Thoughts on the rainy season, cleanliness, and motherliness

Nearly everyone in the community seems to be going a little crazy because of the incessant rain. The orange growers are worried about their fruit. The coffee growers are worried about their coffee. The beans that got planted about a month back are probably ruined. Children have bronchitis. Most of us have the flu. Clothes do not have time to dry on the line. The electricity goes out everyday- today’s outage was from about 8 a.m. until 12:30 p.m. I had to go next door to boil two eggs on a gas stove for lunch.

The elementary students just finished their exams and in order to celebrate their achievement, Mother Nature awarded them an afternoon deluge. The deluge continues.

I got an invitation to dinner tomorrow night at a household up the hill. The little girl who came to invite me advised, “Make sure you wear boots- the mud around our house is terrible.” It’s gotten to the point where I must wear one pair of shoes to walk outside and carry another pair (usually flip-flops) to wear in houses when I am visiting.

I lived in Portland, Oregon for a year and thought I knew about rain.

I knew nothing about a rainy season.

Robert Chambers, a fantastic anthropologist, has written a bulk of literature dedicated to examining why many international “development” projects fail. One of the most practical reasons that development specialists fail, according to Chambers, is that they often know very little about the places that they seek to “develop.” They may visit a country once or twice and stay only in the capital, avoiding the rural areas they are supposed to be serving. Most importantly, they don’t understand seasonality, because they try to travel only when the roads are good (the dry times). I have always agreed with Chambers’ critiques of the development apparatus, but now having the opportunity to live through a rainy season in a rural area, I have a new appreciation for his point.

When I lived in Portland, my unhealthy way of coping with the winter rain was to drink Black Butte Porter, a fine Northwestern Microbrew, and throw darts. Sadly, there are no dartboards here and there is definitely no micro-brewed beer. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing- for now, it simply is.

I have not left this little community since Oct. 3, when I ran into Acosta to run some errands. Most of the time since, I have been ill. I am hoping tomorrow is my breakthrough day where I feel 100 percent better. Today, I feel about 85 percent better. I had enough energy to clean my house, which I felt surely needed a good disinfecting since I picked up a virus somewhere.

Having the house clean is enough to make you feel a little better. My Mom, who is generally always right about everything, has always been adamant about the necessity of cleanliness in the face of illness. When I was really sick and bedridden at my parents’ house several years ago with the lung infection the Health Department called Tuberculosis, my Mom and I had a little routine. I was way too sick to care about cleanliness, so each morning she would help me into the shower and while I was taking a shower she would re-make my bed so that it was nice and neat. Then she would clean all around my bed, where I had usually amassed a glass or two, stray tissues, a million different books, and countless bottles of medicine. (The treatment for tuberculosis involves and ungodly number of different antibiotics that you must take each day). Anyway, it always did help me quite a lot to emerge from the shower, which at the beginning stages of my recovery bathing was quite a challenge in itself, and find that my recuperation room was in order. She even put out a fresh glass of water.

Moms rock.

When I was old enough to make my own sandwiches for lunch I used to ask my Mom to make me the sandwich anyway, stating the proven fact that sandwiches made by Mom always taste better than when you make them yourself. When I ate my egg salad sandwich for lunch today, it just wasn’t the same as Mom’s.

I will be home soon Mom, and expecting a good sandwich upon my return. Might I even be so bold as to request some homemade beer cheese?