I break out in a cold sweat!

Mamasita, I read your message about holding Ancho hostage on the Escondida Road compound. I hope you released him so that he could go home and feed Poe.

I am considering writing a blog entry called “No one writes to the anthropologist.” This would summarize my woeful lack of emails or comments on my blog. My so-called Sister assured me three weeks ago that she would stay in touch on email. Have I heard a peep? What do you people think? That I am down here just ruling the world? How about a little concern or well wishing for Pete’s Sake?

Garcia Marquez wrote a short story called “No One Writes to the Colonel.” That’s where I got the idea for my own pouty tale.

Despite the lack of electronic correspondence at least there’s a lot of soccer on. It’s only 12 and already Australia and Benin played this morning at 8 a.m. They tied 1-1. Now Holland and Japan are battling. There was a strange postmodern performance in the stadium at Holland before the second game began. It involved people in colonial costumes, young girls in baggy sweats, and even younger kids dressed in high tech shiny gold body suits replete with hats. There’s something strange going on in Holland. It must be the hash bars.

Now I know what you are thinking. Isn’t she supposed to be working? Well, I am darn it. I am just in for lunch, and um, perhaps watching a little soccer.

This morning my neighbor Rosivel came by to haul me along on a walk around the “vuelta.” I walk everyday now, so I figured I could go ahead and get it out of the way. Rosivel and I talked shop about health, family, and the like. She always wonders at just how much sweat my body is capable of producing.

Well, hell Rosivel, it’s only 150 % humidity! It is- I mean it. I know it’s impossible, but it is over 100 percent humidity. It’s the perfect climate to catch a cold. It is both humid and warm and chilly and breezy all at the same time. It is so confusing that my body’s only reaction is to sweat profusely. The amount of sweat is great, even for me. It reminds me of how I sweat last summer at my friends’ weddings. I was asked by three people- Lucy, Emily, and April- to be a bridesmaid. I said yes, but what I should of said was, “really you have no idea of my capacity to sweat, especially in bridesmaid’s wear.” At one of the weddings, I could actually feel the sweat dripping off my elbows down to the chapel floor- Is that sacrilegious?

I have always struggled with sweat. When I started my freshman year of high school it was really hip to wear short-sleeved polo shirts. These are undoubtedly the most sweat-inducing shirts known to humankind. I remember Scott McKenzie coming up to my locker once to talk to me and I was so afraid he would notice the telltale signs of a rampant sweater. He never did ask me out- maybe that is why? Or maybe it was my impossibly big hair.

After the walk with Rosivel I headed down to yet another trapiche to watch a family grinding cane and making dulce. This was a bigger operation than most. More mechanized. No oxen. Three cauldrons of boiling sugar. I took photos, but it is so humid, and the trapiche was so steamy and hot that the photos look like they are sweating too.

By the time I walked back to my house it was time to change into my third shirt for the day. This one’s sleeveless. Maybe it will last until dinner.

I guess that’s life in the rainy season. Man, they weren’t kidding. Yesterday, I pulled a phone company truck out of the mud with my trusty Toyota, Bessie. She is such a bad mama jama. Shortly afterwards a guy stopped me to talk about selling my truck and I wanted to recount her many virtues, but I had to get to Acosta to lunch with Elisa and take care of some business. I told him we could talk later. Everyone wants to buy my truck- I just have to find someone who has the money to do it!

Well, in Murcielago (bat, for those of you who don’t speak Spanish) news another one bites the dust. Yes, the third, count it, third murcielago somehow wound up in the washing machine this morning rather than in the roof above my office, where it is supposed to live when the sun comes up. I have deduced that this is what happens-

Every morning at about 530 a.m. I can hear the little bastards returning from their nightly brew ha ha about the gullies and streams of our dear community. Each one flies into the roof through this little gap in the wood under the roofline. This little hole just-so-happens to be located right above the washing machine. Every morning what I hear is a little “thud------- thud------- thud------“ as one after another reenters my roof to sleep off another night’s scavenging. Every once in a while though, one unlucky bat does not make the hole and instead knocks himself silly and falls into the basin of the washing machine. The nasty thing is they usually live, but they are so disoriented by the time the come to- what with it being daylight and all- they just seem sort of drunk and disoriented. They might actually live if it were up to me. I sure as hell am not going to kill a bat. But, my neighbors have no qualms about it. Just the other day my landlady killed three mice and a scorpion in a matter of minutes. Now had I accomplished such a feat I would be announcing my eventual domination of the universe. But for her, it’s all in a day’s work. In this case, she found the creatures in her brother’s room when she was cleaning it out. He seems to have a problem with orderliness. Now that she is not working in San Jose anymore she has time to do things like clean out her (40 something) brother’s room. Cleaning out his room led to a large pile of garbage out back that was burned with great satisfaction on the part of my landlady. The fire was so big that it burned even through the rain. Good for her. Burn the rubbish I say.

So there you are folks, just a little taste of my life. I guess I might ought to get back to work this p.m. I have some interviews this weekend to prepare for and I need to go make some visits. And if you never write to me or inquire about my health, don’t worry. It just means I won’t come sweat all over your next wedding, bah mitzvah, or holiday fest.

Kiss kiss,

Lefty