“They’re like goldfish,” Monica said. We stood staring at the baby chicks running around the storeroom. Their feathers were starting to change colors, but they were still awfully small.
“What do you mean, goldfish?” I asked.
“They grow according to their environment, and they’ve been trapped in a little basket their whole lives, so they haven’t grown much.”
The theory sounded good, but what do I know about chickens? Then it hit me: she didn’t know anything about chickens either. “Are you sure?”
“Of course!” She feigned insult. I remained silent. A moment passed. Then she looked at me hesitantly before adding with a laugh, “I mean, I haven’t read it anywhere or anything...”
Still, it was good enough for me. “It’s time to move the chickens.”
However, we soon realized that was easier said than done.
First, we tried herding them with sticks. They didn’t cooperate. In fact, we looked so ridiculous the Old Man was bent over laughing at us from the peaceful security of his house.
So we tried catching them with a sheet. They were too quick. Every time we came within sheet-throwing distance, they’d scuttle out of range or take cover beneath a prickly bush. These goddam chickens are wiser in the way of warfare than they lead you to believe.
Then we resorted to the basket, catching Mamma underneath and scrambling around to convince the four chicks to join her. But the distance between the storeroom and the henhouse was simply too great! As we dragged the family along, Mamma’s foot or a baby’s wing or an entire chick itself would get caught between the thatch and the path, and we would cringe on their behalf, cease our movement, and stare at the broiling remaining distance. By this time the sun was at its zenith, and Monica and I were drenched in sweat.
Still, we refused to concede. We took a moment to strategize over a glass of water, built a chicken-catching contraption with a basket, a couple sticks, and our own wit, and tried again. To no avail.
Maybe the idea was sent from elsewhere, but it struck us both at the same time: With the chickens in the basket, we shifted them over the sheet, wrapped the corners tightly to prevent any openings, and lifted everything. All five rascals were squawking and squealing, but they were sealed and transportable. We carried the chickens to their new home, shifted the basket on its side, with the sheet between the chickens and the henhouse door. Then, like two proud magicians, we let the sheet drop. Mamma, Thelma, Louise, Beatrice and Mammacas flew frantically into their new home.
We sealed the door just in time for Vasentha to arrive. She looked at us, standing and sweating beside the hen house. She looked at the Old Man, laughing from a distance. And she looked at the animals playing in the dirt within caged walls. “Super.”
Monica and I may get the hang of this after all.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Lost in Translation
Vasentha and the Old Man are engaging me more and more. (I mean beyond the evening tea ritual they’ve pleasantly implemented with me and Monica.)
In turn, I spend long hours wondering if they’re doing their jobs, if I should be giving them more direction, and if so—how?
The nights before Vasentah comes, Monica and I agree upon which tasks we want her to do, then take turns assuming the responsibility of miming the messages to her the next morning.
And the Old Man? Forget about it. I’m in over my head.
But still, they look to me eagerly. They tell me things about the house and the forest and wait for my response. As if I have any clue.
This afternoon they were particularly animated. Something about cashew trees, branches of wood, and something above their heads. A bird was eating the cashews? Is that it? They mimed movement. People are stealing the wood?! What???
They dragged me to a couple sites on the land where bundles of cashew branches rested or where the earth was scarred from a recent fire. They gestured to the surrounding trees and leaves damaged by smoke. They pointed into the depths of the land and hollered wildly. Then they spewed more Tamil and waited for my reply. Four deep brown eyes staring at me. Two mouths biting lips in anticipation.
That’s when I cracked. I fell to my knees laughing hysterically, Gopal kissing my face, the sun beating sweat from every pore in my body. “I don’t know!” I cried through my incessant giggles. “I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t know what to do, and I just don’t know!”
The workers laughed too, but I’m not sure they knew why.
I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt and tears burst from my eyes. “I’ve lost it,” I muttered. “I’ve finally lost it.” I called out names of people who surely will not come soon.
Alas, I recovered. There’s a way to fix this, to understand, to explain. I just don’t know it yet. I marched to the kitchen and asked Vasentha for tea. And I learned another lesson in patience.
Everything in Auroville (And perhaps everywhere? It’s just more noticeable here?) happens in its own time, in its own way, and it’s all connected—if only you have faith that the answer will emerge in time. Only moments after I recovered from my fit, a friend who speaks Tamil happened to come by. I begged him to translate.
“They’re just telling you that there’s wood all over the land, not in one place, and tomorrow Vasentha will spend her day carrying it on her head to move it instead of helping indoors. Is that ok?”
I swallowed hard. It was my pride, I think. “So they not only know what they’re supposed to do, but they’re doing it?”
“I guess,” he responded, perplexed by the humor I seemed to find in the situation.
And I laughed some more. “Seri, seri!” I said to the workers. Ok, ok!
I’ll be better at Tamil long before I get better at charades.
In turn, I spend long hours wondering if they’re doing their jobs, if I should be giving them more direction, and if so—how?
The nights before Vasentah comes, Monica and I agree upon which tasks we want her to do, then take turns assuming the responsibility of miming the messages to her the next morning.
And the Old Man? Forget about it. I’m in over my head.
But still, they look to me eagerly. They tell me things about the house and the forest and wait for my response. As if I have any clue.
This afternoon they were particularly animated. Something about cashew trees, branches of wood, and something above their heads. A bird was eating the cashews? Is that it? They mimed movement. People are stealing the wood?! What???
They dragged me to a couple sites on the land where bundles of cashew branches rested or where the earth was scarred from a recent fire. They gestured to the surrounding trees and leaves damaged by smoke. They pointed into the depths of the land and hollered wildly. Then they spewed more Tamil and waited for my reply. Four deep brown eyes staring at me. Two mouths biting lips in anticipation.
That’s when I cracked. I fell to my knees laughing hysterically, Gopal kissing my face, the sun beating sweat from every pore in my body. “I don’t know!” I cried through my incessant giggles. “I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t know what to do, and I just don’t know!”
The workers laughed too, but I’m not sure they knew why.
I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt and tears burst from my eyes. “I’ve lost it,” I muttered. “I’ve finally lost it.” I called out names of people who surely will not come soon.
Alas, I recovered. There’s a way to fix this, to understand, to explain. I just don’t know it yet. I marched to the kitchen and asked Vasentha for tea. And I learned another lesson in patience.
Everything in Auroville (And perhaps everywhere? It’s just more noticeable here?) happens in its own time, in its own way, and it’s all connected—if only you have faith that the answer will emerge in time. Only moments after I recovered from my fit, a friend who speaks Tamil happened to come by. I begged him to translate.
“They’re just telling you that there’s wood all over the land, not in one place, and tomorrow Vasentha will spend her day carrying it on her head to move it instead of helping indoors. Is that ok?”
I swallowed hard. It was my pride, I think. “So they not only know what they’re supposed to do, but they’re doing it?”
“I guess,” he responded, perplexed by the humor I seemed to find in the situation.
And I laughed some more. “Seri, seri!” I said to the workers. Ok, ok!
I’ll be better at Tamil long before I get better at charades.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Daily Activities
People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.
The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.
Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.
And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.
Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…
And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.
Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.
They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.
Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.
So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.
The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.
Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.
And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.
Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…
And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.
Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.
They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.
Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.
So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Chics Day Out
Interesting how much we’ve seen shapes how world view. Many will never leave their home country, many have never been on an airplane, many can’t even conceptualize elsewhere. I, for one, strongly advocate for travel and encourage others to see as much as they can. If I had the resources, I would give EVERYONE I know an opportunity to leave their sheltered life—even if only for a few moments.
Why should the baby chickens be exempt?
Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.
(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)
I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.
So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!
And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…
…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:
Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.
One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…
Why should the baby chickens be exempt?
Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.
(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)
I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.
So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!
And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…
…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:
Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.
One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Vet
It’s good to be humbled. I find I am wrong more frequently these days, and that’s fine. I’m sure I’m learning something besides humility.
A dear friend took me and the dog to the free vet for village dogs. What an incredible service! Walking through its beautiful gate, visitors find themselves in an open puppy playground with battered dogs full of life and hope. A three-legged beagle mix greeted us with protective barks and gentle kisses. Several mutts followed curiously in our wake. Others suffering from mange or broken limbs or whatever else were herded into the back field, where they can run and tussle and play. I was immediately relieved, and brought our street dog to the table.
“Ah, he’s not so bad,” the vet said.
I looked at the fly-infested, limping, bleeding dog and responded, “You must see a lot of suffering.”
She examined his wounds, weighed him, gave him a shot for worms, played with his feet and teeth and unmentionables. Here are the conclusions:
“Now,” she said, “the first step to healing is a name. What are you calling him?”
We each blurted out three different words.
“And that, I fear, will be your problem.”
Ok, ok... Gop__ it is?
A dear friend took me and the dog to the free vet for village dogs. What an incredible service! Walking through its beautiful gate, visitors find themselves in an open puppy playground with battered dogs full of life and hope. A three-legged beagle mix greeted us with protective barks and gentle kisses. Several mutts followed curiously in our wake. Others suffering from mange or broken limbs or whatever else were herded into the back field, where they can run and tussle and play. I was immediately relieved, and brought our street dog to the table.
“Ah, he’s not so bad,” the vet said.
I looked at the fly-infested, limping, bleeding dog and responded, “You must see a lot of suffering.”
She examined his wounds, weighed him, gave him a shot for worms, played with his feet and teeth and unmentionables. Here are the conclusions:
- He’s six to nine months old.
- He’ll be a big dog, judging by the size of his paws. Some German Shepard mix.
- He has mange and needs to be washed with special soap.
- He needs follow up worm pills.
- He needs to eat more. A lot more. He’s malnourished—probably because of the worms.
- He limps because he’s weak; as soon as the mange and worms go, he’ll be better.
- He’s already attached to us.
“Now,” she said, “the first step to healing is a name. What are you calling him?”
We each blurted out three different words.
“And that, I fear, will be your problem.”
Ok, ok... Gop__ it is?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Dog
We're still settling on a name, but Gopta and Gopal are coming out on top… even though he’s not living up to his name as defender/protector or cow herder. In fact, as I spend time with him, I realize more and more how difficult this is going to be.
Here's why:
But I have faith if not patience. This poor pup had a hard life and survived something traumatic. In time, I hope, he’ll come around…
In the meantime, we’ll shower him with love and affection, heal and feed him, and try try try to make him the Defender of Lumière and Protector of Plants!
Here's why:
- I'm not his person. Dogs pick their person; we, also, are drawn to certain dogs. I was not drawn to Gopta nor him to me; we were united by extraneous circumstances and now must learn to like each other. We’re getting there. Slowly.
- He's old. I don't care what Raja said: This is not a puppy—it's a small-sized dog. His balls have dropped and he's stubborn. I'm not training a puppy; I'm teaching an old dog new tricks. Or trying to, at least.
- He's scared. Of everything. Including the chickens. (And eating… Every time I feed him he nibbles, jumps away, timidly returns, eats some more, and continues as such until the bowl is empty.)
- He doesn't bark. How can you noiselessly defend a house?
- He won't chase the cows. Unless, of course, you count him chasing me as I chase the cows.
But I have faith if not patience. This poor pup had a hard life and survived something traumatic. In time, I hope, he’ll come around…
In the meantime, we’ll shower him with love and affection, heal and feed him, and try try try to make him the Defender of Lumière and Protector of Plants!
Friday, July 10, 2009
When Worlds Collide...
It was definitely the strangest site I've seen since arriving in the forest.
There was an old, black-skinned Tamilian—hardened from a life of physical labor and wrinkled from years in the sun.
There a computer—equipped with the latest software and top-of-the-line gadgets.
The Old Man sat in front of the computer, wearing a loin-cloth and USB earphones, skyping his boss half-a-world away.
We had to take pictures... ;)
There was an old, black-skinned Tamilian—hardened from a life of physical labor and wrinkled from years in the sun.
There a computer—equipped with the latest software and top-of-the-line gadgets.
The Old Man sat in front of the computer, wearing a loin-cloth and USB earphones, skyping his boss half-a-world away.
We had to take pictures... ;)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Newest Addition
In the middle of the night Monica turned to me. “Catherine,” she whispered, “do you hear that?”
I listened to the sounds of the land. “Hear what?”
“That creepy noise that’s definitely not a cow.”
Yup. Yup, I heard it. And there was nothing me, Monica, or an injured old watchman that my grandfather could beat up could do about it. (In all fairness, my grandfather’s in remarkable health for 80.)
“We really, really need a dog,” I said.
“A big dog,” she replied.
Hours earlier, across Auroville…
Raja had just finished dinner with his family when his eldest brother marched in. “I need some leftover food.”
“You don’t have enough?” his mother asked, full of concern.
“It’s not for me; it’s for this damn dog that won’t get out from under my porch.”
“Dog?” Raja’s ears perked up.
So his brother told the story: A few days ago he—a mere puppy—was chased by bigger village dogs, and now he’s broken and bleeding in the sand near Brother’s house and refuses to move.
I listened to the sounds of the land. “Hear what?”
“That creepy noise that’s definitely not a cow.”
Yup. Yup, I heard it. And there was nothing me, Monica, or an injured old watchman that my grandfather could beat up could do about it. (In all fairness, my grandfather’s in remarkable health for 80.)
“We really, really need a dog,” I said.
“A big dog,” she replied.
Hours earlier, across Auroville…
Raja had just finished dinner with his family when his eldest brother marched in. “I need some leftover food.”
“You don’t have enough?” his mother asked, full of concern.
“It’s not for me; it’s for this damn dog that won’t get out from under my porch.”
“Dog?” Raja’s ears perked up.
So his brother told the story: A few days ago he—a mere puppy—was chased by bigger village dogs, and now he’s broken and bleeding in the sand near Brother’s house and refuses to move.
“Lumière will take him.”
So suddenly we have a guard dog in need of serious mending… and a name.
Any suggestions?!
So suddenly we have a guard dog in need of serious mending… and a name.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Boys, Bikes & Brands
The thing about Auroville is: It’s a small town where gossip festers so much that you realize high school was a breeze. (This is written, btw, with the most sincere love and affection for the community... and just a pinch of cynicism.)
Monica and I have taken it upon ourselves to conduct research into the cause of certain types of gossip, and we’re composing a guidebook for future unsuspecting ladies to follow if they ever decide to visit the City the Earth Needs.
Here are our findings so far:
Stay tuned for more from the anthropological eyes of Catherine & Monica...
Monica and I have taken it upon ourselves to conduct research into the cause of certain types of gossip, and we’re composing a guidebook for future unsuspecting ladies to follow if they ever decide to visit the City the Earth Needs.
Here are our findings so far:
Boys
- If you talk to a boy, you’re interested in him.
- If you dance with a boy, you want to have sex with him.
- If you ride on the back of his bike a certain way or a certain number of times,* you’re in a serious relationship.
- If you’re sharing a living space with a boy, you’re basically married…even if no romantic feelings exist.
Bikes*
Riding on the back of a boy’s bike is not as innocent as it seems. For example, if you’re clinging to the back of the bike instead of the driver, there’s a chance you may just be using the boy for a ride. However, if there’s less than three visible inches of space between you and the boy, then you’re clearly together. Some other signals:
- The first time a girl rides on a boy’s bike, it may just be to get from Point A to Point B.
- If the girl is seen a second time on the back of the same boy’s bike, then they’re dating.
- If caught a third time, she’s pregnant.
Brands
If you’re associated with a boy due to any of the aforementioned actions (or anything else), you acquire a tag. You are labeled as his. And, sorry ladies, it seems that once you’ve been branded, there’s little hope. Here's some advice from Aurovilian men on the subject:Clear as mud.
- To lessen the impact of a tag, date someone else for more than 2 months.
- Be aware that no Aurovilian man will date you out of respect for the tag holder, because they've known him longer than you.
- If you are unattractive, tags will not last.
Stay tuned for more from the anthropological eyes of Catherine & Monica...
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Case for Dogs
The land is lined with coconut tree gravestones of puppies long past. Something about dogs and this place doesn't work; they fall ill or injured and pass away long before their time is due.
But the land needs a dog. For example...
These days there are always strangers on the land. Dozens a day, from early morning until the heat becomes to much to bear. They come to pick cashews, but they wander too close to the house, use our water tap, sit in the kitchen. They ignore Raja’s request to keep away from our space and stick to the cashews.
One day Raja cracked. He was sick of the villagers coming too near, so he walked inside and concocted a plan.
He download sounds of dogs barking from the internet. And he played them, over and over, all the while shouting at his “dog.”
Slowly, slowly, the people moved away.
He told me this story after an afternoon of chasing cows. Out of breath, I could only reply: “Can we train our fake dog to herd cows too?”
But the land needs a dog. For example...
These days there are always strangers on the land. Dozens a day, from early morning until the heat becomes to much to bear. They come to pick cashews, but they wander too close to the house, use our water tap, sit in the kitchen. They ignore Raja’s request to keep away from our space and stick to the cashews.
One day Raja cracked. He was sick of the villagers coming too near, so he walked inside and concocted a plan.
He download sounds of dogs barking from the internet. And he played them, over and over, all the while shouting at his “dog.”
Slowly, slowly, the people moved away.
He told me this story after an afternoon of chasing cows. Out of breath, I could only reply: “Can we train our fake dog to herd cows too?”
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Scorpions
I never really considered myself a scaredy cat.
Sure, from time to time loud bursts of thunder make me jump. Fine, I occasionally have nightmares about clowns that turn people into cotton candy and suck their blood. And I still think Ernest Scared Stupid was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen... aside from The Ring.
My point is I don’t get frightened driving through the woods in the middle of the night; snakes and small animals don’t scare me; I don’t think there are monsters living in the closet everyone refuses to open. I’ve even overcome my fear of spiders and peacefully co-habitate with giant hairy arachnoids.
But this weekend I discovered scorpions.
The first one we saw was at night, and it looked like a black lobster crossing the dirt path. “Is... is that a scorpion?” I asked Monica, a Texan, as we drove past.
“Sure was,” she replied coolly. She’s seen her share of scorpions and, as she quickly reminded me, the bigger the better.
Still, my blood ran cold.
Later, as I plugged away on my keyboard, I heard shouting from the downstairs bathroom where Monica was emerging from the shower. “Goddam scorpion buried itself in my skirt while I was in the shower for five freakin’ minutes, lil [expletive], [expletive], [expletives].” (Apparently she likes scorpions less when they’re in her clothes instead of on the road.)
While this one was small and red and thus more dangerous, it didn’t bother me, as I didn’t see it. “It’s only a scorpion,” I hollered down. “Get used to ‘em, I guess.” But don’t expect me to use that bathroom ever again.
In the morning I noticed a flattened black shell of a scorpion buried in my tire tracks. Monica told me she saw a small one cross the road. “The rains bring ‘em out,” the locals told us. Great.
Then Saturday night we went to the most innocent of events: a child’s play at the Visitors’ Center. Obviously something of this nature puts you in a cute and cuddly mood, and you naturally feel happier about everything. Until you go to the parking lot, climb onto your bike, and notice a giant lobster with a spiked tail staring at you. Scorpions are NOT cute and cuddly, nor anything to be happy about.
Fight or flight, right? Well I scrambled awkwardly to get into gear, pressing the wrong pedals until I jerked the bike forward and far away. I was silent; no words within me could alert the group of people coming to the parking lot about the giant beast that awaits, ready to induce pain with its miserable stinger. The children—for the Love of God—I failed to warn the children!
But I realized as soon as I regained my voice that I am afraid of scorpions, and if tested in a crisis situation, I would surely fail.
Sure, from time to time loud bursts of thunder make me jump. Fine, I occasionally have nightmares about clowns that turn people into cotton candy and suck their blood. And I still think Ernest Scared Stupid was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen... aside from The Ring.
My point is I don’t get frightened driving through the woods in the middle of the night; snakes and small animals don’t scare me; I don’t think there are monsters living in the closet everyone refuses to open. I’ve even overcome my fear of spiders and peacefully co-habitate with giant hairy arachnoids.
But this weekend I discovered scorpions.
The first one we saw was at night, and it looked like a black lobster crossing the dirt path. “Is... is that a scorpion?” I asked Monica, a Texan, as we drove past.
“Sure was,” she replied coolly. She’s seen her share of scorpions and, as she quickly reminded me, the bigger the better.
Still, my blood ran cold.
Later, as I plugged away on my keyboard, I heard shouting from the downstairs bathroom where Monica was emerging from the shower. “Goddam scorpion buried itself in my skirt while I was in the shower for five freakin’ minutes, lil [expletive], [expletive], [expletives].” (Apparently she likes scorpions less when they’re in her clothes instead of on the road.)
While this one was small and red and thus more dangerous, it didn’t bother me, as I didn’t see it. “It’s only a scorpion,” I hollered down. “Get used to ‘em, I guess.” But don’t expect me to use that bathroom ever again.
In the morning I noticed a flattened black shell of a scorpion buried in my tire tracks. Monica told me she saw a small one cross the road. “The rains bring ‘em out,” the locals told us. Great.
Then Saturday night we went to the most innocent of events: a child’s play at the Visitors’ Center. Obviously something of this nature puts you in a cute and cuddly mood, and you naturally feel happier about everything. Until you go to the parking lot, climb onto your bike, and notice a giant lobster with a spiked tail staring at you. Scorpions are NOT cute and cuddly, nor anything to be happy about.
Fight or flight, right? Well I scrambled awkwardly to get into gear, pressing the wrong pedals until I jerked the bike forward and far away. I was silent; no words within me could alert the group of people coming to the parking lot about the giant beast that awaits, ready to induce pain with its miserable stinger. The children—for the Love of God—I failed to warn the children!
But I realized as soon as I regained my voice that I am afraid of scorpions, and if tested in a crisis situation, I would surely fail.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Old Man vs Wild Cat
Last night there were noises. Violent noises. Noises too scary for us to check on. Plus, we have a night watchman, and his voice triumphed over the cries. So everyone in the house returned to dreams, and only this morning did we learn of the previous evening's heroic adventures...
Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!
But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.
But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.
And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.
No wildcat will get us down.
Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!
But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.
But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.
And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.
No wildcat will get us down.
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