 trip was just too good to be true). As he was preparing to leave, we had that awkward moment that usually accompanies compensation. I offered to pay him, but he flat out refused, saying he does things for people, that everything isn't about money. He wasn't lecturing, but I felt a bit ashamed for evening bringing it up. But then again, I would have felt ashamed if I hadn't. What can you do?
I think I'll make him spaghetti.
Handyman (written 9.15.08)
Today I installed a toilet seat. That is, after riding a motorcycle 30 minutes both ways to the nearest hardware store where I could first buy a toilet seat. Some might say this is a small task, but it was a proud moment for me. Handyman Mica!
Once I was in fix-up-the-house mode, I decided to take the scary couch cushions outside for a beating as well. A clean-crazy friend of mine (you know who you are) sent me a package with travel size Febreeze, among other cleaning supplies (spray on wrinkle release - really!), so I decided to deodorize the cushions. Seriously, it could only help. I mostly refuse to even sit on the cushions. Thanks a bunch to my ultra hygienic friend!
Finally, the cat has trumped his own stupidity. As I type, he is wandering among the wooden rafters and zinc sheets of my roof, crying and pretending he can't get down. He must be able to - he got up after all! - and as it is raining and dark, I really have no other option than to sit and wait. It would be ridiculous to ask my senior neighbors to come out in the wet dark with a ladder to retrieve my cat, especially in a country where the majority sees our feline friends as little more than rat traps. Sorry Chinola! Get comfy, it may be a long night…
Once I was in fix-up-the-house mode, I decided to take the scary couch cushions outside for a beating as well. A clean-crazy friend of mine (you know who you are) sent me a package with travel size Febreeze, among other cleaning supplies (spray on wrinkle release - really!), so I decided to deodorize the cushions. Seriously, it could only help. I mostly refuse to even sit on the cushions. Thanks a bunch to my ultra hygienic friend!
Finally, the cat has trumped his own stupidity. As I type, he is wandering among the wooden rafters and zinc sheets of my roof, crying and pretending he can't get down. He must be able to - he got up after all! - and as it is raining and dark, I really have no other option than to sit and wait. It would be ridiculous to ask my senior neighbors to come out in the wet dark with a ladder to retrieve my cat, especially in a country where the majority sees our feline friends as little more than rat traps. Sorry Chinola! Get comfy, it may be a long night…
A lack of light and firemen (written 9.13.08)
I like having time to myself in my new house, but it's infinitely more enjoyable at night when there is electricity. Otherwise, I wander around with my wind-up flashlight or headlamp that only works in fits and spurts. When there's electricity, I can sit on the porch and read, write blog entries, make bracelets, or chat with friends. When there's no electricity, my activities are limited to talking to my cat, who's afraid of the headlamp, so that doesn't work out too well.
Speaking of little Chinola, he pulled a fast one on me tonight. After several days of letting him outside for only a few minutes at a time, we've established a strong enough relationship that I'm confident he won't run away. So when there was tonight electricity, I let him out, and although he didn't run away, he did run up a tree. And get stuck. Oops. After listening to him cry long enough that I was sure he wasn't coming down unassisted, I donned my headlamp (the porch light only reaches so far) and climbed an orange tree to pull the feline fool to safety by the scruff of his neck. Hair thicker by several cobwebs and still more leaves, I shut him in the house and did not feel the least bit guilty when he cried to be let out again.
Dummy.
Speaking of little Chinola, he pulled a fast one on me tonight. After several days of letting him outside for only a few minutes at a time, we've established a strong enough relationship that I'm confident he won't run away. So when there was tonight electricity, I let him out, and although he didn't run away, he did run up a tree. And get stuck. Oops. After listening to him cry long enough that I was sure he wasn't coming down unassisted, I donned my headlamp (the porch light only reaches so far) and climbed an orange tree to pull the feline fool to safety by the scruff of his neck. Hair thicker by several cobwebs and still more leaves, I shut him in the house and did not feel the least bit guilty when he cried to be let out again.
Dummy.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Home Sweet Home (written 9.2.08)
It has scorpions, it has leaks, it has termites and a cat that's not quite a fan of me…but hey! It's home!
After cleaning 50 years worth of old people junk out of a house that hadn't been lived in in over 2 years, with much help from friends, I moved all of my things into my new old home. Perhaps a little prematurely, I got a kitten on the same day, thinking we could keep one another company. He actually hid under my bed for most of the first day (who can blame him after riding to his new home inside an old rice sack on the back of a motorcycle?) but has gotten continually braver, and is definitely showing an interest in getting to know me. He's an orange tabby (is there any other kind?) and I call him Chinola - a yellowish, bittersweet fruit that makes great smoothies!
After a tiring weekend of diversity camp, run by Peace Corps volunteers and to which I took two girls from my community, I returned home on Sunday and set about making house into home. After waking up luxuriously at 9 (it's hard to drag oneself out of bed when it hasn't stopped raining in about 24 hours), I cooked an American breakfast, finished a book, and made fresh squeezed orange juice out of 20 oranges a neighbor brought me (I'm pretty sure they came off the back of "my" property somewhere). Although the streets have turned to mud, I eventually made my way down to my host parents for a late lunch, where there sat awaiting me on the dining room table a heaping portion of pig intestines. Sure, it sounds exotic when you call it "mondongo", but that doesn't make it any more digestible. I managed to swallow one piece, discreetly fed the rest of what was on my plate to the ugly turkey that hangs around out back, and managed to get out of the house about 30 minutes later without my host mom saying something about how little I had eaten. Crisis averted! I had heard tales of this mondongo, and even seen it transported in buckets on buses, but until this rainy Tuesday afternoon, had never been presented with it as a solitary lunch option (with rice, of course). It kinda looked like large, grey, floppy cheerios in a red sauce. The texture, rubber tire. The flavor….let's not go there. Luckily I wasn't that hungry, and I have an assortment of vegetables to cook for dinner tonight (if I can find a cooking pot in my decrepit kitchen) as well as fresh squeezed orange juice.
After cleaning 50 years worth of old people junk out of a house that hadn't been lived in in over 2 years, with much help from friends, I moved all of my things into my new old home. Perhaps a little prematurely, I got a kitten on the same day, thinking we could keep one another company. He actually hid under my bed for most of the first day (who can blame him after riding to his new home inside an old rice sack on the back of a motorcycle?) but has gotten continually braver, and is definitely showing an interest in getting to know me. He's an orange tabby (is there any other kind?) and I call him Chinola - a yellowish, bittersweet fruit that makes great smoothies!
After a tiring weekend of diversity camp, run by Peace Corps volunteers and to which I took two girls from my community, I returned home on Sunday and set about making house into home. After waking up luxuriously at 9 (it's hard to drag oneself out of bed when it hasn't stopped raining in about 24 hours), I cooked an American breakfast, finished a book, and made fresh squeezed orange juice out of 20 oranges a neighbor brought me (I'm pretty sure they came off the back of "my" property somewhere). Although the streets have turned to mud, I eventually made my way down to my host parents for a late lunch, where there sat awaiting me on the dining room table a heaping portion of pig intestines. Sure, it sounds exotic when you call it "mondongo", but that doesn't make it any more digestible. I managed to swallow one piece, discreetly fed the rest of what was on my plate to the ugly turkey that hangs around out back, and managed to get out of the house about 30 minutes later without my host mom saying something about how little I had eaten. Crisis averted! I had heard tales of this mondongo, and even seen it transported in buckets on buses, but until this rainy Tuesday afternoon, had never been presented with it as a solitary lunch option (with rice, of course). It kinda looked like large, grey, floppy cheerios in a red sauce. The texture, rubber tire. The flavor….let's not go there. Luckily I wasn't that hungry, and I have an assortment of vegetables to cook for dinner tonight (if I can find a cooking pot in my decrepit kitchen) as well as fresh squeezed orange juice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)