I had a great time meeting some of my readers last Friday at the Holiday Bazaar in downtown Boquete. It was great seeing a stranger approach my booth and, with extended hand, say “I wanted to come over and introduce myself. I read your blog and wanted to meet you in person.” How cool is that? Totally flattered!
But since the purpose of this blog is meant to be about my adventures in Boquete and Panama from a living here perspective, and not so much about my art, I’m going to ask you to click on over to my other blog “Robyn Cole Artworks“, to check out the results of my first-ever art showing in Boquete.
Let’s just say this: I’ll be as busy as Santa over the next couple of weeks making more!
BIZARRE CREATURES IN MY HOUSE
So I’m sitting there in my so-called “great room” this morning, having had my usual greet-the-sun morning on the patio with Hazel, the next-coffee-estate-over dog. She eventually was joined by her doggie buddies and the three of them decided to have a wrestling match on my tiny patio. I said “adios” and retreated into the condo where I’d previously tossed the soon-to-be-ours local stray cat, Callie.
I had Callie on my lap where she was receiving her morning hugs, when something under the chairs flanking the sofa where I was sitting caught my eye. When you live in a country as “buggie” as this, anything fluttering, scuttling or otherwise creepy-crawling becomes a beacon for my ever-watchful (and fearful) eyes.
It was a spider. I’ve seen many spiders in the 9 months we’ve lived here. All different types and yet I do not know the names of them. Except this one: Panamanians use the same word for this arachnoid as we do but it sounds completely different. They pronounce it “tah-run-TOO-luh”. This morning I pronounced it “ooohhhhh F••k! TA-RAN-CHU-LA!”
There he was, making his oh-so-nonchalant way across my tile floor heading for the TV. Soon he was mixed up in the tangle of wires underneath the table holding the TV, modem, wi-fi box and dehumidifier. I hollered for John to come running, but as he was temporarily, um, indisposed, he took his sweet time about getting there.
In the meantime, I grabbed the broom and began to do battle. I wanted to see just how much stuff this bad boy was bringing to the game, so I gently nudged him with the end of the broom handle. What a shock when he grabbed the end of the broom and tried to pound the sh•t out of it! He brought game!! (Sadly, I began to feel a temporary sense of parental pride in my soon-to-be-dead house guest. He had no idea into what fate he had fallen to by coming into our home and here he was, fighting for his right to party!)
By this time I was screaming “John, get your a$$ in here! You have never seen a spider the size of this one! I think it’s a tarantula, and he’s fighting with me for control of the broom!” A toilet flushed and two seconds later John appeared, wondering what all the fuss was about. I pointed at the “Thing That Wanted To Eat A Broom”, and the little bugger was making his way once again across my floor. While John pondered our next move, I grabbed a camera:
After I took this shot, I screamed “Stomp on him!” John said “No”. I hollered “Why the f••k not?” (I apologize for the profanity, blog readers. You see, when I’m scared my language goes to s••t. See?) John sez “Because he’s too big!”
“But he’s a baby tarantula,” I scream back.
“Yea, but he’s over my personal ‘stomp it’ limit for size.”
“Whatzis, a personal credo of yours or somethin’?”
Meanwhile, Taran-zilla is carefully edging for the door, keeping one hairy eye on John and the other one on me. The soon-to-be-ours cat, billed to us as a superb hunter, has yet to even notice that there are now four beings in the room, so Taran-stein isn’t even worried about her.
I assess my situation. John won’t stomp it, Callie doesn’t notice it. Resolving this is apparently up to me, I subscribe to the well worn American credo of “that which we fear we nuke”. I headed for the kitchen and grab the Baygon.
Returning to the living room I notice Taran-Kong has hidden under the TV table again. “This is perfect,” I’m thinking to myself. “The table is against the wall. Taran-Bigfoot is against the wall. The top of the table will trap the fumes. Hell, the fumes alone oughta kill him.” I point and shoot, fully expecting that monster to grab the streaming Baygon and deflect it with two of his eight hairy legs, just like Wonder Woman. Wham! Kazaam!
But no, he took it like a man. He pretended it didn’t hurt at all. Even when John tried to sweep it out of the house it kept fighting. It made a run for it at the curtains and we lost it for a while. Now I’m pissed. I’m pissed at Taran-Zombie. I’m pissed at John for losing him. I’m pissed at Callie for just sitting there. By the way, here’s a shot of Callie in her normal position:
I yell at John: “Find it, find it! I refuse to come back in the room until you find it!” (I think I can spot John, just for a second, weigh in his mind: hmmm, live with baby tarantula or hysterical screaming wife. Maybe…..na-a-ah…)
From around the corner I see John move a three-tiered wicker basket set. He swings it around, out of the way in order to look in the corner for Taran-Lichty (ok, so now I’m adding names of ex-bosses I don’t like. Bear with me, it’s therapeutic). And there he is, like some cartoon spider, hugging the backside of the wicker basket. “Carry it all outside, he’s on the back of the basket!” I holler.
John crab-walks the furniture out the door onto the grass where Taran-Carnahan is beginning to feel the effects of the Baygon. Not quite so feisty now, are we?
“John, we can’t leave it out here. If Callie or another animal sees it and eats it, they’ll be eating a Baygon-riddled insect!”
“That’s why I’m going to sweep it away from the house. I just wanted to get it outside,” he calmly replied. I’m thinking “Where is the logic in this? I just nuked Taran-Cannon, he’s full of pesticides, insecticides and other cides, and my hubby decides it’s best if it’s let free?”
So I watch, mystified, as John and his infinite logic, sweep my debilitated arch enemy off our property and into the hinterlands. I’m caught between realizing this thing is just a baby, that it could have been much larger (and hairier!). I’m wondering how on earth it got in the house without me seeing it. I’m wondering if maybe it was hatched INSIDE the house, inside some of our furniture. All kinds of fearful scenarios are exploding in my head.
But here’s what I say: “If our new cat dies from eating that thing, it’s on you, John.”
Yea, I’m such a loving wife, aren’t I? Sad. So, so sad…….